Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Afternoon
Wilde paced by the windows with an endless string of Camel’s dangling from his mouth and the noises of Larimer Street buzzing in his ears. Occasionally he threw a sideways glance at the magazine ad on his desk, the one of Secret trying to sell him some kind of fancy perfume in a blue bottle. Alabama showed up after lunch, looked at the ad and said, “So she’s a model?”
“Looks that way.”
“She never told you?”
“No.”
“How am I supposed to compete with that?”
Wilde blew smoke.
“Do me a favor, call the magazine and find out who she is.”
“You already know who she is.”
Wilde pulled a dollar out of his wallet and tossed it on the desk. “I’ll bet you that dollar I don’t.”
Alabama stuffed the money in her bra and said, “You’re on.”
“Hold on, it’s a bet. You just can’t take the money.”
“I’m going to win so just chill out.”
She picked up the phone and said, “Now I’ll prove it.”
Seven long-distance phone calls later she had more information than she expected. Secret St. Rain wasn’t really named Secret St. Rain at all, she was someone named Emmanuelle LeFavre. She was one of the most sought-after models in New York, specializing in high-fashion ads and runway struts, represented by none other than the Sam Lenay Agency. When she wasn’t the stunner in front of the camera she was busy flaunting her stuff at the latest, greatest high-society haunt. Her turf included London and Paris in addition to New York.
Alabama poured a cup of coffee and said, “So here’s the question. What’s a girl like that doing out here in this cow-town with you?”
Wilde shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I know one thing,” Alabama said. “If I was you, I’d ask.”
“Trust me, it’s going to come up.”
He lit a cigarette.
Then he held his palm out and said, “I think you owe me a dollar-two, actually.”
“No.”
“No? I won.”
“Yeah, technically, but I told you before that no one’s named Secret, and I was right about that. So I won first.” She patted her bra. “Being that as it may, if you feel strongly about it, you can take your dollar back.”
He flicked ashes.
“You’re too much.”
She called information, got the number for the Sam Lenay Agency, dialed and handed the phone to Wilde.
A man with a smooth voice said, “Who am I talking to?”
Wilde froze. He expected a hello first.
“Is anyone there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” Wilde said.
“And who are you?”
“My name’s Bryson Wilde,” he said. “I’m calling from Denver.”
“Do I know you?”
“No. Do you know someone named Secret St. Rain?”
“What is this, twenty questions?”
“No, just one,” Wilde said. “Let me rephrase it. You represent Emmanuelle LeFavre, the model, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Does she ever go by the name of Secret St. Rain?”
Silence.
“Is this some kind of a joke?”
“No, she’s in Denver right now, going by that name.”
“Emmanuelle’s in Denver?”
“Yes.”
“That’s impossible, she’s in Paris doing a shoot. Let me give you a piece of advice. Next time you want to waste someone’s time, try someone local. It’ll be cheaper.”
The line went dead.