Black Mask (Vol. 29, No. 3 — January 1947)

Then Iggy’s office found him and he had to go to work. A client of his had just gotten himself thrown in the Lincoln Heights cooler over a slight difference with the law. As Iggy told it to me on the way out to the Heights, his boy had slugged a cop.

While Iggy did his stuff, I wandered around and decided to take in this side-show. It beat standing up. But a little of what was going on in there went a long way. I was about to shove off, when the bailiff chirped a name that pasted me to my seat.

It buzzed the other “fans”, too. A year ago we’d have paid good dough to see Maxine Keyes in the flesh.

This was off the cuff, and the casting seemed cockeyed. She wasn’t exactly the lush type, although she must have been working on the part for a long time. Her famous blond hair looked as though it had been slept in. Her face was drawn, her eyes puffy, and her clothes were as immaculate as a bar towel.

She was charged with being drunk while drinking. She said she was guilty.

This was something His Honor could get his teeth in. Apparently he fancied himself something of a crusader against the vices of the West Coast Sodom. Miss Keyes was the horrible example. He gave her hell. He chewed out the whole movie crowd, and he finally wound up with the assessment — ninety days or ninety dollars.

Miss Keyes tugged at the handkerchief she had been shredding during the judge’s big scene, and whispered she would have to take the ninety days. She didn’t have ninety dollars.

His nibs blew up. I never knew it before, but I guess it’s a crime to be broke. Anyway, the judge thought so. He told the police matron to take her away. Some newspaper flacks got in their licks before she left the courtroom.

If the judge had skipped his chance to be a heel, I don’t think I would have done it But he’d touched me off. I paid the ninety bucks.

There was a ripple of applause when we left the court room. I took it for sarcasm. Miss Keyes took it on the lam. I trailed after her, caught her outside, and started her toward my car.

“I’ll take you home,” I said.

She stopped and looked at me. “What did you think you were buying?” Her eyes were hard.

She had me there. I’d been about to ask myself the same question. I took her arm and turned her so she could see her reflection in a darkened window.

“Not this, baby,” I told her. She let me put her in my car.

I left word for Iggy that he’d have to take a taxi home. She waited for me. Frankly, I was surprised.

She gave me her address, and we started back to Hollywood. She was silent for a few blocks. Then she bummed a cigarette. She smoked for a moment, then: “I haven’t thanked you.”

I kept my attention on the Los Angeles drivers. “Forget it.”

She took my advice and was silent again. Then she asked: “I don’t believe I know your name?”

I told her: “Martin Fowler.”

“What do you do,” she asked, “when you’re not rescuing ladies in distress?”

I smiled and told her I was a private investigator, and I was a little green at this Galahad role, this being my first offense.

She finished her cigarette. “I realize this is neither the time nor place, Mr. Fowler,” she said, “but I need a drink.”

I glanced at her. In the dim glow of the dashboard she got a better break than she had in court. There was a resemblance to Maxine Keyes — a little beat up, but there. I could also see she wasn’t kidding. Nobody was going to have to hold my nose to get a drink down me, either.

She borrowed my pocket comb and went to the tavern’s little girls’ room. It helped. So did a couple of drinks. Or maybe I was getting used to her. One thing to her credit, she didn’t attempt any bum alibis for what had happened. When she felt up to it, I drove her home.

She lived in the Outpost Section of Hollywood, in a shack which didn’t look like ninety bucks would make any difference to the owner. It didn’t. Maxine explained it now belonged to the Bank of America. She was getting the old heave-ho any day now. In the meantime, I was welcome.

What I could see of the inside looked blitzed and looted. No rugs, damn little furniture, and faded spots on the walls where she’d had pictures. The living room was just one size smaller than the Legion Stadium. A davenport and a cocktail table were camping out over by the fireplace.

Maxine looked at me and laughed. “Don’t run, Mr. Fowler. It’s not haunted. Kick some of the stuff off the davenport and sit down, while I get some glasses.”

I took her advice, but kept my coat on. In a minute she was back with glasses and a pitcher of water, which she somehow placed on the cocktail table. She borrowed a match and lighted the newspapers in the fireplace. It gave off one warm gasp and quit.

She sat down beside me and poured me a drink.

“No gas.” She explained the cold. “Next week no water, and, barring miracles, no Maxine.”

As the fifth I’d brought diminished, I tried to remember my manners and not pry into her affairs. I’m not much of a gentleman. Anyway, Maxine wasn’t touchy on the subject.