“A little piece of the puzzle just fell into place, but there’s a lot more to go.”

  Chapter 61

  BART GREEN SAT AT HIS LARGE DESK with a fat cigar crammed into his small mouth and a glass of what might be water next to him, but it also might be something stronger, too. He was dressed in a white shirt and a pinstripe vest with a red tie and gold collar bar. In the background Archer could hear the soft purring of phones, and the harsher clacks of typewriters spinning tales to make money for Tinseltown and this man right here.

  “You look a lot spiffier than in Vegas,” said Archer as he sat down across from the man.

  “I like to dress up for the office. Vegas is to play.”

  “Speaking of Vegas, I had a nice chat with Darren Paley.”

  “I don’t believe he’s capable of nice chats,” replied Green snidely.

  “So you’ve had those chats with him?”

  “I go to Vegas a lot, and he’s there sometimes.”

  “Did you ever talk to him about your gambling debts?” asked Archer.

  “Why would I?”

  “Before he moved here to run the Jade Lion in Chinatown, Paley ran the enforcement squad for the mob in Vegas. It’s what your Little Tony used to do, and maybe still does.”

  “So?”

  “So Tony isn’t your guardian. He’s your executioner if your debts pile up again.”

  Green drank from his glass and patted his mouth dry with the back of his hand. “Let’s get something straight right now. You know nothing about nothing.”

  “On the contrary, I can count to two million.”

  Green gave a little belch and Archer thought he could smell vermouth across the span of the desk. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

  “It’s what you’ve lost in the casinos.”

  “I pay what I owe. End of story. And I don’t always lose.”

  “Yes, you do. And I know you pay your debts because you’re still living. I almost wasn’t. It nearly ended for me in the desert right after I left you at the Copa Room.”

  “Then let that be a warning to you to keep your nose out of places it doesn’t belong.”

  “I’d have to change professions.”

  “Then do.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  Green leaned forward and started speaking in a low voice. “Look, Archer, as hard as it may be for you to believe, I actually like you. I don’t know why, but I do. No, I do know why—you’re brash and willing to take risks and you don’t take no for an answer. In other words, you remind me of me when I was your age.” He paused and drained his glass. “Darren Paley and his kind are not to be messed with. I know you’re looking for Ellie Lamb and all, and trying to find who killed that other PI. But is it worth your life?”

  “Again, sort of goes with the territory. Speaking of Cedric Bender, you sure you never heard of him before?”

  “No. Why would I have?”

  Archer thought the man was actually speaking the truth, and that was troubling. “You said you know the Bonhams?”

  “I know them like I know most people. I’ve been to a party at their house. They’re acquaintances. I don’t really know them.”

  “So you’ve never done business with him?”

  “Archer, I don’t even know what business the man is in. But I’d like to.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “No one I’ve ever talked to seems to know where all his dough comes from.”

  “Lamb moved out to Malibu because she and Bernadette Bonham went to school together back in Washington, D.C.”

  “I recall Ellie mentioning that her father worked in the government back east.”

  “She paid over seventy-two thousand dollars in cash for her home and renovations.”

  “Bullshit. Where would she have gotten that kind of money?”

  “Not from you?”

  “Hell, I could hire a half dozen writers for that.”

  Archer rubbed his jaw while Green said, “Look, maybe her family had money. Why don’t you check with them?”

  “You know, that’s a great idea.”

  “Now, are we done here?”

  “Sure. Is your wife out of town?”

  “Yes. She’s at our place in Lake Tahoe.”

  “I hear it’s fabulous.”

  “It should be, for what she spends on the place,” he groused.

  “You never go there?”

  “What is there to do at Lake Tahoe except stare at the water, or the snow in winter? And most of the lake is in California. But could she pick a spot closer on it to LA? No, she has to go way up on the Nevada side. Bitch to get to in the winter. It gets snowy up there this time of year. Whole place can shut down.”

  “Would you have a number for Lamb’s parents?”

  “Audrey, the receptionist, has information like that for the people who work here, next of kin in case of emergencies, that sort of thing. And I suppose someone should tell Lamb’s family that she’s missing.”

  “Thanks. And Audrey and I have met.”

  Archer stopped at Audrey’s desk and asked for that information. As the woman searched her files, Archer leaned over the counter and glanced at the switchboard located there. Above each number and switching port were initials. He saw CRR over one of them.

  “Is that for Cecily Ransome?” he asked.

  Audrey glanced where he was pointing. “Yes. Her middle name is Rachel. We have enough people working here with similar initials that we had to start using their middle initials to distinguish them so I don’t make an error transferring calls.”

  Archer looked at another number. “And EDL?”

  Audrey smiled. “Eleanor Dorothy Lamb. I know them by heart now, you see.”

  “I do see.” Archer glanced at another set of initials—BMG—that he recognized from the aviation fuel invoice for the Beechcraft. He had thought BMG, Inc., the company that owned the plane, originated from a combination of Bart and Mallory Green’s initials. But this phone line label threw a wrench in that theory.

  “And BMG is Bart Green. Right? What’s his middle name then, Michael or something?”

