I woke the next morning with the taste of ash in my mouth. I went to the bathroom and splashed my face with cool water to wake me up before I had a hearty breakfast of whiskey and Lucky Strikes. I counted the remaining cash I had after paying rent, grabbed my notepad, Isadore’s photo, and my coat then headed out the door.
The cool November air was refreshing, and the breeze was light and gentle. I climbed into the driver's seat of my Hudson Hornet and eased her into traffic. The eight o’clock rush was just finishing up, and I had little issue maneuvering the mint green convertible down the street and on to Rio Grande, heading south into the Valley.
I was familiar with Gino’s, a crummy gin joint that catered to the down-and-out, derelict, and destitute; my kind of people. Paulo, Gino’s oldest son, ran the place while his pop sat in the back alley smoking Havana’s and playing cards with the other old men of the neighborhood. I knew Paulo well, and I knew Gino even better, which bode well for getting any information on this Jensen dame.
I made the trip in record time, and even found a prime parking spot right outside of the door. It was only half past eight, and I knew the joint was closed, but I also knew that Paulo and one of the other brothers would be in counting inventory and generally shooting the shit.
I tried the front entrance, and found that it was locked. I made my way around the side of the building to the alleyway behind back. There were crates set up and a makeshift card table placed in their midst. I half expected Gino and some other fogies to be back there arguing in Italian and Spanish as they accused each other of cheating before they settled things with drinks and more cards. The back door was ajar, and I used it as a flimsy excuse for an invitation. I sidled inside and made my way to the front of the house.
Just as I had suspected, Paulo and two of his younger brothers, Tino and Petro, were going over inventory and stocking the bar. Paulo held a clipboard in his hand and shouted out names of booze while Tino, hunched over looking under the bar, would shout back amounts. Petro was busy off to the side inspecting glasses and lining them up to be ready for later that evening. I took a seat at the bar and waited for an opportunity to make my presence known.
Paulo was the first to turn around and see me at the bar. He did a double take, obviously not ready for anyone to be in the building yet. When he realized who it was, he set his clipboard down and strode over.
“Hey, Clayton,” he said, both confused and bemused, “what are you doing here this morning? You know we ain’t open until later in the evening.”
I nodded.
“Got a case; runaway wife. Hubby says they used to frequent this joint when they were first together.”
I took out the picture of Isadore and handed it over to Paulo.
“Name’s Isadore Jensen, maiden name’s Leclercq. Brown hair, hazel eyes. Her husband is a nebbish fella, big nose and curly blond hair. You ever see them?”
Paulo looked at the photo and rubbed his chin.
“Petro, Santino!”
He waved his brothers over and showed them the photo.
“You ever see this broad?”
Tino shrugged. Petro nodded.
“Yeah, I think so. She used to come in with this little scrawny guy, but they stopped coming after awhile. She used to come in a few days in a row here and there, but she was alone.”
I nodded and took the photo back. I jotted down the information.
“She ever speak to you?”
“Outside of ordering drinks, not really. She would ask about some women that were in the place. She would waltz right on up to them, hand them a drink, take them off to the side and they would chat. She would have them blushing and giggling and then she would lean in and whisper something to them. She would get up and leave and the dame she was talking to would leave just a few minutes after. Always thought that was weird, I thought she might be a Gillette Blade.”
I puzzled at Petro’s choice of words.
“A what?”
“Gillette Blade. Ya know, she cuts both ways?”
I nodded and scribbled ‘bisexual?’.
“Also,” Petro continued, “I don’t think I ever saw her actually drink anything. She would order two or three drinks at a time, but all I ever saw was her holding her glass. I can’t recall ever seeing her actually put the drink to her lips. She would, however, always have a drink ready for some unsuspecting dame”
I took note of that detail. I was starting to suspect that Isadore had flown the coop on Harvey for a life of promiscuity. I wasn’t surprised, seeing that she had grown up a hooker.
“Can you recall the last time she was here?”
Petro scratched his chin.
“I think it was last Thursday night or Friday night. I can’t recall exactly, but it was one of those two nights. She had come in and sat at the bar and just- I don’t know- watched the folks in the room. She kept looking at different girls here and there, just looking them over and nodding or shaking her head and then she would start eyeing another. She never ordered a drink, never said a word to me. Just sat there and watched.”
I quickly wrote down this new information. If it was Thursday or Friday, that would be immediately after she left Harvey. She went out trolling for skirt that night, it sounded like, but what confounded me was her just sitting there watching. Why would she just sit and watch? From what Petro had recounted, she was not a shy woman. Curious.
