The Secrets of Harry Bright (32 page)

"Well, what're you doing now besides playing golf?" He touched her left hand, which was several shades lighter than the other suntanned hand. Her hands said she was in her forties, even if her face didn't.

"Still a cop, I see," she smiled. "We play quite a bit of golf.

"And how do you shoot?"

"Awful."

"I'll bet. Not with that athlete's body."

He was delighted to see that she was down to one more sip, and that it was a double vodka martini. The mere smell of gin nauseated him, and straight vodka drinkers were the biggest lushes of all. To keep her going, he told himself, as he drained his Johnnie Walker. Not because I've got a drinking problem. Oh no.

"Please let me buy us another one," he said.

"I've told you your money doesn't work here," she said, nodding to the barman. They were the only two at the small bar.

The luncheon room was nearly cleared by now, and there were just a few people passing the foyer. The barman poured her a double. Sidney Blackpool imagined that country-club bartenders had to know their members.

"Whadda you do when you're not playing golf?" he asked.

"Nothing much. A little tennis, but my legs aren't what they used to be."

"Well," he said in obvious disagreement.

She didn't mind. She knew what kind of legs she had. Sometimes we play Oklahoma gin--from the stage play not the state. What I like is when we have fourteen ladies and play two against one. It's a rotating game we call 'kill your sister.' You can lose a thousand a day." Then she gave a lopsided grin and said, "Came a long way from Southern substation, haven't I?"

He liked that sardonic, weary, lopsided smile. It looked very familiar.

"What's your husband do?"

"Oil leases. He spends a lot of time in Texas and Oklahoma. Sometimes in the Middle East. We summer in Lake Tahoe or Maui." Then she realized how that one sounded to a guy just out of police work, and she grinned in apology. "What can I say?"

"Thanks, I guess," said Sidney Blackpool. "You're a lucky girl. All you can say is thanks."

"Sure, thanks," she said.

And then he thought about it. He thought about her son, Harry Bright's son. He said, "Do you have children?" "No. No children."

He despised himself for an instant, but he said, "That's funny. I could've sworn Harry had . . .

"Our son was killed. Long after we were divorced." She really took a hit at the vodka, but smiled wearily. "It's okay. Not all San Diego policemen knew about our boy. He was on PSA Flight 182. He was nineteen years old in his first year at Cal."

"I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Decker. Really I I. . ."

"Lots of other people's children died that day too." Then she drained the glass and said, "Well, I think I should be . . ."

"I'm feeling real bad for prying. I'd do almost anything if you'd have just one more," he said. "Please . . . Patricia."

"They call me Trish," she said, and then she looked sadly at her glass and at the bartender.

The bartender poured them both doubles this time, knowing a heavy hitter when he saw one.

"This is a drinking man's club," she said. "This and Eldorado."

"We played Tamarisk the other day," he said.

"That's not a drinking club. This is a drinking club and a gambling club." Then she looked at him with her sad eyes and there were a lot of things he didn't want to ask this woman. But there was something he did want to ask. Even if it never helped to solve the murder of Jack Watson.

"Trish, would you have dinner with me tonight? I'm lonely here in the desert."

She didn't waste time with the third martini. "How long'11 you be here?" she asked.

"Till the end of the week."

"Are you married?"

"No."

"I believe you. You don't look married."

"Please. How about it?"

"And what should I tell Herb?" she asked, looking at her wavering reflection in the martini. "My husband."

"You . . . you could invite him along," he said. "I'd be happy to have both of you."

She laughed at that one, and looked up from her drink. "Would you now, Sam?" she asked huskily. "From one old cop to another, would you really like him to come along?"

"If it's the only way I could see you," he said earnestly, and his thigh was brushing hers. It had been a long time since Sidney Blackpool had courted any woman except for an occasional cop groupie whose name he wouldn't remember three days later. And who would just as easily forget his.