  “No, that’s Mrs. Green’s private line, not her husband’s.”

  This took Archer by surprise. “But those aren’t her initials. She’s Mallory Green. Why is there a B then?”

  “Because her full name is Belinda Mallory Green. She goes by Mallory because she prefers that to Belinda.” She pulled a piece of paper from the file, wrote something down on a blank sheet, and handed it to Archer. “This is the name and number that Ellie left us.”

  Archer glanced down at the information. Margaret Lamb. There was a D.C. area code and phone number.

  But Archer was still reeling from the initials. “Does Mrs. Green own the Beechcraft?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. I’ve never even seen it. Why, does it matter if she does?”

  It sure as hell might, thought Archer.

  Chapter 62

  HE STOPPED AT A PAY PHONE AND called the hospital to check on Dash. After being patched through, he finally spoke with Morrison and found that Dash’s vitals were improving and there was no indication of any problems. She also told Archer that the slug taken from him was a .38.

  He next made a long-distance phone call to the number in Washington, D.C. A woman answered and told him that Margaret Lamb was not in. Archer left the number for his answering service and told the woman it was very important that Lamb contact him, as it had to do with her daughter, Eleanor. The woman promised to deliver the message promptly when Margaret returned.

  He made one more call to a PI firm in Reno that he and Dash had used before. A woman answered the phone and he asked for Jim Swinson. A man came on the line, and Archer told him what had happened to Dash.

  The only question Swinson asked was “How can I help, Archer?”

  Archer gave him a short sketch of the case and provided Mallory Green’s address in Lake Tahoe. He asked Swinson to get someone out there to keep the place—and Green, if possible—under surveillance.

  “Some really bad guys are involved in this, so everybody needs to watch their backs. I’ll have money sent up by Western Union to cover your fees.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Archer, consider this one on the house. For Willie.”

  He got back into his Olds and drove off, Chinatown his destination. He found the alley where the shooting had taken place. The cops had obviously come and gone, because the place was deserted. Archer got out and, one hand on the butt of his gun, walked down the alleyway. It was full of doors and windows and passageways, lots of means of getting in and out. When he cleared the alley, there was the Jade, right across the street. The truck must have done a quick turn into this alley, passed the shooters, and kept going while they came out from hiding to fire on Archer and Dash.

  In the daylight the Jade didn’t look overly menacing; it just looked cheap and gaudy. Inside was not a den of iniquities but a place where people did awful things to each other, exploiting weaknesses all humans had to varying degrees, wrapped around a bar serving one type of drink that, if it didn’t kill you, might, ironically, make you swear off booze for life.

  He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined a scantily clad Samantha Lourdes bound to a bedpost so men halfway around the world could get their jollies. And then his mind pulled a dirty trick on him and transposed Liberty Callahan’s face over Lourdes’s. He opened his eyes and thought he really might be sick.

  You need to focus, Archer, like Jake told you to. You think you’re taking down Darren Paley acting like this? Right now you couldn’t take down a sixteen-year-old punk running numbers for a buck a bag.

  He retreated to his car, climbed in, and drove off.

  He got back to Wilshire and became immediately bogged down in traffic. In the distance he thought he could hear a PA system in use and some sort of message echoing across all of LA.

  In frustration, he finally parked his car and started to walk, making much faster progress on foot. He finally discovered that the PA system was attached to the roof of a station wagon. A sign was plastered on the sides of the car, which was crawling at a turtle’s pace.

  REDS ARE EVERYWHERE. BE VIGILANT. BE ALERT. AND INFORM ON TRAITORS.

  And that was what the man holding a mike in the car was reciting over and over again through the PA system.

  Archer spotted a traffic cop at the next intersection and pigeon-holed him.

  “What’s up with that?” he asked.

  The man in blue grinned. “Uncle Joe’s in town.”

  “Uncle Joe?”

  “Senator Joe McCarthy. He’s speaking at the Ambassador tonight.” He lowered his voice and said with a sour face, “This town is full of reds, buddy.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Half the movie people would line up to kiss Stalin’s ass.”

  “Joe Stalin. He and McCarthy have the same first name. That’s kind of funny.”

  The cop looked shocked. “What, are you drunk?”

  “Smell my breath, nothing on it.”

  “McCarthy is trying to save this country and he should start right here. Commies all over.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Hell, the union takes real good care of us.”

  “Right. Unions. You might want to take that up with Karl Marx.”

  “Who?”

  Archer just had a sudden, jolting thought. “What time tonight is ‘Uncle Joe’ speaking?”

  “Seven.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You going?”

  “Maybe. But I might get my hair cut instead. You have to have priorities these days.”

  Archer strolled back to his car, got in, and turned around.

  He was heading to the Ambassador. But not to get a seat to hear Uncle Joe.

  He had just had an improbable thought. It probably wouldn’t pan out. But if it did, today would be a helluva lot better than yesterday. Not that any day wouldn’t be.

  He had a phone call to make first. And a question to ask. He could do that at the hotel. And then he’d take the automatic elevator all the way up again.

