Footwork: Retro Noir Short Fiction By M.E. Proctor

M.E. Proctor, author of Footwork, is currently writing a series of contemporary detective novels. Her short stories have been published in Vautrin, Bristol Noir, Pulp Modern, Mystery Tribune, Reckon Review, Shotgun Honey and others. She lives in Livingston, Texas.

The waitress, Gina—the name was embroidered in red in flowing cursive on her breast pocket—slid the photograph on the counter. “I remember her,” she said.

Tom Keegan perched on one of the chrome stools. He pulled out his notepad. This was the first solid bite in the case after a week of dogged and disheartening pavement pounding. He was careful not to get too excited. How many people popped into Ed’s Diner every day? The place was catty corner from the bus depot on Mission. Amid the pulsating currents of arrivals and departures, a harried waitress paying attention to anybody for longer than it took to take their order was improbable.

“How did she die?” Gina said.

The photograph, a head shot, was borderline artistic, with interesting textures and shadows. The young woman’s face was unmarked, but she was unmistakably dead. The full body picture, with the knife sticking out of her chest, was in Tom’s breast pocket.

“Stabbed in the heart,” he said.

There was no need to be cagey, the murder had been covered in the paper, one column, no picture, in the local news section. If the navy hospital ship, USS Benevolence, hadn’t sunk that night the dead woman would have made the front page. But she was one body against the twenty-three aboard the vessel. Even in tragedy, there’s competition.

“What could a pretty thing like that have done to get herself killed?” Gina said.

Tom kept asking himself the same question.

“Why do you remember her, Gina?” He made a sweeping gesture at the diner. “With all the traffic that comes through here … Was she a regular?”

“Never saw her before. She must have come off the bus. Coffee, Detective?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She filled a cup and placed it in front of him. “Cream and sugar?”

Tom had a sip of coffee. It was good and strong.

“Plain, thanks. You saw her walk over from the depot?”

“People carrying suitcases around here either get on the bus or step off it,” Gina said. “I hoped she was the leaving kind.” She shook her head, making her tight dark curls bounce. “You wouldn’t be here if she had left, would you?”

Tom had a sip of coffee. It was good and strong. The diner was welcoming, now that the crowd of patrons had temporarily thinned, the sign of a pause in bus traffic. He settled more comfortably on the stool, relieved to be off his feet. The mist that draped the streets had lifted briefly the day before. It was a tease. This morning the muck slinked back in and cloaked the town again, even thicker than when the Benevolence got hit, or when the woman died in Golden Gate Park. Was her death a collision of sorts too, a fateful random encounter in the fog?

He put his hat on the counter. “She made an impression on you, Gina. Why, what was special about her?”

She’d also made an impression on Tom. Even in death, her beauty jumped at you. A heart-shaped face, red hair, perky eyebrows. The eyes, closed in the photograph he showed to Gina, were forget-me-not blue. Tom had stared into them for the longest time, as she lay on her back in the grass. Tall, slender, tightly wrapped in a black sequined evening gown, she reminded him of a long-stemmed calla lily, felled by a storm. The dress was expensive and set off her bright hair; one out-of-place lock sliced across her smooth forehead. He’d stood by the body as the tendrils of vapor joined them in a light embrace, the other cops mercifully screened off, their meaningless chatter muffled by the mist.

Gina pondered, coffee carafe held aloft. “The way she moved, like she was in a play, performing, or waiting to come on stage. The way she was dressed, the cardboard suitcase, and the shoes.” She leaned over the counter to look at Tom’s footwear. “I’m interested in shoes, it’s a game I play. You can tell a lot by looking at people’s shoes.”

Tom grinned. “And what do my shoes tell you?”

“You’re a precise young man, fastidious even. You don’t buy cheap because quality lasts longer, and you’re not married.”

“That’s stamped on my shoes too?”

“A wife would have tossed these brogues a long time ago. How many times have they gone to the cobbler, eh?”

Tom felt slightly offended. “They’re perfectly good shoes. You know how many miles I have to walk for this job?” He tapped the pencil on the notepad, a tad impatient now. “What was it about the girl’s shoes?”

“Dance shoes,” Gina said. “You know, like for tap dancing? Brown leather, with a T-strap, a stubby heel. Scuffed.” She grabbed the notepad. “Give me the pencil.”