“Anything else you can think of?”
Petro shook his head.
“Nah, chief, that’s alls I got.”
I nodded and placed the notepad back in my pocket. I stuck out my hand to shake.
“Thanks for the info, fellas. If you can think of anything, or if she comes in, give me a ring, will ya? Kellogg 539. Thanks.”
The brothers all assured me that they would contact me, and I had no doubt they would. For a family of dagos, they weren’t bad people. I slipped back out the back door. There were a few older gents starting to gather together and the alleyway was hazy and smelled of cigar smoke and cheap cologne. Amongst the gathered throng was Gino himself.
“Ey, Clayton, come here!”
Gino was perched on a crate, dealing out five card stud. He waved to me with a fat stogie in his fingers.
“Bruno, questo è lui proprio qui, the detective medigan. He used to really run up the whiskey bill, eh?”
I walked over to Gino and another old fogey who was rearranging his cards and billowing smoke from his cigar like a freight train in run throttle, Bruno I deduced. Bruno chortled and said something back in Italian I didn’t quite catch. Both he and Gino laughed.
“Clayton,” Gino continued, taking my hand in his and patting it, “how have you been?”
“Same as always, Gino.”
“That’s a shame to hear,” Gino wheezed as he laughed his throaty laugh. I chuckled as well, Gino could be a bit much, but he was a pill when you caught him on a good day.
“What brings you around, huh?”
I took out a Lucky and Gino lent me a light.
“Working a case, actually. A missing wife. Husband said they used to come here back when. He thought she might have been here recently.”
“Ah,” Gino said as he surveyed his cards. Three aces, Queen of Diamonds, and a Three of Clubs. Not a bad hand.
“Ouch,” I said, pretending that his hand was poor.
“Non fai scumbari, just tell them my hand,” Gino cried out with a sly wink. Bruno muttered and grumbled about trying to get in his head and shuffled through his cards some more.
“So,” Gino continued, “still avere le mani in pasta, then? Still have your fingers in everyone’s pies?”
“That goes with the territory of a private detective, paisan.”
Bruno guffawed.
“Paisan, he says! Paisan! Avare i coglioni.”
Gino chuckled.
“He’s an honorary paisan. He’s good.”
More old men came ambling in, cash in hand, ready for some cards.
“Gino,” I said, flicking my butt aside, “it’s been good to see you. I’ll leave you to your winnings then.”
With that, I left the alley and made my way back to my car. I got back into the Hornet and cranked her over. She started up like a peach. Atta girl. I turned the radio on and was greeted by Cathy Carr begging her lover to come down from the Ivory Tower. I mulled over the new information I had received, cutting away dead-end conclusions and reformulating the more logical possibilities. Isadore was an enigma, and she sure as hell seemed too much of a vixen for the sack of spuds that was Harvey Jensen.
Unsatisfied with any conclusion I came to, I got the Hudson back on the road. It was just past 9:30 and I didn’t feel like going back to the office, I needed some breathing room. I jogged down some side streets and turned east onto Central Avenue. It wasn’t long before I was pulling into The Downs. I wasn’t sure why I had come back here, hell, I wasn’t even sure how I had come back here. I had been thinking over the details of the case, and my body decided to go to the tracks while my mind was away.
Regardless, I decided to step out of the car and take a stroll inside. I placed a $2 bet on a horse named Bonny Lad to show and took my seat in the bleachers. I fingered my ticket stub as I turned the facts over and over in my head. Bonny Lad wasn’t in the first two races, so I had time to sort things out as I waited.
Persian Prince won by a neck as I contemplated the idea that Isadore was stepping out on old Harvey to rug dive with some dames she picked up at the bars. That was the easy solution, but the fact that she had been at Gino’s recently and was more of an observer that night made me question the validity of that conclusion.
Gorgeous George took first by a length as I tried to piece together the new evidence. If Isadore was watching, perhaps she was simply not interested in the pickings that night? That just didn’t seem likely. I had a gut feeling that there was more to it. She seemed like a dame that knew what she wanted and how to get it. She had suckered Harvey into an illegal marriage to skip town from the Great White North, it would be a safe bet to think that she was on some scam now.
I didn’t realize that my race was on until the announcer was whipped into a frenzy. Bonny Lad was in a tangle to show with two other horses. He pulled away at the last second and placed third. My bet had paid off. Two got me five and I cashed out. It was near 11:30 and I was famished. The breakfast of whiskey and smokes hadn’t held up too well, so I decided to take my winnings to Blake’s, a local burger joint on San Mateo and Southern.
