 
Lucky Corpse

A Frank Frost Mystery

by Ray FitzGerald

© 2017 Ray FitzGerald. All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, at RayFitzGerald@Gmail.com or at www.RayWritesPulp.com

Cover design by April FitzGerald

Illustrations © 2017 April.FitzGerald@Gmail.com. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

1

I hadn't had a full, square meal in almost two days. It wasn't from lack of effort. In my line of work, you only eat when someone gets robbed, murdered or worse. The bigger the crime, the better the meal. Lately, I've been handed coffee-and-crumbs type cases.

The December sun poured through my office window and washed over the brown leather couch underneath it. I slumped back in the worn swivel behind my desk and listened to the settling floor argue with my stomach groans over which was in the most pain. The office was empty. It didn't take much to fill the room. The little second-floor hut got crowded when the mice came out looking for a snack. I had with names for all of them.

So you can understand why I was pleased to see her. Not overly beautiful, she's the type you see yourself married to, not wrapped around in the back of a sedan after dinner and a movie. Pale-skinned brunettes aren't usually my type, but this one was, mainly because she needed a detective and had cash.

She didn't knock. Brunettes rarely do. Her long legs moved with purpose and the glass panel on the door that held my name trembled as she threw it closed. I observed her thin face and high cheekbones that angled down towards pouty lips. Her eyes were downcast from crying. With a painter's brush and a little patience, she'd probably pass for a pretty lady. Today she didn't seem to care.

If you didn't know better, you'd never guess Loretta Lawson was married to the heavyweight champ. She hadn't a hint of perfume or makeup on and the grey calf-length dress she wore was buckled loose around her waist. The matching jacket was the rage of all the well-to-do women in 1942, but it sat sloppily on her shoulders like it was thrown on in a rush.

"Are you Frank Frost?" she asked, skipping the pleasantries and ignoring my offer of a chair.

"That's who my bills are made out to," I said. She took the silver metal seat in front of the desk.

Loretta didn't find it important to introduce herself. You'd have to be living in a cave to not recognize her or her husband, Lucky Lawson. They'd been on the cover of every newspaper since he won the title over the weekend.

"Mr. Frost, you may be the only man that can help me. The only man I can trust."

"That's mighty kind of you, ma'am, but the champ –"

"The champ's dead," she interrupted, more with her icy blue eyes than her words.

I lost control of my vocal cords for a moment, which for me is a feat. In this line of work, death is a common visitor. This one hit a little harder than most. I took a moment to piece my brain together and motioned for her to continue.

"He's dead," she said. "And the cops have it all wrong."

I sat back in my chair and threw my hands up in protest to slow her down. "Whoa there, lady. Before we hand down a sentence, let me hear the charges."

She was losing the battle to fight back tears. "They're saying he killed himself. I got a call this morning from the police. They found him alone in a hotel room, shot. They've decided it's a suicide, but it can't be."

"And why not?"

The question pounded her like a left-hook to the liver. In her rush out of the house, she didn't stop and think about it. She fell back in the chair and bit her lower lip. Some color came to her cheeks. I started to notice what Lucky saw in her.

She corrected her posture and sat upright. "Why would he?" she snapped, trying to convince herself more than me. "He's the champ. The money's great and he's happy at home. A director is even talking about putting him in a picture."

If I've learned anything from my ten years in Hollywood, it's that there's always a director promising something to someone. When it all boils down, though, those promises are as useful as a busted tire. She had a point, though. There can't be many 24 year olds in his situation wanting off the ride. If Lucky, as ironic as the name now was, wanted to die, there had to be a pretty heavy reason. One that Loretta ether didn't know or didn't want to tell.

"So let's say he didn't kill himself," I said. "Where'd he go last night to get wrapped up in this?"

"He had an interview. Some radio program wanted to tape him talking about the fight for their weekend broadcast. After that, he met some friends at a bar. I didn't feel like waiting up, so I went to sleep around eleven. I woke up when that nasty officer called me this morning."

"Nasty officer? Let me guess. Detective Hilliard?"

She didn't have to answer. Whenever a nasty officer with the Los Angeles Police Department is talked about, it's usually Lance Hilliard. Not that there aren't other rough cops on the force. If you lined them all up, shoulder to shoulder, and fired a spitball in their general direction, you're more likely to miss altogether than hit a friendly cop. Hilliard, though, was a special sort of nasty - The type you save for special occasions, like barroom brawls or dinner parties with the in-laws.

"Yes," she confirmed. "He said that Lucky shot himself and I was to head to the morgue to identify him. He hung up without as much as apologizing."

"Hilliard doesn't apologize for much. Trust me, I've tried."

"But why would he think Lucky killed himself?" Her voice changed from anger to a plea. "He was just out for the night with some friends."

"Are you sure that's it? A radio interview and a few drinks with the boys? How do you think he wound up at a hotel?"

She made a ticking noise with her mouth that sounded like pennies tapping together. It was supposed to tell me that she was thinking. I gave her some time and reached into my pocket for a pack of Camels. I pulled two out and offered her one. Her lips trembled as I leaned across the desk to light it. She started to act like a lady that just found out her husband was dead.

"I don't know," she said. She started to unravel. "I can't figure that part out. You have to believe me, Mr. Frost. There's no way Lucky would kill himself. No way at all."

Ashes spilled from the cigarette held by a manicured hand that looked made of porcelain, worn smooth from years of not working. Her red nail polish hadn't been changed in a few days and showed its age. The ashes let out a small tuft of smoke as they rolled off her leg and onto the hardwood floor. I followed the smoke with my eyes, back up her leg and reconnected with the fire in her eyes.

"You said you went to bed around eleven. Were you home the whole time? Did you have any visitors?"

"I don't go out much. Not since Lucky started training and he was told he needed to focus on fighting. I listened to the radio alone until I got tired of waiting for him. That's how I spent my night. It's how I spend most nights. Look, I'll pay you whatever you want. Just find out who did this."

I tapped my lighter on the desk and tried to make it look like I was thinking it over. Truth is, I'd take any case she'd throw at me as long as money was involved. "I'll see what I can do, Mrs. Lawson," I said. "But I'll need your full cooperation. That, and a retainer fee, of course."

"Of course. Will one hundred do?"

"That'll be fine. After that, I get twenty a day to cover expenses."

Loretta agreed to the terms and slid two crisp, green fifty dollar American-issued strips of paper across the desk, along with a calling card with her address and phone number. She wasn't steady as she gathered herself from her seat and walked toward the door.

Hard tapping of her heels disappeared down the hall, to the staircase, and the busy street below. I looked down at the card and ran it through my fingers. It had a picture of the champ in a standard fighting pose, ready to pounce on an imaginary opponent. My eyes moved from the photo to the scars that lined the deep-set creases in my hands. Each one told a story. There was a time when those wounds made me a hero. But heroes, like scars, fade over time. All that's left are memories and aches that make it hard to sleep at night.

But sleep was the last thing on my mind as I collected the cash into a neat pile and folded it into my pocket. Lunch was on me today.

2

"Hello, Nasty," I said as I saddled up next to a jumpy Detective Hilliard in the doorway of room 238 at the Hacienda Hotel. My stomach felt full for the first time in as long as I could remember. It felt good.

He swatted at me like a fly and barely missed the brim of my hat. "For Christ's sake, Frost. Don't you have anything better to do than snoop around wherever I'm at?" His beefy nose wrinkled and his sunken eyes blazed red.

"Nope. I'm doing research for a mystery novel I'm writing. I hear all the best unsolved murders are on your beat."

I've made a game out of testing Hilliard's patience over the years. No matter how hard I try, I haven't found his breaking point. I've joked that he wears the same beige overcoat, white shirt, black pants and red tie every day, but he didn't care. I've cracked on his thinning hair and got a little rise. Lately, he's been responding to the names I call him. Maybe I'm getting close.

"Real funny, Frost. You're a regular Jack Benny. Now get back in your car, go back to that sorry excuse for an office and let the real detectives work. Or do you not want to keep your license?"

"Is that any way to talk to a taxpayer?" I said, showing my teeth in a sarcastic smile. "I'm just trying to help."

"Well you can help by getting the hell away from me," he said. "Now." He turned away and barked orders at an officer with a camera that took pictures of the scene.

Hilliard didn't realize I sized up the room the whole time we talked. Lawson's body was already gone, but a crude chalk drawing tattled that he was found on the floor near the bed, facing the door. A wall to his left was supposed to be white, but sported a splash of red and a large hole where plaster had scattered on the green carpeting.

The room wasn't much. It couldn't have cost more than a couple of bucks for the night. A battery-powered radio sat on a plastic nightstand next to a twin bed that hadn't been slept in. The headboard pressed against the back wall in the right corner. The door to a tiny bathroom was nearby, but it would have been useless to a man Lucky's size. It was dingy enough to make you wipe your feet before you left the place. This wasn't a room built for a champ.

I started to enter when another voice pulled me back by the collar. I didn't have to turn around to know Hilliard put his partner, Ed Atwood, on babysitting duty.

"What the hell are you doing here, Frost? Who'd pay to investigate a suicide?"

"Someone who doesn't think it's a suicide," I said without looking at him. His shadow hovered around me as I knelt over the chalk outline that traced Lucky's final fall.

This was Atwood's first year on the force. The round-faced kid looked every minute of his 21 years. His uniform was neatly pressed and laundered and his badge shiny. Hints of jet-black hair slickly shot back under the sides of his hat. A toothpick dangled between his lips. He had the arms of a guy who worked hard to make it through police academy and the budding belly of one accustomed to a steady income. That's what happens when your uncle's a captain and hands you a detective job without a day on a beat.

"Oh come on, Frost, don't kid yourself. The guy's sitting in here alone with a single bullet through his head. I'm pretty sure if someone wanted to knock off the heavyweight champ, they'd have trouble making it this clean a job."

"Well you should know Atwood, with your six long months of experience."

"Gimme a break Frost. It doesn't take a genius to –"

"Know when to shut up and let someone work?"

Like a puppy dog that had taken a rolled-up newspaper to the head, Atwood took a step back in his polished shoes and threw his hands up in a silent peace offering. His thin lips frowned, which made his closely set eyes look more ridiculous than normal. He was right, though. This was a clean job. No toiletries on the counter or bags on the bed. Whatever happened, it went quick and with no time to get cozy.

"Who'd he come here with?" I asked Hilliard, who never really left my side.

"Lady downstairs says he was alone. In here about twenty minutes when she heard a gun go off. Right around midnight. Atwood was the first on the scene and saw no signs of break-in or struggle."

"Then there should be a gun around, right?"

Hilliard motioned to Atwood, who barehanded the butt of a .38 and hurled it toward me.

"Well, that's one way to foul up some fingerprints," I said as I took the gun with my handkerchief.

Hilliard said, "Relax, the gun was in Lawson's hand when Atwood got here. If there are any prints on it, they're Lawson's."

The pistol wasn't anything special. It was nicked and scuffed and had seen its share of use. There were two more rounds loaded. Maybe Lucky wanted some insurance in case he missed the first time.

Hilliard tapped his size-nines impatiently on the cheap carpeting. "It's a gun, Frost. I'm sure you've seen one from both ends. Can we please wrap up our little party so I can finish this paperwork and get on with my life?"

"What's your hurry, Hilliard?" I said. "I'm headed to the morgue to ask a few questions. I have a feeling you and I are just getting acquainted on this case."

He removed his hat enough to scratch the right side of his balding head. "Just my luck."

I walked towards the door and threw a wave to the duo. "Being lucky isn't all it's cracked up to be. Look what it did for the champ."

I passed a few more rookie cops on my way down the cement stairs to the hotel's office and parking lot. The Hacienda was situated on the corner of Main and Sixth Street, right next to the Greyhound Bus Depot. It's a heavily trafficked area for pimps looking for fresh faces off the busses from Nebraska and Iowa that want to make it big in the picture business. The ground was white-splotched with cigarette butts and empty matchbooks. A heavy-set Latina sat alone in the office. She sobbed, hunched over in a wooden chair behind the counter, staring down at her bare feet. It had been a long night for her and it showed.

I knocked lightly before opening the glass door. She didn't look like a dame that needed to be startled. Her eyes stayed low as I entered the room and cleared my throat to get her attention. It barely worked. She sheepishly lifted her head and aimed a pair of bloodshot eyes towards me. Tears slid down her cheeks and jumped from a thick chin onto the lap of her dark dress. She was silent.

Cops streamed in and out of the office all morning, so she didn't question me as I shuffled through the pages of her guestbook. There were four empty lines at the bottom of the page. Two other names checked in after the line that read "Jerry Lawson." The champ had fine penmanship. The room was registered to one person.

Three rooms rented out prior to Lucky arriving. None of the names looked familiar, but I still scribbled them down in my notepad just in case.

"Excuse me, Ma'am," I said to the lady behind the counter as nicely as possible. She looked at me, but didn't speak.

I continued. "When Mr. Lawson came in here last night, did anything seem strange about him? Did he say anything to you?"

Some sadness cleared from her throat before she spoke. A thin voice cracked under the evening's strain.

"I told you cops already," she said. "He came alone. He said nothing other than he wanted room. He took key and left."

"And how long after that until you heard the gunshot?"

"How many times you ask me this?" she said in her own brand of English. "Fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes. I hear one gunshot and I call police. You did the rest."

"Did anyone come down these stairs after the gunshot and before the police showed up?"

"No one," she said with a light shake of her bushy head.

I gave a thanks for her time and left without another sound. Death affects people in different ways. In my line of work, it's part of the everyday routine. You see it so much that you forget what it's like to feel sad. I almost felt sad for the lady behind the desk, but only because another detective was headed in with a new set of questions to ask.

3

Morgues rarely yield as many clues as they do smells. By the time a new visitor gets to their refrigerated rental, there's not much left to learn about the trip there.

Hollywood's morgue was renovated last year after bad reviews from previous stiffs. Shiny silver drawers stack in a honeycomb, with three rows of ten along two walls. Just about everything else in the place is white: the walls, the floors, even the chairs positioned around a steel observation table. The place is miserably hygienic.

It was cold and quiet when I got there. I passed only one person, a man in a white coat. He was too busy staring at his clipboard to notice me. I slithered down a hall into the main storage room just as a large clock on the wall ticked towards 12:32. It was lunchtime for the employees of death depot.

I checked each drawer and eventually found Lucky in cabin number seven. Lucky number seven. A cruel joke perhaps. I pulled the drawer against a heavy suction and shivered as a wave of frigid air splashed my face. Surprisingly, it didn't smell.

In front of me laid Jerry "Lucky" Lawson. The right side of his head was peppered with gunpowder around a large entrance wound. A small exit hole was on the left. I've seen worse corpses. He looked peaceful on his cold slab, like he was resting before a big fight. Both eyebrows were covered in scarred flesh, and his nose leaned slightly to the right, the product of being hit in the face too many times. Both cheekbones were large and solid and his chin was as square as a checkerboard. Most of the color was gone from his face, but I could see why directors were nuts about him.

From the neck down, he seemed like a perfectly healthy guy, besides a bandage on his right hand. I figured it wasn't helping him much anymore, so I loosened up the wraps and took a peek underneath. Purple swelling lined his knuckles and a good bit of bruising sat on his ring finger. I untied the bandage a little more when -

"Can I help you?" snapped a voice from behind that brought me to attention. It was Bradley Wooten, an ex-LAPD crime scene guy that I hadn't seen, or wanted to see, in years.

I faked excitement. "Brad! "What brings you down to the meat market?"

"I work here now, Frank. I clean the bodies before examination. It isn't exactly the Hotel Roosevelt, but it's a living."

"The visitors don't give you half the lip that you'd get at the Roosevelt. Less baggage to carry around, too."

We exchanged a couple of catching-up stories and I explained why I had interest in the champ. He told me some facts about the head wound in a medical language that sounded like Chinese.

"How long's he been here?" I asked.

"About two hours. We just put him in a holding container because the doctors haven't examined him yet."

"Has anyone else seen or touched him?"

"Not since he got here."

I pushed the slab back into the cooler and Bradley shut the door. "Is there anything else I should know about him?"

He shrugged and produced a gym bag that was brought in from the crime scene. It was a typical gray-cloth shoulder bag with a zipper that ran across the top. The name "Pete's Gym" was printed on the front in faded black letters. The contents weren't helpful - a dirty t-shirt and a pair of beige trousers.

Bradley leaned forward to take a peek for himself. "Anything helpful in there?"

"Not inside. But the outside may be just what I'm looking for."

"Pete's Gym? Never heard of the place. Need me to look up an address?"

I shook my head and slipped Brad a five spot. "I'm pretty sure I know where the joint is." He snatched the bill and shook the hand that gave it to him.

I bid Bradley farewell and promised that it wouldn't take another two years to see him again. I hoped that I was upright and room temperature the next time we crossed paths.

4

The facts spilled around my head as I drove down Wilshire Boulevard in my old jalopy. The car had seen better days, but they were still my wheels. There's something about owning your own car- going wherever you want on your own terms- that makes you feel like a free man. You can't put a price on freedom.

I didn't have much to go on. The cops were sure the death was a suicide, but the widow was certain it wasn't. If it really was a murder, it had to be one hell of a job. You don't knock off a guy that's six-foot, two-inches tall and nearly 210 pounds with a single bullet. Not if he knew you were coming, at least.

It was warmer than the average December day. The sun was out and people burned money on Christmas gifts that would collect dust on someone's shelf. Customers shuffled from store to store. No one stopped to talk or had time for a smile or friendly greeting. It's the most wonderful time of the year.

I remember when I ran up and down these streets as a kid. Mother always watched from a few feet behind. I'd stop to press my nose against a department store window and stare at the Lionel train set that circled inside. I'd imagine myself the conductor, with engines letting out small puffs of smoke as I headed towards destinations unknown. Mom always said that if I was good, Santa might bring me my own set. Somehow, he always lost my letter.

I lit a cigarette, rolled down the window and contemplated my next move. Pete's Gym. Christ. It was a long time since I'd been through those doors. I wondered if old Pete was still around and if he'd even remember me. I sure remembered him. The feelings weren't all warm and fuzzy. One thing was sure, if I headed back to Pete's Gym, I was going to need a good, stiff drink. Maybe four.

Fortunately, I knew just the place that could fill my prescription. Lew's Saloon – or "Salewn" as the sign sarcastically read – sat next to an Italian restaurant and across the Normandie Avenue from my office. Nearly every newcomer pointed out the misspelling before entering the place. Most left so tight that the wording didn't look odd at all.

I parked the jalopy, rolled up the window and made my way across the street.

Lew was a 30-something bachelor who lived his whole life for the business. He slept in the storeroom and woke each morning just in time to unlock the doors for the whiskey and waffles crowd. A stocky guy that's all of my six feet, his round stomach showed years of drinking from his own supply. From the back, his thick brown hair and bushier arms looked like a bear. His temper matched the look whenever someone tried to stiff him on a tab. He saw me before I walked through the door and poured me a glass of gin, tall and neat, just as I like it.

"How's business, Frank?" He said as he wiped down the bar and removed a couple empty glasses.

"Just peachy, Lew. Nothing brightens the day like a trip to the morgue."

Lew stopped in his tracks, his eyes as big as windshields. "Did you see the champ down there?"

"So you've heard?"

"Heard? Hell, it's all over the afternoon edition of the paper."

He dropped a damp copy of The Times in front of me. You couldn't miss the headline in bold type above the fold:

CHAMP IS DEAD: HOTEL SUICIDE

Even the headline didn't sit right in my stomach. The story quoted Hilliard and Atwood and applauded the two for the open-and-shut detective work. Just like in the cheap paperbacks you buy at gas stations and candy stores.

Lew interrupted as I read the yarn: "So why do you think he did it?"

"I'm not so sure he did."

"Murder?"

"Could be."

"What a shame. He was a hell of a fighter. Kind of reminded me of –"

"I'll take another, Lew," I interrupted.

