Chapter 7
She held the massive door open for him. She said. "Hi Come on in."
Alan hesitated. "Don't you want to know who I am?"
She'd been drinking. She gave him a warmly boozy smile. "Why? You're a man, aren't you? That's the password, sign and countersign, friend. Come on in."
She kept smiling. He walked past her into the high-domed foyer. The house was high in the Beverly Hills. It sat a half-block from the street in manicured grounds, overlooking a canyon.
The bookie business had profited Ira Festish well. His widow was able to live in a style any woman would be pleased to become accustomed to.
He said, "Aren't you afraid to open your door to strange men?"
"Strange? A man would have to be pretty strange to upset me, hon."
Lila Festish wavered slightly. She burped, smiled and pressed her fingers delicately across her full-lipped mouth.
Alan studied her in some astonishment. Ira's widow was not what he'd anticipated from his research on that TV script.
She was aging, but she did it well. What she looked like was a maturing Mansfield, with a dawn pinkness about the bulbous breasts, revealed by the low cleavage of her wispy dress. There was a fullness about her hips, too, a wanton fieriness in her wide blue eyes. Her skin was flawless, like something renewed by special permission. There was a witchery about her. There was no denying this.
"I used to be in pictures," Lila said from left field possibly because he was staring at her. "Would you believe that?"
"Yes," he said, honestly. "I'd believe that, all right."
"It was a long time ago," she said, with a trace of sadness. "Longer than I'll tell you, Mr. What did you say your name was?"
Alan grinned. "You didn't give me time."
"Okay, handsome. You got time now. What's your monicker?" She laughed. "That's what Ira used to always say. Monicker. He talked like something out of Runyon. Maybe because he thought he ought to, him being a gambler and all. He was quite a gambler, Ira was."
"I knew him back east," Alan lied. He felt safe saying this, because he'd researched Ira Festish's life thoroughly for the TV script. He knew Ira had married Lila after he came west. "My name's Stew Miller."
"If you knew Ira back east, Stew, you're a hell of a lot older than you look."
"No. I was pretty young when I knew Mr. Festish. A kid. A runner."
"No kidding? A runner?" She smiled, pleased. "Come on in and belt a bundle with me. An old pal of Ira's. That's fine. I like talking about him, still, even if he has been dead three years come Christmas."
"He was carrying a Christmas tree home for you when they shot him," Alan said.
Her head jerked up. "How'd you know that?"
"Oh, we heard all that. Back east. Too bad they don't know who did it."
She looked around as if to be sure they were not overheard in her own home. "Don't worry, Stew, they're pretty sure who did it. Oh, not the actual gunning. That had to be some punk. But who paid for it. Only nobody can prove it. And them that can prove it they don't want to. Nobody cares that poor Ira is dead. Except me."
She poured straight bourbon over rocks in tall glasses. She handed him one. Her eyes were brimmed with tears.
He took the whiskey, watching her face. He said, "You're not kidding? Thev know who killed Ira? Who?"
She gave him a false laugh. "Oh, no, Stew. No, sir. I don't know you well enough. You might just be sent here by that certain guy just to see if I talk too much."
"I wasn't. I swear it."
"Sure you do. Only I wasn't born yesterday. I don't know you well enough, Stew, to talk about something that might end me up dead."
"I'd like to know."
"Sure you would."
He took a drink. "I mean that, Mrs. Festish "
"Lila. Call me Lila. I'm not that much older than you "
"You're not older than anybody. You're younger than any twenty-year-old-"
"Sure." She laughed. "Only I know more. But I don't talk about who killed Ira. I'd have to know you a lot better."
"How much better?"
"Well-" She flipped has collar and raked her nails on his neck. "You can't just walk in here off the street, and say you were an old friend of Ira's, and get me to talk about something like that. Oh, no. I'm not that drunk." She laughed. "I never have been that drunk. I never will be. Not ever. Never ever."
Lila looked soft, easy, pliable, but there was an undercoating of annealed metal, and Alan saw he'd get nowhere by pushing.
Still, it excited him to think that Lila knew who had ordered her husband slain, a man the law could not touch for lack of evidence. But such a man might want a nosy writer out of the way because he had come too uncomfortably close to the truth.
Somehow, he had to learn from Lila who that man was. Time entered into it, too.
She wavered across the deep carpeting to a divan, carrying her tall glass and a fresh bottle of bourbon. "Saves those long walks," she said.
She patted the divan beside her. "Come on, hon. Sit down by me, and we'll talk about Ira only not about who killed him. Okay?"