The drive was a busy one, the lunch crowd was out early today. I made it to the hamburger stand and placed my order. I could work on an empty stomach, but it was no fun, and I made better progress with some food in the old bread basket. I was hungrier than I thought. I scarfed the burger and fries down and went back for one more burger to go. I had some time to kill, Rue de Seine wouldn’t open until later that evening (as dinner clubs were wont to do), so I decided to pay a visit to the post office.
I arrived just after the post office opened up from lunch break. The old mug behind the desk was sluggish and sleepy, barely paying attention to me as I shuffled about, looking for the local directory. Since I had to wait for the ritzy French joint to open its doors, I thought I could track down Isadore’s friend from Canada.
I thumbed through the most recent directory under the name Noe comma Claudia. There were plenty of listings for Noah, a few Noches, and several under Noe. I ran my finger down the listings until I came to three that could potentially be my target; Noe, C.B., Noe, C. F., and Noe C.L.
I jotted down the number for each along with the name and address. I asked the codger for a payphone and he directed me around the side of the building. I made my way to the booth and slid my nickel into the slot. Once I heard the tone, I pressed 0 and waited.
“American Telephone and Telegraph, operator speaking.”
“Connect me to Davenport 322 please.”
“Just a moment.”
There was a click and then silence. A brief second before the line began to ring.
“Hello,” came a gruff, elderly voice. I don’t think this was Claudia.
“Hello, I’m looking for a Claudia Noe, please?”
The voice on the other end coughed and cleared his throat.
“Wrong connection, pal. This is Charles Noe.”
With that, he hung up, disconnecting the line. I tried again with the second number. This was a lady, but she wasn’t Claudia, she was Christine Frances Noe. It had to be the last one. I inserted one more nickel and asked to be connected to Oxford 696. The phone rang and was picked up by a meek and timid voice.
“H-hello?”
“Claudia Noe?”
There was a long silence.
“No- I mean, there is no Claudia Noe here.”
“Ma’am,” I was able to get out before she disconnected, “I’m not looking for trouble. My name is Clayton Lane, I’m a private investigator. I’m working for a man named Harvey Jensen looking for his wife Isadore. He named you as an acquaintance of Mrs. Jensen from back in Canada. I just wanted to see if you might have any information regarding her whereabouts?”
There was another long pause. I thought I could hear her muttering, debating out loud on whether she should help me out. Finally, there came another mousey reply.
“Listen, Mr. Lane, I- I don’t want any trouble. If Isadore took off, well, that’s her business. I don’t want anything more to do with it.”
There was something Claudia knew that I didn’t, and she wasn’t so keen on knowing it. I was sure that I could coax it out of her. I had her address, but I didn’t want to show up out of the blue and scare her off. I needed to have her trust.
“Ms. Noe, could I please just come by and speak with you briefly? I promised Harvey that I would do everything I could to find Isadore, and if I don’t follow through on every lead, I wouldn’t be keeping my word as a PI.”
“Mr. Lane,” she protested, but then she hesitated. She was quiet for a moment before she began again.
“I suppose that I would feel guilty if I knew I had stood in your way. There isn’t much to tell, but I will tell you what I know. I live outside of town on Alvis Circle. I will be waiting for you.”
“I can be there in a jiff.”
She hung up and I did the same. I circled her address on my notepad. Alvis circle was on the southwest outskirts of town. It took about 20 minutes to get out that way, but I was able to find Claudia’s house, a little stucco townhouse with a small courtyard style front entrance. It was unassuming and definitely out of the way. If she was wanting to stay unseen, she was doing a damn fine job of it.
I strolled up to the front entrance and knocked.
“Ms. Noe, it’s me, Clayton Lane.”
I heard the lock draw open on the other side and the door slowly creaked open. Claudia peeked her head out from around the door. If her voice was meek and mild, her face only doubled the illusion. She was small featured and dainty. He hair was wispy and untamed, a mousy blond color. Her eyes held a look like that of a scared deer.
“Mr. Lane,” she almost whispered, “come on in.”
She opened the door just a crack, and I inched my way in. After I had entered, she closed and locked the door. She was afraid of something, but I wasn’t sure what. Things were starting to get interesting.
“Come on in to the sitting room,” she said as she wrapped her arms around herself and shuffled into the house. I followed, giving her a bit of distance.