  Right to Hell.

  And all this time, I thought it was the other direction.

  Chapter 63

  ARCHER KNOCKED ON THE DOOR OF the penthouse, and a few moments later the same young maid answered. She eyed him cautiously.

  “Hi, I’m Archer. I was here yesterday.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the woman, who did not open the door any farther.

  “I’m here to see Mrs. Mars again. Can you let her know I’m here?”

  “She is not seeing anyone today.”

  “So she is here?”

  The woman looked uncomfortable. “She does not want to see you.”

  Archer took out his notebook and a pen and wrote two words on the sheet of paper. He ripped it out, folded it over, and said, “Show this to her. But don’t peek.”

  “No, sir, I won’t. Please wait.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  A few minutes passed before the door was flung open with such force that it slammed into the wall. Gloria Mars stood there outfitted in a light blue dressing gown with a sheer lacy robe over it. Her hair was down and her hackles were up. She had a drink in one hand and Archer’s note in the other.

  She flapped the note in his face. “What the hell is this?”

  “Can I come in, or do you want everybody to hear?”

  She stood there silently for so long that Archer wasn’t sure what her answer would be. Then he wondered if she had a gun hidden in the lace.

  She finally stepped back and waved him in.

  “Nice day clothes,” he noted, glimpsing her exposed cleavage before she pulled her robe tighter.

  “I was fighting a headache and I was almost there and then you and your damn note showed up.”

  “Where do you want to talk?”

  She led him into a small room off the dining room that didn’t have a bed or liquor cabinet in sight. Mars settled herself primly in one chair while he sat in another. She held up the slip of paper.

  “Explain this,” she ordered, and it was clearly a command.

  “Karl Marx. He was a German political writer.”

  “That’s like saying Michelangelo was a house painter.” She balled the paper up and threw it at him. “What did you mean by it?”

  “You have Marx’s collected works, three books about Lenin, and one by Trotsky.”

  “They were in a locked armoire, you fink!”

  “You know what we PIs are like. Just can’t trust us.”

  Mars let out a soft groan and drained her drink. “I was afraid that might come back to haunt me.”

  “Not from me it won’t.”

  She shot him a glance. “Okay. Then why are you here if not to blackmail me?”

  “I’m not the blackmailing type, Gloria. I’m here to tell you that Joe McCarthy is speaking at the Ambassador Hotel tonight at seven.”

  She looked at him blankly. “You must be joking.”

  “Nope. There’s a sign in the lobby and a helpful cop told me this town is full of reds. And that made me think about what you told me about Joe McCarthy when I met you the first time. You said the SOB’s time was running out, something to that effect. You’re clearly not a fan.”

  “I don’t like wannabe authoritarians who lie in order to destroy people who disagree with them. In that regard, I despise Stalin, too. Are you a fan of McCarthy’s? Or are you not political? So many people aren’t in this town. They apparently don’t have the guts.”

  “I don’t like stuffed shirts who wave little lists around without ever showing what’s on them. And I thought this country was about letting people say, think, and believe what they wanted. If not, then how are we different from Stalin’s world?”

  She glanced at him with a fresh look. “Did I misjudge you?”

  “We’ll leave that for another time. And what I’m about to ask you might decide it one way or another.”

  “Oh, great. Fire away,” she added wearily, rubbing her temple.

  “Were you a member of the Communist Party at Wellesley?”

  She looked shaken by the question. “I need another drink.” She started to rise.

  He said, “Just so you know, I don’t give a damn one way or another.”

  She sat back down. “Then why did you ask me?”

  “I asked you because I need to know if someone was blackmailing you because you were a communist.”

  She stared at him with a resigned expression. “When did you figure that one out?”

  He tapped his head. “It’s been percolating up here for a while. But I didn’t assemble enough pieces until about ten minutes ago. And then you said you thought I was here to blackmail you over the very same thing.” He paused. “Seventy-two thousand, five hundred bucks sound about right?”

  She stiffened and then slowly nodded. “Yes, exactly.”

  “When did Eleanor Lamb put the squeeze on you?”

  “You’re smarter than I thought, Archer.”

  “You mentioned that Lamb might have come into some money before. Only you knew she had. Yours.”

  “She came to me when she decided to move to Malibu and needed the dough.”

  “And you had all those trust funds handy and all.”

  “That was one reason I started looking at alternative political theories in college, Archer. I didn’t lift a finger for all that money. I was just lucky enough to be born into the right family.”

  “You could give it away.”

  “I give what I can. But my grandfather tied up what I can do with it pretty tightly. I think he might have guessed how I was going to turn out. No trust-fund preening capitalist am I.”

  Archer looked around. “Okay, but you don’t have to live like this, either.”

  “You’re right, I don’t. Which shows that I’m much weaker than I think. And the draw of all that money is far stronger.”

  “You still a card-carrying member?”

  “It doesn’t matter if I am or not. If my history came out I’d be ruined. They’d probably find a way to take all my money away. And Danny’s career would be ruined, of course. They’d assume he was a communist and he’d be blackballed. So many already have been.”