"Sure thing." Lew stopped in his tracks and poured a second glass for me, this one just a touch taller than the first. A good bartender, like a good doctor, knows that if the first one doesn't cure you, you need to increase the dosage.

He could barely finish the pour when three loud young ladies walked in. They chatted in their native tongue about some picture showing down at Grauman's. They headed for the bar, eyed me, and took a hard left towards a booth. Besides them, there was one other customer in the place. Jimmy is a regular who sits at the far corner of the bar and reads novels about faraway places. He's always at Lew's, spending his vacation money on cheap liquor.

If the place had any charm, it was the thick, dark wood that soaked up twenty years of smoke and gossip. Lew's father, also named Lew, started the place in the '20s and gave it to his son when he died. Younger Lew took orders and poured drinks when he was barely tall enough to see over the bar. A picture of the old man sits next to the cash register. The rest of the place is littered with photos of baseball players, actors, and one colorful portrait of the Virgin Mary - Lew's mother's contribution to the joint. It isn't a fancy place, but the drinks are cheap and the food half good, as long as Lew's sober when he cooks it.

We chatted about baseball and boxing for a half hour before I told him I had an appointment to keep. I removed the wallet from my coat pocket when Lew waved me off. "I'll put it on your tab," he said with a smile and a wink. That tab was three years old. We both knew he stopped keeping track long ago.

I left there feeling eighty-percent better. The other twenty wouldn't come until I was done at Pete's Gym.

5

The sun was all but burned out by the time I arrived to the strip of storefronts along Franklin Avenue. A candy store and a diner neighbored Pete's Gym, with a dress shop and a department store across the street. The Hollywood Legion Stadium, home to many a big fight, was a three-block walk. Less than a mile away, CBS and NBC pumped out radio programs to the attentive ears of America's housewives.

A few lights made a soft glow inside of Pete's, but the place looked empty from the front window. Pete set up shop in '31. The building was old then and it is ancient now. The ceiling panels dangled above and plaster begged to fall off the walls. Pete always said that if you trained in comfort, you wouldn't be ready for an uncomfortable punch.

A quick jiggle of the brass handle made the door open. Inside was silent. A few heavy punching bags hung from the ceiling like guilty criminals. A single light bulb highlighted an empty ring stained with eleven years of blood, sweat, and regret.

I walked toward the center of the room when a feeble voice called from a shadow in the back. "We're closed." The words seemed forced from an uncaring mouth. The kind that gives orders, but doesn't mind if you ignore them.

It was Pete, just a little more tired than I remember. I moved towards his voice, but could hardly stand to see the sight of him. Old age pummeled his face. His back was hunched and skin dripped from his face like hot candle wax. A few white hairs were combed in a way that made it look like more was there. His eyes were tired. He cried and laid on a tattered couch.

"Frank? Frank Frost, is that you?" he said. I hoped he wouldn't remember me. I guess I hadn't changed quite as much as he had. That might not be a good thing.

"Hiya Pete."

"Well I'll be damned. If you weren't standing right there, I'd swear it was a ghost." The feeling was mutual. He struggled to sit upright. I settled down next to him and motioned with my hands that he didn't need to get up, so he didn't.

"It's been a long time, Pete," I said. "How's the fight game?"

"Lousy. Everything's a racket anymore. It wasn't like when we were together. You're looking good, though."

I accepted the compliment, though I knew it was a lie. I straightened my suit jacket to cover the tattered lining and ran a thumb over a button that lost some stitching. The only thing that kept it from letting go was pride.

"Those were some good times, Pete."

"The best. They could have been even better if you hadn't been such a hothead."

"We've talked about this. What I did wasn't right. I admit it and I took my punishment."

"You didn't have to hit him," he said. His eyes were black, bottomless, and trained directly on me.

"The fight was fixed and you know it."

"But he was a referee, Frank. You don't hit a referee."

"You do when he's the other guy's brother-in-law and he's purposely fixing the fight so you lose. But I accepted my lifetime ban. I've moved on. So have you."

There was worry on Pete's face. He glanced and pointed with his chin towards a newspaper on a table by the couch. The same newspaper I read at Lew's.

Pete said, "He was a great boxer. The best southpaw I've ever trained. He was as good as you, but he was a hothead, too. Wouldn't listen to a thing I said."

"What made him do it?"

He shrugged a shoulder as best as a man on his back could. "I can't say. He was a happy guy. He loved all the attention he got. I wouldn't have guessed..." Small puddles formed in Pete's eyes again. This one hit him hard. At his age, he knew Lucky was his last chance at the big time. Now he was done and so was Lucky.

"His hand was bandaged," I asked. "Any idea how it happened?"

"Broke it in the fight. Clipped it in the second round and kept fighting. He was one tough S.O.B."

I said, "Who was he hanging around with? Is there anyone that would have wanted him knocked off?"

The question surprised him. "Knocked off? No one that I can think of. The only person ever here with him was that girlfriend of his. She was always here, whether I wanted it or not."

"Girlfriend?"

"Susan McCauley. She's a looker, but has a leather tongue. A mean serpent of a broad. She cusses like a sailor and drinks like a fish."

"And what did Mrs. Lawson think of this Susan?"

"Who knows? I haven't seen her in months. It was always Susan. She was in this place more than I was. I told him to leave her alone until after the fight. Dames like that are bad for your knees. He wouldn't hear me, though. He wouldn't listen."

The tears picked up. I'm not one for emotional moments, so I gave Pete a pat on the back and wished him well. I left him just like I left him three years earlier: crying in the gym.

When I got back to my car, the night's sky was completely dark. My stomach forgot the meal I gave it earlier in the day and my head needed more gin to keep it company. Somewhere in Hollywood, Lucky Lawson's two ladies managed their first night without their beau. They didn't know it, but both had dates with me the next morning.

6

Something about Pete's Gym always leaves a taste of gin in my mouth. I tried to wash it out with a tall glass at Lew's, but it didn't work. The second one didn't either. Somewhere after the first bottle, I stopped keeping count. I barely remember stumbling across the Avenue and back to the office. At the kindling I call a desk, I wiped a half-inch coat of dust from the picture album my mom kept from my fight days. My reflection in one photo surprised me with how little I changed in three years. I still had the same rocky jaw and thick face. A full head of brown hair, round blue eyes and a straight nose that somehow had never been broken. Sure I had a few fading scars here and there, but I was fortunate. A lot of fighters leave the business as old men that look much different than the kid that entered it.

I focused back on the photo - a newspaper shot after a match against Jackie Tatum. I was a big underdog in that one. Tatum was supposed to be the future champ before I knocked him out in the second round. I got a call from him last week. He wanted to sell me insurance. Life has a way of being hilariously evil sometimes.

I must have tripped over something as I walked down memory lane, because the next thing I knew, I peeled my face off of the picture and adjusted my eyes to the morning sun. A family of pigeons performed a concert outside my window. More than a million people in the city and they have to pick my window every morning.

I straightened up and started a to-do list for the day. Somehow, I put everything back in its place when I returned from Lew's. I went into the desk and retrieved a notepad and my .45, Harlow, named after the actress Jean. I grabbed a fresh shirt from the few clean ones left in my closet, wiped off my pants, and threw on a jacket. Next stop was Lew's for a morning pick-me-up.

He unlocked the door as I walked up. He nodded and wiped his eyes while he poured my first glass. I ordered some eggs.

"Got any dimes, Lew?" I asked.

He changed out a dollar. I brought my drink with me to a phone booth in the back. I thumbed through the directory and found a Susan McCauley at 5930 Franklin Avenue. The address was the same as the Chateau Elysee. I fed a dime into the phone and decided to call her. It took a while to get the connection, but a small voice eventually answered with an insincere "hello."

"Is this Susan McCauley?" I asked in my best salesman voice.

"Yes, it is."

"I'm from the post office. We have a package to deliver to you today and I wanted to make sure you'll be there in, say, a half hour to receive it."

There was a pause on the line. I could hear her breathing, but nothing else.

"I'm not expecting a package. Who is it from?"

"It doesn't say.. It just has your address with no return information. I'll need a signature to deliver it, though."

Another pause. This one slightly shorter than the last. "Well, O.K, then," she said. "I suppose I'll be here to receive it if you can make it in a half hour."

"That's just fine. I'll see you then."

Her line clicked and, just like that, our date was set.

I pulled up to the Chateau Elysee feeling seventy percent better than when I woke up. The building is one of the largest in the city. All twelve floors are drenched in money. The bright green sign on the roof showers the sidewalk below with the only color the city knows. Actors and actresses drive by in their convertibles. Young ladies that hope to get into pictures skip around the sidewalk with painted-on smiles. Errol Flynn, Edward G. Robinson, and Betty Davis all call the Chateau Elysee home. So does Susan McCauley. It's the best place in town to get a twenty-cent sandwich for two bucks.

A bellboy held the door as I approached, but never took his stare off of a group of blondes that strolled by. I eased into the lobby with an empty box I got from Lew tucked under my left arm and tried to blend in. A guy like me tends to stand out among marble floors and bronze statues, but it didn't hurt to try. I almost got around the front desk when a voice called out to me.

"Excuse me. Can I help you?"

There's always a petite blonde behind the counter at high-end places like the Chateau Elysee, but don't let the looks fool you. They're well trained to pick out strange faces and make sure that every visitor is announced before getting on an elevator. Anyone that tries any funny stuff ends up in a quiet room with one of the dozen security guards on duty. What happens in that room is the stuff of legend.

The Chateau spared no expense with their desk help. The voice that called to me belonged to a cute young lassie no more than twenty. Round cheeks and deep brown eyes glinted under the lobby lighting. Happiness was at home in her face.

"Excuse me?" I said as I turned back.

"I asked if I could help you. Where are you headed?" she replied.

"Oh, I'm just..." I trailed off, trying to think fast. "Haven't I seen you before?"

"I don't think so," she said. She tilted her head to one side and tried to place my face. "No. You don't look familiar."

"Say, I know where I've seen you. Weren't you in a magazine or something? Maybe it was in a movie. Aren't you a model?"

An explosion of red erupted in her cheeks as she giggled into a pair of tiny-cupped hands. She had a cute giggle, like a young kid playing with a puppy.

"No, I'm not," she said, unable to control her chuckles. "My friends say I should try it out, though."

"Those are some good friends, kid. Stick with them. They don't lie."

The giggles got annoying. "You're just saying that. You probably tell that to all the girls."

"No way, doll. I'm an honest scout," I said, crossing my fingers for her to see. "I wouldn't dare say that to anyone else."

"I bet," she said. "Where are you headed with that box?"

"I'm headed up to Susan McCauley's apartment."

Her smile turned to a frown and disappointment hung from her face like a wet jacket on a clothesline. She always got her way – even with complete strangers that held an empty box in a fancy apartment lobby.

"Don't look like that, doll. I'm just delivering a package," I said. "Just trying to earn an honest wage, like you."

"OK. Let me phone up to Susan and let her know –"

I interrupted. "No need, cookie. She knows I'm coming. This is a scheduled delivery."

"But I have to phone up to announce all visitors."

"I know you're just doing your job, but do you really have to? With your looks, you'll be in the movies in no time. Heck, you'll probably have a whole floor of this joint to yourself and people waiting on you all day."

The giggles returned. "Well okay. But make it quick."

I gave her a wink. "Will do. Say, I forgot what room she's in. Can you help me out?"

She looked around for her boss and leaned forward with a whisper: "11-04."

"You're the best," I said. "Don't you go getting discovered by some director before I leave. I want to say goodbye on my way out."

I took off towards the elevators. Through a mirror, I watched as she admired her reflection in a picture frame on the counter. She still giggled as I stepped aboard the car for the climb to the eleventh floor.

After a short ride with a kid that smelled like cheap aftershave, I found McCauley's apartment. Two knocks brought on the same small voice from the phone. She yelled for me to come in. The handle jiggled and I found myself in the lap of luxury. White carpeting, as thick as a Texas steak, sat underneath the type of furniture you only see in magazines. Brass lamps marked each corner with museum-quality paintings that filled the gaps. A sable fur coat draped over a high-backed chair.

"Just leave it at the door," the voice of Susan McCauley called from another room. After a small bit of silence, a thin face peeked around the corner and spotted me. She looked at the box, then back at me, and realized I wasn't a deliveryman.

She was a little wet from her morning shower when she emerged in the living room wrapped in a cotton robe. The sight was too good to be true. A thin hand held up her wet black hair as she brushed out strands that clung to her long neck. Black eyes peered at me under arched eyebrows as I took a few seconds to pull myself together. She seemed used to the reaction.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" I asked, still a little woozy from the sight of her.

"I asked who you were. A name, please."

"My name is Frank Frost, and I'm a detective. I can see that you're busy, but I have a few very important questions to ask you."

Uncomfortable with the situation, she offered me a drink and a seat on the softest coach I've ever sat on. I told her so. Humphrey Bogart has one just like it, she told me.

"So what can I do for you, Detective Frost?"

"I want to ask you about your relationship with Lucky Lawson."

Her face shifted and twisted into a look of surprise and confusion. Susan never hid her relationship with the champ, but she was surprised I knew about it.

"Why, I don't know what you mean. Lucky was a good friend of mine, that's all."

"Good enough that you spent every day at the gym with him, despite Pete not wanting you around. Good enough that you were with him the night he was killed." I guessed with that last part, but figured a lot could be learned from her reaction.

"Look," she said as she relaxed back in the chair across from me. She moistened her thin lips and crossed one long, tanned leg over the other. "It's no secret that Lucky and I had a thing. He was crazy about me and I was pretty fond of him. If you're wanting to know if I'm the reason he killed himself, the answer is no."

"So what is the reason he killed himself?" I lit a cigarette and offered her one, which gave her a moment to think it over.

"Who knows? People do crazy things sometimes. It was just his turn, I suppose. We never talked about it, if that's what you're getting at."

"Did you ever talk about his wife?"

She rolled her eyes and threw a sarcastic look my way. "Loretta? A few times. We talked about how miserable he was with her. She's a stiff. A complete bore. He was all packed up and ready to leave. He didn't want to do it before the fight and wanted to wait until the press died down afterwards. It wouldn't look so good, you know- young fighter wins the belt, then leaves his wife the next day."

"Did Loretta know about you?"

"Of course she did. I was with Lucky one night at the Formosa Cafe. She came storming in, saying that if he didn't come home right then she was going to leave and take everything he owns."

"Did he?"

"Sure. He knew better than to cause a fuss in public. It was bad for his image."

"So where did you go together the night he died?"

She lowered one eyelid and gave me a disapproving look. Her eyes wondered how much I knew.

"We went to a movie."

"Which one?"

"Mrs. Miniver."

"Good film. Where to after?"

"Right back here. He dropped me off on the front step and said he had to head home early. That's the last I saw or heard from him."

"What time was this?"

"About 10:30."

I said, "Did he act any different while you were out?"

"Not any different than normal. Since he won the belt, his head's been in the clouds. Everywhere he goes people want to shake his hand or get an autograph. He loved the attention."

"Doesn't sound like a guy that wanted to off himself."

"Agreed. But who's to say what's really going on in someone's head?"

"Spoken like a psychiatrist that charges by the hour." I leaned forward and rubbed out my cigarette in a porcelain ashtray.

She uncrossed her glowing limbs and rose from the chair. Sunlight reflected through the window and made her look like an angel. She motioned with her hand towards the door and said something about an appointment to keep. I wasn't listening. She ushered me from the apartment and left me to clear my head in the hallway.

I pitched the box in a trash bin and rode down the elevator into the lobby. The girl at the desk still admired herself as I gave her a wink and a smile on the way out. She lifted her hand and grabbed towards me, like she tried to catch a fly ball I hit her way. Kids.

The winter breeze knocked out some of my cobwebs, and after lunch and a few drinks I felt absolutely better. It was good to have a case to work on, especially one that left me looking at ladies like Susan. I couldn't help but wonder, though, how much Loretta really knew about her husband's fling.

7

I pulled out a Camel and lit one end while I sat in the jalopy a half-block from the Lawson residence. The quaint tree-lined neighborhood is dotted with movie star's homes about fifteen minutes from the Chateau Elysee. A wooden sign that announced "The Lawson's" hung from the porch of a three-bedroom number painted yellow and framed with a white picket fence. You've seen the pictures before. Three cars sat in the driveway, which meant Lawson had company. I waited a good half hour before I got impatient and decided to join them.

Loretta answered the door in a lime green dress that was a major upgrade from when I last saw her. She invited me in, offered me a drink and introduced her sister Nancy – whose looks weren't fished from the same gene pool as Loretta's. I shook hands with a guy whose name I couldn't hear and waved to three people on the patio that either didn't notice or didn't care to say hello. After a few pleasantries, and a second drink, I asked Loretta if we could talk in private.

The only quiet place in the house, she insisted, was the bedroom. It was a massive little nook, the size of my office. Along the back wall was a bed so big that it required a map to get from one side to the other. All four walls were covered with photos of the couple. A few showed Lucky in the ring. A coat rack held up a green boxing robe, with a white four-leaf clover sewn to the back, and a pair of blue gloves that looked overused. I didn't waste any time getting to the point.

I said, "When you came into my office yesterday, I told you I'd take your case if you were straightforward with me the whole time."

"And I have been. I told you everything I know."

"You didn't tell me about Susan McCauley."

Loretta took a step back and raised her head indignantly, like the smell of McCauley's name was too much to handle.

"Susan McCauley is of no importance to me or my husband," She leaned against a dressing table and shook the large round mirror atop it.

"I beg to differ. Lucky was with Susan the night he was killed. They seemed pretty chummy and she says you knew it."

"I knew no such thing," she said. "She was a cheap thrill. When you're a celebrity like Lucky, they come out the woodwork. Lucky was too nice to people and didn't want to hurt any feelings. That's the only reason he didn't shoo her away."

Before Loretta could continue, the door creaked open and a lady I didn't meet stuck her head in. I got a disapproving glance and she told Loretta about a phone call for her in the living room. Both excused themselves and left me alone in the room.

That gave me a chance to look at the mementos scattered around. The robe was good quality. Most are sewn together quick and intended to fall apart as fast as a boxing career normally does. I ran my hand along a sleeve and felt the slickness of the silk. For the first time in years, I could hear the crowd cheer again. Bright lights, clicking cameras, and five thousand sets of eyes fixed on my every move.

There's a feeling that comes from being the center of attention that you never forget. It's worse than a habit that you can't kick. It's a feeling that you never want to go away, but it always does. There's always someone behind you looking to steal your thunder.

I've done a lot of work for the movie studios. They hire fixers to investigate a stars' bad habits or problems that need to be kept from the papers. Almost every case is caused by a pampered star's paranoia over someone better looking or younger trying to steal their fame. In the end, it's almost always true.

"You weren't being completely honest with me, either, Mr. Frost," Loretta said from the doorway. I never heard her re-enter the room.

"How is that?" I asked as I dropped the robe back into place with a spin of my heels to face her.

"You never told me you were a fighter," she said.

"You never asked me to fight. Besides, I've learned through the years never to fight with a woman. Even when you win, you lose."

"I hope your past exploits won't hinder your ability to serve this case fully," she said with a tone of dismissal. "Where were we?" She settled back against the table. The mirror shook again with disapproval.

"Susan McCauley. She seemed pretty convinced that Lucky was planning to leave you as soon as the spotlight cooled off from the fight. She said –-"

Loretta lunged and smacked me with an opened right hand across the side of my mouth. She drew back, but it didn't take away the burn on my cheek. I rubbed the spot for a moment and smiled, just to throw her off.

"I'm sorry Mr. Frost, but I can't sit here and have you talk like that in front of –-"

I interrupted. "Where's Lucky's suitcase?"

"It's under the bed. He always keeps it there." By this point, Loretta tapped her right foot to feign impatience.