We entered a small sitting room, scarcely furnished or decorated. There was a settee and a barcalounger, a small glass-top table, and a radio. No pictures, no decor, no anything. Claudia gestured to the barcalounger, where I took a seat and pulled out my pad and pencil. Claudia sat on the settee and began to eye the room nervously.
“Ms. Noe,” I began softly. Even as quiet as I was, she still started at my voice. She calmed herself and smoothed out her dress.
“Yes, Mr. Lane?”
“Ms. Noe, I just wanted to get your take on your connection to Mrs. Jensen. Harvey indicated you by name as a friend of Isadore.”
Claudia closed her eyes. For a moment, I thought she might break into tears. She took a long breath in, then out, then opened her eyes.
“We had known each other in Montreal, yes.”
“How did you meet her?”
Claudia’s darted toward me, then shot away, looking to the corner of the room.
“We were… work friends.”
“You were a prostitute?”
Claudia blushed and murmured something.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Noe, I didn’t catch that.”
She let her head droop.
“They called us escorts.”
I leaned in toward her, trying to soften my voice.
“Who are ‘they’?”
Claudia shut her eyes tight again, her face screwed up. This time I was sure she was going to cry. She began to breathe irregularly, her face turned shades of red and purple. She was having a fit.
I got up, taking my hat off to fan her as I crouched down at her side.
“Easy, Claudia, easy,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder, “don’t worry about my question, just relax. I’m not here to make you uncomfortable, I just want help finding Isadore.”
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she was starting to breathe normally. She put her face in her hands and sobbed quietly. I put my arm around her and she collapsed into me. I hugged her and patted her back. She was a mess, and I was getting nowhere. Regardless, Clayton Lane is no hardcase, and Claudia needed a shoulder to cry on and not some hard boiled son of a gun to harass her.
She sobbed in my arms for some time before she calmed down. She sat back on the settee and wiped away the tears. I took out my handkerchief and offered it to her. She dabbed at her eyes folded it up neatly before returning it.
“I’m ok,” she whispered, more to herself than to me.
“Would you like me to leave, Ms. Noe?”
Claudia shook her head.
“Stay, please. I need to get the story out, I need to feel safe again.”
She composed herself before she continued, this time her voice had more power behind it. She was a woman possessed now.
“Tomasso Conti. He is a big shot with the Rizzuto crime family in Montreal. He was in charge of gambling and women. He was the one that would collect our pay each night and keep us in line. He had some thugs on his payroll that rounded up the girls. Isadore and I were “recruited” at the same time. We were both young and needed each other. We were only twelve.”
I stopped writing.
“And Tomasso was ok with that?”
For the first time, Claudia looked me dead in the eyes.
“He said that guys will pay more for the kids.”
Jesus Christ. I continued writing, trying to shake that shocking thought from my conscience.
“Are you ever worried that the Rizzuto family will come back after you?”
Claudia winced at the question.
“They had tried, once. We had just moved to Tennessee with our husbands. They were asked to work on some top secret project. We know now that it was the H-Bomb we dropped on Hiroshima. Anyway, we were living on base and there had been an attempted break in at Harvey and Isadore’s house. The MPs were able to detain him. It was one of the old goons that had collected money from us a few times before.
“They found he had a knife and an illegally possessed gun. He was extradited back to Canada, and that’s the last we have heard from the Rizzutos.”
I finished jotting my notes.
“Tell me, Claudia, your husband, where is he?”
She slithered into herself and screwed up her face. It was a tough question for the poor dear.
“He beat me,” she said as tears dripped down from her face to her knees. “He would beat me and drink and beat me some more. He wanted kids, but I was too young, you see. I was only 12 when we met, and I was barely 14 when we moved here. I couldn’t conceive. I went to the doctor to find out why. It turns out that having sex so young had reuined my uterus. Everything down there is broken because I wasn’t developed yet when I was forced to-”
She broke down here. There was something that was too much for her, and since this wasn’t relevant to the case, I softened up. I tried to console Claudia, but she stopped me, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
“My husband, he blamed me for it. He would beat me, and drink, then beat me some more, like I said. And he always wanted sex, even when I was too tired or sick. I begged him to stop, I was just a kid, barely 16, but he liked it, knowing that I was a kid. He would force himself on me at night. I never wanted it, but he said because we were married I had to. I couldn’t stand it any longer, so three years ago, I packed my things and left him. He threatened me by saying he would show a judge that our marriage was a sham, but I knew it was a bluff. He was all talk. Plus, if he did go through with it, he would have to admit to having sex with a minor.”
She composed herself, taking her time, breathing deeply, then she continued.
