and It. It was a small white building, garishly lighted, set in the middle of a huge, floodlighted parking area. A juke, amplified beyond all reason, blared from speakers set on posts. There were a few dozen cars in the lot. A damp night wind was blowing and the car hops looked chilly, full of false bravado, in their crisp little mid-thigh skirts, white boots, Russian blouses, and perky hats.
A blonde one came up to my car window with order pad and I said, “Is Lita on tonight?”
“Yeah. You wanner?”
“Please.”
“Sure thing,” she said and walked toward the other girls, rolling heavy hips. A dark girl came toward the car. She was small-bodied, and her legs were thin. She came to the car window and looked in at me. Her dark eyes were large in her white face and her expression was one of surly indifference.
“You want something with me?”
“If you’re Lita Genelli, I do.”
“That’s me, mister. What’s on your mind?”
“My name is Dean, Lita. Gevan Dean.”
She looked blank for a moment and then her eyes wentwider, and she bit her lip. “Dean! Jesus! It was your brother who—say, what do you want with me?”
“I talked to Walter Shennary. Sergeant Portugal told me you tried to give Shennary an alibi. I wondered if you were telling Portugal the truth or lying to him. I want to be certain they’ve got the man who murdered my brother.”
“Hold it a sec,” she said. She hurried toward the building to see the clock inside. She hurried back. “I want to talk to you, but I can’t talk here.” She dug into the pocket of her short red skirt, pulled out a handful of change, found a key in with the change, and handed it to me. Our hands touched. Her fingers were cold. “You go a hundred yards down the road, down that way. It’s the Birdland Motel. This is my key. It’s number nine. The next to the last one on the far end, the right end as you’re facing the place. Park right in front. Nobody will bother you. Go right on in and wait for me. I’m supposed to be on till one, but it’s a slow night and maybe I can get off quicker. Make yourself at home, Mr. Dean. There’s liquor and soda and ice in the kitchen. Turn on the radio if you want, and read the magazines. Please, will you wait for me?”
“Okay, Lita.”
“Remember, it’s number nine and nobody will bother you.”
She stepped back, hugging herself against a raw wind as I drove out. I parked where she told me to. Red neon told the world there was no vacancy. My headlights illuminated liverish-yellow stucco, small sagging wooden stoops, windows with discouraged curtains, a window box full of dead stalks.
I let myself into a dark room that smelled of dust and perfume, of laundry and stale liquor, of bedclothes and girl. I used a match to find the light switch beside the door. It turned on a ceiling light with a single bulb and the bodies of bugs in the reflector. Her bed was a studio couch and she had left before making it. On the table near it was a coffee cup with coffee dried in the bottom of it. There were thecharred black lines of forgotten cigarettes on the edges of the furniture. The room had an unkempt, cluttered look, a look of stale loves and brutal hangovers.
On a chair was a stack of newspapers, and the top one was the paper containing the account of my brother’s murder. A ILAND E XECUTIVE S LAIN . Prowler Shoots Kendall Dean , with a picture of Ken, taken long ago, with half-smile and quiet eyes.
I read the accounts, then looked at the room. In the glow of the overhead bulb it was a grubby place. A man like Portugal could understand this place. A man could go out from a place like this with a gun in his hand and his belly full of rye. The room made me feel quixotic. I could tell myself that I could understand these people, but I knew I didn’t. And I wanted to leave, and be content with Portugal’s shrewdness, but I had gone so far that, even assuming Shennary’s guilt, it would be a needless act of cruelty
A blonde one came up to my car window with order pad and I said, “Is Lita on tonight?”
“Yeah. You wanner?”
“Please.”
“Sure thing,” she said and walked toward the other girls, rolling heavy hips. A dark girl came toward the car. She was small-bodied, and her legs were thin. She came to the car window and looked in at me. Her dark eyes were large in her white face and her expression was one of surly indifference.
“You want something with me?”
“If you’re Lita Genelli, I do.”
“That’s me, mister. What’s on your mind?”
“My name is Dean, Lita. Gevan Dean.”
She looked blank for a moment and then her eyes wentwider, and she bit her lip. “Dean! Jesus! It was your brother who—say, what do you want with me?”
“I talked to Walter Shennary. Sergeant Portugal told me you tried to give Shennary an alibi. I wondered if you were telling Portugal the truth or lying to him. I want to be certain they’ve got the man who murdered my brother.”
“Hold it a sec,” she said. She hurried toward the building to see the clock inside. She hurried back. “I want to talk to you, but I can’t talk here.” She dug into the pocket of her short red skirt, pulled out a handful of change, found a key in with the change, and handed it to me. Our hands touched. Her fingers were cold. “You go a hundred yards down the road, down that way. It’s the Birdland Motel. This is my key. It’s number nine. The next to the last one on the far end, the right end as you’re facing the place. Park right in front. Nobody will bother you. Go right on in and wait for me. I’m supposed to be on till one, but it’s a slow night and maybe I can get off quicker. Make yourself at home, Mr. Dean. There’s liquor and soda and ice in the kitchen. Turn on the radio if you want, and read the magazines. Please, will you wait for me?”
“Okay, Lita.”
“Remember, it’s number nine and nobody will bother you.”
She stepped back, hugging herself against a raw wind as I drove out. I parked where she told me to. Red neon told the world there was no vacancy. My headlights illuminated liverish-yellow stucco, small sagging wooden stoops, windows with discouraged curtains, a window box full of dead stalks.
I let myself into a dark room that smelled of dust and perfume, of laundry and stale liquor, of bedclothes and girl. I used a match to find the light switch beside the door. It turned on a ceiling light with a single bulb and the bodies of bugs in the reflector. Her bed was a studio couch and she had left before making it. On the table near it was a coffee cup with coffee dried in the bottom of it. There were thecharred black lines of forgotten cigarettes on the edges of the furniture. The room had an unkempt, cluttered look, a look of stale loves and brutal hangovers.
On a chair was a stack of newspapers, and the top one was the paper containing the account of my brother’s murder. A ILAND E XECUTIVE S LAIN . Prowler Shoots Kendall Dean , with a picture of Ken, taken long ago, with half-smile and quiet eyes.
I read the accounts, then looked at the room. In the glow of the overhead bulb it was a grubby place. A man like Portugal could understand this place. A man could go out from a place like this with a gun in his hand and his belly full of rye. The room made me feel quixotic. I could tell myself that I could understand these people, but I knew I didn’t. And I wanted to leave, and be content with Portugal’s shrewdness, but I had gone so far that, even assuming Shennary’s guilt, it would be a needless act of cruelty
Similar Books
