Deep Without Pity | Page 6

behind the door and pointed at the wallet still
in my hand. "Does that mean I have to let you in?"
"No, ma'am. It just means--"
"Oh, Mother," came a friendly voice from inside. "Let him in." She
shut the door and I heard the rattle of the chain being let off.
The inside of the house smelled faintly of incense. Furniture was sparse,

consisting mainly of throw pillows, low tables, and those bedspreads
from India that everyone used to have. Sitting on a divan, legs tucked
up under her, was a small blonde who I took at first glance to be a little
girl. Her eyes had too much makeup, though, and her body was too
clearly developed. She was wearing blue jeans and something I think
they call a tube top, that had no other means of support than what she
provided herself. She gave me a broad, slightly coy smile. "I'm
Charlene Desmond."
"Daniel Sloane. May I sit down?"
"Sure." I took off my coat and sat in the only real chair in the room.
She turned and stared at her mother until the older woman left. "Mother
has been such a help this last week I can hardly believe it. But she does
go too far sometimes. Drink?"
"No thanks," I said. It was too early for me by about five hours. There
was a table to my right, by the front window, and she stood at it and
poured coke over some bourbon. Light from the drawn Venetian blinds
made intense stripes across her hands.
"I expect you've had a good share of visitors lately," I said.
"Yes," she said, and took a big slug of the drink. If it weren't for the
violence of her makeup and the lines it didn't quite hide around her
eyes, I could have taken her for a teenager. "It's pretty exciting, really.
I'm used to attention--" here a not-quite-shy smile-- "you know...but not
anything like this."
"Do you mind if I ask you some questions?"
"That's what I figured you were here for. What sort of questions?"
"I'm a private investigator. I'm trying to clear Mrs. King."
"Oh." She looked down at her glass and shook the ice cubes around in
it. She seemed almost embarrassed that I had brought up the idea of the
murder.

"How did you get drawn into all this?" 1 asked.
She shrugged, still looking down. "The usual way, I suppose. I came in
from the pool when his regular secretary got married, and I just stayed
on." She stubbed out the remains of one cigarette and lit another with a
lighter sitting on the table. It was a standard Zippo, with a lightning
bolt insignia on it. It was an exact duplicate of the one on Jason King's
desk. "Then he asked me out--l guess I'd been there about a week--and
I knew better than to say no. I'd had enough trouble getting on there in
the first place."
"What sort of trouble?"
"Well, my typing's not very good." She showed me her dimples. "But I
have a nice telephone voice, and a good memory."
Her flirting was irritating, not so much on a personal level, but because
she didn't seem to be able to turn it off. "How did you finally get
hired?" I asked, leaning back and propping my head up with one arm.
"Mr. Crabtree needed somebody one day while I was there trying to get
in, and took me. He didn't even know I wasn't in the pool. Then they
sort of had to let me in. It's complicated. Like a union, sort of." She
finished her drink and went over to get another one. "Sure you won't
join me?" she asked.
I shook my head. The inertia was starting to get to me, and I felt like I
was wasting my time. The woman was shallow and a little on the cheap
side, but she didn't strike me as a killer. She lit another cigarette and I
asked her about the lighter.
"Did that belong to Jason?"
She looked down at it as if she'd never seen it before. "I suppose so,"
she said. The whiskey seemed to be affecting her. "The
Thundermugs...must have been his outfit, huh?"
She reminded me of a high-school kid just out for the summer. She

seemed disjointed, adrift in the moment. It was all a big vacation, and
Jason King had paid the bill, first in publicity and now with his life.
By the third drink she was talking about King without being prompted.
She had the conversation under her arm and was running with it.
"He was a nice man. Not a big spender, but not a tightwad. He'd take
me out sometimes. Sometimes we'd go to his house. He lives out by