Phantom Point
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 30: Los Angeles
part 2
Max thanked the bouncer, finished his beer and set out for Ada’s. He walked the streets of the red-light district through the misting rain. Yellow lamplight reflected on the rain-slicked pavement. The sound of water rushing down drainpipes and streaming through gutters, the chugging and backfiring of motors, the clanging of streetcars, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and rumbling of wheels mingled with laughter and ragtime flowing from a dozen front parlors.
Inviting eyes stared at him through rain-streaked windows; voices called out from the darkness: “Come on in, big boy. I’ll show you a good time.”
Max came to a three-story brownstone. He checked the address, climbed the front steps to the stoop and rang the bell. A peep-hole opened; a pair of dark questioning eyes greeted him.
“Jerry sent me. I’m here to see Roxy Weaver.”
“You a friend of Miss Roxy’s?” the voice that went with the eyes asked.
“Yeah, I’m a friend.”
“You got a name?”
“Chicago Max.”
A lock clicked; a bolt slid. The door opened. A well-dressed, handsome Hispanic woman in her forties greeted Max. “Come on in, Mr. Max.”
He crossed the threshold and entered the front hall.
“Please wait here,” the woman said. “I’ll be just a minute.”
Max waited. He wiped his shoes on a mat, removed his hat and shook out the raindrops.
Ada’s had the earmarks of a high-toned sporting house. A Persian carpet ran the length of the hallway, classical nudes in gilt frames decorated the walls, polished mahogany furniture and damask upholstered chairs contributed to the décor, creating the illusion of a gentlemen’s club as opposed to a run-of-the-mill whorehouse.
From behind the closed sliding door separating the front parlor from the hallway came sounds of conversation and polite laughter, punctuated by the occasional pop of a champagne cork. The professor at the well-tuned baby grand played a selection of popular songs and light classics.
After a few minutes, the door-keeper returned with a knowing smile on her rouged lips. “Miss Roxy will see you. Please follow me.”
Max followed the woman past the main staircase to the end of the brightly-lit corridor. A large mirror on the back wall created an illusion of almost infinite longitudinal space. The mirror was placed over a French Second Empire marble-topped table embellished with gilt-brass fittings and carved ebony sphinxes on the legs.
The woman stopped at the table, turned to her left and knocked on a carved oak door. A familiar voice answered. Max entered the room, and his guide returned to her door-keeping duties.
Roxy appeared in an elegant low-cut, red silk evening gown, a stark contrast to her cowboy shirt and jeans. “As I live and breathe,” she said with a warm smile, “it’s the big fellow home from the wars. Did you have fun shooting and locking up bad guys?”
“I wouldn’t call it fun, but I came out all right.” Max approached her and got a whiff of expensive perfume. “Anyway, you’re looking prosperous. You got a piece of the action?”
“I’m doing OK. Have a seat and I’ll buy you a drink.” She pointed to a burgundy velvet upholstered settee in the corner.
Max sat and took a moment to glance around the opulently furnished room, which included a mahogany desk where he imagined she reviewed the house receipts and counted the cash. A painting on the wall behind the desk caught his eye, a copy of a Boucher nude portrait of one of Louis XV’s mistresses. He noticed the model’s resemblance to Roxy.
“Name your poison.” She bent over, opened a liquor cabinet and turned back to Max.
“Whiskey, neat.”
“Let’s see. I have rye, bourbon and scotch.”
“Scotch.”
“Really?” she said with a bemused grin. “An English lord was here last week. He left me a case of the stuff. Nobody likes it.”
“It is an acquired taste.”
“I guess.” She poured him a double, then poured herself a glass of rye and came back to the settee. She sat next to him, close but not quite touching. She looked at him, eyes sparkling, red lips parted to display a row of small, even white teeth. “Bottoms up,” she said softly.
“Mud in your eye,” he replied.
They drained half their glasses. Roxy reached over and placed a hand on his jacket sleeve. “You’re like a big, wet dog come indoors to get dry.”
“Yeah. I thought it didn’t rain here in summer.”
“It doesn’t. The gods must have made it special, just for you.”
“Maybe I brought my own clouds with me.”
“Maybe,” she said and took another sip of rye. After a moment she looked back at him. “Why are you here, Max?”
“That’s obvious, baby. I came to see you.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “I wish that were true, but there’s more to it than that.”
“All right, there’s more. I have questions about you, Eve, Merwin, Doyle and Placco. If I ask, will you answer?”