The drawing was good and Tom nodded in approval. “You know your shoes. What about the rest of the outfit?”

“A brown coat that looked too big for her, with a brown wool dress underneath, and a felt cloche hat, also brown. She must have been hot. She was dressed way too heavy for August. And that color, brown from head to toe, like she wanted to disappear in the woodwork. Fat chance with that red hair under the hat. Like a bright lantern in a dark forest, she was.”

“Shabby?”

Gina shook her head. “Everything clean, but old. I bet that coat came out of mothballs. She was dressed like we did before the war, you know, when our things had to go for a long while. Not a penny to spare.” She sighed. “I don’t think she had a lot of pennies to spare, that one.”

Gina’s shrewd observations matched the notes in the report sitting on Tom’s desk at the office. The woman from Golden Gate Park seemed well put together, with that pricy dress, the delicate cut of the long black gloves, and the high-heeled pumps. But her hands were chapped, with fingernails cut very short and devoid of nail polish, her feet were callused, and the shoes were one size too small. She wasn’t a wealthy debutante. Tom scribbled on the pad: Dancer’s feet?

Gina looked away from Tom, lost in thought. “There was something about her. The expression on her face. Like something was pushing from inside, in a hurry to get out.”

“Hope?” Tom had seen that feeling of anticipation in so many newcomers, fresh off the train, the boat, or the bus. San Francisco, the magic and mirage of the West, beauty among the hills. Many were called, a few soared. The vast majority made do, repeating by the Bay the life they’d left behind, unless they gave up and packed for another journey, because that was the nature of dreamers, the tin-plated essence of hope.

“Something else.” Gina shivered, poured herself a cup of coffee. “Like she wanted it to be tomorrow already. Impatient, and forcing herself to remain quiet, and sit down. I wanted to grab the sleeve of that coat and drag her to the depot, pay for her ticket to wherever, you know? I didn’t want her to get whipped. Or become a secretary, a waitress, a shop girl. Like all the rest.” She drank half her cup of coffee, put it down on the counter with a clatter of porcelain against Formica.

“Where’s home for you, Gina?” Tom said. He wrote on the pad: Waiting to step on stage? Going to an audition?

“Cleveland. I wanted to see the blue Pacific Ocean.” She leaned with both elbows on the counter, rested her chin on her hands. “Silly, eh, the things we get in our heads? Can’t see the water from here, but I go have a peek on my days off. Been here too long now. I made my nest. What about you?”

“Born and bred, and here to stay. I’ve seen enough of the world.”

One look at her and he knew she had a fairly good idea of where his travels had taken him. Enough veterans, in or out of uniform, had stopped by Ed’s Diner for a coffee or a bite, during the war and in the five years since, for her to see through the words the weariness underneath. Tom shook the memories away. He was lucky to have made it home in one piece, many didn’t. Lucky, yes. Most days.

“Did the girl talk to anybody?”

“Just to ask for a coffee. Who is she? She ran away from her husband and he found her?”

“I wish I knew,” Tom said. The victim was still unidentified. “When was she here, Gina?”

She called a wisp of a girl who was loading a plate with a big chunk of pound cake. “What day did you start last week, Rose?”

“Tuesday.” Rose giggled. “It feels much longer. You’re running me ragged, Gina!”

“Oh, hush! You needed to feel the slap of the ruler, kid.” She winked at Tom. “These schoolgirls, they know nothing. Have to teach them everything. I swear. I should be paid double.” She turned serious. “Tuesday afternoon.”

The body was found Thursday morning early by a man walking his dog in the park. Tom pushed his coffee cup aside. It was cold now and tasted bitter. The girl died less than forty-eight hours after walking into Ed’s Diner.

“Thanks, Gina.” He gave her his card. “Call me if you think of anything else. You’ve been a great help.” He searched his pockets for a stray dime.

“Hey, forget it,” Gina said, handing him his hat. “Come back after you find the scumbag. I want to know the story.”

*****

“Well, it’s something.” Al “Matt” Matteotti put up his feet on the edge of his cluttered desk. He was holding the drawing of the shoe. “Observant lady.”

“Our girl got in trouble fast,” Tom said.