"I don't run around to desert restaurants when my husband's out of town. Doesn't look appropriate. But I hate dining alone. How would you like to be my guest tonight? Right here at the club. Say about seven?" She glanced at her Cartier Panthere wristwatch.

"I'll be here," he said.

"Sorry, but you'll have to wear a jacket and tie." "I'll manage," he said.

Now I've got to take my afternoon nap," Trish Decker said, standing a bit unsteadily. "That's something else I do as regularly as golf and cards."

Otto was in the men's locker room watching a dozen men at two rows of felt-covered tables playing something they called Bel-Air gin. He was fascinated, until he found out that the stakes had gotten as high as fifteen cents a point. Otto did some fast computing and realized from the figures written beside one player that the man had lost at least twelve hundred dollars that afternoon.

There was a poker game going in another room to the right of the gin room and the small bar was getting lots of afternoon action. And this, Otto realized, was just an ordinary weekday before the season was in full swing. Otto decided he wasn't quite ready for this even with his pocket full of President McKinleys. He walked outside where his bag was propped beside a golf cart. He took his putter and bought a dozen golf balls from the pro shop before heading toward the practice green.

By the time Sidney Blackpool found him, he was having a fine time with a woman he'd met on the practice green. She was at least twenty-five years older than Otto, and even rounder. She wore a golf skirt and blouse in Easter egg colors, and a yellow floppy hat. Her hair was a ginger shade, but it was definitely time to get to the beauty shop for a retouch. She wore oversized hexagon eyeglasses with persimmon rims.

They were in a putting contest, tapping twenty footers at three designated cups. Sidney Blackpool could see they had some sort of bet going.

"Okay, Fiona," Otto was saying when Sidney Blackpool found them. "This is my chance to get even. Don't stand too close to me or my little heart will make bunny bumps and I'll miss!"

"Oh, Otto," said the fat old dame, "you are a caution!"

Sidney Blackpool saw that Otto's bag was now loade
d o
n an electric golf cart by the putting green. The cart wa
s c
anary yellow, as was the owner's golf bag. There was a radio in the cart, an electric fan pointed toward the driver, and a small television set. There was an ice chest behind the driver's seat, which the detective figured didn't contain soda pop. There were two yellow cups on the putting green containing a brown concoction. Otto hadn't been letting the desert heat parch him.

"Otto, could I see you a minute?" Sidney Blackpool called.

"Hold that putt, Fiona," Otto said, waggling his finger. "This is my business partner, Sidney Blackpool. Sidney, meet Fiona Grout."

"Charmed, I'm sure," the old dame said to Sidney Blackpool, who smiled and nodded.

"I see you're having a few giggles," Sidney Blackpoo
l s
aid.

Otto's eyes were already glassy and he blew 80-proof Jamaican rum in his partner's face when he whispered, "Sidney, I got one! She's a widow. Lives in Thunderbird Heights, for chrissake. Knows Lucille Ball! Don't take me away from this."

"Otto, I missed it!" Fiona tittered. "You have a chance at me!"

"Gimme a break, Sidney," Otto pleaded. "I'm on a roll!"

"I got a great idea," Sidney Blackpool said. "I'm going back to the hotel and call Palm Springs P. D. See if Terry Kinsale's registered again for a hotel job. I'll call Harlan Penrod too and see if he found out anything. I gotta be back here tonight for a date with Harry Bright's ex."

"Yeah? You're amazing," said Otto, looking anxiously over his shoulder at Fiona who had waddled over to the cart for another mai tai. "You mean I can stay here and play around? I mean . . . play a round?"

"Sure. Can you get back to the hotel when you're finished?"

"I'll cab it back," he said. "Unless old Fiona wants to gimme a lift. She's got a new Jaguar she's just dying to show me!"

:My, you are the one, Otto," Sidney Blackpool said. See you later, Sidney," said Otto. "If I'm a little late don t wait up."

Then he turned and hurried back to Fiona who said, "Otto. It's time for you to have another drinky poo!"