I pulled up the cream-colored ruffle and reached under the bed. My hand found the shape of a well-worn brown leather case. The handle was loose, but the locks were shiny and recently replaced. The case was heavy. The mattress sagged when I laid it down. Loretta's shoulders did the same when she saw the contents: clothes, shoes, a hat, a shaving razor, and a white envelope with two thousand in folding cash.

Loretta looked like she'd seen a ghost. She fell into the chair next to the table and sobbed quietly. I'm usually a sucker for a crying dame, but I wasn't in the mood this time.

"Ready to talk?" I asked.

She wiped a tear from her left eye and sat up straight, like she was prepared to give a speech. Her eyes stared straight through me and she started in a low, embarrassed tone.

"Lucky met her about two months ago at a department store. I didn't know much about her until three weeks before the fight. He would never let me come down to the gym and I wasn't allowed to go out in public with him. He said it was because Pete didn't want distractions, but I knew he wasn't telling the truth. Lucky always was a crummy liar. I went to the gym one day to surprise him and there she was." Loretta stared at her reflection in the mirror, unfamiliar with her own face.

"And?" I said, calling her back to the conversation.

"And what? I yelled at Lucky. Of course I did. I told him that it was either me or her. I wasn't raised to share a husband."

"What about that night at the Formosa?"

She let out a muffled laugh at the memory. "I got a call from a friend who said she saw Lucky with some woman. I already knew who it was, so I went down there to confront him."

"You mean threaten him?"

"I made idle threats. I told him before that he had to choose, so I assumed he had chosen. I wanted him to know I was serious. Look, Mr. Frost, you've obviously done your work in finding out about me and Lucky. You're wasting your time, though, if you think I had anything to do with his death. You're being ridiculous. I loved Lucky. He's the only man I ever loved and ever will."

"I imagine that made it even more difficult to see him with another woman. Almost unbearable."

She stood from the chair and flung her head back in a dignified way. I was about to be kicked out of a home by a woman for the second time in one afternoon. That's almost a new record.

"I think we've talked about this enough, Mr. Frost," she said. "I have company and if you wouldn't mind..." She let her words hang long enough to give me the cue. I grabbed my hat and was led out the room. I waved goodbye to the guests and left the house.

Large oak trees canopied the street and blocked what little sun made its way onto the sidewalk. A breeze bit through my skin and gnawed at my bones. I walked with my head down as another man, headed in my direction, leaned into my left shoulder and bumped me to the right. I checked to make sure my wallet was still there. I've seen that trick before. Before I could, the man took off at a sprinter's pace in the opposite direction. Two other men in black suits, with white ties and matching black hats, emerged from a two-door Nash across the street with Thompson submachine guns. Their eyes were on me.

Off balance, I struggled to open my coat and retrieve Harlow. As the guns began to rattle off shots, I abandoned the effort. With little cover around, I charged a few paces down the sidewalk, behind some trees and towards the jalopy. The constant thudding of the weapons synched with my heartbeat and breathing became a chore.

Cries of bullets that crashed into wood and metal shrieked through the air. I leapt forward onto the sidewalk and rolled like a downhill barrel towards the gutter. Falling tree limbs and bits of automobile showered me. Peeking between the ground and the bottom of my car, I watched two sets of black leather shoes step towards me. The firing stopped. I loosened Harlow from my side holster and aimed for the closest set that I could sight. Three quick shots made one set of shoes hop gingerly back to the passenger side of the Nash. The other set disappeared as the driver's door closed and the black car sped away towards the direction of the Lawson house.

I laid in the gutter and listened to a symphony of ringing in my ears. A few moments later, I caught my breath, stood up, and wiped all of the sludge that I could from my clothes. The third man was long gone. The rest of the block was silent. A quick inventory of my body found that I looked like I felt. The jalopy was in one piece, though a few new holes – and fewer windows - were sure to make the ride back to the office a little colder.

I lit a cigarette and thought about Loretta and her guests. I stepped quickly towards the house, Harlow still in hand, and found the curtains drawn. I knocked on the door for five minutes, but there was no answer.

My next move was to get out of the neighborhood before the cops came with questions that I couldn't answer.

8

It was almost dark when I made it back to the office. A soft sheet of rain covered the streets and I was annoyed with my own smell. Something about sidewalk odor puts a guy in a bad mood, but some clean clothes and a few drinks tends to clear it right up.

That idea was shot to hell near my office door. I found Pete on a hallway bench with his hat in his hand. His eyes grew wide when he saw me. His forehead wrinkled – even more than normal – when he saw my clothes.

"For the love of the Lord, Frank. What happened to you?" He asked.

"I got into a fight with an alley cat, Pete. I still got it, though. Took him down in the third round."

Pete shook his head and followed me into the room as I unlocked the door, threw the keys on the desk and started to undress in a corner. With nowhere else to change, Pete had to look the other way while we talked.

He started. "It was good seeing you yesterday, Frank."

"Yeah, a real walk down memory lane."

Pete pointed towards the desk at the photo album, still opened to the picture from the Tatum fight. "No kidding," he said with amusement. I thudded across the room shirtless, grabbed the book and shoved it into the top desk drawer.

"Is that what you came here for, Pete, to reminisce some more? If it is then I ain't got the time. I've got a new life, you know?"

Pete fell into the chair in front the desk, his back turned to me as I returned to my clothes.

"I know you do. That's why I'm here."

"Then spill it."

"Listen. I know you better than your own mother. For five years we spent every waking moment together. That's how I know something ain't right with you."

"So you've come for a confession, Father Pete?"

"No. I've come to help a friend."

"Thanks a lot pal," I said as I walked back to the desk, a little better after some clean clothes and a bird bath in the corner sink. But I was still irritated from almost being killed and wasn't in the mood for an intervention.

"You were a monster in the ring, Frank. The best I ever saw. When they took you away from that ring, they took away a piece of both of us. But look at you now. You come in here filthy and run down. You're lost."

"If you came to save me, you should probably get lost yourself. I'm just about –"

Pete interrupted, "Just listen to me, Frank. Just for a minute."

I took a bottle of gin from my bottom desk drawer and poured three fingers full in silence. Pete took the same. Sitting back in my chair, I motioned for him to continue.

"You took your punishment like a man," he started. "I never got a chance to tell you, but I was proud of the way you handled yourself in the ring that night. They tried to pull one over on you and you weren't having it. They thought they killed the monster, but it's still there. It's still in you. You can't be the best boxer in the world anymore, but you can be the best detective or whatever the hell you want to be. You just got to get over the past and forgive yourself. You did what you needed to do. It's done. Turn the page and move on."

I pushed my glass away and stared at it for a minute. I lit a cigarette as Pete's words bounced around my head like a rubber ball. Maybe what he said was true. Maybe I was still living in the past. Maybe I –

Pete bit into my thoughts like an apple. "And there's one other thing I have to tell you."

"What's that?"

"You know Torchie Ackley, the red-headed bookmaker that runs a place over by the Wilshire Country Club?"

"Of course, he was always around when you trained me. Always looking for a tip."

"Well he's been around a lot more lately. I try to get him away from my fighters, but I can't babysit everyone after they go home. I tell my guys to stay away from the rackets, but they don't always listen. I heard some rumors around the gym today that maybe Lucky was wrapped up with Torchie and his crew."

"Wrapped up like how?"

"Word is that Lucky was supposed to throw the fight last weekend."

"But he didn't..."

"Obviously."

"I imagine ole' Torchie wasn't too pleased with Lucky afterwards."

"I imagine you're right," Pete said. "But that's all I've heard. I don't know nothing else or even if it's true. I hope it isn't, but I figured if anyone could find out, it's you."

"Thanks for letting me know, Pete." I said. "Say, I'm sorry for talking like that to you." The guilt was thick on my face.

"Don't mention it," Pete said. "Do you really think Lucky was murdered?"

"I wasn't so sure at first. But after the day I've had, I'm starting to come around to the feeling that he was."

Pete shook his head, lowered his stare to the floor, and put a tight grip around his hat. He tried to convince himself that the last few days were just a bad dream.

"I sure hope he didn't get wrapped up with Torchie," he said, more to himself than to me.

Pete wobbled and swayed as he rose from his chair. He tapped his hat on my desk and told me that he had places to be. I walked him down the stairs, onto the street, and ran down a taxi. His head arched towards me before he got in and looked me in the eye. Thin grey hairs hung from the side of his head, wiggled in the breeze and tried not to let go.

His eyes hollow like the day before at the gym. In the right light, you could see right into his soul. His voice cracked in the cold breeze.

"You should come by Legion Stadium tonight," he said. "Three fights on the card. They're all bums, but some of the old guys would love to see you again."

The last place I could see myself was back near a ring, showing my face to the people that gave me the kiss off a few years earlier. But seeing Pete's face helped me justify an appearance. I could never say no to the guy.

"I'll see what I can do, Pete," I smiled.

"Eight O'clock. There's a seat with your name on it," he said as he climbed into the cab. "I meant what I said, Frank. Don't just try your best. Be your best."

As Pete rode off towards the sunset, I went to Lew's for a bite to eat. He usually let me use the shower in his backroom. I needed that almost as much as dinner. Lew waved and grabbed a glass before the door could close behind me.

9

The Legion isn't exactly Madison Square Garden, but it's a great venue for a fight. The seats are packed close to the ring and you feel like you're part of the action. Some nights, the fights in the crowd are more entertaining than those in the ring.

I fought my first seven bouts at the Legion. Pete usually starts all of his young brawlers there, sort of like a test to tell if they're any good. If you pass, you move on to bigger places – and bigger paychecks. From what I saw of the fighters on this night, there wouldn't be many more paydays coming.

That didn't stop the crowds from showing up. Most nights, the guy in charge of the rackets pays a couple of dames to stand in front of the place and lure in workers from the studios. Once inside, a few more blondes pump them full of booze until they're gambling away the day's pay.

I dropped down a buck for my ticket, navigated through the temptations in the lobby, and worked my way to a seat up front. Pete spotted me right away and threw a wave from his corner of the ring. He barked out orders to a tiny guy that was getting stuffed with an all-you-can-eat buffet of leather.

Between rounds, Pete used one hand to let out a loud whistle towards the other side of the ring. He pointed towards me with one paw while wiping blood from his puny piñata with the other.

A couple guys in shabby suits got up from ringside seats and strolled through the crowd towards me. One walked with a slight limp and the other was wound tighter than a brand new yo-yo. I fought the glare of the lights and couldn't make out their faces until they were a few feet away. It was Chuck Jackson and Rocky Mitchell, a pair of old sparring partners I hadn't seen since before my last fight.

The smile I put on was convincing enough to win an Oscar. I couldn't tell if theirs was genuine or all part of the game.

Rocky started first. "Well I'll be damned. Look at who came back from the dead."

"I'll say," Chuck added. "At least there's one real fighter in the building tonight."

We all pressed palms and checked to see who could slap each other on the back hardest. It was like a class reunion for dropouts.

"It's been a long while, fellas," I said. "How's tricks?"

"Same as always," Rocky answered. "You punch and you get punched. No different than any other job."

Chuck interrupted. "Enough with all this chit chat, Frank. Let me buy you a beer."

I put up my palms and tilted my head back. "Sorry, guys. No drinks for me tonight. I'm giving my liver a rest."

Chuck doubled over laughing. "What a jokester. Frank Frost, sober. Since when?"

"About two hours ago," I said.

Now it was Rocky's turn to laugh. "That's long enough. How about you step off the wagon and give your seat to a lady?"

"Sorry fellas, I'm a sober spectator tonight," I said. "I'm here on business."

"I heard about this business," Chuck said. "So you're a private detective now. If I lose another couple fights, I might need to find a new job. How much do you make snooping around and such?"

"Almost as much as I spend," I said, showing my teeth.

"Come on," Chuck said. "I'm pretty sure Lucky Lawson's wife is giving you more than a few bucks to chase her crazy ideas of what happened to the champ."

"It keeps me in Camels and chocolate bars," I said. "But never mind her crazy ideas. What kind of stories have you heard about what happened to Lawson?"

"Don't you read the papers?" Chuck said. "He did himself in. Couldn't handle the spotlight."

Rocky said, "Sometimes the lights are too bright in the center of the ring. You should know all about that, Frost."

"Kind of you to remind me," I said. "I'm still nursing the sunburn."

The silence lasted about two seconds. It seemed like two hours. I broke it as quick as I could.

"Say, where can a guy get some action around here?" I said.

Chuck looked at me with a squinted eye. The other looked me up and down like I was in a suspect lineup.

"Action? With these bums?" he said. "Ain't no one around here taking any bets. Besides, since when do you gamble?"

I tried my best to look casual. "Since I started making some cash," I said. "And don't play me like some violin. Where there's fighting, there's gambling. Who's taking the action?"

Rocky shook his head, dropped his half-smoked cigarette to the ground, and put it to rest with his shoe heel.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Frank."

"Yeah, good seeing you again, Frost," Chuck said as he tapped Rocky on the shoulder and went on his way. Just like that, the reunion was over. The night was just about over for the mini mauler in the ring, too. The referee hovered over him and counted to six. By the time he got to ten, Pete abandoned his post in the corner of the ring and was halfway to me.

"Tough night," I said to him as he approached.

Pete shook it off like he did all of the young fighters he's kicked to the curb over the years. In this business, you know pretty quick if you're a lifer or a loser. No jury was needed for tonight's audition.

Disinterested in talking about the fight, Pete invited me back to the locker room to see "the guys." I did my best to act excited. Truth is I'd rather take a nap in the middle of the street than head to the dressing rooms. Still, I agreed.

He led me down the main aisle where the fighters made their entrance to the ring. It was a path I wore out a few times before, but to a different reception. Instead of cheering and anticipation, a handful of depressed studio lackeys sat in silence. They shook their heads and stared at betting slips as worthless as a week-old meal ticket. They talked to themselves, trying different stories to tell their wives when they got home without a paycheck. Sparks would fly when the little guy in the ring pumped their gas next week.

A few shadowed figures stood in the tunnel. They counted profits in their heads and calculated odds for the next fight. One eyed me, tried to place my face, and went back to counting. I hadn't seen him before, but from the look in his eyes, he knew me.

Pete was in his element anywhere there was fighting. He walked like a confident man through the hallways. The smell of cigar smoke and gymnasium fumes was his perfume. He saluted security guards and glad-handed overweight men in suits who chomped cigars and begged for tips. He was a different man than the one I saw in my office earlier that day.

The march continued to the final door on the right. Chips of white paint fell off it long ago, but the lock was shiny and looked tight. Only someone with the right credentials could get inside. Pete had just that.

He knocked twice. The lock jiggled and shook for a moment. The door cracked a bit to show an oval-shaped blue eye with a dark eyebrow hovering over it. Pete made an impatient gesture with his hand and the door shot open. A cloud of smoke blew out and sucked us in at the same time.

The room was small with too much furniture. A row of chairs lined the back and a green felt card table sat in the middle. Matching green chairs held a vigil around it. Men with loosened ties and unbuttoned collars sat around drinking from bottles and dirty glasses. They didn't pay attention to the door. Not until Pete came in.

The men handed out drinks and handshakes like he'd been gone for years. You'd swear his fighter won, the way they greeted him to their private party. If boxing were a gang, Pete would be the boss. He's been in the racket longer than most of the nudniks in the room were breathing. He's seen things, heard things, that most people couldn't imagine. He's witnessed things that make guys run for the exit to get out of this business. But Pete was made for boxing. It's given many things to him and it'll eventually take it all away. It's funny like that.

Once the celebration died down, a few eyes moved from Pete over to me. They took turns with the same where-have-you-been jokes that Chuck and Rocky tried earlier. I smiled like I hadn't heard them before. We chatted about the fights while the guys played cards and took bets on the next bout. It was just like my days in the Legion, only the walls were yellowed and the spectator's souls a little darker.

After a half hour of boring banter, a thin guy that I didn't recognize unlocked the cage and let the elephant in the room free. He gave me a puzzled look that furrowed his long pencil nose and bushy brown eyebrows.

"So why'd you hit that referee, Frank?" He said in a high-pitched nasal voice. All talk and card playing in the room stopped. That was the question everyone wanted to ask, but wasn't sure if they should.

"No reason, really," I said. "I swung at the other guy and missed."

It took a few seconds to sink in, but pencil nose cracked a smile and a small laugh rattled around in his throat. The answer wasn't what he wanted to hear, but he knew better than to press the situation. Everyone went back to business except Pete.

"Well, we sure do miss you, Frank," he said. The crowd grunted in agreement. A few guys murmured something about how much better "the old days" were.

After a few more minutes of back-and-forth, I grabbed my hat from a wobbly rack near the door and excused myself from the party. A few handshakes and back slaps later, Pete followed me out the door and into the hallway.

"Say Frank, would you mind doing me a favor?" he said.

"Sure thing," I replied.

"Down the hall, at door three, I have this young kid. Parker is his name, Benny Parker. He's got some promise, but his eyes are already getting too big for the ring. I've had to shoo Torchie away from him too many times for a rookie fighter. Any chance you can go talk some sense into him?"

I flipped my hat around in my hand and gave it some thought. Sense wasn't something I've ever been accused of having. "I'll see what I can do, Pete."

He thanked me, gave me a limp handshake and watched me walk around the bend in the hallway. Just after the curve, I found a white door with the number three stenciled in the middle. Two large men standing guard at the knob. It was Chuck and Rocky.

Both puffed their aging chests out as I approached, as if to mark their territory before I could get to it. I tried to work my way between them, but Rocky slipped to the side and dropped a meaty paw down on me as I reached for the handle. The shot nearly broke my wrist in half.

"Parker's busy," he said plainly.

"I won't take but a minute to..."

"Beat it, Frank," Rocky said. "He's busy. Besides, aren't fans supposed to be in the stands?"

Chuck let out a hearty laugh at his buddy's comment. I twisted to turn back, but spun at the hips and thrust forward, jamming my right fist into Rocky's jaw. The crack echoed through the hallway. Rocky shook some cobwebs loose and jumped at me. He bear-hugged me around the chest and my shoes left the ground. I worked an arm free and shot a hand to his throat. Chuck stood and watched his buddy's face redden as he struggled for air. My rib cage made friends with my spine when door number three opened.

"What the hell's going on out there?" a voice barked from inside. Chuck and Rocky stopped like a pair of well-trained mutts. A bright head of red hair seemed to enter the hallway before the rest of Torchie made its way through the door. The two guards stood at attention and stammered out a few lines of apology to the boss. I hunched over and rubbed a sore shoulder.

Torchie took a look at me and then back at Rocky. It didn't take him long to figure out what was going on.

"I leave you alone for five minutes and you start horsing around," he barked at his pair of trained apes. They stood quietly and took the assault.

Like I wasn't present, Torchie held the door open and a pair of long pale legs followed behind him. My eyes made my way up them, eventually settling on a face that belonged to Loretta Lawson. Our eyes met for a moment and she quickly turned away. She thanked Torchie and left the hallway like she was fired from a cannon.

Torchie whispered something to Chuck, who pulled a .32-caliber rod from his suit coat and flashed it in my direction. He told me to scram, which I was inclined to obey this time around. By the time I could pull Harlow from my side holster, Chuck would have made Swiss cheese out of me. I don't like Swiss cheese.

I walked back through the arena to catch a glimpse of Loretta. She was long gone. I followed her lead. It was late and I wasn't learning anything new from these tomato cans in the ring.

10

I had the same dream that night that's come to me most every night for four years. I'm surrounded by green grass on a park bench. Warm sun and birds pecked at the discarded seeds from nearby trees. An organ grinder and his monkey danced and a heavy-set man sold balloons as children played stickball. In the distance, almost like a mirage, I see my father. His lips are moving, but nothing comes out. I get up from the bench and walk towards him, but with every step forward, he moves further away. Eventually, the morning sun awakens me before I can hear him. I never hear him.

