Free Noir(ish) (9781101610053) by Evan Guilford-blake Page A

“The pa— Oh!” She laughed. “
That
.” She waved at her desk. “I got you a pillow. The bank was giving them away with a deposit of seventy-five dollars!”
    â€œGreenstreet’ll like that. He’s torn half the feathers out of the one he sleeps on.”
    She returned, the first aid kit in hand, and carefully ministered to my “wound.” “They were giving a choice,” she added. “A pillow or a down comforter, but I thought, this is Los Angeles. No one has to have a
comforter
.” She giggled. “Not even me. Actually, it was very surprising that they were giving them away at all.”
    She applied iodine. I hate iodine. I squirmed. “That stings.”
    Gloria patted my head. “Oh, it will be fine in a minute,” she said. “Shall I call the police, Mr. Grahame?” She tucked away the iodine bottle and peeled the back from a small adhesive strip. “Oh, my, there are things all over! All those poor flowers! But don’t you worry about it, I’ll take care of everything, lickety-split. Okeydokey?” She applied the bandage to the cut and pressed it gently into place. “Were they looking for something? Did they locate it?”
    â€œThey said they were. I don’t think they found it.”
    â€œWhat?!”
    â€œI don’t know.” There was no reason to tell her that. She’d just ask more questions and—for her own safety—the less she knew, the better. Wilma had said they’d be back, and I believed her. “I think that’s fine, Gloria.” I reached for my face. She slapped my hand, something even my mother never did.
    â€œDon’t play with that!” she exclaimed. “You’ll pull it off and it will start to blee—” The phone rang. “Oh!” she said.
    â€œI think you better answer that.” I touched the bandage. I was sorely tempted to rip it off.
    â€œOh. Yes, of course.” She straightened herself and went to her desk. She cleared her throat, put down the first aid kit, and lifted the receiver. “This is the office of Robert Grahame, private investigator. May I help you?” she said, the perfect and pleasant professional. She listened. “Who’s calling?”
    She shook her head and covered the mouthpiece. “He won’t say,” she whispered. She sounded nervous about it.
    â€œAsk him what it’s about,” I said. I righted chairs and vases and repositioned the
Look
s and
Life
s on the magazine table.
    Gloria cleared her throat again and lifted the phone. “Can I tell Mr. Grahame what it’s about?” she asked, then: “Uh-huh. . . . Uh-huh. One moment please.” She covered the mouthpiece. “He won’t
say
,” she whispered, still nervously.
    This was tiresome. “Tell him I’m out and to leave a number. I’ll call him back.” I wanted another cup of coffee, one I could drink while it was still hot. Then I wanted to go get a hard-boiled egg sandwich, or something else I’d be able to chew despite the growing ache in my jaw, and eat it while I read the
Times
and recovered from the morning’s misadventure. That would have to wait, though, until I’d made a start on reordering the office. I looked at it again and frowned, wondering
why
.
    Gloria pursed her lips and nodded. “Well, Mr. Grahame is out of the office, right n— . . . I’m, um, not sure. I don’t
think
he’ll be too long. If you can leave— . . . I don’t
know
what time he’ll be back, I can’t say for—”
    â€œNuts,” I muttered, not loud enough for Gloria to hear. “I just walked in.” I took the phone from her. “This is Grahame,” I said into it.
    The voice on the other end was mellifluous and friendly, just like an insurance salesman’s ought to be. “Mr. Grahame?” it said. “This is Dan