The Drazen World: The California Limited (Kindle Worlds Novella) Page 6

  “This woman.” Jack stopped a shorter bottle-blonde with thin-slivered brows and strangely-drawn cupid-bow lips. “She was in the lounge car with us.” He looked at the woman. “Can you tell the officer anything you remember about my friend, Minnie?” Her brow furrowed. “Please. Anything you remember could help. She’s missing.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the bottle-blonde said. “I don’t remember you or your friend.”

  “What do you mean you don’t remember me? You looked at me. We made eye contact. I remember because I was embarrassed that you caught me ogling you.” She smiled flirtatiously. “No, I—” he put a couple of fingers to his brows, “—I was wondering why women take their brows off, then draw a thin line back on. It looks ridiculous.”

  She arched a brow and pursed her lips in annoyance. “Good luck finding her,” she said, half-hearted at best, then hurried off.

  Now the officer looked at him not as a poor sucker, but an insane man. Then he asked, “Can you tell me anything else about her?”

  “Yes,” Jack said with firmness and pride. “She’s from Racine, Wisconsin. Was a singer there at a place called the Lucky Lounge. She was coming here to become an actress.”

  “I see.” Again the officer made notes.

  Jack knew how it all sounded. He was either naïve or mad. But he knew she was real. He could still smell her perfume on his clothes. And he would swear that what they had was real, too.

  “Tell you what,” the officer said, his tone syrupy, equal parts cautious and kind. “Do you have a place to stay?” Now he was treating Jack with kid gloves; and he liked that least of all. He was not some fragile mental patient.

  “I do. A bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Minnie was to stay with me there.”

  “Well that’s fine. That’s fine.” Still drawing the words out, dubious. “Ya know? Perhaps she’s there? Gone on ahead of you. Maybe you had a misunderstanding about your transportation and you’ll arrive to find her there. No harm done.”

  Jack nodded, his desire to get away from the man warring with his need for help. Any help. “Maybe you’re right,” he finally said, his eyes doing a final check of his surroundings. He didn’t want to leave the station without her, but he was clinging now to the smallest hope he had, that for some reason she had gone on ahead. He knew it was ridiculous, but wasn’t that the nature of hope?

  With Minnie he might have been craning his neck to see everything on the ride to the hotel. As it was, he sat hunched in his seat, smelling her scent on his suit. She was real. She was real. She was real, he kept telling himself. The driver had to call to him, the doorman had to open his door, simply to get him to look up.

  “Sir? We’re here.”

  Jack nodded, handing over payment for the taxi, checking in, being directed to his bungalow, all without conscious thought.

  After the bellhop left, Jack stood in the entryway staring at a heaping bowl of garishly-wrapped citrus, an envelope propped in front of it that read: Jonathan. Such sunny, fucking fruit. He ripped open the wrapping; lemons and limes, tangerines and grapefruits and oranges rolled off the table. He peeled an orange and ripped off a segment, eating it as he picked up the envelope. He opened to see the Columbia Pictures Corporation letterhead:

  Welcome to LA! Take a couple days. See the town. I look forward to meeting you on Friday.

  All best,

  Harry

  He dropped the note and the orange rind on the floor.

  Chapter 6

  Missing 1 Day

  Unable to sleep, early the next morning Jack headed to the nearest police department. In all his reflexive and grasping thoughts since Minnie disappeared, he had decided one thing for certain: she was real and therefore he was not crazy. The porter was merely efficient and inobservant. Perhaps that was even the nature of his job. The bottle-blonde was, well, she hadn’t struck him in the lounge car as particularly bright. And the station cop was probably more used to lost luggage than lost people, giving directions than giving reassurance. He would not allow their inattention to make him doubt his mind.

  What did plague him in the sleepless hours of early morning, however, was the realization that he had been so incurious of Minnie. He had vomited his life out to a perfect stranger and it had felt so right, so natural that he had neglected to hear hers. Yes, he had asked of her dreams and plans. She was the youngest of seven, she’d said. And she had her mother’s name, a woman she had seemed fond of. A good enough start.

