“Call me Ishmael.”

That was the first thing she’d said since they brought her in. A stinking, steamy day in Hollywood, the kind that makes dogs circle, sniff for blood and bite. Eight a.m. and the basic aroma in the room was that of stale aftershave and body odor. Not her fault; all the interrogation rooms stank to high heaven. This one reeked in Technicolor. Detective Sporty Miller hated getting room number three, almost as much as he hated the case. Number one smelled like stale beer but he could tolerate that; number two like vomit, less desirable but a lot more faint than the stench of a hairy man’s armpit. All three were occupied with suspects for the murder investigation, an investigation already five hours old.

“Listen lady, you’re gonna start answering some questions or this is gonna get real ugly, real fast. Right now it’s just prostitution but – ”

“Prostitution?” she said with indignation. “I don’t think I’m mistaken when I point out that you have no legal grounds to hold me here for prostitution. No one has ever heard me make such an offer. I’m appalled. A prostitute. My mother would turn in her grave.”

“Uh-huh. So, why where you in a whorehouse?”

“Oh dear, dear,” her pretty blue eyes widened dramatically. “I’m compelled to remind you that The Palm Tree Conga is a reputable boarding house like any other in the Hollywood hills.”

He glared. Nothing worse than a prossie trying to make him feel stupider than he already was. This was the first hooker he’d ever heard use all the fancy big words. It didn’t happen often, but every now and then a perp or a con or even a Mafia jerk was brought in who had a shit load of education under their belt. They used it for the bad stuff, used it good too. Higher education was creating a race of better criminals. Call it a bust. The LAPD would never go out of business.

But this wasn’t a high mileage whore he was talking to. She had some interesting appeal. Sporty liked them buxom, full and pink with perky melons. Since his stint at the honor farm he’d avoided prossies with rap sheets a mile long. Sobriety will do that to a man. It’s why he drank at least a little every day, whether he needed it or not. The other two suspects were painted slime, oozing in from West Hollywood and probably knew more than the kid he was bracing. Bookies on Sunset wouldn’t be willing to take odds on it though … because taking odds were just that. Odd. The truth going on in the armpit stinking interrogation room was that the pretty hooker at most was probably a witness to something. It was his job to find out what.

The hooker sighed and rolled her eyes. He paced, sipped thick, bitter coffee from his mug that hadn’t been washed since he got it from the fat file clerk as a Christmas gift. She’d gone and wrapped it all festive, embarrassing him in front of the whole department. 1956; his year for surprises. Good thing that shit was over and done with. Sufficiently ignoring her, she hadn’t spoken a word to him since. She hadn’t pulled the right file for him either. But it was better than her sad-cow eyes and hovering offer of assistance for anything from sharpening his pencils to inviting him over for a home-cooked meal. If he wanted another wife, he’d have one. There was seven months of tar blackened lining inside the cup. Nothing tasted better than coffee in a well seasoned mug.

Glaring the suspect down, one eye squinted and the other brow rose high enough to meet his graying hairline. Sporty shook his head. “Why were you in The Palm Tree Conga boarding house last night?”

She sighed dramatically and swept a hand over her butter-yellow Debbie Reynolds bob. Her long legs crossed and re-crossed and those eyes batted like she knew how to make a man think. Think about things he shouldn’t be thinking. This was a fresh looking, long drink of water with freckles on her nose and shoulders where the sun got to touch what Sporty never would. Her blood red dress was a halter job. She wasn’t wearing no brassiere under that. Were there panties? Where they red? He blinked. Hell, this girl was maybe half his age but she did remind him of a hooker he used to use a few years back, before his wife left him in disgrace. Only that woman had dark hair. Yeah. Dark like a moonless night.

He quickly cleared his throat and sat across the table, wearing his best scowl to cover where his head had gone. “Answer the question.”

“Well, I was waiting for the bus and I saw a man walk into the boarding house. He dropped his wallet and I went inside to return it to him. A good deed. You do know what those are, don’t you detective?” She grinned. Yeah, it was a silver-screen grin and just as fake. She already knew he didn’t believe her, but at least she was talking.

“Did you see who left room seven?”

The girl yawned wide and leaned her head back. “Call me Ishmael.”

Sporty slammed an open palm on the table. She never flinched.

“Moby Dick. A wonderful book. Have you read it?” She inspected her red lacquered nails. Max Factor had nothing on this doll. She made some money and she spent it wisely. His eyes shifted to the bobbing foot under the table. Yeah, her toes were painted red too, poking out of those peek-a-boo black patent leather high heels.

“Room seven?”

“Truly inspiring novel. Written by Herman Melville.”