"Okay. But I came out here hoping to get in. I'd feel a lot safer knowing who Ira's enemies were."
She put her head back, laughing. "You expect me to tell you about all Ira Festish's enemies? Hon, what you think? That would take too long. Ira made book. He had connections in Vegas, Reno, Chicago, New York, Puerto Rico and London. He knew a lot of people, they gambled with him, and most of them lost. Some lost heavy. Some heavy losers are big haters."
"Sure," he said.
She turned her head, looking him over with heated interest. He let his own gaze travel over the monopolistic wealth of her body, too. The widow was a full-flushed beauty, something Ira must have sported like a three-carat diamond on his little finger.
"Ira must have .been proud of you," he said.
"Ira was proud. And better than that, Ira was a man that appreciated a woman like me. I don't mean just my looks. That was pretty easy to do, a lot of guys were always wanting to appreciate me for my body. But my mind. My quirks. And I got plenty of them. But I don't feel bad about that. I found out everybody's got quirks, when you get to know them. They lie about it, try to hide it, are hypocritical. But I didn't have to be. Not with, Ira. He understood me. Me, I always liked men. Not just one man, though there never was one that measured up to Ira for me. Ira was special. But a headshrinker told me I was a nymph. I got no reason to doubt him. He's a college brain. Me? What do I know? I like men. A lot of them. If that's a nymph, so I'm a nymph. Ira understood." He watched, waiting.
She drank deeply and smiled at him. "I bet you don't even understand that Ira understood me?"
He licked his lips. "You mean he didn't mind?"
"More than that. Ira helped me."
Alan drank, swallowing hard. "Maybe I don't understand that."
"Course you don't. Most men don't. Men are so stupid they think a woman has got to keep herself just for him, or she's no good, she can't belong to him. Ira knew better. Ira knew I belonged to him, but like some people have to gamble, I had to have fun with men.
"Maybe you think I wouldn't be like that, with Ira. I mean Ira was a swordsman, a real swordsman. You know what I mean?"
"I know what you mean."
"Ira could have satisfied me if any one man could have. Only no one man could. And that's what
Ira understood. Ira had what he wanted. Anytime, anywhere, all he wanted. We had no trouble about that."
"Until the day they killed him, Ira was a swordsman, a real man. He died ready to take me. I know. I saw it. He wanted me, even when he knew he was dying. It broke my heart, I can tell you.
"But Ira wasn't afraid of competition. I mean he was a pro. In gambling. In living. In swordsmanship. He knew what he was, and he didn't have to prove anything. When I'd let him know that some man got me all hot and excited, you know what Ira would do?"
"He'd get that guy for you."
Lila laughed, slapping his leg. "That's right. How many men you going to find like that, Stew?"
"Not very many."
"That's right. Not very many. None. The gentleman that rides me now, he'd blow up and explode if he thought any other guy touched me. And you know what? This guy's no good for me, or any dame. He thinks he is. But he's a nothing. He's jealous, and a nothing. He couldn't carry Ira Festish's Jockey shorts, I can tell you."
"You really loved Ira, didn't you?"
"I was a fortunate woman, Stew. I mean, I had this problem that men looked good to me. I'd see a man and something would happen, I'd want to go to bed with him. Fast, no fooling around. I could have been in bad trouble, except I was married to Ira."
"He must have been quite a guy."
"You don't know, Stew. You'll never know. What that Ira would do. He'd bring the newest man I wanted home say to dinner. Then he'd pretend to get a call. And he'd leave me alone with him."
She laughed, squirming on the couch, made uncomfortable by the urgency of her recollections.
"There are men in this town who had me that would just plain faint if they knew they were humping me in a lighted bedroom while Ira watched from the darkness."
"Ira liked to watch?"
"What's wrong with that? If Ira had been one of those nothings like my present gentleman is I'd of thought he was queer, watching me get my kicks. But not Ira. He was a man. He enjoyed me. He enjoyed me going wild. He enjoyed seeing the way I could drive men crazy. You think I didn't drive them crazy?"
"I believe it. I can close my eyes and hear them screaming through the house, right now."
She laughed, stroking his leg. "You're all right, Stew. I like you."
"I hoped you would."
"You're one of the ones I'd have told Ira to get for me," she said, a little breathlessly. "You know what Ira would have done?"
Alan shook his head. He was aware of her heated hand stroking higher and higher on the inside of his leg. It was as if fiery spiders were crawling along his flesh.
"Ira would have gotten friendlier with you.
