Free Hunting a Detroit Tiger by Troy Soos Page B

track down the killer.
    The lion made a playful swat with its paw, and the girl screamed. Margie pulled a revolver from its holster and fired at the animal. The report of the cap pistol was so feeble that some in the theater laughed. The big cat rolled over, supposedly dead, but looking like he wanted his belly rubbed. Margie untied the girl, who gratefully hugged her rescuer. The curtain fell and the audience applauded—not as enthusiastically as they had for Milo’s bird imitations but louder than for the Four Harmony Kings.
    When Josie Flynn’s Female Minstrels took the stage, I debated whether to leave quietly, grateful that some fond memories had been rekindled, or take the risk of meeting her again and possibly having those memories diminished somehow.
    The debate took all of about a minute.
    I found the usher, a teenage boy with a spectacular case of acne, sweeping the lobby floor. I told him I wanted to see Marguerite Turner.
    “You and every other stage door Johnny,” he said.
    “You don’t understand. I’m a friend of hers.”
    “Yeah, you and every other stage door Johnny.”
    “Can you give her a message?”
    He looked me over, probably to determine what I could afford, before naming his price. “Sure. For half a buck.”
    I thought I was dressed well enough to be charged a dollar, but wasn’t going to argue. Putting two coins in the boy’s hand, I said, “Tell her Mickey Rawlings would very much like to see her.”
    He hesitated. “Mickey Rawlings . . . the one who killed that Red in Detroit?”
    Why doesn’t anyone ever say “Mickey Rawlings the baseball player?” I wondered. “Uh, no,” I said. “That wasn’t me.”
    The kid looked skeptical. “All right, I’ll tell her. Wait here.”
    I checked my watch half a dozen times in the ten minutes until the usher returned. “She’s coming,” he said. “Soon as she’s dressed.” Picking up his broom, he resumed relocating trash from one corner of the floor to another.
    It was another fifteen minutes until Margie Turner appeared. Her lithe figure was cloaked in a white middy blouse with a slightly crooked black tie and a provocatively short blue skirt that fell to only mid-calf. I stared at a face that was more beautiful than I remembered: heavy-lidded, dark, laughing eyes; full, bemused lips; a tawny complexion framed by long, flowing, chestnut hair.
    “Hello, Mickey.” The throaty voice sent a tremor through me.
    “Hi. You look . . . great.”
    The usher snorted, and I heard him mumble, “What a smooth talker.”
    “Would you like to ... go to dinner?”
    She smiled. “It’s almost ten o’clock.”
    “Oh, how about . . .” C’mon, Mickey, think of something.
    “A walk?” she suggested.
    “Yes.” I let out a breath of relief and offered my arm.
    Outside in the cool spring night, Margie said she was staying at the Winton and suggested we walk in that direction. I agreed, silently hoping that the hotel was a long distance away. Seeing her on stage had brought back memories; her touch on my arm had triggered a tingling of my heartstrings.
    We strolled slowly, oblivious to the downtown crowds, chatting easily about nothing of importance. I was immediately comfortable with her, as though we were meant to walk side by side. We’d gone more than a block before I noticed she was limping. “Did the lion hurt your leg?” I asked.
    “That sweet old cat? No, he couldn’t hurt a fly.” She patted her right hip. “Fell off a camel two years ago making a desert movie. Studio put me on morphine till the picture was finished. Then I had an operation to put my hip back together. It feels fine now, but I walk a little funny. That’s why I’m doing vaudeville. The studio fired me—told me people don’t go to the movies to watch cripples.” She tried to laugh it off, but her voice cracked. “Nobody in Hollywood would take me.”
    “I’m sorry. I think you look wonderful.”
    “You too. As handsome as I remembered.” She patted