  But it paled in comparison to what he didn’t know. Her last name, for one. Her age. Why she shone like a penny, then wore nothing else. Why she had callouses on her hands and the finest silk and lace underthings. Did she know her father? What did her father do to make a living for them? Were her parents even alive? Her siblings. Where were they? Was she as Irish as she looked? She seemed to recognize the old proverb. And if she was, was she Catholic? And if so, why did she seem so ready to give her virginity to him when they were barely more than strangers? As to that, how did a virgin take to his thumb in her mouth with such practiced ease? It might have been instinct, of course, but he doubted it. It was a jade’s trick, born of knowledge and experience.

  There was so much he didn’t know of her and if he allowed himself to dwell on it, he just might go insane from all of the mystery, the inconsistencies. He had to set them aside for the one thing he didn’t know that mattered more than all the others: where she was. A hundred times in the night he had seen her hurt or abused or worse.

  When his driver pulled up to the towering cream and gray Spanish revival that was Beverly Hills City Hall, he swallowed down his fear and stepped from the car, buttoned his coat and strode into the building.

  “I don’t suppose there’s a report of a woman gone missing at La Grande Station yesterday?” Jack asked the tall officer with bright wheaten hair and the name Magnus on his lapel who was working the front desk.

  “La Grande? Don’t know why we’d have it?” he replied.

  “Perhaps because I asked that it be sent to the nearest police station to the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

  “Ah,” Magnus replied, smiling tightly as he licked his fingers and wiped them on his pants. “Sorry. Not many people here first thing.” He sifted through some paperwork, then placed a call, inquiring after the report. “It doesn’t seem as if we have one,” he said, sucking God-knows-what from his teeth then smiling awkwardly.

  Jack was not surprised. He might have been more surprised if they did have it. Evidently the station cop was either incompetent or thought him crazy.

  “Fine, well. I need to report a woman gone missing yesterday from La Grande Station.”

  After his initial slovenliness, the officer set to his task in earnest, producing the proper paperwork and asking the proper questions. He seemed neither bored nor dismissive but curious and concerned, even sympathetic.

  “If you haven’t heard from her in a week,” Magnus said, “come back. We’ll send her description out and see what comes up.”

  “A week? You’ll send her description out now,” said Jack.

  “’Fraid I can’t do that, sir. Not our policy to begin such a search for an adult woman who may as likely ran off.”

  Jack got in his face. “She didn’t Run. Off. All right? She didn’t. We were in love, starting our lives together out here. She went to the bathroom and promised to meet me back at the counter and disappeared. She would not have done that. Would not have said that. She’s been taken.”

  “You have her luggage, do you? Waiting in your bungalow with yours?”

  Jack stepped back and took a deep breath. He had considered that, too. “No. She took it with her into the ladies’ room. It didn’t seem peculiar at the time. What if she needed something in there to freshen up?”

  “True enough, sir. Makes sense to me. Only, and granted I don’t know too many kidnappers, but they don’t seem the considerate type to grab her luggage right along with her. Here, miss, we’ve taken you from your loved one, but never you
fear, here’s your toothbrush. See what I mean?”

  Jack blinked and swallowed, turning to walk away. “You don’t need to be an asshole about it,” he said under his breath.

  After that, his moods continued to swing wildly between determination and despair, fear and frustration. One part of him wanted to go back to the bungalow and curl up in bed with a bottle of gin and all those limes. Another part wanted to be out, eyes and ears open, looking for her himself. She had said she was Hollywood-bound, so he told his driver to bring him to Hollywood, some place he might get a cheap sandwich and an audition.

  No sign of her after a grilled cheese and soda at Schwab’s, his head jerking to the door every time the bell rang, he decided that he felt though not good, at least not as bad when he was actively looking for her.

  He was already getting tired of being driven around like a sultan; and he would never get to know the city with his head in his hands in a back seat. So he went to the nearest car lot and purchased a sleek, teal Packard convertible coupe with a buff fabric top, cream rims, and cherry red leather seats. It seemed an LA kind of car. He should have been over-the-moon about it. It was sweet. The finest thing he had ever owned. But he wasn’t. And he was angry because of why. Had she left him? A bottle of gin was sounding very good.

