Clandestine

I laughed. "That's a riot. You just want to throw the salami to Siddell again. Tell me, Wack, did you ever get to finish with her?"

"Yeah, but I've been calling her to try to fix up another date, and every time I call some maid answers and says, 'Miz Siddell ain't at home, officer.' I think she's giving me the bum's rush."

"Maybe, but don't worry. There's lots of other fat girls around."

"Yeah, but not like Siddell; she's class. Listen, partner, I need a favor. Will you talk to Siddell? Sound her out on how she feels about me? You're in tight with Big Sid, you can do it."

I hesitated, then felt my wheels start to turn. "Sure, Wack, I'll drop by Big Sid's place sometime next weekend. He gave me carte blanche for visits. I'm his new gravy train."

Wacky punched me in the arm. "Thanks, pard. When I'm dodging flaming arrows down in Nigger Gulch and you're king of Wilshire Vice I'll remember this moment."

We pulled into the parking lot of the station. I started to offer a snappy rejoinder as token resistance, but couldn't. Instead, I walked upstairs to the detectives' squad room and typed up my report.

I drove to Beverly Hills early Saturday evening, getting honest with myself en route: I could invent all the pretexts I wanted, but I knew I was going to Big Sid's home for only one reason: to search out Lorna Weinberg and attempt, somehow, to satisfy my curiosity about her. The house was on Canon Drive, just south of Sunset. I was expecting some outrageous pretensions to class and was surprised: the large white Colonial edifice with the well-tended front lawn was understated, almost somber.

I knocked on the door and a Negro maid answered, informing me that "Mr. Big Sid ain't at home, Miz Siddell be up in her room takin' a nap."

"What about Lorna?" I blurted.

The withered old woman looked at me as if I were nuts. "Miz Lorna done moved out years ago."

"Sorry," I said, peering through the crack in the door, scanning a living room furnished in old wood and rich fabrics. Somehow I felt that the place might be a treasure trove of wonder, even in Lorna's absence. I paused, then said forcefully, "Wake up Siddell, will you, please? I have an important message from a friend of hers."

The old woman eyed me suspiciously, then opened the door and gestured toward the living room. "You waits here," she said, "I get Miz Siddell."

The maid trotted upstairs, leaving me alone in the richly appointed room. I noticed some framed photographs above the red brick fireplace, and went over and looked at them. They were individual portraits of Big Sid, Siddell, and Lorna. Sid beamed proudly, Siddell looked as slender-faced as a good photographer could make her, and Lorna looked grave and abstracted, wearing a graduation gown and cap. There was another, larger photo of the family trio: Big Sid clutching his omnipresent cigar, Siddell looking sullen, and Lorna leaning on a cane. I noticed that her right leg was withered and deformed, and felt a nervous flush come over me. I shook my head to clear it, then recalled: Lorna had remained seated during our one meeting. But where was Mother Weinberg?

Lost in my reverie, I felt a sharp tug at my coat sleeve and turned to find Siddell Weinberg pushing herself against me. "I know what you must think of me," she was saying, "but I don't do those kinds of things all the time . . ."

I held the feverish-looking woman at arm's length and took a stern tack, the better to secure the information I now had to have. "Well, I do, Miss Weinberg, so it's not really a big issue. But you should call Wacky. He's fond of you, and wants to see you again."

"I know, but I can't! You have to tell Herbert not to call me here. Daddy thinks that anyone interested in me is just out for his money. Besides, I'm engaged."

"Does Big Sid approve of your fiancé?"

"No, not really, but at least he's Jewish, and he's in graduate school. He's got a future."

"And policemen don't have futures?"

"I didn't mean that!" Siddell wailed. "Daddy likes you, but he thinks Herbert is crazy."

I led Siddell to a plush red leather couch next to the fireplace. "Your father is right," I said. "He is. Are you in love with this guy you're going to marry?"

"Yes, no! I don't know!"

"Then call Wacky. He's in the phone book—Herbert L. Walker, 926 South St. Andrews, L.A. All right?"

"All—all right. I'm going out of town next week, but I'll call Herbert when I get back."

"Good." I patted Siddell's hand, then started fishing around for conversational lead-ins to get to the real purpose of my visit. Finally, I got one: "This is a hell of a nice house, Siddell. Your mother obviously puts a lot of time into it."

Siddell lowered her head. "Mama is dead," she said.

"I'm sorry. Was it recently?"

"No, it was in 1933. I was nine and Lorna was thirteen."

"That's a long time ago."

"Yes and no."

"You mean you still feel it?"

"Y—Yes . . . but mostly, Lorna does." Siddell's voice had taken on the resonance of a person explaining a profound truth.

I prodded gently. "What do you mean, Siddell?"