Drank, with you. Found out what you liked a woman to do for you your special quirks. You know? Everybody's got them. Right."
"Yes."
"Then he'd tell me what you liked best. Then he'd bring you to dinner. Then he'd leave you alone with me and I'd give you what you wanted, and I'd get what I wanted, and Ira was a better man than any man I knew."
"You can't beat an arrangement like that."
"Yes you can. Ira could."
He stared at her. "What?"
"Ira did better than that for me. Ira brought five or six men to the house for a poker game, and drinking "
"And you."
"That's right. That's how I met my present gentleman. It used to get me so excited to see half a dozen men around. I'd go out of my skull. And out of my dress. It used to thrill me to my toes knowing I was getting six men all hot and wild at the same time. And I did."
"I'm sure you did."
"I'd drink though not as much as I let them think I did. Then I'd take off my clothes. They used to forget the cards then, I'll tell you. They used to tell Ira he ought not to let me do that. Some would tell him he wasn't much of a man, letting me carry on naked in front of them. But Ira just laughed. 'She's my doll', he'd tell them. 'Let her have her fun'. And none of them would stand off. They'd get drunker. I'd put on a show for them. Real burlesque, without the G-string. The men would get wilder and wilder. They'd take me in the bedroom, one at a time. Sometimes two of them would go with me at the same time. It got pretty weird, I can tell you. Couple of times, guys from Vegas brought dames, and the three of us women would put on shows for them. It got wilder than ever then, because the guys would join us in the shows. like I say, that's the way I met my present gentleman." Her voice sagged and she withdrew her hand from between his legs.
He was excited. She could look at him and see that she had stirred him plenty. It pleased her.
"But your present gentleman won't let you put on shows like that?"
"He'd kill me if he found out any man touched me. He's crazy. I tell you he's crazy. He knows what I used to do when Ira was alive. But you know what? He blames Ira for making me do all those things. He thinks he's saving me from what Ira used to force me to do." She shook her head. "And he's no good in bed. He's a fink."
"Why don't you get away from him?"
She looked at him pityingly. "Because I like to live in the style to which I've grown accustomed breathing"
"He'd kill you?"
"If I tried to leave him, he would. He's already told me that."
"You don't sound real happy."
"Should I? With a creep that watches to be sure I don't have fun?"
They were silent some moments, contemplating the strange vagaries of this life, the sneaky tricks destiny plays on us when we're not watching.
Alan saw that Lila was crying.
"Don't cry," he said.
"What have I got to laugh about? There are no more men like Ira, I can tell you."
"It would seem you'd want to talk about who killed him."
He felt her withdrawing, sensed the way the atmosphere had changed in the room. She gazed at him, not blinking. The expression in her ceramic-glaze eyes did not alter.
She tilted her head slightly. "I told you. I don't want to talk about it."
He nodded, letting that go for the moment.
When she saw he would not pursue the frightening subject she smiled again and wriggled lower on the divan. "Besides, hon, Ira is dead, and there is nothing we can do to help Ira. But we are alive ... you and I ... maybe there's a lot we could do for each other."
He poured fresh drinks for both of them and nodded. He said, "I'll buy that."
She giggled "You won't have to buy it, hon. You just hang on. This is Lila's day for giving out free samples. Would you like a free sample, Stew?"
He smiled, meeting her gaze. "You want to know the truth, Lila? That's the real reason I came out here from the east."
Her mouth parted, bright red and damp. She put her head back, laughing. "Just let me finish my drink."
She finished her drink. She tossed the glass over her head. She lay a moment looking at him, as if trying to read him, to decide what would most please him. Then she reached up and pulled the top of her dress down.
She licked her tongue across her red lips and smiled, lowering her eyes as if inviting his gaze to follow hers to the golden hillocks, tipped by twin ruby peaks.
"Beautiful," Alan said. He leaned forward and kissed each bright nipple. It didn't matter how many men Lila had had, it still thrilled her to be fondled like that. Her nipples came to erect attention, and she shivered in her pleasure.
"So nice," he said, suckling at the large breasts, pressing his face into the narrow vale between the steep inclines. She lifted her body, shoving her lovely breasts upward to him.
She wriggled on the couch, divesting herself of all her clothing. He watched her as she slipped off the fragile panties. She was getting heavy, but there was still the delightful Rubens quality about her. This was a lot of woman.
"Undress," she told him. "I get a bigger charge looking at men than they ever get looking at me. Men have got something to look at!"
