he had a date tonight, even a bad one. Despite her grief, Marcie's presence reminded him of how lonely he was.
"Thank you," she said when the worst of it was over.
"You can keep it. Compliments of the City of Chicago."
She smiled politely and balled the handkerchief up in her small fist.
"I need to know his name, her boyfriend."
And then she told him.
She was the fifth person he'd interviewed today and they'd all told pretty much the same story—very angry, sometimes violent relationship between Beth and her boyfriend—and they'd all used the same name.
A few minutes later, he walked her out to the front of the place again.
She looked shaky, and scared.
He slid his arm around her waist and gave her a little peck on the cheek. He knew that this was highly unprofessional conduct, but at the moment, he didn't give a rat's ass.
He took one more look at all the pretty people out there on the dance floor.
Beth Swallows had once been one of them.
She might be alive today if she hadn't been one of them, if she'd been some other kind of young woman, one disposed to quieter and more lasting pleasures. But there he went being a priest again. He hated that side of him, the stem priest side of him, just as his wife and both his daughters hated it. Who was he to judge anybody?
Cozzens nodded good night to the bouncer and left the smoke and roar and rage of the nightclub behind, out into the chill, silver rain, his Mike Hammer and his fedora keeping him good and dry as he walked slowly back to his car.
2
P uckett and Anne met Cobey and Veronica outside the restaurant. It was a quarter after eight, and the rain was little more than a mist, though the temperature had fallen eight degrees since late afternoon.
The restaurant decor reminded Puckett, as it was supposed to, of the bar in Casablanca . Easy to imagine international spies sitting at the various small tables, paying only a modicum of attention to the eight piece orchestra, and never even looking at the dance floor, which was populated by older men in dinner jackets and matrons in pastel-colored organdie gowns. There was even an upright piano—but it was unlikely that the pianist's name was Sam. The man, true to the times, was Japanese.
Many of the customers even cooperated by smoking cigarettes, which was no doubt bad for their lungs but great for the atmosphere.
After being seated, served drinks and given time to look over their menus, Anne said, "This is really a nice place." The other three agreed.
Cobey said, "I picked it because of the food, though. They're supposed to have great steaks."
"Steak for me, then," Puckett said. "Now I don't have to pore over the menu." He laughed. "That's why I like McDonald's. None of these big decisions."
Just before the food came, a small woman dressed like a nightclub singer of the forties stood at a microphone in a baby blue spotlight and sang a medley of WWII favorites, including beautiful versions of "I'll Be Seeing You" and "The White Cliffs of Dover." She then did a brief Cole Porter medley and left the floor to hearty applause.
"She was great." Anne exclaimed.
"She sure was," Cobey said. Then frowned. "That's one thing you realize when you get out and about."
Veronica made a face. "What's that? How many pretty girls there are?" She'd tried to make her remark a joke, but there was a nasty edge to it.
Puckett stared at her briefly. He'd already turned Veronica into a cliché. The beautiful, dutiful girlfriend of a celebrity—long-suffering, accustomed to sharing him with others. But he saw now that he'd been wrong. Veronica was a lot more complicated than he'd first imagined.
"No," Cobey said. From his tense expression, he'd obviously taken Veronica's remark seriously, too. "I was going to say that when you get out and about, you realize how many talented people there are. And how few of them ever get discovered." He poured Diet Pepsi from the can into his glass and raised the glass in a toast. "We call
"Thank you," she said when the worst of it was over.
"You can keep it. Compliments of the City of Chicago."
She smiled politely and balled the handkerchief up in her small fist.
"I need to know his name, her boyfriend."
And then she told him.
She was the fifth person he'd interviewed today and they'd all told pretty much the same story—very angry, sometimes violent relationship between Beth and her boyfriend—and they'd all used the same name.
A few minutes later, he walked her out to the front of the place again.
She looked shaky, and scared.
He slid his arm around her waist and gave her a little peck on the cheek. He knew that this was highly unprofessional conduct, but at the moment, he didn't give a rat's ass.
He took one more look at all the pretty people out there on the dance floor.
Beth Swallows had once been one of them.
She might be alive today if she hadn't been one of them, if she'd been some other kind of young woman, one disposed to quieter and more lasting pleasures. But there he went being a priest again. He hated that side of him, the stem priest side of him, just as his wife and both his daughters hated it. Who was he to judge anybody?
Cozzens nodded good night to the bouncer and left the smoke and roar and rage of the nightclub behind, out into the chill, silver rain, his Mike Hammer and his fedora keeping him good and dry as he walked slowly back to his car.
2
P uckett and Anne met Cobey and Veronica outside the restaurant. It was a quarter after eight, and the rain was little more than a mist, though the temperature had fallen eight degrees since late afternoon.
The restaurant decor reminded Puckett, as it was supposed to, of the bar in Casablanca . Easy to imagine international spies sitting at the various small tables, paying only a modicum of attention to the eight piece orchestra, and never even looking at the dance floor, which was populated by older men in dinner jackets and matrons in pastel-colored organdie gowns. There was even an upright piano—but it was unlikely that the pianist's name was Sam. The man, true to the times, was Japanese.
Many of the customers even cooperated by smoking cigarettes, which was no doubt bad for their lungs but great for the atmosphere.
After being seated, served drinks and given time to look over their menus, Anne said, "This is really a nice place." The other three agreed.
Cobey said, "I picked it because of the food, though. They're supposed to have great steaks."
"Steak for me, then," Puckett said. "Now I don't have to pore over the menu." He laughed. "That's why I like McDonald's. None of these big decisions."
Just before the food came, a small woman dressed like a nightclub singer of the forties stood at a microphone in a baby blue spotlight and sang a medley of WWII favorites, including beautiful versions of "I'll Be Seeing You" and "The White Cliffs of Dover." She then did a brief Cole Porter medley and left the floor to hearty applause.
"She was great." Anne exclaimed.
"She sure was," Cobey said. Then frowned. "That's one thing you realize when you get out and about."
Veronica made a face. "What's that? How many pretty girls there are?" She'd tried to make her remark a joke, but there was a nasty edge to it.
Puckett stared at her briefly. He'd already turned Veronica into a cliché. The beautiful, dutiful girlfriend of a celebrity—long-suffering, accustomed to sharing him with others. But he saw now that he'd been wrong. Veronica was a lot more complicated than he'd first imagined.
"No," Cobey said. From his tense expression, he'd obviously taken Veronica's remark seriously, too. "I was going to say that when you get out and about, you realize how many talented people there are. And how few of them ever get discovered." He poured Diet Pepsi from the can into his glass and raised the glass in a toast. "We call
Similar Books
