“Forget it. I’ll let you off here.”
“We’re on the other side of town. I was going in the other direction.”
“You can hitchhike back.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Stanwyk said, “See you Thursday night.”
22
Fletch rang the bell of 15641B Putnam Street and looked back the few feet to where his MG was parked at the curb. Through sunglasses, the green of the car seemed the same as the green of the lawn.
An elfin voice said, “Yes? Who is it?”
Fletch bent and shouted into the mouthpiece: “Greene Brothers Management, Miss Faulkner.”
“Just a minute.”
Fletch smoothed his tie beneath his buttoned suit jacket.
Sandra Faulkner’s face was not particularly friendly when she opened the door. She was wearing black slacks and a loose blouse. Her hair was bleached blond and touseled.
Fletch was astonished. Sandra Faulkner was nowhere near as attractive as Joan Collins Stanwyk. She must be better in bed.
“I’m from Greene Brothers Management,” he said sternly.
She said nothing. She was looking at him as if he were a piece of month-old fish.
“The people who manage these apartments.”
“So what do you want?”
“We want to talk with you.”
“Do you have some identification?”
“If I were you, miss, I would not take this opportunity to be insolent.”
“What?”
“We’ve had complaints from the neighbors about you, and we’re here to discuss the possibility of evicting you on morals charges.”
“You must be kidding.”
“We are not kidding at all. Now, if you wish to continue standing here on the doorstep talking about it, it’s all right with me. If you prefer to go inside, out of earshot of your neighbors, we can.”
She drew back, leaving the door open.
He entered and closed the door.
“What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about,” he said. “Are you alone now?”
“Jesus Christ!”
He stalked into the living room, which was furnished in what once had been termed Danish modern.
“The use of foul and abusive language will do nothing to further your defense.”
“Defense? What defense?”
He pushed open the door of the bathroom, which struck him as peculiarly empty. In the bedroom was a king-size bed, with a mirror suspended from the ceiling over it. The bed was made, at ten-thirty, with a red silk coverlet smoothed over it. On a sideboard in the kitchen was a used bottle of vermouth, a half-empty bottle of vodka, and an empty bottle of California chablis.
“What in Christ’s name are you talking about?” Sandra Faulkner asked.
“What’s that suspended from the ceiling of the bedroom?”
“It’s a mirror. What-the-hell business is it of yours what it is?”
“Miss Faulkner, your lease precisely prohibits hanging anything from the ceiling of this apartment.”
“Jesus.”
Nowhere in the apartment were there signs of anyone packing. Fletch sat on a living room chair. He took a notebook and pen out of his pocket.
“Is your real name Sandra Faulkner?”
“Yes. Of course. What’s all this about, anyway?”
“Miss Faulkner, you live in a residential community. There are young families who live in these apartments around you. Families with young children.”
“I know. So what?”
“It has become clear to some of the mothers, and, I might add, some of the fathers, that you have no visible means of support.”
“Jesus.”
“You haven’t worked in some time.”
“Why is that anybody’s business?”
‘There is a question of whether your hanging around all the time is good for the moral fiber of the community’s young.”
“Wow. Who’d believe this?”
“Second, it is quite clear what your means of support are. You keep this apartment solely by your means to sexually entertain.”
“My God! You’re something from the last century.”
“Greene Brothers Management is responsible for these apartments, Miss Faulkner, and responsible to some extent for what goes on inside them. At least we must be responsive to complaints.”
“You can just get the hell out of here.”
Fletch said, “How long have you known Alan Stanwyk?”
Her face changed from fury to suppressed horror mingled with sickness.
“Sit down, Miss Faulkner.”
She did. On the edge of the divan.
“How do you know about Alan?”
“Neighbors recognized him. His picture is frequently in the newspapers, after all.”
“Jesus. Leave Alan out of this.”