The Bamboo Blonde. Dorothy B. Hughes

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      “Hustle your own.” But he handed it to her, kissed her nose, and said, “Made a date for us tonight with the Travises. I want to see Walker. You’ll like them.”

      He was himself this morning, not alternately jittery and deceptively quiet like the ocean outside. He said nothing of where he’d spent the night, stretched himself long on the bed. “Your turn to get me a glass.”

      She ignored him blissfully. “Give me a cigarette. What makes you think I’ll like the Travises?” She doubted it very much.

      “You will. I like them. So will you.” There was something in the way he spoke made a small frown on her forehead. It wasn’t optional that they like the Navy Travises. That much was clear. She asked, “Where did you meet them, Con?”

      “Garth knew them,” he said.

      Why hadn’t he mentioned them before? But she hadn’t time for further questions. Someone was rapping at the door.

      She pushed Con. “That’s probably Kew. Entertain him while I shower.” She whispered, “And be nice.”

      He growled something but she heard his greeting through the closed bedroom door and it was hearty. “How you, Kew, old man? Come on in. Great to see you,” more of the same.

      Griselda showered quickly, put on the white satin bathing suit with the magenta fish splashing on it, purple clogs on her feet, her gilt hair smoothed back of her ears. The shells patterned on the crocheted dresser scarf. She brushed them into Con’s handkerchief drawer before she went into the living room. Con was on the couch reading the morning paper, Kew in the chair. Both held glasses but it was only orange juice. She hoped only orange juice; it was too early to put gin in it.

      Kew was Esquire’s best again, the rough white terry robe and scuffs, the white trunks against the California golden brown of his body. He greeted Griselda the special way he always greeted pretty women, an under-ripple of tenderness. Doubtless another of the reasons Con didn’t like him.

      Con said softly. “Well, what do you think of that?”

      Griselda looked at him quickly. She knew that voice. “Con! What?”

      “A murder in our peaceful little town.”

      She knew she went whey-colored. Why she should have connected it with last night she didn’t know. But she was frightened.

      She took the paper from him. Woman’s body found in Bixby Park. Dressed in light blue slacks. College boy returning from his job as night soda jerker about one-thirty A.M. saw the girl’s body under a tree. She was identified as Shelley Huffaker visiting from Hollywood. There was a picture. A pretty blonde girl. “A dime a dozen in Hollywood.” Griselda hadn’t seen the girl’s face. It had been only midnight when Con said, “Are you awake?”

      She wasn’t going to be disturbed about it. Even if it should turn out to be the same girl, Con had nothing to do with it. Someone would have been with her later. Someone would have been a murderer, would have taken pains not to be seen! She wouldn’t worry about Con. He could take care of himself. She laid down the paper as if it didn’t matter. “Shall we swim?” and then she noticed the two men. Behind cover of their orange juice, their casualness, they were watching each other. Kew was looking at Con in just the way that Con was looking at Kew. They didn’t seem to have heard her.

      Con asked, “Did you know her, Kew?”

      He laughed without really laughing. “Of course not. Whatever made you think I might?”

      Con tapped the paper. “Says Hollywood. Understand the studios have been bidding on your pen.”

      Kew almost seemed to flush. “Nothing so attractive, I fear. Only a nibble.” And then he set down his empty glass on the table, reached out for the sheet. He studied the cut. “She looks rather like the girl you took home last night from the Bamboo. She isn’t the same one, is she?”

      Con said easily, “Yes, she is.”

      Griselda didn’t breathe. She’d known it but she didn’t want to hear it said. She watched him lounge across the room as if it weren’t important, open the old-fashioned music cabinet, take out a bottle that wasn’t water. He’d had plenty in the house last night then; it had only been that he was restless, wanted to go out. He poured lavishly into Kew’s glass and more lavishly into his own. Kew hadn’t spoken; he had dropped the paper to the floor. He didn’t look surprised or curious; there was no expression save handsomeness on his face.

      Con added orange to Kew’s glass. “But I didn’t take her home.”

      He shouldn’t be telling this, not even to Kew. The brown eyes opened wide.

      Con grinned at him. He said, “She didn’t want to go home. She wanted to go to Saam’s Seafood Place. Ever hear of it?”

      Kew smiled tolerantly, “Afraid not.”

      Griselda noticed again, they were still watching each other behind their eyes, their smiles, their words. And she knew for the first time with startling certainty that Con hadn’t come to Long Beach aimlessly. He was here for definite purpose. That purpose, insanely enough, was mixed up with a murdered girl and Kew Brent. That purpose might well be mixed up with the missing man a British officer was seeking. She shivered. More bitterly than ever she knew that Con was marching into the teeth of danger.

      Kew repeated, “Afraid not,” and took a scroll of white plastic from his pocket, extracted a cigarette mysteriously from its narrowness. “What’s it like?”

      “Like any other beach dump,” Con said. He was Jesuitically lying to Kew; she didn’t know why save that Kew was newspaper and Con evidently didn’t want the truth to be published.

      “You left her there?” Kew asked as if amused.

      Con said, “Well, I couldn’t stay out too late, could I?” He put his hand on Griselda’s knee. “The little old lady wouldn’t like it if I stayed too long with a beauteous blonde, would you, baby?”

      She tried to smile, a sickly imitation. But she put her hand over his tightly, as if by so doing she could hold him to her side and away from this new menace in which he’d involved himself.

      Con reached for his glass. “Drink it up, Kew, and I’ll get you some more orange juice.”

      Griselda pleaded, “Not so early, Con.”

      He patted her leg. “Read in the papers where you can’t be over-vitaminized. California. Land of oranges. Got to be loyal. How about it, Kew?”

      He said, “I’ll take another.” They were pretending they weren’t conscious of each other now. Con shuffled into the kitchen, returned with a milk bottle more than half filled with orange. “How about it, Grizel? Want to sit in this time?”

      “Without the gin,” she told him.

      He said, “Women are peculiar people,” and to Kew, “You haven’t told me, friend, what you’re doing in this neck of the waves.”

      Kew took the glass. “Well, I can’t exactly say.” He spoke as easily as did Con. There was no reason not to СКАЧАТЬ