Babs marked the deadline on her calendar. If she didn’t want to return the fee, she needed a plan. But first, she took a wet rag and cleaned up the cherry soda. Knowing her luck, the building’s janitor would’ve thought it was blood.
She felt the need to make an “unofficial trip” to the von Rache compound. The next step: figure out how and when the front gate security guard wouldn’t be around. How would she pull this off and get away with it? Complacency wasn’t an option, and time wasn’t her friend.
By the time the MGM messenger arrived with her contract and cash advance, the banks were closed. She remained in her office late into the evening and panicked when she heard her front door creak open, realizing she had left it unlocked.
“Who’s there!” she shouted. A feeble attempt to sound bold and authoritative.
“Housekeeping.” The voice came from an older male.
“Wiggins?”
By now, the cherry soda-soaked papers had dried, but Babs didn’t want to give the impression she was hiding evidence from a crime scene. Inessentials went into the wastebasket, buried beneath other trash. Anything indispensable, she tucked under piles on her desk.
“’Tis so, lassie,” he replied. The front door shut behind him as he entered. “Whatcha doing here at this hour?”
She hid Strickling’s payment in her purse. “Catching up.”
“Don’t you have a lucky man waitin’ at home for you expecting his supper?”
She met him at Guy’s old desk, making sure he went no further. “A husband?”
She realized much of her makeup had sweated off. Her disheveled hair needed to be brushed, and her bobby pins reset.
“All right, under normal circumstances, I can’t understand why a bonnie lassie like you hasn’t gotten hitched yet.”
“You flatter me, Abel. Maybe someday, but I’ve been too busy to get married.”
“Don’t wait ’til you’re an old maid. All the good ones will be gone.”
“Let’s hope not,” she said. “Although, it’s better to be alone than to make…a terrible mistake.” She hesitated at those last words and wanted to say, ‘a deadly mistake’ instead. No more excuses. Troy was still at large. Purchasing a gun would be inevitable. She’d be an idiot if she continued to pretend he wasn’t a threat.
Perhaps he was lonely, but Wiggins rambled on about his extended Irish family and how it was getting too crowded in their Echo Park apartment to accommodate the whole brood.
“How would you like to earn some extra dough?” Her shy voice had sly intentions.
“Don’t entail breakin’ the law, I hope. Never sure what you shamuses are up to.”
If anyone got in trouble, it would be her, not him. “Not at all.”
“Whatzit entail?”
She improvised as she went along. “How good of an actor are you?”
“Get me drunk enough, and I’ll start reciting limericks ’til I’m green on St. Paddy’s Day.”
How do I put this into words? “I need someone, not me…a guy, who’d appear more credible than a young woman, to pretend he’s in trouble.” I should’ve thought this out first. “He needs to run up to someone for help. When the guy leaves his post to help him, he disappears, and the guy can’t find him.”
“Aye, Begorra, your tryin’ to sneak into a studio lot for a big audition you can’t seem to get, right?”
“Not in a longshot. When I started my private investigation business, I kissed my acting career goodbye,” Babs explained. “What this entails: I need to sneak onto someone’s private property and get past a security guard.”
She opened her purse. She plucked out two Federal Reserve Notes with Alexander Hamilton’s face on them. “Would you be willing to distract him for a bit of…cash?”
Wiggins’ cautiousness transformed into a smile that stretched from one ear to another.
“For that amount, I’d be willing to dance drunk and naked if that’s what it took to get the sap to leave his post. When do you need this?”
“Saturday—after dark.”
“Two nights from now, hmmm. Lucky for you, I have the evening off.”
Realizing she couldn’t put it off any longer, the next day, Babs planned to visit a gun shop. Thrifty by habit, she took several buses all the way from Hollywood to Culver City.
“I want to buy a small revolver and need your help on how to use it,” she told the shop owner.
“Got the perfect thing. Better than a revolver,” the gun seller said. “A 1930 Colt: model 1908, hammerless vest pocket pistol. It’s a sweet little number—.25 caliber, featuring a two-inch barrel, fixed sights, a six-shot magazine, and checkered, hard rubber grips. Used, with a ding or two, but otherwise in great shape and for a fair price.”
“You’ll have to speak in plain English. I know nothing about firearms,” Babs confessed.
“Have you ever fired a handgun?”
“My daddy let me fire a shotgun a few times when I was little.”
“Do you recall getting thrown backward after you pulled the trigger?”
“My feet flew out from underneath me, and I fell smack on my can, crying.”
He laughed. “That’s the kick or recoil you felt. This gun is a good choice because it has minimal recoil for a lady your size. Fits right in your purse or pocket if it’s deep enough. See for yourself.”
Babs hesitated. “Is it loaded?”
He shook his head. When she realized how portable and concealable it was, she took out a wad of cash and handed him her PI license. “Is this sufficient?”
“You’re the first female private detective I’ve ever encountered,” he said.
She tried to make light of it. “There aren’t too many of us. Haven’t met any of the others.”
“If there are others.” He took extra care to count the money and checked for counterfeits. “You’re in luck. The previous owner sold it to me with its instruction manual. Helpful for care and maintenance. I don’t suppose you want this gift wrapped?”
When she looked at him funny, he apologized for the joke. She was about to say goodbye when she noticed an unusual object on a shelf behind his counter.
“What’s that? It reminds me of Mickey Mouse ears.”
He took it down to show her. “I collect and sell a variety of antiques and collectibles besides weaponry, par for the course if you acquire a lot of your inventory from estates and not just trade-ins. This is a relic from WWI. Once air combat and dogfights became popular, the Germans invented this contraption to pick up faraway sounds of approaching enemy planes. Looks funny as hell, but it’s the perfect spying device. Here, try it on.”
The man was already strapping the helmet-like getup on her head before she declined. Babs pulled a mirror from her pocketbook. “Don’t I look ridiculous.”
“Let’s test it out.” He adjusted its leather chinstraps and showed her how it worked. Then he walked over to the far end of the store and whispered. “You’d never be able to hear me under normal circumstances—”
“Yow! It sure amplifies the sound.” She hurt her own ears the moment she spoke.
He returned to help her take off the rig.
“Come to think of it,” she said. “This might come in handy. Too bad there isn’t a way to prove the sounds are legit. All someone can do is take my word for it.”
“Someone like who?”
She explained, “If I needed to present evidence in court or to the police.”
“Hold on,” he said. “I might have just the thing.” He pulled another box off a shelf which contained a crude recording device. After connecting a few wires, his makeshift rig worked.
Thoughts bounced in Babs’ head. “There has to be another way this stuff works without plugging a cord into the wall if it’s used out in the field.”
“Both devices hold a charge if you plug them into a regular electric socket for an hour before using them. Works for me.”
“How much? For all of it.”
“How about I give you a generous discount since you just purchased the pistol?”
Babs agreed to his more-than-reasonable price; he packed the recorder in a spare box and the spying device in its military-issued steel carrying case.
“Are you sure it’s legal to possess this stuff? Even though I’m a professional PI with a license, I wouldn’t want to be under suspicion for any home-grown espionage. A lot of folks are worried about the war intensifying overseas.”
He shrugged but was quick to pocket her payment. “Beats me, but it was a pleasure doing business with you, miss.”
Now, since she’d be carrying a gun and peculiar war salvage, she dipped into her advance to take an expensive cab ride back to Hollywood.