Chicago Confidential

He was a pile of long limbs in khaki down there on the ornamental tile. His eyes were crazed, his lower lip trembling.

“She doesn’t want you bothering her,” I said, patting the air with my palms. “Just keep your distance—”

But something was coming up from deep within him, a scream of agony that took the form of words: “Bothering her!”

And suddenly he was reassembling himself, like a played-backward newsreel of a building demolition, and he was on his feet and hurling himself at me before I could say another word.

I did have time to throw a punch, which caught his jaw and should have sent him down again, but he was fueled by rage, and shook it off and came windmilling at me, fists flailing, one catching my chin and stinging. I backed away, but had forgotten the fountain, and tripped over a star point and tumbled back into the water in a spattering spray. Then I was the one who was flailing, floundering on my back in the shallow water, lucky not to have cracked my skull or broken a damn rib or something.

He was laughing at me, pointing, hysterical, out of control, he had never seen anything so fucking funny, and he was still laughing when I rose like a human wave and leapt out of the fountain at him, dripping wet, hopping mad, doubling him over with a right to the belly, straightening him with a left under the chin, putting him down with a right to the side of his face.

Then he was on one knee, as if proposing. He was not about to get up, not soon, not now. I was dripping water, but he was dripping blood, one side of his mouth a pulpy mess.

Vera stood with a hand to her dark red lips, looking at him with pity, but making no move to go to him.

I just stood there, drenched, waiting to see if a reconciliation was going to take place. Wouldn’t be the first time an old boyfriend got beat up by a girl’s new savior, only to renew her sympathy and interest in the old beau.

Not this time. Vera took my wet arm and said, “We need to get out of here, before the campus police come.”

I nodded, and we left him there, on his hands and knees, his breath heaving, mouth dripping; maybe he was crying.

I was a little out of it, from the scuffle, and I don’t remember exactly how we wound up at my car — a ’50 Packard, a dark green number that belonged to the A-l. But we were sitting in it — me behind the wheel, getting the upholstery wet — and Vera in the rider’s seat, looking at me with concern.

“I don’t want to go back,” she said.

“Back where?” I was still a little groggy.

“To the MAC... to the dorm. Paul’s still back there. He might cause more trouble.”

“You want to bunk on my couch?”

She nodded. “You want me to drive?”

“No. I’m okay.”

“Is it far to your place? You need to get out of those wet things.”

“No, it’s close. Hop, skip, and a jump.”

When I pulled in at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Vera’s hazel eyes grew huge. “You live here?”

“Sort of. I have use of a bungalow. We handle their security. Management likes having me around... They have a clientele that needs discreet assistance, sometimes.”

“But those bungalows are expensive!”

“Well, I’m in one of the Howard Hughes bungalows. He rents four of ’em, at all times, but only shows up occasionally. And one is for security, so even when he’s around, I can stay put.”

“Howard Hughes? You know Howard Hughes? What is he like?”

“Nuttier than a fruitcake. But he’d go for you.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yeah...” He would take one look at this doll and start designing a cantilevered bra.

Soon I was walking Vera down a sidewalk bordered by palms and flowering shrubs, and she was commenting on how Clark Gable and Carole Lombard had supposedly started their romance in one of these bungalows. I had no reply — I was busy shivering in my wet worsted on this cool night.

Then I ushered Vera inside and she ooohed and aaahed at the marble fireplace, the French doors leading to the private patio, the French provincial furnishings, and the pale pink decor with the pale green touches. The console television, which was neither pink nor green, amazed her; she stared at it like a savage contemplating a crashed airplane. I told her the sofa — a comfy overstuffed pink-and-green floral number — was all hers.

I wasn’t planning anything. I was sore from the punch I’d caught and the fall I’d taken; maybe I was an old fart at that, because the lovely coed in the other room interested me less than a hot shower.

After which, soothed, and sleepy — though it was only around nine-thirty — I went to the bathroom closet and put on one of two Beverly Hills Hotel white terrycloth bathrobes hanging there, and draped the other over my sleeve, like a waiter serving a meal.

When I returned to the living room, the lights were off and the fireplace was on. Still in that powder blue ensemble, she was sitting in front of the flames, legs tucked under her, the spike heels off, staring at the dancing orange and blue, which reflected on her pretty features.

“Would you like to sleep in this?” I asked, holding out the robe.