Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Night
The Flamingo Bar on Larimer Street was jammed with drunks of both sexes when Waverly walked in at a quarter to ten. The only light came from behind the bar, filtering through half-empty bottles of scotch and whiskey. Most of the place was dim to dark. It smelled like a forest fire that someone tried to put out with beer. A scratchy song from a jukebox tried to rise above the noise with little success. Waverly ordered a screwdriver and leaned against the wall near the back by the restrooms, keeping an eye on the entrance.
If Bristol’s little spankee didn’t show, that would be her problem.
All Waverly could do was try.
This was that try.
She checked her watch-9:55-then stepped into the ladies room. There was a window cracked open a couple of inches. She raised it as far as it would go and stuck her head out. The drop to the ground wasn’t far. The window was over-painted and wouldn’t go all the way up but raised enough for her to slither her body out if it came to it. She could escape this way if Bristol showed up to trap her.
Back in the bar, the spankee still hadn’t shown up.
Waverly downed what was left of the screwdriver, ordered another and receded into the back corner.
Ten o’clock.
That’s what it was now.
Game time.
The front door opened and a blond walked in, a blond in a red dress. She looked around as if expecting to meet someone. It was the spankee, alone, without Bristol. Waverly didn’t move. The woman looked at her watch, didn’t see anyone approaching, then took a seat at the only empty barstool, at the very end of the bar. As she ordered a drink, Waverly crossed the floor, stepped outside and looked up and down the street. If Bristol was hiding out there somewhere he had hidden himself well. There were a few unsavory types here and there but they looked like ordinary lowlifes, not guns for hire.
She headed back inside, stepped next to the woman and said, “I’m glad you came.”
The woman studied her.
“You’re the one who wrote the note?”
“Yes. Where’s Bristol?”
“He’s back at the hotel.”
“Did he follow you?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t think he did.”
“Did you check, while you were walking?”
“No-”
“How’d you get away?”
“He thinks I’m in the lobby bar having a drink.” She took a swallow of alcohol. “Tell me who you are and what’s going on. I don’t have much time.”
“Tom Bristol’s a murderer,” Waverly said. “He dangles women off the tops of buildings and then drops them. They always have a red dress, just like the one you’re wearing right now. Let me ask you something. Is that something you bought yourself or did he buy it for you?”
Suddenly the front door opened and a man’s figure appeared.
It wasn’t Bristol.
It was a man in a black T-shirt.
He was strong but not like a gorilla, more in a taut way. It was too dark to tell if he had a scar on his face. Waverly grabbed the woman’s hand and said, “I think one of us was followed. I know a way out the back. Hurry!”