“As for Isadore, she would come around every once in awhile, but I could see that she was still sowing wild oats. I was ready to be done with it all, to settle down and be a quiet woman with a quiet life.”
“Have you been able to do that, Ms. Noe?”
She nodded her head.
“I have been working at American Telephone and Telegraph as a switchboard operator. It’s not a swanky job, but it pays, and it’s something that I can handle. It’s a far cry from hooking johns, but it’s where I want my life to be.”
Claudia sat there, quiet and contemplative. She seemed to be rolling the details of her life around in her mind. It was one hell of a life up to now. At length, Claudia spoke.
“I’ve run from the mob, I’ve run from an abusive husband… I’m tired of running. I told you all that I can tell, Mr. Lane. If you wouldn’t mind-”
I nodded and said my farewell. After exiting her house, I donned my hat and strolled to my car. What a mess Ms. Noe had been in. I feel guilty asking her about this, dragging her back into the shit to relive a traumatizing portion of her life like that. Sometimes, Clayton, you can be quite the horse’s ass.
I made my way back to my place. I felt that a stiff drink and some time to piece things together might do me some good. There was still a few hours before Rue de Seine would open and I could get a crack at Henri.
I spread out some blank papers across the desk and took my notebook from my pocket. I began to sketch out a timeline from the information I had been given. Several nights at Gino’s digging for clams, or not, that wasn’t a sure thing yet. I scribbled Thur/Fri next to Gino’s. It lines up roughly with the idea of her scooting out on Harv.
I jotted notes down about picking up women, never drinking (which I circled thinking that to be suspicious or at least interesting), and leaves with women. I scrawled a big question mark before scribbling lesbian/goes both ways.
On another blank paper I wrote Claudia Noe, Alvis Circle and underneath scrawled Canada, hooker, 12 years old. I never got her husband’s name. Shit, that was a mistake on my part for being too easy on her, what with the waterworks. I jotted down husband and left a black space next to it. I would need to get her husband’s name just in case he would have any information. I doubted it, but it was always better safe than sorry. I continued with my sketch. I jotted down Rizutto crime syndicate. I was about to move on before I decided to add more to that note: revenge?
On the next piece of paper I wrote Rue de Seine and underneath Henri. I was ready to have a chat with the maitre’d. I just needed to wait a few more hours. I decided to pace around for a bit, absentmindedly swigging drinks from the near dead bottle of Old Fitzgerald. I tossed the clues back and forth in my mind. I was keen on some conclusions, not so keen on others. I wasn’t truly convinced Isadore had run off because she chewed the rug, but her actions with the ladies in Gino’s couldn’t be ignored.
Claudia gave me a sad insight into their shared history. Although they went their separate ways, Claudia indicated that Isadore had come around a few times and that she wanted no part of whatever lifestyle her friend was living. As much as it pains me, I was going to need to get some more information from Ms. Noe.
Time still hadn’t flown by, so I decided that I would walk to the corner market and get another bottle of Fitzgerald and a box of Luckys. It would take me 15 minutes if I took my time, and boy did I ever.
It was just past 4:30 when I returned with my essentials. I was fed up with waiting and I was starting to get hungry. I drove to the Dog House, a drive in hot dog joint. I wasn’t much for variety when it came to food, I liked a good burger, dog, or steak. Anything outside of that was fine dining to me, and I was ok without. I ordered my dog and a Coke and ate slowly as I watched the people go by. I could tell things about them by certain little details.
There was a gent in his 40s, a nice looking mustache on his lip and a wide brimmed hat on his head. He was a businessman by the cut of his clothes, but his slight limp told me he was once a soldier. Most likely took shrapnel from a German potato masher.
The woman who sat across from me kept avoiding my gaze as she nervously looked around. It was getting dark, and there was no doubt that a pretty young thing like her was none too anxious to walk home alone in the dark. However, I noticed that she was fidgeting with her hand. Her left hand more precisely. She was messing with her wedding ring. I sensed some infidelity. My suspicions were proven correct when a young man came to join her. Her attitude changed dramatically, and I noticed that he wore no band on his finger.
I looked at my watch. It was just after 6. Rue would be getting ready for the dinner hour. I finished up my meal and disposed of the trash. As I walked back to my car, I made sure to walk by the promiscuous couple.
“I wouldn’t wear that ring in public if I was alley catting around on your beau, there, darling,” I said as I walked on by.
The young lady gasped and stammered, the young man stood up and threatened me, but I had business to attend to, and I was too old to be fighting young punks.