“She got out of her drab clothes fast, you mean. We already know that the black dress came from I. Magnin and was part of a bulk order for a movie that never got made. I found out a little more today. My Hollywood buddy called back.”

“The costumes were sold?”

“Nope, put into storage.”

Tom shrugged. “Obviously, that dress went missing somehow.”

“My friend said stuff’s regularly borrowed from the costume department.” Matt made a face. “Somebody needs duds to take a doll out on the town and voila, grab a gown. It’s supposed to be recorded in a ledger, like checking out a book at the library.”

“But there’s no record,” Tom said.

“That would make our job too easy,” Matt said. “Apparently, the ledger isn’t kept up to date, and sometimes the rags are not returned. Nobody gives a shit. Così è la vita!”

“Lax inventory practices.” Tom lit a cigarette and tossed the pack to his partner. “It isn’t a complete bust. She didn’t have a record and she wasn’t reported missing because she’s an out-of-towner. And we have two show business bites: the Hollywood dress and the tap-dancing shoes. The doc said she had the feet for it. Years of ballet, he said, intensive practice. Leaves a mark.”

Matt waved the drawing. “Who hires hoofers in this town?”

“The showgirls have to come from somewhere, pal. She seemed eager to go, according to the waitress. She must have had a place in mind.” Tom smiled. “Change of pace. We’ve done the hotels and the travel hubs, let’s hit the night spots.”

Clubs were in abundant supply. Tom glanced at his shoes. Gina was right, they looked terminally tired. He’d need a new pair soon.

*****

They stood next to the International Settlement sign, contemplating the array of dives, bars, and dance halls that lined both sides of Pacific Street.

“Looks drab in this fog. It’s more festive at night with all the lights on,” Matt said. “I’ll take the right side. I always wanted to go backstage at Barbary Coast. Compare that flashing can-can leg on the façade to the real thing.”

“We should stick together,” Tom said. “I talk, you observe. Keep an eye out for shifty behavior in the periphery.”

Whatever tickle of titillation they might have expected vanished after the fifth club. There’s nothing sadder than a party place when nobody’s partying. And daylight, even blurry and fading, wasn’t kind on the dusty velvet of the furniture or the chipped gilded ornaments. The performers too looked gray and worn out without the make-up and the glitter.

“Maybe we should come back after sundown,” Matt said, frowning at a sallow-faced bartender who gave them the stink eye on their way out.

“You’ll still look and smell like a copper,” Tom said, pushing the door of yet another place that advertised Dancing Girls in flickering purple neon letters.

“And you don’t?”

“Less flatfooted.” He navigated between the tables to get to the bar. A broad-shouldered giant in a black waistcoat was busy polishing the counter. “Hi, there. I’m looking for whoever’s in charge of the show line-up.”

“What for?” the bartender said. “You jitterbug?”

“You’d be surprised.” Tom flashed his badge and the man sighed. “Prohibition’s over, relax. Where’s the master of ceremonies?”

The bartender pointed to the right side of the stage. “Where it says No Entry. Ask for Danny.”

There was more activity behind the door than in front. Two guys struggled to get a bulky sofa up a flight of stairs onto the stage, a disheveled fat man screamed obscenities in the face of a kid in paint-stained overalls, and three girls dressed, or undressed rather, in fake leopard skins argued with a plump woman who carried a laundry basket stuffed with a variety of animal prints.

“You think they want more or less fabric?” Matt said.

Tom tapped on the shoulder of the cursing fat man. “Excuse me, where can I find Danny?”

The guy didn’t bother to look at him. “Fuck off. Get lost.” Another torrent of insults showered the hapless kid. “I said blue! You fucking halfwit! Blue!”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Matt reached around and grabbed the front of the guy’s shirt. He pulled him away from the scared kid in overalls who saw an opening and took a powder.

“Hey!” the man yelled. “Come back here!” He tried to wriggle loose and bat Matt’s arm away. “Get off me, you ape!” His wild kicks didn’t land because his legs were too short.

Tom pushed his badge in the guy’s face. “Police. Where’s Danny?”

The man stopped fighting. His face was eggplant purple. “Let me go. Jesus.”

Matt released him and patted his tie back in place, none too gently.