It was still dark when a large hand banged on the glass pane of my door and threw me from the couch. I slid on the floor, wiped my eyes, and crawled over to pull Harlow from her bed in the desk. I inched towards the door without a sound.

The hand beat the door again. This time harder and longer and more determined. The wall shook and the glass on the door bowed under the pressure.

Flattened against the wall, with Harlow at the ready, I poked my right hand out and tapped the handle just enough to open the door. In the dark, a stocky figure plowed in. Air sucked through the door and out of the office as a second, thinner figure followed behind. I raised Harlow up, ready to drive the butt down into the nearest intruder.

"For Christ's sake, put the gun down Frost," barked detective Hilliard.

My lungs drained and the muscles in my shoulders loosened as I flipped the light switch. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I struggled to focus on Hilliard and Atwood already seated in front of my desk.

"What the hell time is it?" I asked, unable to focus on the wall clock.

"A little before six in the morning. The time most working men are up and at it."

"Good thing I'm not one of them," I responded.

Hilliard bit back, "Have a seat."

"Thanks for offering. Seeing as it's my office."

Atwood chirped, "Enough of the chit-chat, Frost. What the hell have you been up to?"

Hilliard threw out his left arm and nearly chopped Atwood in half at the chest. With a look of impatience, he told the rookie to shut up without saying a word. Atwood flung back in his chair like a spoiled child who couldn't get a new toy. I laughed.

Hilliard continued. "What Ed here was trying to say, Frost, is what's your angle with this Lucky Lawson stuff? I've got reports of a shooting around his house and I keep hearing about you chasing around town asking a bunch of questions that aren't related to the case."

"When you're investigating a murder, everything's related," I responded.

Atwood lunged forward. "But this ain't no murder and you know it." Hilliard gave his puppy another stern look.

Hilliard pulled a cigar from his coat pocket and ignited it with a silver lighter that looked new. He stared at it contently. In his beefy hand, the cigar looked like a small brown torch. "You seem pretty sure of yourself, Frost," he continued. "I've got a lot of experience with these cases and this one has suicide written all over it. What say you?"

"I don't have to say anything, Hilliard. I have a client paying me to find the truth. I'm just doing my job."

Hilliard said, "And what happens when you find out that Lucky put a plug in his own head? What do you tell poor Loretta Lawson then?"

"I won't tell her anything, because that won't happen."

Hilliard took a furious drag from his cigar and slammed his left hand on my desk. "So what have you got then, hot shot? What proof has your little detective work uncovered that says this is a murder?"

I stayed calm. "Enough for me to bet a hundred dollars to your fifty that Lucky didn't pull a trigger once on the night he was killed."

Hilliard's chubby face squeezed together and burned with a fire I had never seen. He could have re-lit his cigar with his breath alone.

"Spill it then," he roared. "You better tell me what you've got and do it quick. The papers already reported the suicide and they'll have my job if it turns out otherwise. Tell me everything you know and stay away from any damned reporter that tries to ask the same."

I sat back in my chair and propped my feet on the desk. Atwood looked anxious to talk, but scared of the punishment if he did. "Hilliard, you really should have your morning coffee before you interrogate people," I said. "It makes it much easier to –"

"NOW!" He barked.

I threw up my hands to calm the situation. "Well, since we're such good buddies, I'll give you a nibble," I said. "But this is my case, Hilliard, so I'm not giving you any more than that."

His face was a pale shade of lavender. I'd swear I saw smoke rise from his ears.

"Lucky was a damned good fighter," I said. "Even rarer, he was a southpaw. There aren't too many left-handed fighters in the heavyweight class these days."

Atwood chimed in, "And?"

"And it would take one hell of a lefty, especially one with his right hand broken and wrapped up, to put a bullet through the right side of his head. If Lucky was that serious about doing himself in, he would have done it without the acrobatics."

This time, I definitely saw steam come from Hilliard's ears. He bit down so hard that his cigar broke and spilled bits of flaming ash onto his lap. He shot up from the chair, brushed his pants off, and looked at Atwood with a closed fist.

"By God, when the papers get wind of this..."

Atwood put up his hands in defense, ready to block a punch. "This doesn't prove anything. He has one theory. It won't hold up."

I answered. "The kid's right, Hilliard. Maybe it won't. But maybe..." I let the rest of my sentence hang onto the air and mix with the smoke from Hilliard's broken cigar. I took my feet off the desk and sat upright, at the ready in case a fist found its way towards me.

"The case is closed, Frost," Hilliard said. "I can't reopen it without reporters coming around asking questions. I'll put a few men on this secretly, but you have to be on the level with me. You have to tell me everything you know and leave nothing out."

"But I thought you wanted me to keep the detecting to the real detectives," I said.

"So help me God, Frost –"

"Look," I said. "I have a client and a job to do. You have your own job to do. Put as many men as you want on it, but Frank Frost won't be one of those men. Now if you'd like, I can open the door so you can leave quietly or I can make you leave loudly. Which will it be?"

Atwood said, "Are you threatening us, Frost?" His voice was high and whiny.

Hilliard turned and pushed Atwood towards the door. He said something dirty under his breath and made his way out.

"Don't forget that coffee, Hilliard," I said.

The door closed behind the men. I watched their shadows argue in front of the glass for three minutes. As the two detectives pushed each other down the hall, the first bits of sunlight poked through the window and towards the front of the room. I closed the blinds and went back to sleep. It was a new day and I felt like a new man.

11

The drive to Torchie's takes about fifteen minutes from my office, but traffic doubled it. The city is always packed in the early morning with people hurrying to or from work. James Cagney, Mary Astor, and other check-cashers wave to one another from their convertibles. Cameramen and lighting jockeys scramble to sets in remote parts of the hills. Busses full of naïve recruits strut into the city with little more than hopes and prayers. The occasional drunk gums up the streets, stumbles out of the bar into the road, squints into the morning sun, and heads back in. At one time or another in my thirty-three years, I've been all of these people.

More rain fell overnight and the roads were blacker than coal because of it. Slimy mixtures of mud and sludge built a barrier next to the sidewalks and made parking impossible on the street. My 35-minute drive was capped off with a ten-minute walk from the nearest parking garage.

You won't find Torchie in the phone directory. His building, The Sahara Club, isn't on any tourist brochures in this fine town. If you didn't know what you were looking for, you'd walk right by the abandoned warehouse on Temple Street.

Before the movie studios moved to California, looking for longer hours of sunshine for filming, the building was a textile mill. In its heyday, it pumped out the finest dyed clothing in the country at a rate of two tons a day. Smoke billowed from the building as workers spun, wove, and finished cotton around the clock and sent it by railroad all over the country.

Torchie bought the place when it went belly up in '35. From the outside, it looks like it always has. The three-story brick building rises proudly above those around it. The word "Textiles" is still visible on the right side of the place. A few windows sprinkle the front and sides. The previous owners felt that if their employees could see the outside world, it would distract them and slow their output. That worked for Torchie, who'd rather the outside world not see into his establishment. The building is connected at the back by a laundry service and makes up what was once the proudest corner in the industrial side of town.

But now, The Sahara Club was a secret spot built for the town's elite. The invite-only den of iniquity could satisfy even the most perverse of tastes. Heavy gambling, strong liquor, and weak women are just the tip of the iceberg at The Sahara Club. If you wanted it and they didn't have it, chances are it could get there within a half hour – if the price was right. For the movie executives that considered the Sahara a home away from home, the price was but a drop in the bucket.

A nightclub isn't usually the place you stakeout during the morning, but The Sahara Club isn't typical. It never officially closes and the type of clientele the place draws isn't the type that worries about getting to work bright and early. In many cases, a studio employee making fifty bucks a week walks by the doors while the studio's owner is inside betting five hundred on a game of blackjack.

Since I didn't have an invitation, I hoped I could be granted a meeting with Torchie on a technicality. A few months earlier, I busted open a murder case where a guy named Herman Santiago was killed just a few hundred yards from the solid-oak doors of the Sahara. Cops fingered Torchie and thought it would be their chance to bring down the club for good. You can imagine Hilliard's reaction when I brought in evidence showing that Santiago's gambling buddy plugged him in the alley during an argument about some dame. As far as I saw it, Torchie owed me.

I approached the massive chamber doors that protected the privileged from the mean outside world. The thick slabs had no markings or decoration aside from a Judas hole just below my eye level. The door absorbed my knock, and three more like it. A piece of metal slid from the hole to show a pair of round, wetted eyes that peered at me with as much curiosity as contempt.

"Invitation?" he said in a voice that sounded like it had been eating pebbles and drinking sand.

"I seemed to have lost it. How about you tell Torchie that Frank Frost is outside and would like a moment of his time?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, guy. Try somewhere else." The metal snapped shut. I knocked again.

This time, the doorman slid just enough for one eye to show. "Listen, bub, if you know what's good for you –"

I interrupted. "It would be an awful shame if Torchie found out that I came all this way to see him and you didn't let me in. I'd hate to think what he'd do if he got that angry."

The eye squinted, like its owner tried to solve a problem too difficult to cipher. The man blinked away some of the wetness and told me to wait where I was. I had little choice in the matter. I reminded him any cops that watched might get suspicious of a man that waited outside an abandoned building in the morning cold. If he was going to talk to Torchie, he might want to hurry.

Two minutes later, the slider threw open again and the eyes looked at me, a little more disappointed than before.

"Go around to the cleaners. Someone will be there to meet you."

The hole closed again. I tried to look natural while I strolled around the building. Foot traffic through the alley next to the Sahara was brisk, as walkers took shortcuts away from the wind. On the other side, the laundry service ran at a feverish pace. Through the window, workers loaded and unloaded clothing into large steaming vats of hot water. A rotating clothesline moved the freshly cleaned linens around the building as the last drops of hot water rolled off them and onto the cement floor. They ran downhill and disappeared into a drain in the center of the room.

I've seen enough gangster movies to know what might be in those big canvas bags marked "Laundry." It wasn't my place to ask any questions, though. Some badly timed questions likely got those bags stuffed in the first place.

The sidewalks were alive with talk and footsteps. A thickly cut man in a heavy beige overcoat, scarf and hat stood near the entrance of the laundry. He motioned me closer with a stubby finger. As I got near, I made out a thin upturned nose, sad, heavy cheeks and the thickest set of eyebrows I ever saw. Beneath the two hedges were the same eyeballs I stared at moments earlier at the Sahara.

"Follow me," the squat man said. "And don't try nothing funny."

We walked single file through the cleaners without an employee looking in our direction. We went past the slippery floors and drains and around the silver vats that threw off just enough heat to thaw my bones. By the time we reached the back staircase, a few beads of sweat formed on my head. The beefy man looked back at me suspiciously. I assured him the sweat was from the steam. He didn't believe me.

Atop the stairs, we entered through a door that opened into a long hallway lined with food carts and discarded decorations. Dozens of half-empty wine glasses littered the walkway and the sound of debauchery filled the air. My watch said 10:32 a.m., but it may as well have been midnight on the other side of the walls.

The thick man removed his coat and hat and dropped them on a chair by the door. He was wearing all black with a white tie. The look was accented with a robin's egg blue handkerchief that peeped through the breast pocket of his jacket.

After a long hike down the hall, I followed my guide into a room that housed three more men just as big as him. All three stood up from a card game and formed a semicircle. They examined me like a piece of cheese in a mouse hole. One face was new to me, the other two weren't - Chuck and Rocky.

My guide pointed at me and said to the group: "This guy's here to see Torchie. Check him for a rod." Chuck and Rocky looked at me with wordless disappointment, like I was a stranger in a subway station.

The man I didn't know came towards me with hands each the size of a ham. He was a good four inches taller than me and had arms like machine guns. I anticipated this and left Harlow in the jalopy's glove box. He frisked me with the gentleness of a bulldozer and found nothing. A motion with his hands said I was okay to proceed.

The guide led me into the next room, which looked like a kitchen. Pots, pans, and other utensils lined the walls with stained white sheets covering what appeared to be long tables and a few stoves. The sound was louder and a faint female scream clawed through the distance. At the end of the kitchen, the beefy man threw out a thick arm and stopped me in my tracks.

"Now listen, bub," he said. "I don't know who you are and I really don't like you. You got five minutes in here with Torchie and no more. You go over your time and I end the meeting with this."

He pulled out a bluish-chrome .45 from his coat pocket and pointed it at my stomach. It was already cocked and his finger looked determined to massage the trigger. I looked at the pistol and the beefy man pulled back his lips to show a set of stained teeth as sharp as a tiger's.

"I get the picture," I said. "Let's go and get this over with then."

The guide reached out for the doorknob and then drew back his hand. A sneeze cut through the tension in the hall. He wiped his eyes, cursed the cold weather, and went back for the knob. A twist of the handle and he wagged his head towards the open room. I went in first.

Torchie's office matched what I imagined the inside of The Sahara Club looks like. Tacky purples and blacks in velvet and suede lined the furniture. Dark wood glowed under the dim lights and photos showing dozens of celebrities, including Lucky, in different stages of excess at the club decorated the walls. The place was ripe for blackmail.

An angry Torchie met me at the door. A tiny guy, barely five foot, with blazing red hair and freckled skin. If not for a scar down the right side of his face, he'd pass for a young kid.

His clothes showed his wealth. On his shoulders sat the top of a black-and-white pinstriped suit cut to his exact measurements. The tailor knew his craft. His jacket was neatly cleaned and manicured with the initials "EA" monogrammed in silver across the breast pocket. A diamond the size of a baseball sat atop a ring on his right pinky. For Torchie, it was a knick-knack.

"What the hell's the big idea coming up here, Frost?" he squealed.

"What gives, Torchie? Not happy to see me?"

"I'll be happy to have Bruno here carry you out in a bag if you don't make it quick. You know better than to come up here uninvited."

"So the bulldog has a name?"

Bruno snorted and traced my every move with his pistol. He wanted nothing more than for Torchie to give him the signal to take me into the hallway and plug me full of holes. I didn't plan on giving him the chance.

"Listen, Torchie," I said. "As far as I see it, you owe me. If not for me, you'd be locked up in Hilliard's zoo waiting for the undertaker to pull you out. All I need is a little information."

Torchie looked through skeptical eyes. His left hand scrubbed his smooth chin. "What sort of information?"

"Lucky Lawson."

The pale skin on Torchie's face pulled back tight and his eyes matched his hair. Shoe heels pounded the floor to a large maple desk and a high-back chair that made the puny man seem smaller. I chuckled under my breath so no one could hear. He pointed at a smaller chair in front of the desk that I sat in. Bruno kept his vigil at the door.

Torchie lit a cigar. I took a cigarette. I leaned forward and grabbed a pack of matches from the desk and lit my smoke. I tossed the matchbook back as the shine from it caught my eye. It was bright red with a large letter S printed in gilded gold. Below the letter was a smaller print that said "Compliments of The Sahara Club."

Torchie started. "What makes you think I know anything about Lawson?"

"Because you know all the boxers around town. And that wasn't exactly Betty Crocker that I saw you with at the fights last night."

"So I like boxing and broads. That doesn't make me guilty of anything but being a man. It doesn't mean I knew Lawson."

I leaned forward in the small chair, took a long drag of my cigarette and looked at Torchie with one squinted eye. "You must not have known him that well, because you took his word that he would throw the fight last weekend. That must have hurt business pretty bad."

Torchie clenched his fists and looked down at the little balls of fire. He wanted to hit something, but didn't want to show it. He put out the cigar in a silver ashtray and wiped his mouth.

"So we did a little business. I know you're on the level and you ain't the type to blab about it. So what?"

"Since you know I'm on the level, you should be comfortable telling me about this business you did."

Torchie glanced at Bruno, who salivated and pleaded to pounce on me. They knew I was helpless without a rod and that three more bulldogs within earshot would love to take a bite out of me. He relaxed in his chair.

"I was getting a lot of bets in for Lawson to win. The other guy was getting old and everyone knew that Lawson was primed to knock him off. I figured it'd be good for business if I convinced Lawson to take a dive in this fight."

"What was in it for him?"

"Two grand and a promise that he'd get a rematch in two months. Everyone would bet against him this time and Lawson was free to do whatever he pleased in that fight."

"But he didn't."

"Damn right he didn't," he said. His anger showed. Both hands crushed invisible things on the arm of his chair. "I took a bath for it, too. Lost nearly twenty grand." Torchie waved his hand at the amount like he were saying he lost a dollar on the street.

"Who else knew about this deal?"

"Only Lucky and that dame of his."

"Loretta?" I asked.

"Hell no. Susan."

I shook my head. Torchie looked confused.

"Either way, I imagine you'd want to teach Lucky a lesson after he double crossed you like that. You look like you've got the muscle around here to handle the job." I pointed towards Bruno. He snorted back.

I continued. "So what was your business with Loretta Lawson at the Legion?"

"You ask too many questions," he responded. "We had some business to settle. A debt to be paid."

"Anything like the debt Lucky paid at the hotel? Seems like you'd want to collect on that."

Torchie brushed some ashes from his desk. "Yeah, too bad Lucky pulled his own plug and beat me to it," he said. He glanced over at Bruno and nodded. The huge man set off in a march toward me. Meaty paws grabbed my arm, twisted it behind my back and pushed me into the front of the desk.

Bruno growled. "Time's up, pal. Either you leave now, or I take you out myself."

The pain in my left shoulder was a lightning bolt that raced down my back and into my leg. In a brief moment of clarity, while pressed against the desk, I slid the matchbook into my coat pocket. By reflex, I straightened up and tried to turn my body to relieve the pressure. Every time I moved, Bruno tightened his grip.

"I can tell when I'm not wanted somewhere," I said with a grimace and a strained voice. "So long Torchie."

Torchie laughed as he watched me writhe in pain. "So long, Frank. Don't come back here ever again. We're even now. From this point on, we ain't got no business to settle."

Bruno shoved me back into the kitchen and let my arm go. Rubbing it didn't help, and it wasn't long until his pistol jammed into my back and pushed me into the hallway. We stayed connected all the way to the back door of the cleaners. Bruno let out another sneeze and the gun shoved harder into my spine.

"This is where we part ways," he said in his gravelly voice as I watched his shadow rise up behind me and drop in a thud. The handle of his pistol aimed at the right side of my head.

I saw a flash of light and then total darkness. I heard the opening of the door and felt several shots of pain as I crashed down the stairs and onto the cold cement floor of the laundry service. Runoff water from the clean clothes tickled my face as the sounds grew smaller and the darkness swallowed my consciousness.

12

A sharp stab on my left shoulder woke me up. My eyes didn't want to open and fought even harder when the setting sunlight pierced through to my brain. It took several seconds to focus on the foot-patrol officer that poked me with his nightstick. Someone must have dragged me out to a bench in front of the laundry service and left me to either freeze or become pigeon food. I struggled to sit upright. The pains reminded me where I was.

"We don't like no vagrants around here, move along," the officer said with the stick settled on his shoulder. His free hand stroked a thick gray mustache.

Too sore to argue, I nodded my head and wobbled to my feet. A few pennies spilled from my lap onto the ground. The jingle sound they made echoed through my head like a bad hangover. However long I was out for, the evening started and some passersby felt sorry enough for me to leave some change. I wasn't too proud to scoop it up.

As I stumbled away, the cop mumbled something about staying away from booze. My head was pounding too much to hear it or even care what he said. Heavy foot traffic filled the area as night workers headed in and the daytime crew went to the bars. A little joint across the street took in customers and fit my needs just fine.

The building had low ceilings, bad paint, and walls held up by drinkers that leaned against them and complained about life. The place was built sloppy and in a hurry. Most on this street were. The owners wanted to make money off of the film boom and the workers brought in to endure unthinkable shifts for unspeakable wages.

But in a bar like this, life seemed to stand still. For most patrons, work either just ended or was about to begin. A few cold beers were the natural way to celebrate the final moments of freedom from an otherwise miserable life. From the size of the crowd inside the place, there was a lot of misery going on.

