Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

“To hell with that. Where can I find them?”

“They hang around the Can-Can Club in Gardena. You can find them there any night after eleven.”

“Thanks, Gus. I’ll see you tomorrow or the day after.”

The address which Eunice had given Delaney was in Sawtelle. The street ran north from Santa Monica Boulevard a few short blocks to the Veterans’ Home. It was a street of old frame dwellings behind ancient palms, set in small, littered yards behind sagging picket fences.

Delaney cruised slowly along the street until he spotted the number Eunice had given him, then parked the Chrysler at the curb.

The house was a bungalow with board and batten sides almost hidden under lantana which mounted to its tar papered roof. A faded room for rent sign was in one front window. A covered porch sagged across the front of the house two broken steps above the ground.

Delaney entered the house and waited for his eyes to make their adjustment from the bright sun outside. Two doors, once white, faced each other from opposite sides of the dingy hall. One of them was labelled “Manager” in crudely drawn letters. He shattered the somnolent quiet with hard knuckles rapping on a loose panel in a door which rattled against its latch.

There was no response.

Delaney heard muffled sounds in the room, meaningless because they lacked the direction of motion. Then he heard the faint creaking of spring cushions protesting the slow shifting of imposed weight. He heard the dull thud of a hard object striking a thinly carpeted floor. Then the silence descended again. He swore under his breath and tried the door. It wasn’t locked.

The woman was fat, frowsy and drunk. She sprawled soddenly on an ancient davenport, glaring at Delaney with little pig eyes deep set in a bloated face. Thin strands of black, oily hair escaped from a bun loosely gathered on top of her head. A shapeless house dress rode above massive knees carelessly exposed. The woman made only a feeble effort to pull her dress down.

“To hell with it,” she said hoarsely. “Gimme a drink.”

Her eyes searched a lamp table at the end of the davenport littered with papers and bric-a-brac. She grunted with disappointment and looked at the cushion beside her where an ashtray lay face down in a Welter of cigarette butts. She muttered a curse and looked at Delaney.

“Where is it?” she asked helplessly.

Delaney closed the door and crossed the room. A half empty wine bottle had spilled the remainder of its contents on the worn carpet beside her feet. Delaney squatted in front of her and held up the bottle. He shook his head, “Too bad. It’s all gone, sister.”

The woman wiped her fore-arm across her mouth and pushed her hair back with a defeated gesture.

“More in the kitchen,” she grunted. “Gimme...”

Delaney found the bottle of cheap wine in a cupboard over the sink. He rinsed out a glass and took the wine and the glass back into the room. He half filled the glass and handed it to the woman.

She grabbed it eagerly, cupping the glass with both hands, and gulped the wine, spilling some of it past the corners of her mouth. When it was gone, she held out her arm.

“More,” she panted.

Delaney tilted the bottle towards the glass, then deliberately drew it back without pouring any. He said: “Ixnay. First we talk about Mavis Blair.”

The woman’s eyes followed the bottle, then came up to meet his. Her face was mottled and contorted with anger. She shoved out the glass and snarled, “Gimme a drink, dammit.”

Delaney drew the snapshot of Mavis from his pocket and held it out for the woman to see.

“Mavis Blair,” he said. “Where’d she move?”

The woman ignored the snapshot and gestured with her glass.

Delaney shook his head. “Come on — give. This babe lived here. Where’d she move?”

The woman squinted at the snapshot, wiping her mouth with her fore-arm again. She looked up blandly at Delaney and grunted, “Never seen her.”

He snorted and waited until his anger subsided a little then carefully poured two fingers of wine into her glass.

“Take another look,” he suggested evenly, holding the snapshot just beyond the woman’s reach.

“To hell with that,” the woman snarled, squinting at the wine while she tilted the glass back and forth to gauge the amount. Suddenly she drew back her arm and flung the glass at Delaney’s head.

“Gimme the bottle,” she cried hoarsely.

Delaney ducked in time to avoid catching the glass with his face. He set the wine bottle on the table and grabbed the woman’s wrist as she reached for it. He jerked her erect on the davenport and swung his other arm from the shoulder. His open hand smacked across her face with a resounding slap.

“Let’s stop horsing around,” he said flatly. “We’re going to talk about Mavis Blair. Where’d she move?”

The woman spat at him and hurled the ashtray. She lurched to her feet, cursing obscenely, and came at him with fingers hooked like talons.