San Diego Noir

A group of Mexican boys, pachucos, were leaning against the wall of the next building. Their wide-lapeled zoot suits were elegantly draped but frayed at the edges. Their dark eyes gave me the once-over. One let out a piercing wolf whistle, another made a remark in rapid-fire Spanish. They all laughed, with a bit of a nasty edge to it. I sped up my stride and grabbed my purse more tightly with suddenly sweaty hands.

I mentally turned over questions to ask the landlords. In the shadow of the big house’s tower, I mounted the ornate steps and paused before a sign: Room for Rent.

What if I did more than just ask questions? Bill always said that it was important to get first-hand information and really understand the scene of a possible crime. And what could be more first hand than living there?

A prickle of worry started in my stomach as I thought about this, followed by excitement. I damped both feelings down as I smoothed my skirt and finished walking up the front steps.

I knocked at the elaborately milled door. Almost immediately a tall, wiry woman opened it. Her black hair parted in the middle and coiled into a smooth knot resting on the nape of her neck. Her hands were large and strong-looking, with a man’s knobby fingers and closely trimmed nails. No polish. I swallowed. “The sign said you have a room for rent?”

She pursed her lips and looked me over with an appraising eye. “We might.” I felt like a cut of meat in a butcher’s window. “We only rent to girls with good jobs—respectable girls, factory jobs.”

I thought fast. “I’m starting tomorrow morning at Consolidated.”

“Doing what?”

Might as well pick up where Mary left off. “I’m working on PBYs. Riveting.”

“Let me get you an application. Come on into the office and you can fill it out. I’m Mrs. Smith. My husband and I own the place, and we live right here, so we don’t allow any funny business. No parties, no men.” She glared significantly at me.

“I’m very quiet.”

“Quiet is good.”

We walked across the wide foyer and through a dining room that smelled of stale coffee. She pushed open a swinging door and led me into a large kitchen. One corner was dominated by a huge rolltop desk. Mrs. Smith pulled a pad of rental applications out of a cubby, peeled one off, and pushed it toward me. “Have a seat. Fill this out.”

She sat in the heavy rolling chair at the desk and crossed her legs. The black crepe of her dress lay obedient over her knobby knees.

I sat on a flimsy dining chair at a small deal table by the side of the desk and started on the form, facts and history all made up. I figured by the time any address or reference checking was done, I’d be long gone.

Done. I handed her the form. She pulled a pair of goldrimmed glasses out of a brown clamshell case and snapped it shut with a clack. She peered over my peerless work of fiction.

“You’re from Iowa?” she asked. “We get a lot of girls from the Midwest—must be nice to get away from that heat.”

I nodded, trying to look both respectable and quiet. Mrs. Smith glanced at the ring on my left hand.

“Married?”

I almost nodded again, but inspiration struck. “My husband was killed at Guadalcanal. I couldn’t take being alone in our house back there, so I came out here to help with the war effort. It’s hard being away from my family and everyone I know, but at least I feel that I’m helping get back at those Japs for killing my Bill.” Thinking of my real Bill possibly being killed brought me to real tears, and I dabbed my eyes with my handkerchief.

“So you’re all alone?” Mrs. Smith’s eyes softened a bit. “Well, the room’s yours then. That’ll be five dollars for the first week, plus another five-dollar deposit—refundable if you leave it in good shape.”

I fished my change purse out of my handbag and handed over two fives. The two-dollar retainer I’d gotten from Joseph Przybilski didn’t cover this at all—too bad I didn’t really have a job at Consolidated to pay for it.

The back door opened and a burly man with wide fat shoulders and heavy bare arms, wearing a T-shirt and khaki pants, came in. Through the doorway, I saw the handles of garden tools lined up on the back porch. He was sweaty, with dirty hands—the odor of dirt and perspiration followed him in.

He tipped his chin at her, gave me a curious glance, then took the straw hat off the back of his head and hung it on a hook by the door. He went to the sink and began to wash up.

“George,” said Mrs. Smith, “come meet Laura Taylor, our newest tenant. She’ll be in number 14. Mrs. Taylor, this is my husband, Mr. Smith.”

“How do you do,” I said.

He took a clean white huck cloth towel from the swinging chrome rack by the sink and wiped his hands thoroughly, then came over to shake. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he rumbled. His hand was lumpy from hoeing and mowing and brown from working in the sun. He continued to look me over closely. Again, I felt like a piece of meat.