I fought through the smells of the crowd, made my way to the bar, and threw a dollar on the counter. The bartender looked at me with a mix of confusion and horror. I'm sure he's seen a lot of characters come through, but I took a first-place ribbon in the disaster category. The stocky man was bald in the front and compensated with a longer hairdo in the back. He was pudgy all around and had skin so pale that you could almost through it. I asked for dimes and he obliged, but never took his eyes off me.

The red neon lights made the place look like a murder scene, but pointed me toward the bathroom. The tiny hut smelled like slave labor and the floors were slippery as ice. I slid my way towards the mirror and frowned at what I saw. The right side of my face was swollen and splotches of dried blood leaked from my right ear. Both eyes were puffy and my jaw clicked when I opened it. I leaned over the sink and splashed cold water over my face. The shock felt good, so I did it twice more.

After drying off with some cheap paper towels, I marched to a phone booth and dropped in a dime. I pulled Susan McCauley's number from my notebook and got the connection. It took a few moments before her sweet-smelling voice answered.

I swallowed deep and did my best to scuff my throat. In a choked tone, I set into her.

"Hello?" she said a second time.

"This Susan?" I asked with my best gravel voice.

"Yes. And who is this?"

"Don't worry about that. Torchie will be over there in an hour. Make sure you're home."

She started to respond, but I hung up before she could get the words out. My hope was that she mistook me for Bruno. If she didn't, my plan wouldn't work. A glance at the clock above the bar said that it was 6:03.

With a little time to kill, I made my way to the bar and ordered a gin. The firewater went down nearly as fast as the translucent man poured it and made me feel sixty-percent better.

I listened to drunk men tell tales of wild nights and untamed women, of good booze and bad friends. One man was on a roll with complaints about his nagging wife. His was probably the only true tale of the night. A whistle went off in the distance and echoed through the room to end story time. Several men cussed and headed towards the door. The night just started for them. For once, I wasn't embarrassed of my jalopy and ninety-dollar-a-month office.

I paid the bar with a couple dimes and worked my way through the crowd and out the door. I dusted off my jacket and tightened it around my waist as the cold evening air clamped down on me. The jalopy was where I parked it and was eager to start when I put the key in the ignition. My watch read 6:20.

Twenty-five minutes passed before I pulled up to the Chateau Elysee. If my plan worked, Susan McCauley was home and expecting Torchie any minute. If she read through my disguise, I could stumble into some extra company.

The halls of the Chateau were painted with a dark shade of red that made the room seem warmer than it really was. Compared to the December cold outside, anything was an improvement. The lobby was crowded enough that managed to slip by the front desk unattended - A daring feat in my condition.

On my way up the elevator, I asked the young attendant if he'd dropped anyone off on the eleventh floor in the last hour.

"You a copper?" he asked in a suspecting tone.

"No, just a concerned friend."

"Yeah, I figured you ain't police. You're too dirty."

"Thanks for the compliment," I said. "But back to my question..."

"I can't remember."

I pulled a five spot out of my pocket. "Remember now?"

"Come to think about it, I do," he said, swiping the bill so fast that I hardly saw him move. "I ain't stopped there since early this morning. It's been a slow day. Until now, at least."

"Good. That fiver should give me some credit with you. Make sure you don't make any stops on the eleventh floor in the next half hour."

The boy eyed my tattered clothes and puffy face with suspicion. "You ain't pulling any funny business are you? I can't get mixed up in –"

I interrupted. "Nothing funny at all. Just visiting a friend and I'd like some privacy."

He chewed on something in his mouth for a moment then swung the gates open to the eleventh floor.

"I guess you're O.K.," he said, still not sure if he believed it. "You've got a half-hour."

Room 11-04 wasn't far down the hall and the freshly laid thick carpeting pulled me there with little effort. The boy in the elevator watched as I approached the door and paused to straighten up. The point was useless, but it wasn't often you go to see a dame like Susan.

She answered the door as soon as I knocked. She was standing by in anticipation of the noise. Her gold and silver dress hugged her in all the right places. Diamonds dripped from her flawless skin. Makeup was freshly painted on and she smelled like heaven. If she were a movie, she'd win every Oscar in the program.

Her shoulders dropped in relief. Confusion made her eyes shrink and squeeze together.

"Mr. Frost," she said. "What happened to you?"

"I never did learn how to walk down a set of stairs. Today's lesson was a tough one."

She started to respond, but moved to the side and let me in instead. I stumbled to the couch before she could offer it. Susan went into the kitchen to get a wet towel. She looked at her electric clock in the room. It said 6:52.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Frost?" She said first in a rushed tone that slowed down to fake a lazy ease.

"Call me Frank. I was on this side of town and figured I'd swing by and say hello."

She moved towards the couch and sat next to me, her arms wrapped around my shoulders and her head dropped near my side. I winced at the pain it caused, but didn't let her see it. She drew back and dabbed at my face with the towel.

"It's so nice to see you, Frank. With all that's been going on, I've been simply terrified here by myself. Who knows what might happen to me? I feel so much better having you here."

Her sobs were dry and hollow, but I liked how they felt on my collar. I let her continue.

"It's been a long day, Susan. How about a drink?"

She rose to her feet and smoothed out her dress with a saunter towards a mini bar in the corner. The twist in her hips that was meant for me to see. I liked it. As she poured a tall glass of something, she looked over her shoulder at me. She was pleased that I watched her. As she returned her eyes to the glass, I surveyed the room for any evidence that she was prepared for a visit from Torchie. I found nothing.

Ice clinked in the glass as she slithered back towards me and handed the drink over. In two quick movements, she returned to my shoulder. I took in a mouthful of drink and felt it burn as it made its way towards my stomach.

"Listen, Susan. I can keep you safe, but I need you to be on the level," I said. "When I was here before, you didn't tell me the full truth. If I can't trust you, we can't help each other."

Her shoulders shot back. Her face inched closer to mine. A soft red invaded her cheeks and her cherry-colored lips cooed at me. Dark eyebrows curved like flying hot comets aimed towards her mouth.

"Anything, Frank. I'll tell you anything. Just don't leave me alone."

"Tell me about Torchie and about Lucky throwing the fight."

Her neck straightened. With a shove of my shoulder, she threw herself against the back of the couch in shock. The clock read 6:56. Her brain shuffled.

"What about it?"

"Tell me everything you know."

"Lucky talked to him a few times. That's really all I know." A lock of her hair spun around a finger as she bit her bottom lip. The look was meant to distract me. It'd be a lie if I said I didn't have to fight it.

"And Lucky agreed to throw the fight?" I asked.

"I remember something like that. He never intended to, though. He didn't like losing and wanted too badly to be the champ."

"So why would he make a promise to a big shot like Torchie that he didn't intend to keep? Isn't that like signing your own death certificate?"

Pools formed in her eyes and her hands shot up in terror, covering her mouth to block what might come out. It was 6:59.

She whispered. "But Lucky killed himself. You don't think..." the words floated across the room like clouds heavy with rain.

"I don't know," I said. "But I'm trying to find out."

"Torchie's a bad man. He does bad things. If he was mad enough at Lucky. I don't know." She threw herself at me, possessed and crying hysterically. Makeup rubbed off on my collar and her grip got tighter by the teardrop. I placed an arm around her and watched as the clock ticked to 7:01. I thanked her for the drink and said that I had an appointment elsewhere and had to be leaving.

As I rose from the couch, she glanced at the clock and lunged at me, grabbing my arm and stopping me in my tracks.

"Don't go, Frank. You can't go," she said. "I can't be here without you. If Torchie did something to Lucky, he'll come for me, too."

"Sorry, doll, but I've got business elsewhere. Maybe another time."

She flung to her feet, grabbed me by the shoulders and spun me around to face her. It hurt, but in a good way. In the time it took to set my feet, her face closed in on mine. In an instant, I grabbed her into my arms and held her as she went limp. Then she kissed me. At that moment, I might have killed Torchie myself to keep her kissing me. The warmth of her lips set my blood to boiling. They were soft and sweet, like sugarcoated rose petals. She leaned in closer with her shoulders and pressed her breasts to my chest for added emphasis. I didn't want to leave. I could have stayed there the rest of my life, but I pulled away.

"I've got to go," I said as I swung the door open and plowed through, like a running back headed for the goal line. I slammed the door behind me, it drowned out the screams of the beautiful woman I just left behind. Another one of the hazards of my job.

I re-entered the elevator at 7:06. The pimple-faced kid looked at me with wide, approving eyes and a sloppy smile.

"Went well, I take it?"

"What's that?"

He pointed at my face. The mirror in the back of the elevator car showed large red splotches smeared across my lips.

"Your visit. Looks like it went well."

I wiped my mouth and gave the kid a fatherly chat about minding his own business. Once the elevator shook and opened on the ground floor, I walked out towards the jalopy without a chance for anyone to see me. It was nearly dark and storefront lights pointed up and down Sunset and faded away towards Beverly Hills.

I started the jalopy and turned onto Franklin, towards an alley near Cahuenga Boulevard. I backed into the darkened area and cut off my lights. It was only ten minutes before a valet pulled around a red convertible and held the door for Susan, who rushed into the car and sped off to the east. I gave her a head start, then flung the car into gear and took off in her direction.

She drove the convertible with a level of expertise set aside for stunt men. She hugged the tight city curves while going fifty. My needle touched 65 through the straightaway along Hillhurst Avenue and by The Sahara Club. Twice I nearly lost her as she barreled through red lights. My car was no match for hers. If she spotted me, she could press her gas pedal and leave me to smell her exhaust.

I finally caught up when she double backed and went north on Hillhurst. She shoved her car into a parking spot along Franklin Avenue, not far from where we started. I waited before I turned into a parking lot across the street. The scene was familiar. She parked in front of Pete's Gym.

In a high set of heeled shoes, she stomped out of the car and plodded towards the door to the gym. It was pitch black inside and there were no signs of life around the place. She turned the handle with no luck and pounded on the door for several minutes with fury in her fists. She stopped and looked around to see if she was being watched. In time she gave up and walked towards the front window, cupped her hands over her eyes, and pressed her head against it to try and spot movement inside. As she stormed back towards the car, the steam from her breath left a heart shape on the window where her head was pressed. She didn't move like a woman who had love on her mind.

Without looking back, she thrust her car onto Franklin. By the time I got out of the parking lot, I lost her tail lights in the sea of red. It was hopeless to find her in the early evening traffic near the studios. She could turn onto any of a dozen side streets and make her way elsewhere. Besides, I hadn't eaten in hours and the lumps on my head told me it was time to call it a day.

Lew had such a busy night that he didn't see me take a corner seat at the bar. He spotted me when he served some sandwiches to a young couple at a table and motioned with his fingers that he'd be over as soon as he could. I grabbed a newspaper and scanned it for headlines about Lucky. Nothing.

"What'll it be, Frank?" He said with a warm look in his eyes - the kind that looked like money.

"Gin and sleep," I said. "I see business is brisk."

"Gotta love Friday nights. Everyone and their mother is out looking to forget about the week. What's a better way than drinking away their paychecks at the bar?"

"God bless America. Say, how about a cheese sandwich with that gin?"

"Coming right up," he said as he spun on his heels towards the kitchen. Never once did he mention the sorry condition I was in. Now you know why I frequent Lew's place. You couldn't get into Musso and Frank's with my mug.

On the other side of the bar, a man and woman argued over where to go next. Two lovebirds snuggled up in a dark booth in the corner making faces at each other. The regular customer sat at his normal spot. Hr ignored the crowd and thumbed through a book about Rome. Bing Crosby was on the jukebox begging for a White Christmas while a few teenage girls stared at the colorful machine in blissful agony.

When you become a detective, you give up a large part of your personal life. It isn't because of the long hours or the spotty pay, it's because you're trained to constantly look and listen to everything around you. Clues can come from anywhere at any time. Ever try chatting up a young lady while you listen to twelve conversations at nearby tables? Don't.

I yanked the last Camel from my coat, felt my pocket for a light, and pulled out the matchbook from Torchie's office. Inside the flap, something was scribbled in pencil: EA63278B49. It made no sense, but it must have to someone. I slipped the book back into my pocket, lit the cigarette with my lighter and took a deep drag.

The sports section had a story about the Chicago Bears and their quarterback Sid Luckman. Along with Bulldog Turner and Gary Famiglietti, the team stormed through the professional football ranks. Before long, Lew was back with my gin and sandwich. He wiped his forehead and hands with his apron and motioned his eyes towards the plate.

"Bon-appétit."

I shot him a thankful glance.

He turned to walk away, but stopped on a dime and leaned back so no one could hear: "Anything new on the champ?"

"Last I heard he's still dead."

"Come on, Frank, quit kiddin'. Was it a murder?"

"It looks that way," I said as I took my first bite of the sandwich.

"You don't say?" He whistled as he returned to the bar.

I don't give tips to people when I'm working a case, but I make an exception for Lew. We have an odd sort of working relationship. When I'm away from the office, he watches the place for anything suspicious. In return, I dish him some stories about detective life. It makes him feel like he's on the front line, and I know he won't blab to anyone about it.

The sandwich tasted good, but didn't last long enough. After I filled my stomach, I paid Lew and headed across the street to my office. A group of Christmas carolers blocked my way into the building until I gave them some spare change for a tip. Joy to the world, Frank Frost's retainer is almost gone.

13

With a life as a private investigator, you often have to do things that are immoral, illegal and sometimes illogical. There may be a thousand different places you'd rather be, but the client and your paycheck require you to go anyway.

That's the situation I encountered as the sun rose on my way downtown to talk to Detective Hilliard. I would fight three wars and kiss two bearded ladies if it meant not seeing Hilliard and Atwood, but the bills are due and I need a paycheck.

The Los Angeles police headquarters is one of four department buildings in the city. This main structure houses most of the detectives' offices and paperwork that the city generates. The four-story brick plot looks pretty close to the ones you see in the movies: cluttered desks, full ashtrays and a dozen dirty coffee pots. Hilliard and Atwood have a pair of desks near the center of what I call Inspector Island, where thirty-or-so crime solvers sit around and wait for the phone to ring.

When I closed in on their area, Atwood was on the phone and Hilliard had his blocky feet perched on the desk as he read the funny papers. Neither noticed as I strolled up and rapped my knuckles on the desktop.

"Good morning, sunshine," I said.

Hilliard spilled ashes down his tie as he flung forward and threw the paper on the ground. Atwood fumbled with the phone and dropped it on the desk before finally placing it on the receiver. They dropped the cover-up act when they realized I wasn't the captain.

Hilliard said, "Where the hell have you been? I told you two days ago to keep me updated with news on the Lawson deal."

I said, "And I see you've been waiting eagerly by the phone for me to call. What about the men you put on it?"

"Nothing. Not a damned thing. If you've got a hunch about this, you better spill it."

I pulled an empty seat from a nearby desk and rested it between the two men. I relaxed and lit a cigarette, then studied the flame is it ate away at the tobacco. I don't allow myself many vices in my line of work, but there's something about a good cigarette that can cover up even the worst mood.

"There's not much to say," I said. "I do have some hunches, but I don't have enough to make any accusations yet."

Atwood said, "Bullshit, Frost. You've got something and you're holding it, hoping to make us look bad."

I said, "You do fine with that all by yourself, rookie. Believe it or not, though, I came down here to ask a favor of you two."

Hilliard barged in with a meaty hand pointed towards me. The finger looked like an uncooked sausage link. "What kind of stickup is this? You come in here with no information, but want something from us? Fat chance."

"Fine then. I might be able to hand you guys Torchie Ackley for good. But if you're not interested –"

Hilliard said, "Hand us Torchie? We had him wrapped for keeps in that Santiago murder case before you bungled it all up."

"You mean bungled it up with the fact that he didn't do the job?"

Hilliard said, "Whatever. What do you have?"

"Lucky promised Torchie he'd throw the fight in return for a payoff and a rematch down the road. Torchie went for the deal."

Atwood said, "But Lucky didn't throw the fight."

"Smashing detective work, Watson," I said with a sarcastic smile big enough to show my teeth.

Hilliard said, "So Torchie had it in for Lucky and had his guys take him out?"

"Could be," I said. "But I need whatever information you have on Torchie and his sidekick Bruno. I'm not chasing this dog without knowing more about the breed."

Hilliard said, "We might be able to get you something, but we're not chipping in for nothing. We're in this together. When you have information, you bring it to me. I want to know everything first before it hits the papers."

"That can be arranged, but I need some demands met too."

Atwood said, "Isn't that what this information is? What else do you need - a kidney, maybe?"

"First, I demand that Atwood stops cracking bad jokes," I said. "Then, I need a couple of your men staked outside The Sahara Club looking for anything fishy. Third, I want some numbers where I can reach you two outside of the office in case I dig something up after hours."

Hilliard said, "Is that it?"

"One other thing. I want someone watching over Pete's Gym 'round the clock."

Hilliard said, "Pete's Gym?"

"Call it a hunch."

The two wrote down their home phone numbers on a sheet of department letterhead and handed it over. Hilliard called back to the records department and ordered every shred of paper on Torchie and Bruno by the end of the day and promised everything would be delivered to my office the next morning.

I scooped up my hat and left the place glad that my visit was over. For good measure, I stopped by the front desk and gave a wink to the redheaded secretary. I noticed some blushing, which made me feel a little better about myself. It also reminded me that I hadn't taken care of my appearance in a while.

14

The days grew colder and the Christmas carolers got pushier. It wasn't my favorite time of year, but with a little practice I managed to block out the Yuletide cheer. Thanks to my brush with the secretary, I decided to stop by a barbershop down the street from my office for a shave and a trim. It'd been nearly a week since I cleaned up properly. Thanks to the lack of sleep and the occasional fist to my face, it looked like it was much longer.

Ralph Smith always trims me up just right and made me feel a lot better than I should. A warm towel and a sharp blade can do wonders to a guy when they aren't wrapped around his throat.

The barbershop talk usually revolves around baseball. But with the season over, the only logical conversation turned to Lucky. No one in the place knew I was investigating the death as a murder. As far as they figured, it was a suicide. I was content to keep it that way for now. The less the public knew, the more I could figure out.

I got a chuckle from an older guy who waited for a chair. He claimed his brother worked at the Hacienda Hotel. He said his brother talked with Lucky just before he went up to his room to end it. It seems, according to this tale, that Lucky was distraught because he lost his championship belt and was worried he'd never find it again. The things people say to get attention.

I left Ralph's feeling one-hundred-and-twenty percent better. With Hilliard off my back for a bit, I was happy to spend the rest of my morning huddled over a plate of chow at Lew's.

The place wasn't busy yet. It was too late for the breakfast crowd, but a little early for the lunch folks. Anyone with money was a few miles away on Hollywood Boulevard. It was my favorite time of the day to eat because you can enjoy your food without the noise and bother of other paying customers.

Feeling a little better about myself, I ordered up a gin from the bar. Lew poured a tall one and slid it my way. I caught it on the fly and didn't spill a drop. I may have been a hard puncher, but I can make my mitts soft when I want to.

"Say, did you ever get over there to talk to that dame?" He asked.

"What dame is that?"

"About an hour ago, this lady comes in, dressed all in black, and asks if I knew you."

"You said no, right?"

"Sure did. Just like you always tell me to. But anyways – she comes in here searching around, looking at the people in here asking if anyone knew you. She couldn't find any takers, so she took off."

"Where'd she go?"

"Back over to your office. That's her black Cadillac over there on the street. I figured you already talked to her."

I glanced at the black wagon parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant near the Chandler Building. It was parked in a hurry. The back end sat a too much in the street. The driver must have been in a hurry.

"Thanks for the tip, Lew. Mind if I bring the drink with me? I promise I'll bring the glass back when I'm finished."

"Anything you say, Frank," he said with a wave.