“You ought to leave it alone,” she sighed. “You’re going back to Chicago, aren’t you?”
“Yes, on an early train.”
She paused and finished her drink. “What do you want to know?” she said without looking at him.
“For starters, how long have you known Eve?”
She turned to him. “Promise me that what I tell you is between you and me. It doesn’t go out of this room.”
“I promise.”
“All right. I met Eve in San Francisco, before the quake. That was almost two years ago.”
“At the time, was she working for Merwin and you for Doyle?”
“Yes.”
“Did she hire you to provide inside information about Doyle, Placco and their operation?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how much of an interest Merwin had in the brothels, saloons and gambling halls?”
“No, but he owned the properties, and I suppose he got a cut.”
“How about Doyle’s interest in Phantom Point?”
“I don’t know, Max. Anyway, Doyle’s dead and Placco’s dead. Merwin and his cronies have the oil and complete control of Santa Teresa county. But that’s not what interests you. That’s not why you’re asking these questions.”
“Is that so? Can you read minds?”
“I think I can read yours. You’re in love with Eve, but you don’t trust her. You think she’s dirty, but you want me to tell you she’s clean.”
“You better stick to marked cards and stacked decks. Your mind reading act is faulty. I don’t love Eve, but I do want to know more about her. Who is she? Where does she come from? What’s her game?”
Roxy frowned and shook her head in dismay. “I need another drink. How about you?”
“Sure.” Max watched her walk to the cabinet and return with the drinks. He liked the way her hips moved beneath the silk, the sound the material made as it rubbed against her. He wanted Roxy, but he was in love with Eve even though he’d never admit it to anyone, least of all himself.
She sat next to him and handed him his glass. “I’ll tell you what I know about Eve. But remember, Max, maost of what I know comes from her. She says she was born Jenny Allen in Brooklyn. Her parents died when she was little; she was raised in Hoboken by an aunt and uncle. They were hard on her. She ran away a couple of times.
“At sixteen she left them for good. She dressed like a boy and got a job in a carnival. That’s where she learned to shoot, ride motorcycles and drive cars. She raced to pick up extra cash. Then she caught the eye of a private investigator; that was somewhere in upstate New York, maybe Albany. He made her an operative, and that’s how she came to John Merwin’s attention.”
“Do you believe any of that?”
Roxy shrugged and took a sip of whiskey before answering: “Did she tell you a different story?”
“Yeah. Sounds like more bullshit from the same manure pile. Let’s cut to the chase. How did she get involved with Hamlin?”
“Merwin has clout in Los Angeles, he wanted to plant an operative in the detective’s division, and Hamlin’s superiors obliged.”
“I see. Just one more question. Do you think her association with Buck is strictly business, or something more?”
She gazed at him sadly for a moment before saying, “What do you think?”
“I think it’s something more.”
Roxy finished her drink before answering: “I guess you’re right.” She placed her glass on a coffee table and turned to Max. “Do I get to ask a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Why do you trust me more than you trust her?”
“I’m not sure I do. But you do have one quality that gives you an edge over Eve, or Jenny, or whatever her name is. You don’t pretend to be something you’re not.”
“You mean to say I’m an honest whore?”
“You said it. I didn’t.”
“You son-of-a-bitch.”
Max put his arms around her and kissed her. She didn’t resist.
After a minute she pulled back and whispered: “Do you have to go back to Chicago?”
“I’m afraid so, and on an early train.”
“Stay with me, Max. I hear things at the card table and other places. Important stuff I’d share with you. In a few years, we’d both be rich.”
He kissed her neck just below the ear before saying, “What kind of stuff? Another oil deal?”
“No, but just as big. This town needs more water to grow. There was a fight over water rights the last few years that went all the way to Washington, and the Los Angeles interests won. They’re going to build an aqueduct to bring the water down from a valley up north. Everybody knows that, but only a handful of people know where the water’s going. They’re buying up land cheap that in a few years will be worth a fortune. I’ll cut you in. We can go partners, fifty-fifty.”
“Sounds swell, baby. I hope you strike it rich. But I’ll stick to my own small business.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“Whatever you want to give me.”
“Just for tonight?”
“That’s right. Just for tonight.”
She paused a moment before saying, “Do you want to turn out the lights and pretend I’m Eve?”
“Hell no. Let’s keep the damn lights on.” He pressed his lips against hers; his hands reached around her bare shoulders and unhooked her dress.
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder
