Read Online The Far Side of the Dollar by Ross MacDonald - Free Book Online Page B

barely see over the bar.” He grinned. “My wife, now, is five foot six and built in proportion. She ought to be here now,” he added in a disciplinary tone, and looked at the wristwatch on his miniature wrist. “What will you have?”
    “Whisky sour. You own this place?”
    “Me and the wife, we have an interest in it.”
    “Nice place,” I said, though it wasn’t particularly nice. It was no cleaner and no more cheerful than the average bar and grill with cabaret pretensions. The old waiter leaning against the wall beside the kitchen door seemed to be sleeping on his feet.
    “Thank you. We have plans for it.” As he talked, he made my drink with expert fingers. “You haven’t been in before. I don’t remember your face.”
    “I’m from Hollywood. I hear you have a pretty fair jazz combo.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Will they be playing tonight?”
    “They only play Friday and Saturday nights. We don’t get the weekday trade to justify ’em.”
    “What about the Sunday jam sessions? Are they still on?”
    “Yeah. We had one yesterday. The boys were in great form. Too bad you missed them.” He slid my drink across the bar. “You in the music business?”
    “I represent musicians from time to time. I have an office on the Strip.”
    “Sam would want to talk to you. He’s the leader.”
    “Where can I get in touch with him?”
    “I have his address somewhere. Just a minute, please.”
    A couple of young men in business suits with rain-sprinkled shoulders had taken seats at the far end of the bar. They were talking in carrying voices about a million-dollar real-estate deal. Apparently it was somebody else’s deal, not theirs, but they seemed to enjoy talking about it.
    The small man served them short whiskies without being asked. A lavishly built young woman came in and struggled out of a transparent raincoat which she rolled up and tossed under the bar. She had a Sicilian nose. Her neck was hung with jewelry like a bandit princess’s.
    The small man looked at her sternly. “You’re late. I can’t operate without a hostess.”
    “I’m sorry, Tony. Rachel was late again.”
    “Hire another baby sitter.”
    “But she’s so good with the baby. You wouldn’t want just anybody feeding him.”
    “We won’t talk about it now. You know where you’re supposed to be.”
    “Yes, Mr. Napoleon.”
    With a rebellious swing of the hip, she took up her post by the door. Customers were beginning to drift in by twos and fours. Most of them were young or young middle-aged. They looked respectable enough. Talking and laughing vivaciously, clinking her jewelry, the hostess guided them to the red-checked tables.
    Her husband remembered me after a while. “Here’s Sam Jackman’s address. He has no phone, but it isn’t far from here.”
    He handed me a sheet from a memo pad on which he had written in pencil: “169 Mimosa, apt. 2.”
    It was near the railroad tracks, an old frame house with Victorian gingerbread on the facade half chewed away by time. The heavy carved front door was standing open, and I went into the hallway, feeling warped parquetry under my feet. On a closed door to my right, a number 2 stamped from metal hung upside down by a single nail. It rattled when I knocked.
    A yellow-faced man in shirt sleeves looked out. “Who is it you want?”
    “Sam Jackman.”
    “That’s me.” He seemed surprised that anybody should want him. “Is it about a job?” He asked the question with a kind of hollow hopefulness that answered itself in the negative.
    “No, but I want to talk to you about something important, Mr. Jackman.”
    He caught the “mister” and inclined his head in acknowledgement. “All right.”
    “May I come in? My name is Lew Archer. I’m a private detective.”
    “I dunno, the place is a mess. With the wife working all day—but come on in.”
    He backed into his apartment, as if he was afraid to expose his flank. It consisted of one large room which might once have been the