The story so far: Detective Rocky Stone has been hired by Wanda Marcellus, aide of Congressional candidate George Wilson, for the purposes of discovering financial improprieties by the incumbent, Congressman Howard Dixon. While investigating the unusual amounts of telephone poles and booths on the streets of town, Rocky is approached and offered a bribe by Dixon's legal counsel, Carl Franklin. Rocky turns him down and follows him to the office of spiritualist advisor Inglehoff. Busting into the office, Rocky finds Franklin in a trance, and when Inglehoff triggers him with a word, Franklin bolts, drives through the streets of Los Diablos with Rocky following close behind. Suddenly and inexplicably, Franklin turns wildly and drives his car off the pier at San Carlos Beach. Later, Rocky discovers connections between the spiritualist Inglehoff, both Geroge Wilson and his wife Martha, and the prominent businessman and philanthropist Gilbert King. In the last episode, Rocky and George Wilson follow the candidate's wife to Van Meter's Restaurant:
Van Meter's is part of old Los Diablos, a landmark that anybody who's spent any time in the city can get to. Housed in a wooden building so squat you have to duck to get in the door, the place stretches the length of half a city block in each direction, surrounded by younger, taller, and less-frequently attended restaurants trying to cash in on the original's success. No neon sign announces it; just a small, simple “Van Meter's” painted in white on the black facing. The day was too cold for outside seating. Only a few tables and chairs were occupied, and only then by people waiting to go inside. Martha Wilson was not among them.
I arrived at the door and a young man in a white shirt and black vest opened it for me. A pin on his vest read: Gordon. “It will be two hours for a table, sir,” he warned.
I stepped in past him. “I don't want a table. I prefer to stand.”
It's a cozy place, but not the kind with little nooks and crannies and booths where a man can hide. They keep it open so that the bankers and financiers and Hollywood types can be seen the moment they walk in, the entire time they are there, and again when they leave. The place was crowded but none of the faces matched that of Martha Wilson, nor did any look like Inglehoff, Howard Dixon, or anybody else connected with the case. Van Meter's had a second large seating area, but as I scanned each face that wasn't hers, I got the sinking feeling that Wanda may have heard it wrong, or that Martha may have changed her mind at the last second.
“Well,” said Gordon, “you could wait at the bar.”
“I could,” I agreed.
She wasn't in the first place I looked and it was time to move on. The kid directed me off to the left, to the bar, a dark wooden square with a couple of bartenders penned in, Booths lined the walls in this area, a little more privacy. If Martha was meeting someone, this was the place to go. I settled into a good place at the bar, near the middle, where I could see most everybody. I waited.
The bartender on my side was a tall, bald man with a round face and a dark and sizable mustache cluttering up his upper lip. He spotted me and raised a finger to let me know he's be with me in a moment, then went to work with a cocktail shaker. In the meantime, I had spotted Martha Wilson over his shoulder, seated at a booth along the far wall, near the back side of the room. She looked better. The trance-like state she had been in before had worn off and she was laughing. Nothing set off alarms or looked suspicious.
Her luncheon companion was another woman, perhaps younger, perhaps a bit more attractive. A sister, maybe. They looked alike enough. Her hair was dark with a bit of a red tint to it. I didn't bother to look at her hand for a wedding band because everything about her said she was married. She wore a long-sleeved green dress with white at the cuffs and lapels and it looked slightly large on her. It was the kind of dress that announces to all who are willing to hear that she's not interested in having a lot of men follow her home. Martha said something to her and she laughed this time. Uninhibited. I could hear her over the customers and clinking glasses, even from this distance.
The bartender finished up and came up to me, asked me what I'd like. I said I'd like Lana Turner, but failing that, I'd take a ginger ale, neat. He poured the drink dutifully but didn't crack a smile. Maybe he knew Lana.
When he put it in front of me, I said to him: “You know most everyone who comes in?”
He twisted his head smugly and brushed his hand along his mustache. “Never forget a face.”
“That so?”
“You're Rocky Stone,” he said, looking deep into my eyes. “You came in here with the District Attorney a few months ago, if I recall. Friend of yours?”
“Boss. Former,” I added, quickly. “So you wouldn't happen to know who the brunette in the green dress is, would you? The one in the...”
He raised his hand to let me know he knew who I was talking about. “I sure do, friend, but you'd be wasting your time. The lady's married.”
“I figured as much. But I'd like to know who she is, just the same.”
“I said 'the lady's married,' chum. She's married to one of the biggest wigs in the city. If you want trouble, keep pushing it, but take my advice: you got better ways to spend your time. Healthier ones, anyway.”
“She wouldn't be married to Gilbert King, would she?”
His face registered nothing, but he said nothing more, turned on his heel and moved on to another customer down the bar. I took that for a 'yes.'
Why is Martha Wilson having lunch with the wife of Gilbert King, and what force brought her to the restaurant? ind out in the next episode of The Adventures of Rocky Stone!
0 comments:
Post a Comment