Lew put the drink on my tab. I plodded across the street and stopped to look in the Cadillac's windows before I headed into the building. I tapped the handle, but it was locked. It looked new and didn't have any belongings around to clue me to who was driving.

A light was out in the stairwell as I took the two flights of steps to my office. I went slowly, sure not to make noise or spill my drink. I crept past the corner on my floor and craned my neck around the curve. There was Loretta Lawson, dressed all in black. She waited outside my door with a disheveled look. Her eyes were puffy and red, a thin veil pulled tightly back over her head and was pinned to her pillbox hat. Tall shoe heels were shiny and reflected the light from under the office door. With her right leg folded neatly over the left, her foot tapped an irritated rhythm into the hallway tiles.

I straightened up, turned the corner, and held the glass low towards my side. I shot a smile that wasn't returned. As soon as she spotted me, she flew to her feet and stormed down the hall in my direction. Her yells reached me before she could.

"Mr. Frost, where have you been? I have not heard from you in days. I had to bury my husband and tend to the reading of his will today and everyone is still saying he killed himself. You said you'd find something out, but you seem to be doing nothing but... well..." She looked down at the glass in my hand with twisted lips and disgust in her eyes.

"Is this what my twenty dollars a day is going towards?" She asked, pointing towards the half-empty tumbler of gin.

"No ma'am, it's going towards finding the person – or persons – that killed your husband."

"Then why haven't you contacted me to tell me of your findings?"

"Because the last time we spoke – at your house the other day – a couple guys tried to fill me full of holes near your driveway. Pardon me for not rushing back for an encore."

"Oh," she said with her eyes leveled at the ground. "That was you. The cops went door to door all day asking dreadful questions."

"And I hope you answered the door for them, although you didn't for me."

"Cut the dramatics, Frost. Did you forget that my husband was just killed? Suddenly there are gunshots outside my house and I'm supposed to answer the door to see who's come calling?"

"What about your guests?"

"They were just as terrified as I was. We drew the curtains tight and left the front room. They were kind enough to stay with me through the night."

Loretta looked at her watch. It was a little after noon. "I'm late. I'm due to a very important meeting and you're wasting what little time I have. Have you any progress to report?"

"Plenty. I think I'm closer to finding the killer than I was before. I had my suspicions, but they're starting to solidify by the minute."

Loretta's eyes widened and her mouth tightened as she withdrew a cigarette from her purse and tapped it on the back of her hand. "Cryptic, aren't we, Mr. Frost? You have two days. If the papers haven't changed their tune and named a killer, I will find someone else who can complete the job."

Without the pleasantries of a goodbye, Loretta stormed down the stairwell with heels that clicked with each step. I took the final drink from my gin and waited for the sound to fade. I felt in my pocket and fished out the jalopy's ignition key.

15

Loretta was in the Cadillac by the time I made it to the street. I managed to blend among the sidewalk crowd as she backed into traffic and headed west on Sixth Street. A traffic signal gave me plenty of time to warm up my car and head in her direction.

She drove with caution through the crowd and took Sixth for several blocks before hanging a left onto Highland and a right on Wilshire, which went out of town and towards Santa Monica. We drove nearly forty miles along corn, cattle fields, and other faceless landmarks. My gas gauge pointed to my feet, the radio almost put me to sleep, and I could smell the salt of the Pacific when she took an unexpected sharp right onto a heavily wooded, unmarked gravel road.

I slowed my pace, worried that she noticed me behind her. Eventually, her taillights disappeared down the bumpy path. The jalopy bumped and clanged over sticks and rocks like a tank headed for the capital city. Limbs crushed and cracked underneath the car and half-dried mud sloshed below the tires. Naked trees swayed back and forth and discouraged strangers from going any further.

I've never been a fan of dark, wooded areas. They usually keep secrets that only dead people tell. Wherever this road would take our two cars, it was obvious Loretta knew the way and had taken the journey before. That didn't give me much comfort.

A mile down the road, a wooden gate opened wide. It pointed towards a steep climb and a sparsely wooded plateau on the peak of the rise. Loretta's lights flickered to my left and jumped with each bump in her way. I crawled up the path and gambled with each inch that closed between us. Bald tires below me slipped on the mixture of gravel and mud. The engine roared from exhaustion and tried to pull us to the top. Her Cadillac was more than capable of leaving me behind if she saw me coming, but the noise I made was blocked out by the sounds of her own car.

I kept mental notes of each road taken. Every tree looked alike and without a marking on each path, I was forced to remember the turns in my head. Eventually, the woods opened into a field where a single-story redwood cabin was bathed by a lone beam of sun like a spotlight through the trees. Loretta drove up to the building and parked next to a beige Packard convertible. I pulled to the side of the path and put the jalopy into park in an area covered by trees.

Waiting became a game. I watched my breath steam as it came from my mouth and touched the frigid air. Even in the midday sun, it felt like Antarctica. I looked down at the empty glass from Lew's and wished it wasn't so dry. A few curse words rattled around in my head for not bringing a heavier coat. I have a problem with them, though. Whenever someone finds out I work as a detective, the first question is always the same - "Where is your overcoat?" Movies have done that to the profession. Everyone expects a detective to have an overcoat, a big yellow fedora and a telephone built into their wristwatch.

Truth is, any self-respecting detective stays away from the look. If you're working a case, you don't want anyone to know you're a detective. The more you blend in, the better your results will be. Just for kicks, though, I want to bust onto a scene one day and talk into my watch, just to see the looks on the bad guys' faces. After all, I'm risking my life every day I'm on a case. I might as well have some entertainment occasionally.

My pack of Camels was worn out by the end of the second hour of waiting. This made the third seem a lot longer. I watched the sun set and cast a shadow over the cabin. With no outdoor light around, it was safe to make a move towards the building.

With Harlow in hand, I crouched through the darkened field. A lit window on the side opposite the cars made a fine destination to catch my breath. A single bulb cast a yellow light inside that put an edge on everything in the room, including a thinly cut man whose right side was visible in a high-backed chair that faced away from the window.

He was dressed well. Tight white shirt cuffs were accented with gold cufflinks that gleamed under the thin lighting. He appeared clean-shaven and spoke with a British accent. Across the room, Loretta laid on her stomach along a couch, still dressed in black, with her head buried into a pillow.

The man said, "So that's the plan?"

Loretta said, "How do I know? It depends when everything is settled. There are no other heirs, so there's nothing to split. We'll just have to wait."

"How long will it take?" he said as he tapped his hand on the arm of the chair.

"Beats me. It depends on the detective. The insurance policy doesn't pay out for a suicide. It's worthless unless his death can be changed to a murder."

"And you're sure the detective said –"

Loretta interrupted, "For the third time – yes, he said he was getting closer. It's not like I can just hand him the murderer. I gave him two days. That should light a fire under him."

"I sure hope so. I can't wait to get away from here and go back home. You'll simply adore London, my dear."

Loretta twirled on the couch and stared at the ceiling. Her hat hung from the pillow and tumbled to the ground.

"Tell me more about it, darling," she said.

The man talked about the food and theatre in London while Loretta gazed at the ceiling and planned her days in advance. I crouched lower into a crawl and cut a path in front of the house and towards the cars.

I removed my notebook and scribbled down the car's license number: 16921. In pitch darkness, I jiggled the convertibles handle and got a surprise when it opened. It must have surprised the man's Cocker Spaniel, also, whom was asleep near a window and awoke at the sound of the opening door. Sensing a stranger in the darkness, the dog set into a barking routine that sounded like a drum solo. Soon after, a light flickered in the room as I tumbled and rolled against the house, pressed against the wall below the window.

"Who's out there?" the British voice boomed from inside. A shadow cast onto the car from the inside light. "What's going on?" he continued.

Before the man could make it to the front door, I got into a sprinter's position and bolted towards the woods and the jalopy. The cold air burned in my lungs. The wind batted around and knocked me off balance. Only 25 yards separated me from the car when the cabin door flung open. Quick, sloshing footsteps sounded on the lawn behind me. They stopped when I was ten yards from my car. The silence was cut in half by the ring of single gunshot. The bullet buzzed past my right ear and ripped into a tree next to the car. The woods groaned in agony as the second shot boomed in my direction. Before the bullet met its destination, the jalopy roared into gear and turned into the woods with its lights off. The sound of a third gunshot faded into the darkness as I drove away.

The pitch-black drive went on for nearly two miles of twists and turns before it was safe to flick the headlights on. Nothing behind me or in front looked familiar. The forest was different by night and showed several paths I did not see on my way in. I chose turns at random and hoped for the best. The car slid down hills and clunked over fall's leftovers until my hopes were answered and the trees opened into a single-lane paved road that led to more darkness. The chipped concrete was more beautiful than anything hanging at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Like an oasis in the desert, I passed an all-night diner that sat alone among trees and debris of the abandoned road. Green and blue neon bounced off of the chrome exterior of the building. A sign out front boasted that the place was "Famous for good food and great coffee." I was willing to settle for a mediocre helping of either.

Three other lost wanderers sat among the tables laid out with no real pattern in mind. A large woman in a grease-splashed apron embroidered with small pink-and-yellow roses approached and asked what I'd like to eat. Her crudely written name tag said Ethel. She was missing teeth and her makeup was bright and obnoxious, but I was too hungry to care.

I ordered two ham-and-egg sandwiches and the largest cup of coffee they had in stock. The lady turned away without enthusiasm and called my order to the cook behind the counter. A long row of pink-vinyl swivel stools by the counter had seen better days. The walls of the place were bare besides the occasional grease stain and hungry housefly.

Kay Kyser did his Jingle Jangle Jingle through the jukebox. Lonely travelers stared into the endless ink of their coffee cups and looked for a sign or some sort of divine intervention. Hum from the neon lights clicked on and off as bacon, eggs, and ham sung a symphony on the griddle.

I grabbed a stray newspaper from an empty table and scanned a story about a film star that was busted with dope in his car. Typically, guys like me get a call to "fix" these problems so that they don't reach the papers. I've fixed more than my share in the last few years. Whoever got hired for this one won't be working, or possibly breathing, much longer after the failure.

All etiquette and reading materials were thrown to the side when Ethel returned with my meal. I tore into it with a carnivorous rage not seen since the Jurassic period. The food tasted good, maybe because I hadn't eaten all day. It was so enjoyable that I barely noticed a black Cadillac pull up in the gravel parking lot under the neon gleam.

Loretta's obvious figure emerged from the driver's seat of the car. The lights drenched her in an artificial glow that gave off a feeling of passion. Hot green edges faded below every curve on her body. She changed before she left the cabin. Gone was the funeral attire. In its place was a fox fur draped over a peach-colored blouse, which stretched painfully tight around her breasts. A brown skirt gave up around her ankles. I waited a moment for the passenger door to open. It never did.

Loretta glided into the restaurant unnoticed by the others in attendance. She adjusted the peach headscarf that held her hair back and claimed a table close to the door. I faked interest again in the newspaper, which allowed just enough cover to hide my face. Ethel approached her with familiarity. Loretta placed an order and scribbled something with a pencil on a napkin.

By the time her eggs and orange juice were delivered, my feast sat heavy in my stomach. Just as heavy were my eyelids. I kept my attention on Loretta and occasionally turned a page in the newspaper to look authentic. Eventually, my hands and head became heavy and a lack of sleep caught up with me. I was no longer in the roadside diner in the woods. I was dreaming.

I walked into a room that had three doors on each wall. Every time I opened a door, I entered into another room with more doors. After five or six rooms, I opened a door and fell through a hole in the floor that sent me tumbling down a dark abyss that ended in the room I started in. I chose a different door this time and was greeted by a long and winding staircase.

The stairs went on and on and my legs got tired. I was about to take a break when the ceiling opened up and a bright light shone down on me. It was warm and inviting and felt like summer. The light got brighter and brighter until my eyes opened and Ethel stood over me, whacking my shoulders with the rolled up newspaper. The lights in the restaurant hurt my eyes until I adjusted to them.

"This ain't no motel, son," Ethel said while looking down on me. "Either you order something else or you leave."

I looked around the room. Two of the originals were still at their tables, but Loretta was not. Ethel said she left an hour earlier. I wasn't sure if she saw me. I didn't want to know.

Ethel brought my check. I wasn't surprised to see the food was overpriced. That's what happens when you're the only diner in the middle of the woods. The change was just enough for a visit to the phone booth near the door. With a dime in the slot, I dialed the home phone number Hilliard gave me at the station 60-212. No answer. Atwood was next: 63-278. It took a while for him to answer after the connection was made. Sleep crawled from his mouth and into the receiver.

"Who's this?" he said in a stumble of words.

"Atwood, it's Frank Frost. I need a favor."

"Frost? Do you know what the hell time it is?" The rage nearly melted my end of the line. "It's past Goddamned midnight. You better have a room full of dead bodies or else I'm kicking your ass in the morning."

"Well, there are some bodies here. They aren't quite dead. Might as well be."

"It's 1:33 in the morning Frost. Cut the jokes and tell me what you want or I'm hanging up."

"I need you to run a license plate number for me: 16931. I need everything you've got on the number when the papers on Torchie and Bruno are delivered in the morning."

"Fine. But if you ever call this house after nine o'clock again, I'm –"

I hung up before he could finish. He sounded like he needed his sleep. I knew the feeling.

16

Either Ethel doesn't get out much or she played a cruel trick on me. Her directions back to the highway were similar to a treasure map, only the X marked a remote spot in a small town that still adjusted to the invention of electricity. Old ramshackle buildings tilted to the side and cracked and groaned with each passing wind. Grass grew up through slots in porches where the moonlight didn't dare touch. Gas lamps lit the way down unpaved roads. It looked more like 1842 than 1942. It took me ninety minutes to get there from the diner. It would take another two hours to get from Nowheresville back to Hollywood. That type of haul doesn't sit well on a tired and moody driver.

The night started to wane and the sun started to rise when I finally made it back to the office. I barely could pick my feet off of the ground as I climbed the two flights of steps and trudged towards the door. It was dark when I entered - at least it was dark enough to accidentally kick a file folder and scatter its contents all over the floor. A delivery man neatly slid the papers from Hilliard and Atwood under my door and I undid his work.

As I started to graze my hand over the light switch by the door, the room was illuminated in a brightness that doesn't come from a bulb. A sharp pain hit the base of my neck and my legs gave up. The flash of light dimmed and a ring drained my brain as my cheek pressed against the cool of my office floor. A brief thought fluttered through my head saying that I really needed to get a broom and sweep the place.

I wasn't out long. When I came to, I saw a pair of feet near my waist. A man in a black suit bent over and collected the papers I kicked all over the floor. Another man rifled through the drawers in my desk.

I was on the nearest man in the time it took him to piece the folder back together. I grabbed the front of both ankles and pulled them towards my head as hard as I could. The force sent him forward in a lunge. His gun fumbled from his right hand and into the doorway. One ankle felt thicker than the other, but not thick enough to hide another weapon. With the man on his stomach, I rolled onto his back and drove my fist into the base of his head. It was a dirty move, but none dirtier than what he tried on me.

The punch had little impact, as the larger man twisted at the waist, slid me off his back, and pushed his right hand into my jaw. I took the punch just to see what he had. He had a lot.

The second man looked at the scuffle, but continued to search for something in the desk. He pulled out drawers and scattered papers with a good deal of skill.

I huddled with my sparring partner and we both stumbled to our feet. The man glanced towards his gun in the hallway and I took the moment to land a hard left to his stomach. Air rushed from his lungs before I placed a right uppercut square on his jaw. He stumbled back towards the door with a grunt. His legs were like gelatin and looked ready to give. With one final blast of adrenaline, I coiled up my right and tossed a haymaker towards his left eye that completely turned him around towards the door frame. His head slammed against the solid wood panel. I heard a snapping sound, like when you step on a twig, before he slid down the frame and onto the ground without motion.

The drummer kept the beat in the back of my head as the blood tumbled through my veins and pushed against the backs of my eyes. The other man stood squarely in front of me in a readied pose. He was bigger than his friend on the floor, but his left arm was full of papers he swiped from my desk.

I lunged at the bigger man towards his occupied side. I drove my fist into his kidney and he dropped the papers. With an angry groan, he came at me with both hands outward in a strangling motion. I threw my weight to one side and let him pass. By the time he turned around, I was halfway connected with a left hook to the cheek. He moved quick and dodged the blow. The next thing I remember were five knuckles that flew with speed towards my mouth. I staggered backwards on my heels and felt a warm trickle from my upper lip. The man bent over and scooped up what he could of the files and bolted out the door.

I tried to give chase. I stumbled down the stairs and through the door into the lobby. The sidewalk was clear as the man ran like mad down Normandie Avenue. I followed him in a sprint for nearly two blocks before the pounding in my head made it impossible to continue.

I turned back towards the office at a brisk pace. There was still an unconscious man in my doorway and the neighboring office workers likely wouldn't be pleased to find him there as they headed into work. That's if someone hadn't already called the police after hearing the fight.

The cold air sent a burn through my lungs as I made it back to the lobby. I made my right turn onto the steps when something caught my eye. On the third step from my floor, I found a baby-blue handkerchief. I scooped up the square of silk and stuffed it in my pocket.

The other visitor was still asleep when I made it back to the office. I stepped over him and collapsed in an upright position on the floor against the front of my desk. I looked at the man, then at the scattered papers and splintered desk that made up the bulk of the tiny room.

Maybe I should have listened to my mother and opened up a soda fountain. I'd probably be making a good living with a wife and a couple kids. Maybe I'd have a house with a fenced-in yard instead of a ninety-dollar a month office with a worn-out couch. But injuries from my fighting in the ring got me out of fighting in Germany. Investigations got me out of marriage. Come to think of it, I'm glad I didn't listen.

Once I regained confidence in my limbs, I reached behind me for the telephone on the desk. I started to phone the operator when, from the corner of my eye, I noticed a twitch from the man in the doorstep. I pulled Harlow out of her bed in my side holster, just in case. The operator came on and asked for my connection in a singsong voice. Before she could get the words out, the dying man made one last lunge towards his gun. I fired Harlow no more than six feet from my target.

The small room shook as the chamber emptied a bullet into the man. He gurgled and collapsed just inches short of his rod. Blood seeped through the back of his coat and mixed with a thick layer of burnt gunpowder that traveled the distance from my gun to him. Red splashes covered the papers on the floor. There wasn't a movement in the room and the operator was silent when I spoke.

"I'd like to speak to the police."

17

I spent the twenty-five minutes it took for Hilliard and Atwood to get to my office looking at the parts of the delivered file that weren't stolen. Three stapled pages were dedicated to William Croft, Loretta's friend from the cabin. His record, both criminal and driving, was clean and he seemed to be a straight shooter. He owns a house on the coast and deals in stocks by day. His forty-third birthday was two months away. He was born in London and moved to the United States for college when he was twenty. Nothing that screams killer, but most killers rarely stand out. Not the good ones, at least.

The papers taken from my desk were strewn across the floor and had no real connection to each other. A mostly empty address book, a few sheets of cryptic notes from previous cases, and the matchbook from The Sahara Club were among the mess.

Hilliard came in first and wiped his forehead when he saw the body on the ground. His face twisted and tightened and his eyes grew small in their sockets. The sounds of an ambulance whirred outside the window.

"Christ, Frank, you can't seem to stay away from shootouts."

"It's my calling," I replied.

My head still buzzed and my legs were weak, so I moved to the couch to regain some strength. Hilliard paid no attention to me and ordered his minions to rope off the hallway and post a guard in the lobby. The younger officers scurried around with alert attention to detail, seeing to their commander's every whim. Eat your heart out, FDR.

Hilliard said, "It's getting pretty damned difficult covering for you downtown and keeping this out of the papers. This one might be impossible."

He used a pencil to rifle through the dead man's pockets when Atwood almost stumbled over the body as he entered the room.

"Hi'ya Eddie," I said. "Get some good sleep last night?"

