The Pandora Directive

Chapter Three

It felt like I was swimming to the surface of a pool of molasses. My eyes focused on what looked like a massive spider web. As the fog rolled off to sea, I realised I was staring at the cracked plaster ceiling in the Ritz Hotel, apartment Six. I rolled over and spend the next five minutes attempting to stand. A brighter shade of red light was seeping through the window. I checked my watch — it was 12:03pm I’d been out for more than sixteen hours.

The room looked the same as it had yesterday, except all the drawers had been opened and emptied. Looked like whoever thumped me had given the place a once-over. Maybe he’d missed something.

I was right. The desk contained an empty book of matches and two paperclips. In the dresser I found a black sock. An empty beer bottle had been left in the closet. For Holmes, this might have been a bonanza of clues. For me, it was diddly. I got down on the floor and peered under the bed. I detected a faint odour. Pawing through a pile of dust bunnies, my fingers touched something soft and smooth. It was a silk scarf, bright purple and oozing the cheap scent of department store perfume. Judging by the smell, it hadn’t been there long. I pocketed the scarf and stumbled back to my office.

The Colonel, my mentor in the PI biz, had taught me long ago the proper cure for a goose egg: a double bourbon with an ice-pack chaser. As I underwent treatment, I leaned back in my chair and tried to think clearly. Who had jumped me, and why? Whoever it was had done a thorough job. I thought about checking around, but anyone good enough to put me out for 16 hours wouldn’t be sloppy enough to be seen. I pulled the scarf out of my pocket and examined it.

There was no label, no identifying marks of any kind. I assumed that the scarf belonged to a woman, but I’d been wrong before. Either way, I was optimistic that finding its owner would put me on Malloy’s trail. The question was how. Nilo would certainly have noticed any woman who’d come into the Ritz, though I doubt if he’d remember anything about her from the neck up.

The scent on the scarf was memorable, if nothing else. Unfortunately, it was probably available at every discount department store in the city. I looked the scarf over. The purple shade was shockingly bright. The scarf would almost certainly have caught someone’s attention. Chelsee was always good with details maybe she could…

Chelsee! Oh, Lord! I checked my watch for no good reason. She was gonna kill me. She’d never believe that I’d been out cold straight through dinner. I jumped out of the chair and caught the corner of the desk, bruising my thigh and upsetting my already unsteady balance. As I stumbled toward the floor, my forehead hit the rim of the metal wastebasket. I spun away, the back of my head slamming onto the hardwood floor. As I waited for the room to stop spinning, I thought that at least now Chelsee might find it easy to believe that I’d been jumped.

With some effort, I got my feet and made my way down to the street. I’d forgotten that it was midday. Chandler Avenue looked like a ghost town. This time of year, the radar meter was off the scale during daylight hours. Chelsee wouldn’t open the newsstand until around 7pm she was probably at her apartment, asleep. I looked up and down the street. Even the Brew & Stew was closed. Then my ears caught the faintest strain of bluesy piano coming from the alley that separated the Ritz and the Fuchsia Flamingo Club. The Flamingo had just opened in the old bijou building. The marquee up front trumpeted: “Tonight! Don’t miss Luscious Lucy Lust!” I walked to the end of the alley. A door was propped open. I stepped inside.

As my eyes adjusted to the cool darkness, I made out a broad back hunched over a baby grand. The playing was sloppy, but sincere. This was my first time in the Flamingo, primarily because of the requisite membership fee. I looked around the dark interior. The design staggered back and forth between eclectic and tasteless. The overall feel was a blend of Mayan myth and Vegas vamp, all set to be lit up in pastel neon. But someone loved this place — there was almost as much heart and soul here as bamboo and Naugahyde.

I approached the broad-backed Gent at the Larsen grand. He spoke over her shoulder. “Didn’t mean to wake ya, Emily. I’ll knock it off if it’s bugging ya.” A sour-looking mutant with a large moustache, he swung his girth around and looked me up and down with a stunningly blank expansion. I was clearly not Emily. He stood up. He was huge. “We’re closed.” the tone implied something closer to “any last words?” Immediately, I broke into my special “Howdy! I’m Tex! I’d like to be your friend!” smile. “Yeah, I know. I came through that door every yonder. I heard ya playin’ that there piano. Sounds mighty fine!”

I hoped my trustee “saddle pal” drawl would confuse him. It was a gamble, but he didn’t strike me as Mensa material. The mutant looked me over carefully and seemed to be doing a lot of sniffing. I remembered the scarf from my pocket and pulled it out. “This here is probably what you’re smelling. It’s not mine.”

My saddle pal looked closely at the scarf. “Where’d you get that?” he looked at me sharply. “And quit using the phoney accent.”

He was on to me. Maybe I was losing my touch. “Uh, sure… I, uh, I found it next door… over at the Ritz. That’s where I live. I was trying to find out whose it is.”

The mutant took a menacing step toward me. “And that’s why you walked into a closed, private club.”

My left eyelid twitched. “Well, no. I, uh, actually… I heard the piano. That’s why I came in. The door was open. I wasn’t looking for trouble. Really.”

The mutant looked toward the door, then back at me. “Give me the scarf.”

I hesitated. “Well… I don’t know if I should. I mean, it’s not yours… is it?”

The scarf was ripped out of my hands. “I’ll make sure it gets to the right person.”

