did lose her. I didn’t want anyone walking in on me while I had that Lucky Lager can in my possession, and taking a picture of it was going to run into time. I drove slowly along Vermont, turning over possibilities as I went, and when the pattern began to form, I increased my speed a bit. The MG was over a block behind and fell back, then picked up a few miles per hour and closed up once more. I headed for Jefferson Boulevard, turned left, whipped over to Flower Street, and pulled to a stop. The MG eased over to the curb a block back, the girl in a scarf still behind the wheel.
Chapter 5
I WASTED A COUPLE OF MINUTES at the wheel, then got out and raised the hood, looked under it for a moment, and went back to reach into the dashboard area. I stood in the street for a second or two, then went back to lean on a fender and peer at the engine. When I figured the breakdown was pretty well established, I slammed the hood down and wiped my hands on a handkerchief. Hailing the first cab that came along, I got in and pointed down Flower Street.
“Run down to Washington Boulevard and swing onto the freeway headed south,” I said.
“Sure, Mac. And then where?”
“Manchester,” I said. It was a long way down and would hold him until I changed orders. I peeked out the back window and saw the MG trailing along about a block and a half behind.
Traffic was light; it was early afternoon. We wheeled right at Washington, then circled up the ramp and onto the freeway. The cab picked up speed and, checking the rear, I saw the little open car bob up behind us.
“Look,” I told the cabbie, “there’s a bus zone, a turnout for passenger unloading, about Jefferson Boulevard and—”
“Now wait a second, doc!” The driver half turned in his seat and we began to slow. “I can’t let no fares out there. It’s another half mile up to where I can get off the freeway and this meter’s going to run—”
“The hell with the meter,” I said, and tossed two singles onto the seat beside him. “Just swing over to the side and let me out at the stairway. Perfectly legal; I’m paying you for all the way to Manchester and then some.”
“That makes it different,” he said, gathering in my cash, and a few minutes later we eased into the right lane and then out onto the bus loading zone. I jumped out and the cab sped away. Just before I started down the concrete steps I turned, and as the MG rolled slowly past, I grinned at her. Nola couldn’t park here, and there was no place to stop; all she could do was run on to the next exit. As her bug began to gather speed, I waved and blew her a kiss.
Taking the steps two at a time, I made Flower Street, crossed the intersection, jumped into my Ford, and barreled away.
But I didn’t drive down to Union Station. There really was no point in picking up the beer tin; it was clear that the can alone wasn’t going to open the golden gates.
I wiggled through the traffic, swung over to Echo Park, walked over to the edge of the water, and flopped down on the grass to think. I’d been wrong once and right once. Wrong because I had over-estimated the value of exposing the publicity stunt. Sure it would embarrass her—Nola’s taking the trouble to tail me proved that—and it would cost a few dollars at the box office when Island Love was released, but it wouldn’t be fatal to Nola’s career. Thinking back, I could remember half a dozen stars who had outlived worse messes than that. But I was sure I was right with my guess about Hank Sawyer being murdered. Joe Lamb’s face had seemed an instant and positive answer. An answer, but not proof and proof was the thing I had to come up with next. What had Nola been hinting at when she said I’d need a great deal more to go on? What was missing? What did Hank Sawyer have on Nola that Eddie Baker didn’t have?
I loafed away a couple of hours there in the park and came up with two solid conclusions. First, whatever it was that Nola was
Chapter 5
I WASTED A COUPLE OF MINUTES at the wheel, then got out and raised the hood, looked under it for a moment, and went back to reach into the dashboard area. I stood in the street for a second or two, then went back to lean on a fender and peer at the engine. When I figured the breakdown was pretty well established, I slammed the hood down and wiped my hands on a handkerchief. Hailing the first cab that came along, I got in and pointed down Flower Street.
“Run down to Washington Boulevard and swing onto the freeway headed south,” I said.
“Sure, Mac. And then where?”
“Manchester,” I said. It was a long way down and would hold him until I changed orders. I peeked out the back window and saw the MG trailing along about a block and a half behind.
Traffic was light; it was early afternoon. We wheeled right at Washington, then circled up the ramp and onto the freeway. The cab picked up speed and, checking the rear, I saw the little open car bob up behind us.
“Look,” I told the cabbie, “there’s a bus zone, a turnout for passenger unloading, about Jefferson Boulevard and—”
“Now wait a second, doc!” The driver half turned in his seat and we began to slow. “I can’t let no fares out there. It’s another half mile up to where I can get off the freeway and this meter’s going to run—”
“The hell with the meter,” I said, and tossed two singles onto the seat beside him. “Just swing over to the side and let me out at the stairway. Perfectly legal; I’m paying you for all the way to Manchester and then some.”
“That makes it different,” he said, gathering in my cash, and a few minutes later we eased into the right lane and then out onto the bus loading zone. I jumped out and the cab sped away. Just before I started down the concrete steps I turned, and as the MG rolled slowly past, I grinned at her. Nola couldn’t park here, and there was no place to stop; all she could do was run on to the next exit. As her bug began to gather speed, I waved and blew her a kiss.
Taking the steps two at a time, I made Flower Street, crossed the intersection, jumped into my Ford, and barreled away.
But I didn’t drive down to Union Station. There really was no point in picking up the beer tin; it was clear that the can alone wasn’t going to open the golden gates.
I wiggled through the traffic, swung over to Echo Park, walked over to the edge of the water, and flopped down on the grass to think. I’d been wrong once and right once. Wrong because I had over-estimated the value of exposing the publicity stunt. Sure it would embarrass her—Nola’s taking the trouble to tail me proved that—and it would cost a few dollars at the box office when Island Love was released, but it wouldn’t be fatal to Nola’s career. Thinking back, I could remember half a dozen stars who had outlived worse messes than that. But I was sure I was right with my guess about Hank Sawyer being murdered. Joe Lamb’s face had seemed an instant and positive answer. An answer, but not proof and proof was the thing I had to come up with next. What had Nola been hinting at when she said I’d need a great deal more to go on? What was missing? What did Hank Sawyer have on Nola that Eddie Baker didn’t have?
I loafed away a couple of hours there in the park and came up with two solid conclusions. First, whatever it was that Nola was
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