Atwood wasn't amused. He whispered something into Hilliard's ear and got a grunt out of the bigger man. Hilliard used his pencil to fish out the dead man's wallet and left it untouched on the ground.

"You know there's going to be an inquest, Frank," he said. "And we're going to have to take you downtown for questioning."

"What kind of questions? I'll tell you now that I shot and killed him. If I hadn't, it'd be my body that you're poking with that pencil."

Hilliard said, "Can the comedy. It's procedure and you know it."

"Well I have procedures of my own and they include killing someone before they kill me."

I wondered if it was too late to open that soda fountain. Maybe Lew needed a partner. At least he had a shower.

Atwood interrupted, "You know, you talk an awfully big game. I'd like to hear what you'll say when your license comes up for renewal next year."

"And I'd like to hear what you'll say when I tell you to mind your own damn business, kid."

Atwood clenched his fists and leaned forward like a bull ready to charge. I stayed sprawled along the couch. If someone like Atwood wanted to get chippy, I'd have no problem giving him a two-punch head start.

I continued, "When I was wrestling with the guy, I noticed one of his ankles was bigger than the other. See what you can find down there."

"I'm taking orders from you now?" Hilliard said as he put on a pair of gloves, pulled up one of the man's pant legs and peeled down a black sock to expose a white bandage.

Atwood cut the tape from the bandage. There was a maroon stain, about the size of a quarter, bleeding through the gauze and onto the sock. Under it, a large, round wound seeped and drained.

"Looks like you caught the guy that tried to mow you down in front of Lawson's house last week," Hilliard barked.

"I thought those feet looked familiar," I said.

The pair collected more evidence and allowed the ambulance crew to wrap up and remove the body. When the spinning in the room slowed down, I started the process of returning my files and desk back to the messy condition that I'm used to. Curious workers from adjoining offices peeked through the door to get a glimpse of the chaos as Hilliard removed his gloves and rinsed his hands in the hallway water fountain.

The rest of the officers took reports and left. The ambulance was gone and all that remained of the battle was a cracked door frame and a small bloodstain on the floor near the door. The place started to feel like home again.

Atwood said, "Alright Frost, let's get down to the station."

I said, "Listen guys, you both know I'm on the level. I've never tried any funny stuff with you. We've got the place to ourselves. Ask me what you want to ask me here. I'm too tired for another car ride."

Atwood shot Hilliard a glance in protest, but was shot down.

"Fine, sit down," Hilliard said as he took the big chair behind my desk and had me sit in the smaller one in front. From this angle, the desk was a lot more impressive than I expected.

I answered all of the typical questions and walked the detectives through the scene. I started with my run through the woods with Loretta and the Packard convertible at the cabin. I told them about the diner, the drive back and went through a blow-by-blow of the duo that tried to kill me in my office. If they were writing a book, they had everything they needed. Hilliard jotted notes down while Atwood nodded his head to look like he was paying attention.

To square things between us, I told them most of what I knew about the Lawson case - Lucky's affair with Susan and the fact that I'd been attacked twice after dealings with Loretta. For the first time during this whole bloody mess, everyone seemed in agreement that we were definitely dealing with a murder. Everyone except Atwood, that is.

He said, "You've been chasing this around for a week now Frost, collecting scars and trading bullets, and all you've got to show for it is a thrown fight that isn't even illegal because it didn't actually get thrown."

He moved his glance over to Hilliard. "He doesn't even have a lead that's worth tracking. I say we keep it as a suicide and move on."

I said, "Hold on there, rookie. Who says I don't have a lead?"

"If you do, it'd be news to us," Atwood said. "Who is it?"

"You."

Atwood let out a muffled laugh as he pointed at me with a limp hand and looked at Hilliard. "This guy," he said. "He's been hit in the head one-too-many times."

Hilliard never took his eyes off me as he said, "Here's your chance, then, Frost. Spill it or we're shutting the case down today."

I spilled it. "I figured it was just a rookie mistake when you handed over the murder weapon at the hotel without regard for the fingerprints. Hilliard took your word for it that the gun was in

lucky's hand, since you were the first on the scene."

Atwood grinned. "That's it? That's your lead? You tell a hell of a story, Frost." He laid back in his chair in a casual pose. A smirk hung on his face, but his shoulders flinched with tension.

I continued. "I figured it was another mistake when you sent Lucky's gym bag to the morgue with him instead of registering it as evidence. That was until you told me that Lucky had no property with him at the scene."

"A great tale, Frost," Atwood said. Hilliard remained silent.

"But what sealed it was the trip I made to Torchie's a few days ago. While his bodyguard roughed me up, I swiped this from his desk." I took the red matchbook from my pocket and dropped it on the desk in front of Hilliard. "See, Atwood, there's this scribbling inside that I couldn't figure out: EA63278B49. I figured the EA was Torchie's initials. His real name is Earl Ackley. He's got "EA" monogrammed on all of his suits. But my suspicions changed when you gave me your phone number at the office yesterday. Those numbers look familiar?"

Atwood stretched his legs out and put his hands behind his head. Through his pants I could see his calf muscles flexing. There was tension all through his body. If you tried to chop him in half with an ax, you would have dulled your blade before you hit bone.

Hilliard glanced for a moment at Atwood, then back to me. He's been on the force too long and knows not to tip off his thoughts. I let Atwood stew over the numbers on the matchbook while I pulled a Camel from a half-empty pack in my desk. I broke his concentration when I pulled a match from the book and lit my smoke with it. He forced a smile, but a tremble ran across his jaw.

I continued, "So I've got the EA: Ed Atwood. I've got the next set of numbers: that's your phone number. But what really puzzled me was the B49. I really racked my head as to what B-49 could be. That is, until I called you last night and you raked me over the coals for phoning so late. Do you remember what you said right before I hung up?"

"It's your story, Frost," he said. "Why don't you tell it?"

"You said not to ever again call you after nine o'clock. That's when it hit me. It wasn't B-49, it was B4-9. It was a note to call before nine o'clock."

Truth was, I was impressed with that last part. Torchie was the boss and could care less about anyone's sleep schedule. That he respected Atwood enough to only call before nine said something about his character. I doubt a judge – or even Hilliard – would be as impressed, though.

Atwood's lips and neck broke into a nervous twitch. He shifted his body in his seat and tried out different poses to see which one looked relaxed and less guilty. He settled for a hunched-forward look with his elbows on his knees and his chin rested on his intertwined fingers.

"What you've got is all circumstantial. There's nothing there. He could have gotten my number from anywhere."

Hilliard broke his silence. "But how did he know what time to call you?"

Exasperated, Atwood let out a load of air that sounded like he'd been punched in the gut. "Are you really going to believe this guy, Hilliard?"

"Answer the question," Hilliard said.

Atwood started. "Look, so I've talked to the guy before. I was trying to stake something out and get some information on him. I figured if I was the guy to nab him then I'd move up the ladder quicker downtown."

I shook my head. "Then why have you been so determined to wrap this case as a suicide? You've rushed it through since day one, even skipping over evidence like fingerprints and gym bags. If you wanted Torchie, now's the time."

"Stay out of this," Atwood said with a bitter tongue.

Hilliard interrupted loudly. "Once again, answer the question."

A sob sounded from Atwood's direction as he plunged his head into his hands. The room went silent for about thirty seconds until Hilliard broke it with a boom. "WELL?"

Atwood never looked up when he spoke. "I didn't kill anyone, O.K.? I owed Torchie some money and he offered a way to square us up. I didn't take part in any crime, I was just told to make sure it was filed as a suicide."

I said, "Why was that important to Torchie?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask any questions, I figured I wouldn't be breaking any major laws if I saw to it that it was a suicide. He was dead either way."

"No major laws?" Hilliard boomed. "How about withholding evidence, tampering, and aiding a known criminal?"

"I wasn't thinking about that. I just figured..." He stopped, unable to finish his own sentence and justify his actions. Deep-set wrinkles lined the side of his face as he pressed his eyes shut and let the tears fall to the ground. He used the sleeve of his blue uniform to wipe his nose. His feet tapped a nervous beat into the floor.

"Who was Torchie working with in all of this?" I asked.

"A dame. I don't know her name, but there was a woman involved."

Atwood broke into hysterics. He might have beat the wrap if he had a better poker face, but you could tell he wasn't much of a betting man. This was the first big gamble of his life and he lost the whole pot. All that was left was a puddle of regret at his feet and a sack of organic chemicals that once passed for a man.

Hilliard rose from the desk and motioned me to the door and towards the stairs. He lit a cigar, shook his head and covered his thin hair with his hat. When we left the room, Atwood was curled up and gazed at the ground.

I talked first. "Aren't you going to do something? Take away his gun, arrest him, at least yell at him?"

There was a look in Hilliard's eyes that I'd never seen before. It was almost a sadness all his own. A gruff and tough exterior helped him survive decades on the force. Those eyes saw a lot and somehow managed to stay sane through the years. My thoughts shifted and I realized that maybe Hilliard didn't have a tipping point after all. If this didn't do it, I don't know what would.

"Let me explain something to you," he said as we turned right and started the two-flight crawl downstairs.

"Have you ever heard of unwritten rules?" He asked.

"Like in baseball - If you hit my player with a pitch, we'll hit yours?"

"Kind of. There are certain things that are known without being said or written down. That's why you rarely hear stories about police officers being sent to jail for major crimes. We handle things internally. If an officer goes rogue, it never gets to the papers because of our unwritten rules."

We turned the corner onto the ground floor as muffled screams echoed through the plate glass windows in front of the building. People frantically ran from neighboring doorways to join a crowd gathered on the street. Hilliard kept his slow pace.

"I imagine you'll want to head to The Sahara Club and arrest Torchie yourself?" he said.

"Not me. You can head there if you want," I said as I surveyed the scene outside. "Don't slap the cuffs on anyone just yet, though. I have one more hunch to follow before I'm ready to close the book on this one."

Hilliard grunted, then opened the door and held it for me. A frigid breeze forced its way through the door and filled the room with the sounds of the street. He followed me outside and we tightened our jackets against the wind.

A gap in the crowd gave me just enough space to see what the fuss was about. A man lay mangled along the stony pavement on the corner of Sixth Street and Normandie. He wore a sharply pressed blue police uniform that was soaked in large amounts of crimson. What looked like a head was opened up on the concrete, like a cracked walnut. The contorted body was crushed, seemingly from a great fall, and blood drained from several open wounds. A man holding a newspaper hunched over the curb and relieved his stomach of its contents. Screams sliced through the air.

I glanced up to my office window, which opened wide enough for the breeze to push the curtains around. It wasn't open when we left. Unwritten rules.

Hilliard never stopped to look. Instead he walked back to his car and rested his head against the steering wheel in silence. I went upstairs to clean up and call another ambulance.

18

Scientists found that there's a point when a person becomes so exhausted they no longer feel tired. Their body goes into autopilot and functions off some chemical produced in the brain. Problem is, running out of that chemical is like driving sixty downhill and running out of road right before a cliff.

I didn't feel tired anymore as I effortlessly shoved in and out of traffic down Normandie. The night sky and city lights threw off a blue hue that blended with the oil smoke from my tailpipe. In the distance, Mount Lee gave off a blazing light that read "Hollywoodland" in 35-foot tall letters. This was the land of make believe. It created true stories that most people would never believe. The last week was not kind to the jalopy or me and I felt guilty for her slow demise.

Moisture in the air stirred up foot traffic that slowed the cars down Franklin Avenue. Glow from the marquee lights above bathed the sidewalk in artificial happiness. Sounds of movies, plays, and concerts seeped through doors and onto the street. They begged anyone walking by with a nickel to come inside and get warm. Another night of reveling begins for Hollywood's elite. The city sure has a way to splash on a good face, like painted-on makeup, that hides its murderous acne. The violence eventually consumes us all. Some just have a higher tolerance for the taste.

My engine coughed and sputtered and I eased into a parking spot a few blocks from the Chateau Elysee. Pete's Gym was dark, but I could see from across the street that the door was barely open.

I went across the street to the gym's glass door. It was dark and silent inside. There aren't many times when marching into a dark room unannounced is a good idea, but there are a lot of cases where it's the only option. It can get a little scary - like Jack Dempsey in his prime scary - but that's part of the allure of the job. Some people like watching scary movies. I like living them.

I pushed the door open just enough to slip through sideways. My feet stuck to the floor, so I shifted my weight to my heels to cut out the noise. The gym was dark and cold and smelled sour, like dried sweat. I felt along the wall and found the switch that awakens the large hanging lamp over the ring in the back. I wore a groove in the wall feeling for that switch in the early morning darkness during the years I trained at Pete's. The lights buzzed, flickered and lit up the back of the room. They sent out tiny slivers of light that scattered some bugs that searched for a late-night snack.

A row of rusted lockers lined the right wall of the building and stretched from the light switch to the couch that Pete used for a bed. At one end of the couch, Pete was curled up. I stayed flush against the lockers as I paced my steps. A breeze rushed through the doors and made a whistling noise that threw me off guard. The only other sound was the rhythmic ticking of a large clock on the wall. I made it to the couch and reached out to give Pete a shake. He was cold, alone, and dead.

Something gripped my stomach and twisted it to pretzels when I saw the damage. A bullet sliced into his stomach, ripped through the couch, and blasted a chunk of plaster from the wall. His mouth made a small O shape like he tried to say something, but the bullet interrupted his sentence. What little hair he had was pushed to the side and his wide black eyes stared back at me in protest. Blood ran from his open midsection, dripped down the front of the couch, and formed a small pool on the floor.

I breathed deeply and felt my lungs stretch with the extra air. I let it all out and bent over the withered body. His head was smooth and cold as I ran my hands over it and closed his eyes. Pete loved the gym more than anything in the world. In the end, it's always the ones you love that hurt you the most.

Heels clicked against the concrete behind me. The other side of the room, which led to showers and a staircase to Pete's office, was covered in darkness. I didn't need to be told that the silent figure in the shadow had a gun and it was aimed at me. Murder can be a quirky thing. It rarely ends after the first occurrence. Once blood is on your hands, the only thing that can wash it off is more blood.

I broke the silence, but didn't turn away from Pete.

"Hello Susan."

"What are you doing here?" She snapped back. "Why can't you keep your nose out of this?"

"It's my job to have a dirty nose. Pete was clean, though. He didn't deserve this."

The heels clicked again, but louder this time. The sound was about twenty feet behind me, but it bounced and ran along the hollow room. It was too close to make a move and with my back turned, I was a sitting duck.

"Pete got what he deserved," she said. "He never liked me and I never liked him. He had it out for me from day one."

"And it looked like he was right for doing so."

"Shut up, Frost. Put your hands where I can see them and turn around slow." I could tell from the sting in her voice that she was serious. This wasn't her first stickup.

I raised my hands to head level, palms out, and spun on my heels to face Susan. She wore a white dress and matching hat that had an exaggerated wide brim that covered the left side of her face. Her makeup was red, or maybe that was the murder in her cheeks.

I said, "So Torchie's got you doing his killing for him now?"

"Torchie's got nothing to do with this. This is my deal and mine alone."

"Spoken like a loyal employee."

"You don't know anything, Frost. Just keep quiet and –"

"I know plenty, Susan. For starters, I know that you're working with Torchie. You pretty much admitted so in your apartment without saying a word. You were his setup gal, in charge of stringing along Lucky and convincing him to throw that fight. You're pretty good at tossing your lips around and confusing guys. It almost worked on me."

"I said shut up, Frost!"

"No, let me continue. Tell me if I'm getting warm. So Lucky is smitten with you. You've convinced him to throw the fight and run away with you. He was close to doing it, too. He even had his bag packed. But on the night you were supposed to meet up for the final getaway, he gets cold feet and says he doesn't want to do it. The only thing I don't get is why you had to kill him over it."

"You don't get a lot, Frost. You don't understand a thing about me, or about what I'm going through. You shouldn't have come here tonight."

"Neither should you have. One murder's bad. Two will get you the gas chamber. If I make three, well, it'll get you there a lot quicker."

"It's Torchie's fault," she said, biting her lip and fighting back moisture in her eyes. "He said he lost too much when Lucky didn't go down. He made me responsible. I had to square his losses."

"And Lucky was supposed to help you do that?"

"He didn't know. Hell, he was too naïve to know anything. Pete always put some money aside for him and kept it in the office. I told Lucky I needed two thousand dollars to pay some debts before we went away. He said he'd get it from Pete –"

"But when he came to the hotel that night, he said he didn't want you anymore and you were out of the money. So you killed him and came here tonight to get it. That's when Pete here became your second victim."

"Lucky wasn't supposed to get shot. It was an accident," she said. Her eyes flickered around the room like she looked for an escape. The gun slowly lowered, pointing towards my legs. At that angle, a bullet would hurt like hell, but it wouldn't kill me. I inched my feet in slowly and closed the gap a bit when something hard, cold, and loud whizzed by my ear and thudded into the right side of my head. Why's it always the right side of my head?

Everything went silent. My ears and eyes no longer worked. The only sound was the thudding of my heartbeat that grew slower by the pump. It felt cold. There were no dreams or bright colors, just total blackness, like the purest of black inks. I lost consciousness for the second time in one afternoon. I wasn't getting used to the feeling.

19

I must not have been out long, because when I managed to open my eyes again, Susan was still in the gym. She rummaged through a filing cabinet along the back wall and said words that a lady shouldn't say. The room spun like a top. I tried to hold out my hands to brace against the movement, but my arms wouldn't work. My legs wouldn't either.

Quietly, I surveyed what I could see in the room. The lamp over the ring was out and only the soft glow from a half-lit moon paved the way around the building. I was tied up like a pig headed to slaughter. My legs were folded, heels pressed against my lower back, and my arms wrapped behind me with two big knots holding me together in a neat package. I tried to wriggle my way out, but the more I moved, the tighter the ropes cut into my flesh.

My arms felt warm and wet and my left side chilled as it pressed against the cool concrete. Susan's heels tapped a fury on the floor. Another noise shuffled up and down the other side of the room, near the lockers. This sound wasn't like heels, but more like larger thuds with the occasional sneeze. I separated the noise from the ring in my ears and tried to place where I heard it before.

"I'm telling you, it ain't here Susan. We better beat it out of here before they come looking for Frost." The voice was unmistakably Bruno.

Susan said, "Try the other cabinets by the back door. Pete would sometimes go back there."

Heavy feet plodded in the direction of the door that led to the back alley. Pete kept a lot of his records in a closet back there. It's also where all of the fighters in training would go to sneak a cigarette during breaks. Pete hated smoking almost as much as gambling. I still couldn't believe he was dead.

The sound of Bruno's feet disappeared, as the click of Susan's heels toward me grew louder. I cracked open my eyes to see her long legs sprout from a set of red high-heeled shoes in front of my face. She looked down on me with contempt. A gun dangled carelessly from her right hand and a cigarette poked from her thin lips.

"Comfortable, lover?" She asked in a sarcastic tone and squinted the one eye not concealed under her hat.

I tried to come up with a clever response, but couldn't get the room to stop spinning. Some detective I am. I thought hard, but could only muster a, "Sure am, doll."

"I don't want to kill you," she said, "but Bruno's insisting. He says you know too much and it wouldn't be safe having you around."

"Don't tell me Bruno's the brains of this operation."

She cracked a dry smile and let out a laugh. "I'll let him think he is, until we find the money," she said. "Men are funny that way. If you give them a couple kisses and tell them they're the king, they'll do anything you ask."

"Sounds like a pretty good insurance policy." I don't blame Bruno for folding under the pressure of Susan's lips. I almost did. When you look like Bruno, though, gals aren't exactly lined up to hold your hand.

"You bet it is," she said. "If Torchie is going to send one of his thugs to pinch me out, it would be Bruno. If I have Bruno on my side, I was safer than a dollar in Fort Knox."