He undressed, letting his slacks fall away, and pulling his Banlon shirt over his head. She laughed, saying, "Beautiful, beautiful. You really came prepared, didn't you? No underclothes at all. Did somebody tell you Ira's widow was a pushover?"
He just laughed. "I dreamed how it would be," he said. "I admit I've heard a lot about you."
This pleased her. She wanted to give him something special now, more than a good roll in the hay. She wanted him to see what she could do. She stood up, undulating slowly, letting her hips and her full breasts vibrate for him. She bent her knees and worked her hips frantically while holding the rest of her body immobile. There was nothing professional about it. Lila enjoyed it as much as he did. He saw she was watching herself in the tinted mirrors.
Seeing the way she moved those hips, the way she caressed her thighs, her hips, her breasts with her long slender fingers, stirred him deeply. He forgot in that instant how tired he was, how frightened and confused, living in a vortex of terror. For the moment, nothing existed except this hour and the strange dance she performed for him alone.
Every movement brought her nearer to him. Her tear-wet eyes were fixed on him, and she looked hungry for what she saw and she fell upon him, reaching for him, gasping her pleasure.
He held her, fondling her. He said. "Good Lord. You're quite a woman."
"Yes," she said. "I'm quite a woman."
"You really love it."
"I really love it"
"I'm glad."
"Are you?"
"Wouldn't have had it any other way."
"I was made for love. Do you believe that?"
"I know it."
"Now, for long days, I have no love at all. It gets pressed down in me. I get all tense. I feel like I'll explode."
"I want you to explode". Now. For me."
"Oh, I will. I know I will. I can tell already you're the best thing that's happened for me since Ira died, Stew."
"I'll try to be."
"No. No." She lifted her head. "Don't try to please me. Don't worry about pleasing me. That's the only time there's ever trouble when one partner worries about trying to please the other. Just please yourself. Use me, Stew, darling. Use my body, my whole body is for you to use. Do what pleases you, and don't worry about me. I'll love it. No matter what you do ... Only when you're ready say when, and I'll go with you. All you have to do is say when, and I'll go with you."
Lila was good and she was made for love. She had not lied about this. The naked goddess prostrated her bared body to him on the couch. The ruby nipples seemed to glitter on the gold hills of her breasts. Her rounded belly led down to the bright darkness between her shapely thighs.
She caught him, loving him with her fingers, testing him and squeezing as she guided him to her. She thrust upward to engulf him. Her legs closed on him, and her arms drew him down into the rich, pillowy loveliness of her breasts and belly and hips.
"Do it," she said. "Make yourself happy, Stew. Make yourself happy and you'll thrill me so I can't stand it."
He made himself happy. He had never encountered anyone quite like her. She not only loved sexing, she understood all of it and she knew what she was doing. She knew how to make a man happy, and drive him past happiness into a raging madness, and she knew how to go with him, urging him faster and faster.
He did not know how long before they reached that sublime height of unreason that he was aware they were not alone in the living room.
There was someone near them, another presence.
It made itself felt only vaguely, and he saw that Lila was aware of it, too, but like him, she was past caring. She could not stop now.
The man came nearer, walking slowly, stiffly, scarcely breathing. He was not trying to be cautious, not sneaking up on them. He was stunned by what he was seeing, speechless. He could scarcely breathe.
Lila was making gurgling noises in her throat, whimpering and whispering as she flailed those Ruben hips and tightened her legs.
Suddenly, it was over, and she sagged into the couch. For some moments, panting through parted lips, Alan stayed where he was, like the first man cradled in the arms of the goddess of lave.
The man stood over them, and gradually the occluding red fog cleared from Alan's mind.
He withdrew from Lila, hearing her faint whimpered protest, and then he toppled to the floor.
He stared at the brilliantly shined shoes, the sharply creased trousers. He reached out for his own slacks because he felt more vulnerable naked.
He slipped his legs into the slacks, caught up his shirt, and stood up, pulling up his pants at the same time. He zipped and buckled them, still not looking at the intruder.
He slipped his shirt over his head, and as he came through the emerging turtle, his eyes struck against those of the intruder and Alan caught his breath, struck with panic.
The man was small and slender and he looked like what he was part of someobdy's mob. His eyes were dark and chilled, his face lean, as if hewn from old bronze with a dull axe. His clothes were tailored, but there was something off-key about them, just as there was something off-key about him.
He gazed at Alan, and Alan saw that for the moment the man didn't recognize him, but there was no doubt in Alan's mind as to the identity of the lean, unsmiling hood. This was the cool cat who had pounced into D & T and warned him off the Ira Festish murder case.