Lady in the Lake(59)

A girl walked in, wearing slacks and a loose blouse, glanced curiously at Maddie, then at the bartender.

“What’s your story?” Maddie asked the bartender.

“Don’t have one.”

“Everybody has a story.”

“I don’t think that’s true. You’d be surprised how many non-stories I hear in a night. What’s yours?”

“I told you. I’m a reporter.”

“Which rag?”

“The Star.”

“Never read it.”

“Which paper do you prefer?”

“The Beacon.”

“Why?”

“It’s the thickest and I’ve got a parakeet.”

Maddie sipped her drink. Not that long ago she would have been rattled by his hostility, the gamesmanship. She would have started gabbing or maybe even flirting. Now, his attitude just convinced her that she was finally in the right place. The last place that Cleo Sherwood had been seen, heading out with a man no one knew or recognized. According to this man.

“I’m working on a story about Cleo Sherwood.”

“No story there.”

“How can you say that? A young woman has died, under mysterious circumstances. Of course that’s a story.”

“Maybe I should say, no story here. Whatever happened to Cleo—it doesn’t have anything to do with the Flamingo.”

The young woman who had eyed Maddie earlier returned from the back room, now arrayed in the club’s signature costume, fishnet stockings and a leotard with pink feathers at the neckline and around the tailbone. Oh how sad, how dreary, Maddie thought. Could anyone find this costume glamorous? She thought of Cleo, the surprisingly fine clothes she owned. Clothes provided by someone, she was sure of that. Find the man who gave her clothes and find—well, something.

“Did you know Cleo?” Asking the girl, not the bartender. Predictably, the girl looked to him for guidance. He met her eyes, nothing more.

“How could I?” she said, putting glasses on a tray. “I took her spot. I wasn’t here when she was.”

The bartender could convey a lot in a look, give him that.

“Good point.” Maddie turned back to the bartender. “But you knew her. You worked with her. You described the man she left with that night—early morning—of New Year’s Day. Described the man and what she was wearing.”

“Yep.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s in the police report, which I’m assuming you’ve read. You think I’m gonna say something different? I’m not gonna say something different.”

She flipped open the narrow steno pad and looked at her notes. Cleo did not introduce her date, who came into the bar about four a.m. She had changed into a green blouse, leopard pants, a red car coat. She wore heels and carried a large green purse. Driving gloves of red leather. The man was a tall, dark-skinned Negro in a black leather coat and turtleneck, maybe in his thirties, with close-cropped hair. Very slender, quite dark. That fact had been repeated twice in the police report. Was that because the bartender thought it significant or the police did? It was my impression that she was upset he had come inside. She said: “I told you to wait outside.” Maybe she didn’t want to be seen with him, but I don’t know why. He wasn’t anybody to me. I never saw him before and I haven’t seen him since.

“Tell me about her. I mean Cleo herself. What was she like?”

Something went soft in his face. To say he was not a handsome man would be generous. His skin was bad; his hair, while thick, was clearly receding; his nose was bulbous. But he had the bartender’s way of inviting confidences, and not just in patrons. It seemed likely that Cleo would have chattered to him. He probably knew more about her than her mother did.

“She was nice,” he said. “Smart. Big personality, bubbly. She deserved better than she got in this world. Most people do.”

“The man she saw that night—”

“I didn’t know him. There’s nothing more to say.”

“But there has to be. I want to know who she was. I want to know what she dreamed about, what she wanted.”

“Whatever it was, it died with her.”

A thin, feral-looking man, a Negro, entered. Just as the barmaid had been able to interpret the bartender’s look, the bartender seemed to know immediately what was on this man’s mind.

“She says she’s a reporter, Mr. Gordon. I didn’t want to give her the bum’s rush.”

So this was Shell Gordon.

“Why would a reporter be in my club? Nothing to report on here.”

He had directed his question to the bartender, but the bartender didn’t answer and Maddie felt bold. “I’m from the Star. I’m working on a human-interest piece on Cleo Sherwood.”

“Leave that girl be,” he said. “Hasn’t she done enough harm?”

Maddie did not miss his turn of phrase. What harm had Cleo done? She was dead, after all. Had she caused her parents’ grief? Clearly. Had she abandoned her babies? Yes. But no one had come to more harm than she had.

“How much do you pay your girls?”

“You’re too old to work here,” Mr. Gordon said. “Among other things.”

“I ask because Cleo Sherwood had such fine clothes. I’m surprised that she could afford them, working here behind the bar. Cocktail dresses, furs.”