"Well, I never!" Otto cried. "I guess I did drink mine all gone!"

The last thing Sidney Blackpool heard him say was to a putt that was rolling fifteen feet by the cup, thereby losing for him whatever were the stakes. "Come home, punkin!" Otto called to the errant golf ball. "Daddy forgives you!"

"Oh, Otto, you are a caution!" Fiona giggled, whacking him so hard on the shoulder that he spilled mai tai down his sweater.

When Sidney Blackpool got back to the hotel there was a message at the front desk from Harlan Penrod. He went straight to a pay phone in the lobby and dialed the number but got a recorded message saving, "Hell000. This is the Watson residence. Your call will be returned as soon as possible."

He went into the dining room and had a salad, then returned to the room where he lay on the bed and resisted the temptation to call room service for a drink. It was only three o'clock, much too early. He called Palm Springs P
. D
. and spoke to the detective lieutenant, getting a negative on Terry Kinsale.

When the lieutenant asked him what it was about, Sidney Blackpool lied and said, "Doing a favor for the Watsons. This Kinsale kid left something at their house."

He was getting drowsy when the phone rang. When he answered, Harlan Penrod said, "It's me!"

"Yeah, Harlan, what's up?"

"You'll never guess. I found Terry!"

"You did?" His feet hit the floor and he was sitting. "Where is he?"

"I don't know where he is at the moment, but I know where he'll be tonight. At Poppa's Place. It's a gay bar on the highway in Cathedral City.

"How do ya know?"

"Well, I found two bars where he hangs around and I told a fib. All in the line of duty, of course. Told the bartenders that a friend of Terry's was leaving Palm Springs for good and wanted Terry to have his Rolex as a memento. I said somebody'd meet Terry at six o'clock at Poppa's Place."

"Won't that sound a little unbelievable? An unnamed friend?"

"I learned that Terry has lots of friends, and believe me, he wouldn't know the names of half of them. He'll go for it, the little slut."

"You do very good work, Harlan," Sidney Blackpool said. "I'm proud a you. If it turns out Terry's our boy, I'm gonna recommend that Mister Watson give the reward money to you."

There was silence on the line for a moment, and then Harlan Penrod said, "I didn't do this for a reward."

"I know you didn't, but . . ."

"The Watsons've been very good to me. I have a job here for as long as I want, and at my age that's a lucky break."

"I know, but . . .

"I wouldn't want a reward for something like this," Harlan Penrod said. "I'm doing this for Mister and Mrs. Watson. And for Jack."

"Okay, Harlan," Sidney Blackpool said. "Anyway, I'll let you know what happens."

The detective hung up and, three o'clock or not, called room service and ordered a double. Then he ran a hot bath and hoped that a soak and a Scotch would help him unwind. He decided to leave a message at the Thunderbird pro shop telling Otto to meet him in front of the clubhouse at 5:30 sharp. They'd stake out Poppa's Place and if they got their man they'd make an evening of it. In case the kid didn't take the bait, Sidney Blackpool was already going to be dressed in jacket and tie and would proceed to the dinner date with Trish Decker.

He realized that the singer on the radio sounded like Ted Lewis.

-I can't save a dollar, I ain't got a cent. -But she wouldn't holler, she'd live in a tent.

got a woman that's crazy for me, she's funny that way
Harry Bright. Poor dumb son of a bitch. He wondered where Trish Bright had met Herbert Decker. He'd bet it was while she was still a dutiful cop's wife. He knew all about cop wives and greener pastures. In fact, Trish Decker reminded him of his ex-wife, Lorie. The coloring, the refined profile, the lopsided sardonic smile. And the sad eyes.

Trish Decker had sad eyes all right, but she'd never live in a tent, not that girl. He vaguely realized that he was starting to feel sorry for a suspect in a murder case. He was about to examine that bit of silliness when there was a knock at the door and a voice said, "Room service.-