He cringed, his lip twitched. Sweat prickled and popped along his buzz-cut neckline and trickled down his collar. When Sporty was a kid, he went to school wearing the name Melville Miller like a wet tweed overcoat. That name and a few of his mother’s men friends were the sole reasons he became the schoolyard bully. The day Father O’Leary called him Sport was the day it all changed. No man was ever so happy to carry a nickname devised by a priest who could hardly remember the days of the week. 

“Moby Dick? Come now, Detective Miller. Even bad cops read.”

Fury burned through his veins. Who the fuck was interrogating who? He’d be double-teaming this brainy hooker if his partner hadn’t picked that very weekend to get his sorry ass married. Carson Calloway never listened to reason. It was the curse of the rich and educated. Why the man chose to become a cop in the first place was the bafflement. Sporty would’ve thought any man smart enough to send his kid to college would be smart enough not to let him throw his life away on the force. Now the kid was hitched to a harpy in the making and his life was sure take a nose dive. Calloway was a happy go lucky tea toddler. Not for long. Sporty’s guess was the guy would be drinking like the best of them before the honeymoon ended. He had money on it.

Calloway was his third partner in fifteen years. The first partner retired after riding black and white with Sporty for only six weeks. Ed Spiny was an old bastard who could drink a drunk under the table and kill a man with a pool cue at will. His second partner, Harry Foster, died in a liquor store shootout back when Sporty was a hot shot cop looking for glory. Watching a good cop die can push a man one of two ways. It could make him a better cop, or make him a bad cop. The prossie just called him a bad cop. How’d she know?

She didn’t. She was playing him like Dean Martin played the vocal cords. Looking for reaction. Sporty was too good for that. And, he had information to get out of this broad before one of the other dicks broke their suspects. He had ten bucks on it and ten bucks bought a lot of scotch. Besides, if anyone was gonna call anyone a bad cop, bad sour like curdled milk in fact, the finger should be pointing to detective Carl Harris; the murder victim and reason Sport was locked with a movie-star pretty hooker in the smelly room in the first place.

 “Listen doll, you don’t answer my questions I’ll turn you over to the uniforms. They’ll put you in the lock up and maybe no one will ever hear from you again.”

She laughed a soft, unshaken chortle then looked right into his eyes. It shook him. Most of them wouldn’t look at him like that if their life depended on it. Most of them didn’t give a rat’s ass about seeing what a detective thought. They were too busy polishing their lies and eye-ball prowling for an escape route. There’s a distance between cops and people. The badge put him at the top, looking down on all the peons from the big ‘H’ in the Hollywood sign. This broad was a peon. Well dressed and so sexy it made his bones vibrate, but a filthy hooker all the same. A hooker who knew something about the murder of a cop and she wanted to play games?

“Something funny?” His voice was raw like he’d been yelling as much and as long as he wished he had been.

“You can’t threaten me like I’m a little girl anymore. Jesus, Sporty.” Her chuckle became a giggle then she tilted a grin that made his gut shudder.

“Detective Miller,” he growled. “Now, answer the question!” His voice rose and the door shook. Then the damn thing opened.

“Everything okay in here?” Corn Ballister stood like a sloppy mountain of a man, chewing on something, probably cud according to Sporty.

“Get the fuck outta here.”

“Just though maybe you needed some help with the little lady, that’s all.”

Sporty stood and in two long, thudding strides the door slammed with a resounding thunder followed by laughter outside the room. This sure as hell wasn’t going too good.

He turned to take in the bombshell. She looked fragile, almost breakable. Her limbs well curved but skinnier than he liked. Not that he’d kick her out of his bed. Did she look so pretty without all that paint? And if she knew something about the murder, what was keeping her from spilling the beans? She was slick as Brill Cream and just as shiny. Smooth as silk, talking books and legal procedure. She looked breakable but this broad was one tough egg. The Kinsey Report might have opened the public’s eyes to how women gained power through their sexuality, but any seasoned cop already knew that, most pretty intimately. Power in women was nasty shit, the stuff that rots a man’s purpose. Just like it was that moment.

Sporty Miller considered taking a break, refilling his mug, maybe spiking it from the bottle in his desk drawer. Better to get on with it though. She was talking, time to see if she’d actually say anything.

“Answer … the … question.” His voice was a monotone drone.

She smiled brightly then winked. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember me, Sporty.”

He straightened, his feet planted on the ugly Linoleum floor to keep from making a run for it. Damn! he thought. That hooker I used to like? She had brown hair! No way she was as young as this one. It was years ago. She’s trying to pull the wool; now it’s really gonna get ugly. He reached out and gripped her upper arm tight, dragging her to her feet.

“Sporty? Uncle Sporty? Don’t you remember the doll you bought me for my –”

With that, horror rippled across his face and he released her so quickly she stumbled and nearly dropped to the floor. He stepped back, ran a hand down his face. It was a doll with curly platinum hair and eyes the color of cornflowers.