  On Thursday and Friday he despised her and holed up in his bungalow drinking gin and eating fruit. At some point his soaked anger dissolved into fear and Saturday and Sunday he spent inquiring in hospitals and the county coroner. Monday and Tuesday he spent looking around the neighborhoods of Hollywood, stopping to prowl around cheap apartment complexes. Then he realized that he might be taken for a kidnapper, his usual polished appearance fallen to disarray.

  Missing 1 Week, 1 Day

  First thing on Wednesday morning he was back in front of officer Magnus.

  The officer looked him up and down, his red eyes, unshaven face, and less than pressed clothes, and had the good grace to look concerned. “She hasn’t turned up?” Magnus asked.

  “No,” said Jack.

  The officer nodded and pulled out the previous week’s report. “I’ll be sure to put her description out for ya. Say she might be missing.”

  Jack blinked slowly. “She is missing. I may not be clear of the circumstances, but she is not where she is supposed to be. If there is even the slightest possibility that she could be hurt or in danger, I’m going to keep looking for her. And I expect you to do the same.”

  The next day, his heart in his throat, he tried to call the Lucky Lounge but was told by the operator that there was no such place in Racine.

  “Are you certain?” he asked.

  “As certain as I can read,” the operator replied.

  “Maybe I got the name wrong,” said Jack, though he was nearly certain he hadn’t. She had spoken the name many times and with ease. “Are there any clubs with similar names?”

  “I don’t know, pal. I don’t go into clubs,” the operator said with some derision. “Maybe you got the wrong town. Milwaukee’s not far.”

  Had she ever actually said the Lucky Lounge was in Racine? Soon enough he was connected to a club in Milwaukee.

  “This is your lucky day. Artie speaking,” said a man on the other end of the line.

  Just connecting with the real club that Minnie had mentioned made him feel closer to her. She had loved singing at the Lucky. That was real, he was certain. He wanted to crawl through the line and be there, see the stage where she sang.

  “Artie. I’m looking for one of your singers,” said Jack.

  “What’s Ruby done now?”

  “Not Ruby.” He paused, suddenly afraid. “Minnie.”

  “Minnie? You got the wrong club, pal. There’s no singer here by the name of Minnie.”

  His heart fell. “Piano player? Waitress? Hostess? Coat check girl?”

  “No. No. No. And no. Nobody in the club by that name. Sorry.”

  That evening Jack destroyed himself one sip at a time. He sat examining the cold glass of vodka in his hand as if it could reveal itself. It looked so bland, so innocuous, that it could be a life-giving glass of water. But it wasn’t. Not even close. In fact, if he consumed enough of it, it could kill him. And that is the rub, he thought, as he chuckled sadly. He’d never felt so deceived and unmoored. So impotent and utterly lost. Perhaps he was losing his mind.

  He didn’t know who the girl on the train was, but there had been a girl. The Lucky Lounge was in Milwaukee, not Racine but there was a Lucky Lounge. Yet who was she? Where was she? She hadn’t told him nearly enough. And what she had seemed to be little more than half-truths. Why hadn’t he asked more questions? Fuck! It would be so easy to fall into anger and not climb out for a week. A month.

  Had he been taken by a con artist? Everyone seemed to think so but him. He could not imagine that he might have been so naïve. So trusting as to be swindled by a beautiful girl with gorgeous tits. And maybe he was more the fool. But here was the real truth: she hadn’t taken anything from him. Not really. Some drinks. A few meals. That was nothing. Change in the bottom of his pocket. If she was a hustler, she was third-flight at best.

  And there was no feigning that voice. It was singular. She was more than a raw talent, had training and a presence that made him all but certain she was a singer, a professional. Then it suddenly occurred to him, perhaps she had used a different name, even there. So fixated on having one vital piece of information, it hadn’t occurred to him that it might be wrong. He glanced at his watch. 2.30am, which meant it was 4.30am in Milwaukee. At 6am he called the Lucky Lounge and no one answered. Every hour on the hour he called until the phone was finally answered at 9am.