"Speaking of your buddy Bruno, tell him he left his handkerchief on the steps outside my office. Those things aren't cheap. He should really be more careful when he goes out on a hit."

"That was Torchie's job. He hasn't been too pleased about you snooping around looking for dirt on him. I called him when you left my place the other day and he had his men follow you to Lawson's house. He had a mole at the police department tip him off about the files delivered to your place this morning."

I said, "A mole in the police department?"

Her eyes narrowed and the cigarette in her mouth straightened between the pinch in her lips. "Don't try any slick stuff on me, Frank. I'm not talking. Not that you're going to get a chance to sing about it anyway."

"You don't have to worry about me talking. Atwood's already dead."

Susan stepped back and arched her exposed eye in surprise. The emotion didn't last long. She wiggled the gun in her hand with false confidence. I can handle a gun being pointed at me. I just don't like it when the person holding the gun doesn't know what they're doing with it. Besides, if I'm going to get shot, I'd rather the shooter know where to aim to make it count.

"Serves him right," she said. "He was too green anyway. They can all go to hell for all I care. As soon as I find this dough, the whole town is as good as dead to me."

I said, "Until you go to pay off Torchie. Eventually he'll find out that Bruno's batting for two teams. He won't be happy."

"I'm tired of playing with Torchie," she said with a pout that made her red lips droop into a sarcastic fold. "As soon as I find this cash, I'm scooting out on the next plane. Bruno can fend for himself. Susan McCauley is starting over as a brand-new woman."

"You seem to have your plans thought out. Say, before you jet off to your new life, can I get one last request? Something to calm my nerves a bit." I looked at the cigarette, then at Susan with a pathetic plea on my face. She made a snapping noise with her lips and pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from a purse near the staircase. Her hips twisted and jumped on the walk back towards me. She lit a cigarette, placed it between my lips, and hung around long enough for me to get a nose-full of her scent. I took a drag and felt tightness in my chest from my limbs being stretched awkwardly behind me.

She turned away and shot a glance back at me, like that evening in her apartment before she kissed me. This time she was kissing me off. Her body language gave the air of a woman in control, but her facial expressions showed her frustration that the search took too long.

"Anything back there?" She yelled towards Bruno.

His muffled voice called from a distance. "Just useless papers so far."

Susan pounded her open hand against a wall, then drew it back and stared at it to survey for damage. She made a sucking noise with her teeth when she spotted a broken fingernail. From my viewpoint on the floor, I could see up the stairs and into Pete's partially lit office. The place was torn apart. A cabinet tilted onto its side. Papers scattered all the way out the doorway. The drawers of his desk were pulled out like a half-dozen tongues taunting the frazzled search team. I had a brief vision of a younger Pete, gazing out from that perch and watching young men pummel each other in the ring. Each hoped to meet his approval, but few ever did. Those that succeeded – like Lucky or me – often disappointed him in the end.

The mirage ripped apart as a flash of light and an explosion of sound shook the building from the alley. Susan perked up from her spot near the wall and glided around the corner to see what the matter was. She gripped her gun tight in one hand and showed more confidence with the firearm than earlier.

I was alone in the room. The gunshots continued, one after the other as I struggled with the ropes until I lost feeling in my arms and legs. There was nothing around to aide in my escape and I didn't have the time or energy to snake my way towards the door.

Susan let out a distant scream as the shots continued. The sound of men's yells vibrated along the concrete walls and bathed the room in misery. The moonlight mocked me and threw a spotlight as I writhed around in numbed pain.

With little hope of finding an easy breakaway, I opened my lips and let the half-smoked cigarette droop carefully to the ground. Using my shoulder and hips, I neatly rolled my body around the smoldering flame. As I turned over, I could feel pressure on my right side from Harlow. The duo was so intent on searching for the money, they forgot to take my gun away. As I inched my body up, I could feel heat from the cigarette on my wrists.

My hands felt cold and bloated, but I managed to work the smoke between the index and middle fingers on my right hand. I pointed the lit tip towards the ropes, pressing lightly to keep the flame alive. After about a minute – and several shots in the alley – I could smell the scorching of the rope fibers, like small strands of burning hair. Little by little, the rope crackled and popped until it was loose enough for me to break my hands from the binds.

Blood rushed back into my arms and felt like a thousand needles poke me at once. I regained control of my hands and untied the knot around my feet. I had as much control over my body as a newborn doe, but managed to crawl at a snail's pace and collapse under the staircase to catch my breath.

I lost track of time until the gunshots stopped and an eerie silence swept over the place. Shallow steps, paced unevenly across the floor, slid in my direction and a few stray groans became loud in the distance. I barely had feeling in my hands, but found a way to free Harlow from her holster. My right hand was a pale shade of eggplant, but I managed to get a grip around the handle that looked convincing.

The sound stopped as I pulled back that hammer on my gun. A click echoed through the empty cove under the staircase. The only other noise was my chest struggling to regulate its breathing. Time crept slowly before Susan fumbled around the corner. Her right arm gripped around the staircase railing and barely saved her from a fall. Her left arm hung limp like a ribbon and her once-white dress draped heavy across her body, weighed down with blood. I couldn't tell if it was her blood or a collection of other people's fluids. Her body language answered that question.

Glassy, narrowed eyes sat above cheeks as heavy as lead and a mouth that hung open. Her hat was gone. Her hair was a mess of gunpowder and dried blood. She stared at the tattered ropes in the middle of the room unable to process the situation. Breath wheezed from her lungs as she hung from the banister, unable to remain upright because of a gimpy left leg that drained blood like a busted water hose. I curled into a ball - barely three feet behind her - watching a once-beautiful woman desperately struggle to live out her final moments with dignity.

Silently, I rose up from behind and pressed the butt of my gun into the small of her back. She let out a tortured breath as I sealed my left hand against her bloody mouth and muffled a pathetic attempt at a scream. It was her mouth that worried me most, not her movements. Any noise could tip off whoever was shooting the place up.

"Don't move Susan," I whispered in her ear. I knew damned well she couldn't if she wanted to.

I removed my hand from her face. Her breath grew shallow. She swallowed deep and licked her lips to gain some moisture so she could talk. It didn't do much good.

"Let me go, Frank," she whispered. "I can get away. I know I can. I'll split the money with you. I'll –"

"There is no money," I interrupted. "The two grand has been wrapped in an envelope in Lucky's suitcase at home this whole time. He never intended to give you that money. He played you just like you played him."

"You're lying."

"Have it your way," I said. "In your condition, you couldn't make it across the street. Forget leaving the country."

She slid slow down the banister, like sand draining from an hourglass. Time was almost up, but she seemed to be the only one that didn't realize it.

"Hold me," she said. "Don't let me fall."

I wrapped my free arm around her waist and lifted her body towards me. A gurgle rose through her throat and a small bit of blood spilled from her mouth.

"He did love her," she said. "He told me so. He said he couldn't leave her. He wouldn't leave her. He called me a mistake, Frank. That's why I shot him. I never meant to."

As her words tailed off and she collapsed in my arms, Hilliard came running around the corner with three beat cops behind him. He stopped when he saw me. His shoes slid a good three inches when they met Susan's blood on the floor.

"Christ, Frost. I thought you were dead."

"I was. I had to come back to make sure you didn't get all the glory in cracking this case."

Hilliard set his right palm against the wall and bent over. He held his stomach and tried to catch his breath. "We had a guy staked out here for the last few days, just like you asked. He heard a gunshot earlier and then saw you come in a little while after. He figured something was up so he called to us over at the Sahara. When we got here, we saw you on the floor and made our way to the back door. That's when we saw Bruno."

"At least you saw him before he saw you."

"It didn't do much good either way. He took out two of our guys before we laid him out. Susan here was even more elusive."

Susan slid from my arms as I loosened my grip and led her towards the ground. I left her there to take her last breath as I guided Hilliard over to Pete. He removed his hat when he saw him.

"He was a good man, Frank," he said. "We both know that. It's a shame that something so petty had to cause as much destruction as it has."

I couldn't answer. Maybe I didn't want to. Something about calling the death of a good man petty irked me a bit. Maybe I had seen enough blood and been knocked around too much for one day and it affected me. I took a seat on the couch next to Pete and felt guilty for being comfortable. Hilliard took control of his men and marched them towards the upstairs office, where the job of collecting evidence was just getting started.

It was quiet again. Too quiet. I looked in front of the couch, towards the ring where I spilled sweat and put in so many rounds. My boxing career shouldn't have ended like it did. Maybe if I didn't hit that referee, Pete would still be alive. There are a lot of maybe moments in life - Maybe I should have visited Pete more. Maybe I should have come to the gym earlier and saved him. Maybe Pete was right when he visited my office earlier in the week.

His words played back in my mind and I couldn't help but agree. I spent the last three years bitter over the way my boxing career ended. Instead of moving on, I opted to stand my ground and hate those that kept going forward. Every time I threw dirt, I lost ground. When I thought about it, I drank. Every time I drank, I thought more about it. I am a good detective – a damned good one – but I hold myself back. Pete tried to tell me that the last time I saw him alive, but I just brushed him off.

In the end, all you're left with is your own reality and a bunch of maybes. I didn't like the look or sound of things in the present. Maybe it was time to change those things.

I rose to my feet and cut a wobbly path towards the front door. The nighttime freeze woke me and gave me just enough inspiration to make it to the jalopy. A pink glow bounced off the clouds as the morning sun rose from its slumber and brought with it a new day. The clang of a construction crew that tore down props from a movie premiere the night before pounded the air. Hollywood's citizens would soon be awake and unaware of the nightmare that took place on Franklin Avenue. If they hadn't already caught word, the reporters were probably on their way.

I pressed a tired forehead against my steering wheel and tried to make sense of it all. In the end, murder is a senseless crime committed by senseless individuals.

I thought hard about it until I gave up and fell asleep.

20

At least a few hours, and two full nightmares later, a tap on my car window woke me. The thing about nightmares is that you have to remember they aren't real. What's going on in the real world, in front of your closed eyelids, is often much worse than what your mind can concoct in its sleep. I wiped my eyes and mouth and saw Hilliard at my passenger side door with two Styrofoam cups. I leaned over and unlocked the door and motioned for him to take a seat. He handed me one of the cups of coffee. The warmth felt good in my hands and even better in my stomach.

We both sat silent for a few moments and looked at Pete's gym, which now swarmed with reporters, policemen, and nosy citizens.

"You look terrible," Hilliard said with a grunt.

I looked into my rearview mirror and saw the torn and disheveled clothes I wore. Dried blood stained my face and a large red dent went down my right cheek from sleeping on the steering wheel. The knot in the back of head still acted up.

Hilliard said, "It's a hell of a thing, isn't it?"

"Did you mean what you said earlier, about this being a petty thing?"

"Of course. Something as small as betting on a boxing match winds up with a pile of dead bodies, including an innocent guy like Pete. Not to mention Atwood."

In the activity of the last few hours, I forgot about Atwood. Hilliard obviously hadn't.

"You doing O.K.?" I asked.

"As well as can be expected," he replied. "You know, it's a shame what happens with all these kids nowadays. They grow up reading the comics and watching movies. They think police work is all chasing down bad guys, getting into shootouts, and collecting medals from the mayor. When they get into it, they find out quick that it's mostly paperwork and running down bad leads. Most get bored with it quick and look for added excitement. That's when guys like Atwood get mixed up with guys like Torchie and get over their head quick."

Hilliard looked away from Pete's and fixed his stare on the sidewalk across the street. Three ladies walked to work, chatted, and tried to get a glimpse of the gym. His eyes were tired and his face hung like dull Christmas ornaments on a dry tree. He made it out of this case uninjured, but I got a feeling the ordeal shaved a few years off his career.

He continued after a few moments. "Speaking of Torchie. What are we going to do about him?"

"Not much we can do," I said. "We can't hang the racketeering rap on him because Lucky didn't throw the fight. Susan took the blame for the murder - you heard that - so he's clean there. The best you can do is nab him for sending those guns after me. He has so many judges in his pocket, though, he'd be back on the street before lunch."

Hilliard grunted. It was the only reaction he could muster. He nailed too many bad guys in his day and watched them leave after a phone call. It was the way things worked, even if it wasn't fair.

"What about the wife and that guy at the cabin?" He asked.

"She's clean. Only thing she's guilty of is having a boyfriend. She probably did it just to get back at Lucky."

Once the girls disappeared into a dress shop across the street, he turned his attention back to me.

"Say Frost," he said. "Ever thought about closing up shop and joining the force? We can use a square guy like you. With a recommendation from me –"

"No thanks," I interrupted with my palms towards him. "I'm not too good at taking orders. Besides, you wouldn't want me running around stealing your glory would you?"

Hilliard's shoulders sagged as he opened the car door and swung his right leg out onto the street. "I guess not," he said. I thanked him for the coffee and he closed the door. As he walked back towards Pete's, a group of reporters mobbed him and looked to vulture off any gory details. I shook my head and turned the key to start the car.

21

The ride to Loretta Lawson's house was silent. I rolled the windows up tight and listened to my own breathing. I had a new appreciation for the oxygen in my lungs. Almost dying has that effect on you.

I passed down Normandie and decided not to stop by the office to change clothes. Any stop I made at that point would have to include more sleep. Loretta hired me to do a job and she would get her final report with full knowledge of what that job entailed.

I found her alone on her front porch in a long blue dress. She sipped from a glass of lemonade and soaked up some direct sunlight on an otherwise chilly day. Her concentration broke when I pulled into her driveway. She rose to her feet when she saw my condition and wondered if she should run inside and lock the door. I tried to fake a smile, but gave up halfway and settled for an awkward grimace.

"Are you alright, Mr. Frost?" She asked in a guarded tone, mostly for her own curiosity.

"You told me I had two days," I said. "Well, here I am."

She started to invite me inside, then thought better when she got a closer look. Instead, she offered me a seat on the porch and a drink. I took a glass of lemonade and drank it like a man that's been stranded in the desert for a month.

"So what have you found, Mr. Frost?"

"Plenty. You were right about Lucky. He was murdered."

She raised her head in vindication. In the sunlight, she looked like royalty that gazed upon the commoners. The look didn't last long.

I said, "Susan McCauley killed him."

She let out a gasp, closed her eyes for a moment, and then looked away. A little more than a week ago, she was certain her husband was murdered. She didn't seem prepared to find out the murderer was his girlfriend.

She felt around for a pack of cigarettes on the side table and lit one for herself. She tapped the lighter on the metal arm of her chair and turned over different thoughts in her mind in silence.

I told her the clues that I pieced together - about Torchie and the deal to throw the fight, about Atwood and the attempt to cover up the killing, and about Susan's involvement in stringing Lucky along. She didn't look at me once as I spoke. She was shocked, but not sad. Maybe she had done all of her crying already. Maybe she didn't care.

"But there's one thing I have to ask you, Susan."

"What's that?"

"What's the deal with William Croft?"

The name snapped her back into reality. Her icy blue eyes tore straight through me as she searched my expression for clues on what I knew. I kept a straight face and hoped she'd give more than she wanted.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I know you were with him at the cabin the other night and that you're planning on running away with him as soon as the insurance is cashed in. But why the sad widow act if you already had your ticket punched before Lucky was killed? You said Lucky was the only man you've ever loved. Meanwhile, you're headed to London."

"You do your job well," she said with a thin smile as she snuffed out her cigarette on the concrete near her feet. "I had a feeling that was you the other night. Mr. Croft is a friend of mine. He was there for me when I needed him, which is more than I can say for Lucky."

"So you got back at your cheating husband by finding your own boy toy to cheat with?"

She made a spitting motion towards me and let out a grunt that sounded more like a growl. "Mr. Croft is no boy toy. He's a successful man who understands how to treat a lady."

"Excuse me for stepping over the line, Mrs. Lawson, but I'm just telling you that maybe Lucky wasn't as bad a guy as you think."

"You think so? You men are all alike," her words were missiles shot through the air, targeted towards my ears. "You run around with your tramps, leave your wives at home, and then stick up for each other in the end. Lucky was just like the rest. He didn't know what love is. As soon as some tall dame batted her eyelashes at him, he was ready to fly the coop."

"You're hurting, Loretta. We both know it. It's only natural. But running to another man when you're hurting isn't going to heal you. It's going to eventually infect you both."

Her look changed from defensive to aggressive in a few motions. I've learned in my brief time on this earth that when a woman makes that change, it's time to leave while you're still intact. She made the first move.

She said, "I think I've had enough of this conversation, Mr. Frost. I thank you for your excellent service. If you'll tell me what I owe you, I'll write you a check and you can be on your way."

I wrote down the total I was owed on a piece of paper and handed it to her. I stood up, still a little unsteady on my feet, and started slowly towards the car. I didn't look back. "You'd make a lousy detective, Mrs. Lawson. Fact is Lucky was crazy about you. Susan told me so. She did her best to get him to leave you, but he wouldn't. He said she was a mistake and ended up dead because of those words."

Loretta whimpered something under her breath from behind my back. I wasn't listening and I didn't care to hear what it was. The sound of a sob sounded flat as a record and was muffled under her hand. If she looked for sympathy, she was in the wrong place.

"You can mail me the check," I said. "Good luck with Mr. Croft in London."

22

By the time I left Loretta, I burned through what little sleep I got in the car earlier. My stomach told me that any rest I got would have to come after a meal. I still had one more errand to run. Thankfully, it was across the street from my office.

I still looked like hell when I crossed the road from my parked car to Lew's front door. My look was probably bad for business at that moment, but the place was mostly empty anyway. Lew glanced up and did a double take. He was being kind and didn't want to tell me what I already knew. I made my choice of dusty leather-topped stools and slid the glass I borrowed onto the bar.

"I'm a man of my word," I said.

"Despite what they say about you," he replied with a smile.

I ordered a cheese sandwich as he grabbed the glass and put it on a tray with other mugs in need of a wash. He snatched a clean one and filled it halfway with gin. I accepted it, since I technically wasn't on the clock any longer.

"This one is on the house," he said. "It isn't often that I get a celebrity in the bar."

I narrowed my eyes almost to a close and gave a curious look to Lew. He handed me a newspaper and pointed to the giant headline on the front page, above the fold, just below the masthead:

P.I. Proves Champ Was Murdered

The story went on to tell about Susan and her scorned affair with the champ. It was the type of yarn that reporters live for and housewives gossip about for weeks. There was no mention of Torchie or gambling. A few lines were dedicated to Pete. Despite his fear of looking bad, Hilliard decided to throw me a bone anyway.

"Frank Frost was really the guy who stuck by this case when everyone else had it closed," he said to a reporter. "He's a bulldog. He followed this thing to the bitter end and almost lost his life to prove the truth."

I closed the paper and let out a laugh. Through that granite exterior, it looks like old Hilliard had a heart after all. It must be rough on him, though, to answer questions about why he had the case wrong without mentioning Atwood and his involvement. For the hell I'd given the old man over the last few years, I kind of felt sorry for him for a change.

Lew emerged from the kitchen with a plate. Steam rose from the sandwich. "So I guess this is going to be a pretty tough Christmas for Lucky's wife," he said. "With her husband gone and no kids to celebrate with."

I took a long drink from the glass and kept swallowing until I drew in air.

"I've got a feeling she won't be too lonely. They say London's pretty this time of year."

Across the bar, the man that is always in his corner spot reading his books chimed in. It was the first time I heard his squeaky voice. "London's hell at any time of year. It's always cold and never stops raining. They even drink their beer at room temperature."

I said, "You'd know better than I would. She seemed pretty excited about it, though."

It was Lew's turn to give me the confused look. I ignored it.

"It's a long story," I said. "Remind me to tell you some other time."

Lew continued to wipe the bar down as I swallowed the last few bites of sandwich. I tossed a couple bills on the bar and told him to consider it a tip. He thanked me as I made my way towards the door.

"So where are you going, now that you're a celebrity and all?" he called out.

"Back to my office to sleep until they forget about me."

