I hadn’t noticed the arrival of our policyholder, Dorothea Monroe, widowed last week upon the sudden death of her husband, Nicky Constantine. Nicky was the owner of Midtown Imports, a dealership on the west side that specializes in European cars. With Nicky gone, Dorothea inherits the business along with the rights to Coastal’s cargo policy. Dorothea will be a quarter of a million bucks richer once Coastal Indemnity writes the check. Of course, they won’t write any checks until I’m finished with my investigation.
“She has to be involved,” Paul mutters.
Dorothea moves with grace; she is taller than the men flanking her, her golden hair visible beneath her pillbox hat and mesh veil. Her sable stole drapes to her knees, the collar gripped closed to protect her against the wind. One of the boys at Coastal found an old pinup of Dorothea posing in a two piece next to a gas pump. Rumor in the bullpen says she was a Texaco gal from a memorable calendar issued in the early Fifties. I remember that Texaco calendar from the barracks at Gutleut Kaserne in Frankfurt.
She seems riveted by the drama, her eyes on the ship’s master as he struggles against his restraints and the marshals around him. The marshals are having trouble controlling him.
The master’s fury escalates at the sight of Dorothea. To our amazement, Dorothea breaks away from her minders to confront the prisoner. Before anyone can react, she spits on him and calls him a murderer.
A melee ensues, and I find myself in the middle pushing the angry man away from Dorothea. His hands are bound but his feet are free. He lashes out, trying to kick her, and I’m obliged to rattle his ribcage with a few hard rights before the marshals recover their wits and push him toward their car.
A marshal shoves Dorothea aside—these guys lack manners—and I catch her arm to steady her. Up close her pale skin is flawed by a puckered scar on her neck, her perfume redolent with sandalwood and vanilla, the flush of anger augmenting the blue of her veiled eyes.
Her eyes find mine before her entourage arrives. One of her retinue, a man in a blazer, steps between us. “Beat it, pal,” he says.
Dorothea offers a wary smile. “Thanks, mister,” she says.
As I turn away she says, “You think I’m guilty, don’t you?”
Our eyes lock. “Yes,” I say.
I’m surprised by the hurt I see on her face.
“What a bimbo,” Paul says. He is standing next to me after crossing the dock on little cat feet.
“Now what?” I ask. I don’t want to discuss Dorothea with Paul. He looks offended by my curt response and snaps into boss mode.
“Keep interviewing the port people,” Paul says. “Do what you do. What’s your daily rate again?”
“Ninety bucks.”
“Is your office on Park Avenue?”
“Just my penthouse,” I say.
Paul scowls. My office is on Rector Street and he knows it. He’s doing what insurance executives love doing, pretending to be broke.
People are being led away in handcuffs. Let’s hope they are guilty of something.
“I gotta get back. Our VP of claims has to have a meeting every ten minutes or he can’t bend his file clerk over her desk. Shrivels your pecker, this kind of shit.”
“We can’t have that,” I say.
He punches my shoulder. “Hell, no. It’s un-American.”
The parade of official vehicles begins heading for the gates. With the SOUTHERN STAR impounded, the balance of her cargo is now involved in a complex legal mess. There are few moments in life when a working man can spend tens of thousands of dollars of rich people’s money. This is one of those moments.
I wish I could feel a bit of satisfaction. As I walk back to my Starliner I calculate that Arthur Murray Investigations has about two weeks of cash in the till. I paid the rent for November and city taxes, but unless Coastal Indemnity pays my invoices I may have to shut down the office, admit defeat, and figure out my next move.
I lost my life savings last spring in an investment in a Greenwich Village nightclub. When I served in the Office of Strategic Services, then in the Army’s G2 Intelligence when the OSS went out of business, my job was to run down former SS officers. I never imagined Club 55 would turn out to be a front operation for an ex-Nazi trying to suborn German scientists involved in the Redstone rocket program. Criminal charges still linger from the Club 55 fiasco. A murder trial will commence next winter against a musician named Jay Washburn. My attorney, Teddy Gleason, is facing disbarment, and Abigail Drew, a woman I love, is back in Israel. She’s a Mossad agent. I doubt I will ever see her again.
Theoretically, the CIA can draft me into their service more or less at will. While I was running around Europe—trying to find Heino Pflueger, the SS officer who took me prisoner near Bastogne during the war—Harry Truman created the new agency and, being young and dumb, I signed up, never reading the fine print of my contract. My old boss from the OSS, Mike Nolan, expects me to check in with him every month. If I’m not mistaken I’m due to make that call next Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving. I wonder what would happen if I skip a month.
Mike makes it clear in his way that my future hinges on his good will. Mike can forestall criminal charges against me. He has influence in New York since he runs the CIA’s United Nations listening post, a wildly illegal unit that gathers dirt on philandering diplomats, naughty attaches, and their high profile pals. I think half the professional escort services on Lexington Avenue provide Mike all the sordid details of their trade in exchange for his intercession with the minions of the law.
Meanwhile I try to make a living. Some of the insurance companies I work with have pulled their contracts over the past few months. When Coastal Indemnity hired me they know damned well that I’m strapped for cash and motivated as hell.
I need to locate those stolen cars. To that end I’m driving over to a meeting with the Port Police. With my Rand McNally in my lap, I navigate the streets of Port Elizabeth, a town that looks a lot like post-war Germany.