Francine? Francine Foster? Was it possible? After Harry was shot during that liquor store robbery, Sporty never faced the music, never visited the family, barely looked at them at the funeral. He used to like little Frannie. The kid was sweet and entertaining, when she wasn’t smearing chocolate on his shirt or climbing all over him. His partner was dead and he never thought to make sure the man’s family was taken care of. Not a second thought for the man. Now look what came of it. Harry Foster’s kid was a prossie suspected of murder or at least an accessory to the murder of another cop. What he felt was guilt worthy of Cecil B. Demille.

Frannie settled on the chair and rubbed her ankle. “Ow,” she whined.

Sporty moved to her side, lowered to a knee and checked out the gam. The ankle was swelling. “Uh, sorry.” His mind was pinging like a hopped-up pinball machine. He looked up into her eyes. “Francine?”

“So you do remember me.” She gave a cupie doll impression to rival Marilyn Monroe.

He stood, slithered back to his side of the table and sat. This was turning out to be a big-screen thorn in his side. All he needed was a confession or some pertinent information; he sure didn’t need a kick in the gut. He got one. Rubbing that gut he sighed. “How’s your mother?”

“Dead,” she said like it was nothing. “Splittsville. Got cancer. They cut off her breast but I think they cut out her soul too. She died soon after. That was three years ago.” Frannie shrugged.

“Sorry.” That was the second time he’d said ‘sorry’. Two times more than he’d said it in fifteen years.

“So, how you been, Sporty? I’ve missed you.” Her voice had gone all soft like melted tar in the Los Angeles summer heat.

He tightened his shoulders and dropped a scowl on her. “This ain’t old home week, girly. This is serious. A cop was killed in that whorehouse.”

“I heard he shot himself in the head.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

She sniffed and grinned. “Cops. They think a hooker sitting in the back seat of the cruiser is suddenly gone deaf just because they cuffed her. They talk. I heard.”

“Did you hear a shot?”

“No.”

The door opened. “Miller.”

“Cap?”

Captain Buzz Warren jerked his chin and Sporty followed him out where it smelled much, much better. It smelled like a hundred cigarettes and mimeograph ink.

“Whats’ya got, Cap?”

“The autopsy report.”

Sporty winced. He hated this part. “And?”

Warren shuffled from foot to foot, glanced around the hallway and lowered his voice. “No bullet.”

Sporty Miller was ready to walk away. He was at the murder site. He saw Harris bleeding like a stuck pig. The blood pond on the floor was deeper than an L.A. rain puddle. He wasn’t in the mood for Abbot and Costello jokes. “Right,” he snorted and lit a cigarette.

“Right. Doc found a rubber pellet lodged two inches inside Detective Carl Harris’ temple. He thinks it’s a rubber bullet, like the ones the academy uses for training. According to the coroner, Harris laid there for hours, bleeding out before he actually gave up and kicked the bucket. Some sicko knew it would take that long, maybe even stuck around to watch.”

“What are you saying? You think some rookie shot Harris in a hooker’s room?”

“I’m saying, someone killed a cop and we need to get to the bottom of it. Today. Otherwise we could spend months chasing ghosts. The answers are in these interrogation rooms, Miller. Get me some fucking answers.”

“Yes, sir.”

Back to the room. This time it felt like an airless cave. Out in the hall the morning sun was pouring in, painting the dull ugly green walls bright. No windows in the interrogation rooms. He wished he’d have remembered to ask if anyone else was getting anything. In cases like this, some hot shot always wants to look like a hero, spouting exaggerated stories like a writer pitching a movie. But then again, the other suspects were hookers too. Harris was found butt naked on that floor. Some broad got a bit of him before they popped him in the head with a rubber bullet. Most hookers were dumb as a bag of popcorn. Most hookers, not his.

“Frannie, you gotta tell me everything you know and you gotta tell me now. You sure you heard no gun shots?”

“I’m sure. Have you seen the movie, Sporty?”

“Huh? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Moby Dick, silly. I saw it last week. Gregory Peck was dreamy. He played Captain Ahab.”

“Can we stick to the point here?”

“The point?” Frannie brought her shoe up to the table and examined it. “Oh, look. My heel is broken.”

Sufficiently distracted he grabbed the shoe and turned it over in his hand. Sure enough, the tip of the heel was gone. He looked over the table. Must have snapped off and rolled away. He wasn’t taking the time to look for it and he sure as hell wasn’t saying he was sorry again. He set the shoe down and slid it across to her. “The point. Are you sure you didn’t hear a gunshot?”

“I’m sure. And I didn’t see anyone around room number seven and I didn’t hear anyone scream or shout or anything, outside the normal things you hear in the halls of The Palm Tree Conga boarding house that is.”