  “This is your lucky day. Artie speaking.”

  “Artie. We spoke yesterday.”

  Artie sighed. “I told ya, pal. No Minnie.”

  It sounded like he was hanging up. “Wait. Wait. The girl I’m looking for was tall, dark brown hair, gorgeous blue eyes, and curves. Incredible curves. She had a set of pipes that was second to none.”

  “You’re looking for Mae.”

  “Mae?”

  “Mae Wilson. Beautiful young thing. A world of talent. You’re right.”

  “Mae Wilson,” Jack said as if testing the name to see if it fit. “I need to know where she is, Artie. Where is she?”

  “Where is she? Well that seems to be the question of the day. She took off a couple weeks ago like she had a demon on her back. Haven’t seen nor heard from her since. A shame, really. She was the biggest draw we ever had.”

  “I’ll just bet she was,” said Jack. “Can you give me her phone number or address?”

  “She on the lamb from ya?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Good luck to ya, then. ‘Cause we’ve got nothing on her.”

  “What do you mean, you’ve got nothing on her?”

  “She left. No notice. No explanation. Left her last round of pay, even. A pretty dime piece, too. The other girls wanted to split it and t’ hell with her. They didn’t care for her all that much.”

  “Why not?”

  “The usual, I suspect. Petty jealousy. All the men with deep pockets wanted her to sit with ‘em. You got deep pockets?”

  “I might.”

  “See? All the really fine ones loved her.”

  “She have a boyfriend? Fiancé?”

  “Not that I knew. But it’s not like we were friends or anything.”

  “Those petty girls. Would they know?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Like as not they’d hear another fine gentleman was looking for Mae and lead you straight in the opposite direction. Petty, ya see.”

  “I see.”

  “Anyhow, I wanted to send her pay, but when I pulled her file it was blank. Her name at the top, then nothing.”

  “Nothing,” repeated Jack.

  “That’s what I said,” Artie replied. Jack paused to contemplate. “Listen,” Artie continued, “you find her, you be good to her. She’s a good girl. Kind. The
genuine article, ya know?”

  Jack nodded into the phone, his throat filling with emotion. That was the young woman he knew. “Yes,” he finally said. “Do you remember those deep pockets I might have?”

  “Yes. I do surely remember that.”

  “Well, if you should hear of anything, anything at all about her, no matter how insignificant you think it might be, you call me. I’ll make sure it’s worth your while.”

  “I need you to add the name ‘Mae Wilson’ to that description,” said Jack. He had gone to the police station right after hanging up with Artie.

  “Mae Wilson,” Magnus asked, seeming perturbed as he fished the report out of his paperwork.

  “’Mae Wilson, otherwise known as Minnie.’ I just found out that she answers to two names.”

  Magnus nodded as he took it down. “Still looking for her, huh?”

  As if it weren’t obvious. Jack flicked a cutting glare at him. “Yes. Listen, can you do a search for Wilson in and around Racine, Wisconsin? Milwaukee, too.”

  Magnus shook his head. “That’s not really how these things work.”

  “Really? Tell me, how do they work?”

  “An adult woman. Suitcase in her hand. Beautiful, ya said. Stars in her eyes, I bet. Probably wanting to be the next Gloria Swanson. So she didn’t stick around for a ride. I’m supposed to call all units? Ignorant mick,” he added under his breath.

  “What did you just say to me?”

  It was nothing, Jack told himself. He had heard it before. But, no. It Wasn’t. Nothing. Not here. In Boston it had been part of the fabric of the city, a tacit agreement forged over decades. Brahmin Boston looked down their dignified noses at the Irish while the Irish quietly amassed all the vulgar power and wealth.

  Not in LA. He had heard, he had hoped that it would be different here. A place where last names didn’t matter. Where half of them were checked at the door never to be reclaimed.

  Magnus smiled blandly. “How long did you say you knew her?”