Nemesis

He stood up then and gripped her shoulders.

“Corinne,” he said urgently, “listen to me, for God’s sake. I’m behind the biggest eight ball in the world unless I get some help. I’m not trying to get you in trouble. That’s the last thing I want. But I’ve got to get some answers.”

For a moment she stared at him, trying to twist her shoulders away from his grip, and then she began to cry, soundlessly, and her shoulders went limp under his hands. He pulled her to him, until her face was buried against his coat.

“I didn’t know it was murder,” she whispered. “I knew it was bad, but nothing like that.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I don’t know much. Tonelli gave me a thousand dollars last night and told me to leave town. He told me you were in some kind of trouble and we had to pretend you’d never been to the Kicking Horse. He didn’t tell me any more. Just to get out. And to get lost. In a hurry.”

“Who was Velma Dare?”

“I can’t tell you. Oh, please get out now. Tonelli isn’t an easy guy. If he ever learns I talked to you I wouldn’t have a chance.”

“Where did Velma live?”

“She lived with a friend of hers. In the Wilshire apartments. Occasionally, that is.”

“What do you mean, ‘occasionally’? What else did she do?”

“When did you leave kindergarten?” she said. She was starting to laugh and cry. She broke away from him and sank down on the day bed. “God, that’s funny. A baby like you chasing around after these people. They’ll slice you in thin strips and serve you in Martinis. Get out! Do you hear me? Get out!”

The Wilshire apartments...

Larry had what he came for. He patted her on the shoulder and left. Downstairs the room clerk looked at him in surprise.

“You was quick,” he said.

“Yeah,” Larry said.

Chapter VIII

From Corrine’s apartment to the Wilshire was a twenty minute cab ride. On the way Larry did some thinking, but it didn’t help much.

He now had several facts to go on: one, he had been at the Kicking Horse. Two, Tonelli and the bartender had gone to a lot of trouble to convince him he hadn’t. Three, Corinne had been paid off, told to get out of town, so he wouldn’t have a chance to see her again.

Fine. Three nice facts. But they didn’t tell him anything. He had been framed but the frame had unaccountably backfired. Now no one wanted any part of him. They wanted him to forget about it. Charge it off to a crazy dream or too many drinks.

But he still didn’t know why.

The Wilshire apartments was in a better neighborhood than Corinne’s. About a block from the Lake Shore, about fourteen hundred North, and about spitting distance from the Gold Coast.

The Wilshire was an impressive place, with shrubbery in brass pots, an expensive looking canopy and a doorman who looked like a White Russian.

The doorman opened the two glazed portals for Larry as if they led to the audience chamber of the Czar, and he walked into a discreetly hushed lobby that could have been used for a football game. The thick gray carpet hushed his steps as he walked to the desk.

A young man in a beautifully-cut flannel suit smiled at him, cleared his throat and said, “Yes?” His tone implied that if you wanted the East wing at Buckingham Palace he would be happy to get it for you.

“I want to see Velma Dare,” Larry said.

“Ah!” the young man continued to smile. “Miss Dare isn’t in. Do you care to leave a message?”

“No. I’ll see her friend then.”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Don’t say. I’ll talk to her on the phone. I think she’ll see me.”

“Very well.” He made a connection on the switchboard and then pointed to a phone on the desk. Larry picked up the phone and when a sleepy voice said, “yes,” he said, “I’m a friend of Velma’s. I’ve got something important to tell you. May I come up?”

There was a moment’s pause. The voice said, “I’m in suite Four-A. Come up, please.”

The voice didn’t sound so sleepy...

He knocked and the door was opened immediately. The woman who opened the door was thin, with graying hair and a tired looking face. Her eyes were pale blue, blood-shot at the corners. She looked nervous.

The black house coat and high-heeled pumps she wore accentuated her thin, flat-chested figure. She was wearing a lot of jewelry. A heavy silver necklace, thick silver bracelets, and two rings. A ruby and an emerald. It didn’t help her much.

“Who are you?” she said. Her voice sounded like a nail being drawn across sandpaper.

“The name isn’t important,” Larry said. “Can I come in?”

She stepped aside and he entered a room that spelled money, from the black wood fireplace to the rugs, lamps, furniture, cocktail bar and Eastern view.

She poured herself a half-tumbler of brandy while he was sitting down, and drained it neat. He realized then her voice wasn’t sleepy. She was just half tight. She sat down opposite him and regarded him steadily with her bloodshot eyes.

“What about Velma?” she asked.

He didn’t know what to say. “Velma’s in trouble,” he said finally.

“That’s nothing new. What am I supposed to do about it?”

“I thought you might be interested.”