Another wave of guilt snapped at Sporty’s gut like a punching bag. “So, you are a hooker.”

She leaned across the table and whispered. “I am. But you can’t prove it.”

“Frannie. Jesus, you’re a good girl. What the hell are you doing turning tricks? You mother did better by you.”

“How would you know? You were never around. Before dad played police hero you came over every stinking Sunday for dinner. Came over for every barbecue. I remember you could eat eight hot dogs in a row.”

He blinked. This wasn’t going the way he wanted it to. Of course, she was right. Who was he to say a damn thing? Wasn’t like he did anything to keep her a good girl. “What are you now? Seventeen?”

“Nineteen. You know, I had the worst crush on you. I used to lay awake at night and think about you, wonder if you’d ever come around again. Wonder if you’d like how I was growing up.”

“You grew up real pretty, Frannie. But there’s no reason for you to be opening your legs for a living.”

“Maybe I like it. Maybe I’d like it with you.”

He shot to his feet. Did he want that? Did he not want it? Again he paced, slamming fist in palm and thinking harder than he’d thought in a long time. “Room seven. You saw no one come out of room seven? How long were you at the boarding house?”

“I don’t have to answer that.”

“Look, Frannie. I’m gonna do everything I can to get the prostitution charges dropped, honey. I just need some answers. A cop is dead.”

“A bad cop is dead.”

His pace stopped like he’d just slammed into a wall. “Bad cop. What makes you think he was a bad cop?”

“I know bad cops. Know a few good ones too.” She stood and moved to stand right in front of him. Too close. Way too close. A movie-star beauty and a beast twenty years her senior. His hands moved on their own, settled on her nicely rounded hips and reveled in the heat radiating through the red fabric of her dress. “Good cops are good to a hooker. Treat them like a lady,” she said. “Bad cops are better to her; treat her with cash and maybe a bobble or two. They talk about other bad cops too.”

He pulled her into an embrace, pressed her long length against his over-heated mass. Breathed in her hair. The smell of her pancake makeup and cheap perfume. Frannie would be some fine fucking. She’d be a nice taste of the youth he’d lost. He suddenly felt like he was hinked on too much booze and too much dope. His brain was stalled, his thoughts flapping like a broken reel of film. He couldn’t be doing this. No way, no how. As he dropped his hands Frannie made her own play.

“No, Sporty. Just one. Come on big boy, just give me one kiss.” Her lips touched his, at first soft then hungry, sucking and starving. Her hand gripped her shoe, arranged it so the sharp heel was just right.

Sporty was too occupied with what his body was fighting to wonder where her hands were. They were alone in a windowless interrogation room. No one could see. No one would know. He drew in a breath and kissed harder, his arms tightening around her waist.

The arc of her swing was wide and sure. Her aim was perfect. The heel of her shoe cracked hard against his skull the first time, knocking him to the floor where he lay, stunned and blinking. Frannie pushed him with her foot then swung the weapon again. This time it did the do. The heel had gone deep, deeper than it did with Harris. Right in the temple.

Sporty’s eyes were wild with terror and pain but he didn’t cry out. His ego wouldn’t allow it. All bad cops were like that. Seemed she’d done this before. Seemed she had one hell of a technique.

“Sporty, you let my dad die. You went bad then you forgot about us; you let my mother die. You let me become a prostitute. Not really your fault I guess but I hate you for it. Yes, I open my legs for money. I also kill bad cops to make the world a better place.”

He groaned quietly, his mouth not working. No words forming.

“You should have learned to read, Sporty.” She stood over him and slid the shoe back onto her foot. “You should have read Moby Dick. You know how they killed whales?”

He thought he’d shaken his head but he knew he hadn’t.

“They speared them with harpoons. Some detective you turned out to be. I gave you all the clues. I warned you. Not my fault you’re too stupid to read a book, Melville ‘Sporty’ Miller.” She sat on the table and crossed her shapely legs like a pinup girl.

From Sporty’s perspective it was spectacular. But then the numbness started. He felt cold, colder than a man should feel on a hot Hollywood July morning. Darkness crawled in all around him, hovering like the final fade before the credits. Damn. He always thought he’d die in the blaze of a shootout; glory and fire, the crackle of shotguns all around and a metal of honor on his casket. Yeah, that’s what he always thought. Who’da thunk he’d be taken down at the hands of a little girl with a vengeance the size of the MGM back lot and a broken shoe.

A broken shoe? Didn’t they put rubber tips on the end of those high heel shoes? Too late to tell the Cap he had the answer. Sporty Miller’s sterling career had just ended, as did his miserable life.

Two hours later the door opened. Someone gave a shout and several men rushed in. Uniforms and dicks, even the Captain. As they roughly cuffed Francine Foster and read her her rights, she simply dropped her head back and laughed.