There was no room for discussion. “All right, then. Well, thanks. I’ll sleep better knowing that everything’s been taken care of. I guess I’ll… run along them. Good to meet you. Real nice place you’ve got here.”

The mutant followed me to the door and slammed it shut as soon as I was outside. I paused to light a Lucky. At least I’d learned a few things. Unless I missed my guess, the big goom had mistaken me for someone named Emily on account of the cheap perfume that still clung to me like cat hair on a sofa. He also recognised the scarf. Odds were that it belonged to the same woman. I had to assume that she had been in Malloy’s apartment recently. And Emily lived — or at least was staying — in the old Bijou building.

I had a hunch that she knew something about Malloy. Now I needed to find out who she was and get her within range of my hypnotic charm. My conversation with Chuckles, the piano player, made me doubt that he’d be of any assistance. I needed coffee. The closed sign didn’t intimidate me. I knocked on the window and saw Louie poke his misshapen head out of the kitchen. He waved me, then disappeared. Seconds later, he came to the door and unlocked it. “You’re up early, Murph.”

Louie held the door open as I stepped inside. The smell of spicy chilli billowed from the kitchen. The empty feeling in my stomach immediately became the only important thing in the world. Louie’s cuisine didn’t win any awards, but it attracted a substantial clientele from all over, even New San Francisco. There just weren’t many places left that offered home-cooked meals, a smoking section, and reasonable prices.

“You hungry? I can work something up in two shakes.” Louie was born to feed.

“You sure you don’t mind? Smells like you’re working some of your legendary chilli alchemy.”

“Naw. I just finish this batch. It’s a good one, but it’s gotta simmer for a few hours.”

I slumped onto a bar stool, and Louie slid a menu in front of me.

“Want the Armageddon?” I nodded. Louie’s house blend was the only java that ever worked for me. It had almost magical properties. “The pot will be ready in a minute. The right-back.”

Louie bustled back into the kitchen. I didn’t bother to look at the menu. Western omelette with feta. Wheat toast. Hash browns. Three cups of coffee. My eyes started to glaze over. I didn’t want to hurry Louie, but the ketchup bottle at my elbow looked delicious. The waiting was gonna kill me. I pulled out my crumpled pack of Luckies.

Louie burst from the kitchen, a steaming pot of joe in one hand and an oversized mug in the other. With the first sip of Armageddon blend coursing through my veins, I recited my breakfast mantra. Louie tromped back to the lab. The guy was a true saint — a disfigured cherub in a greasy apron. Here he was, feeding me before the diner was even open, probably assuming that I was broke as usual.

Quite a bit of sun filtered through the clouds. No one passed by. I took another sip from the mug and stuck a smoke in the corner of my mouth. I checked my pockets, but all the red tips were gone. I reached over the bar and grabbed a pack of matches. It was the same type of matchbook I’d found at Malloy’s apartment. I lit my Lucky. Maybe Louie knew something. If Malloy had been in the Brew and Stew, Louie would remember.

For once, the food arrived as I was putting the cigarette out. Louie refilled my coffee and poured some for himself. “Geez, Murph, when’s the last time ya eight?”

I shrugged, my mouth full of salty feta and crispy hash browns. “Don’t know. Couple days.” I pointed with my fork until I could talk legibly. “God, Louie. This is exactly what I needed this morning.”

“Rough night?”

I nodded as I tore a large section out of the centre of a piece of buttery toast. Louie took a long sip of coffee.

“So what’s the scoop on that guy who bought you the bourbon the other night? Client?”

“Yeah. He has me looking for someone named Thomas Malloy.” I wiped my hands with a napkin and pulled out the photo Fitzpatrick had given me. “This is Malloy. I think he may have come in here not too long ago. Recognise him?”

Louie looked intently at the face for a few moments. “I think so. It’s been awhile… couple of weeks anyway. Came in with a younger gal. They had the special and a few cocktails.”

“Tell me about the girl.”

“Real pretty, a little heavy on the make-up. Smelled nice. I think she sings up at the Flamingo.”

Louie grabbed the coffee pot and freshened up our mugs. I speared a chunk of feta.

“You ever gone there? The Flamingo, I mean.” he lifted the coffee to his mouth and talked through the steam. “Naw. Haven’t had the time. I’ve been meaning to.”

I mopped up the last of my omelette with a piece of toast. Louie waited for me to finish and took my plate away. I was full, but not uncomfortable. The tobacco crackled as I inhaled. I leaned down and pulled one of the McKinley’s out of my shoe. When Louie returned, I handed him the 500 dollar bill. “Does this bring us up even?”

Louie seemed a little shell-shocked. Maybe he’d already claimed me as a deduction on his tax return. He turned to the cash register, opened it, then swung the around and laid three C-notes in front of me.

“That oughtta cover it.”

What a liar. I knew I’d run up at least a 400 dollar tab over the past two months or so. I slid off the bar-stool, pocketing one of the bills and my pack of smokes. Louie braced himself on the counter and jerked his head in the direction of the two bills. “Don’t even think about leavin’ here without those.”

I walked to the door. “Thanks, Louie. If there’s a God, he’s saving a seat for you.”

I stepped outside and looked up and down the street. I could hear the air traffic picking up, but no one in the neighbourhood was out and about yet. My next stop would have to wait until later. Chelsee first, then the Fuchsia Flamingo. My full tummy and I walked back to the office.