The Tin Horse A Novel - By Janice Steinberg Page 0,44
name, most of them crossed through, as well as the names of half a dozen nightclubs. Finally, he had found at least one of the women, though it wasn’t clear which; he’d written “unhappy at home” and “heard Broadmoor Hotel, Colo. Springs, hiring.” I figured that was what the woman had told him about Barbara. “Unhappy at home” gave me a twinge, but I could hardly argue that ours was a harmonious family from which no one would have wished to escape.
Then I came to the last item in the file: a letter, messily written in pencil and badly spelled but on a half sheet of good rag paper with the Broadmoor Hotel letterhead.
Marlowe—
Theres a botle-blond, gos by Kay Devereaux, who might be your girl. Call if you want more infomation.
Carl Logan
House Detective
“Devereaux” was spelled out carefully, as if he’d copied it a letter at a time. My hand started shaking, and the words juddered in front of my eyes.
“Is this it?” I asked Josh, my voice tight and tinny in my ears. “Did you copy the whole file?”
“Everything except three or four copies of a photo, it looked like her high school graduation picture … Elaine, are you all right?”
“I can’t meet with you this afternoon.”
“Sure. Okay.” He grabbed his banker’s box. “Your sister came home, didn’t she? After Philip Marlowe found her? You told me she got married and had kids.”
“I’ll see you next week, same time.” I nearly pushed him out the door.
Then I went back to the file and read it again as I paced from room to room. It wasn’t just that I felt too agitated to sit; with each change of location, each different set of furniture and fall of light, I hoped I’d be jogged toward some kind of clarity.
Carl Logan had it wrong, that was all. He hadn’t been sure himself: She might be your girl, he’d written. And what was he going on, even to say that much? Philip might have mailed him Barbara’s high school photo, we’d given him copies to show around, but she was eighteen in that photo! I have grandkids that age, and they all have the same shiny newness, their faces like just-minted pennies waiting for the stamp of experience. Logan could only have guessed he was seeing that high school girl in a bottle-blond chorine. And look at his letter, smudged and barely literate. Wasn’t a hotel dick the sleaziest character in any detective movie? I’d bet Logan had insisted on being paid for his information, and he figured he’d get more money if he said what Philip wanted to hear.
Kay Devereaux wasn’t my sister. It was the only thing that made sense!
Yet another explanation kept whispering in my mind, one that made me feel like I’d been punched in the gut. When I couldn’t stand being in the house anymore, I got in the car and started driving.
AM I ALREADY AT Victorville? The diner where Paul and I liked to stop is still there, just off the highway. I use the ladies’ room, get the date shake to go, and take a sip. Ah, the blend of dates, milk, and ice cream turns out to be one of the few revisited pleasures that’s as good as I remember. I place the shake in the Jag’s cupholder to enjoy as I drive home.
But instead of heading back to L.A., I obey Maxene, the name (after the middle Andrews sister) I’ve given the car’s smooth-voiced navigator. Just for the heck of it, I’d programmed Maxene for Colorado Springs. Of course, I won’t really drive that far. But Las Vegas—why not go there? Spend a day or two, see a show, play the slots? Is there anyone I need to call, anything to reschedule? I’m not meeting with Diane, the young attorney I mentor, until next week. And I taped my commentary for the legal affairs show on the public radio station yesterday.
Vegas, yes! I’ll buy myself a toothbrush. And a swimsuit. One of the things I remember most fondly from trips we took to Las Vegas with the kids was swimming in those turquoise pools. Though I know that, unlike the date shake, which has held up to my memory of it, Las Vegas long ago stopped being the place I loved in the fifties and sixties, when you could still feel the desert grit beneath the glitz.
Vegas in those days was my cousin Ivan, a small-time operator who lived there and always treated us to