“Down the hall, last door on the right.” He sounded out of breath, more from his temper tantrum than Matt’s grip. “I’ll report you,” he whispered. “Fucking thugs.”

Neither Tom nor Matt bothered to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“I own this place!” the man screamed after them.

“Wouldn’t trade my job for his,” Matt said. “I bet he doesn’t even notice the girls anymore. That’s so sad.”

A card on the door said Danny Coughlin – Keep out!

Tom knocked and walked right in.

“A few questions, Mr. Coughlin,” he said before the young man seated behind an Army surplus metal desk could formulate a protest. “Detective Keegan, Homicide. This is Detective Matteotti.”

He tilted the only available chair to rid it of a stack of leaflets, and sat down. Matt closed the office door and leaned against it.

Danny Coughlin was surprised but recovered fast. “Nice entrance. You do that often?”

Tom smiled. He liked the guy. About his age, with a long scar from eye to mouth that tilted his lips in a permanent sarcastic expression.

“I’ve visited more clubs today than I can afford to get into in a year,” he said.

“So far, I’m not impressed,” Matt said, from the back. “Crummy. Without the lights, the music, and all.”

“What’s going on?” Coughlin said.

Tom handed him the picture he showed to Gina, at the diner.

Coughlin’s eyes widened. “Josie? Is that Josie?”

Matt moved away from the door and sat on the corner of the desk. Close enough to restrain Coughlin if necessary. It seemed excessive. The man looked stunned.

“Josie who?” Tom said.

“Is she … Oh, my God. You said you were Homicide. I have to tell Carol.” He made a move to get up and Matt gently pushed him back in the desk chair.

“Josie who, Mr. Coughlin?” Tom repeated.

“Stewart. Josie Stewart. She’s friends with my … uh, my … uh, best dancer. Carol.”

Tom pretended not to notice the double hesitation. “We’ll talk to Carol. Have you seen Josie recently, Mr. Coughlin?”

“Well … uh. Jesus, what happened to her?” His hand hovered above the photograph.

“This will be much easier if you answer my questions,” Tom said. “I’d rather do this interview here than at the station, as I’m sure you do.”

Coughlin was chewing his lips. The strain made the scar more prominent. It must have been one hell of a cut. The surgeons did a nice patching job. The guy could have lost half his face.

The words came out in a tumble. “She came in last week. Carol had told me she was on her way and I expected her. She showed me her routine. She was very good. I told her to stay and watch the show, see what she could pick up. It’s not like we’re doing anything complicated.” He shrugged and leaned to the side to open a drawer. Matt’s hand was on his shoulder, stopping the move. “I need a smoke.”

Tom put his pack on the desk, and shook a cigarette out.

“Thanks.”

Matt had his lighter out already.

“I talked to her after the show and she agreed to come back the next day in the afternoon—I’m not sure what day that was, mid-week, Tuesday maybe?—for a rehearsal with the other girls.”

“She showed up?” Tom said.

“Yeah. She was a quick study, as I gathered from what I’d seen, and I told her she was in, providing she did well that night. She was relieved, that was obvious, and Carol too because she recommended her.” He took a puff off the cigarette, letting the smoke out from the mangled side of his mouth. It made him look tough and street-wise. The eyes, warm and brown, with a hint of wetness, put the lie to the attitude.

“How did the show go?”

“Without a hitch,” Coughlin said. “I talked to Josie after the last dancing number. I didn’t need to explain the terms of the contract, Carol had already done that.” He turned to Matt. “Can I open that drawer? It’s papers.”

Matt nodded. “Slowly. Hands where I can see them.”

The drawer contained a pile of files. Coughlin selected one and opened it on the desk. “That’s her contract,” he said. “It isn’t dated because she didn’t come back to sign it.”

“You said you talked to her after the last dancing number,” Tom said. “Was that at the end of the show?”

Coughlin shook his head. “Sandy closes the night. She sings five songs or so, and if the patrons are in the mood, we move the tables and clear the dance floor, and Sandy and the musicians keep going. It can go quite late, especially at the end of the week. The boss loves it, the bar racks in the dough.”

Tom leaned back in his chair. “Did you see Josie again that night, after your little chat?”

“I can’t tell for sure. There’s a lot of stuff going on backstage. The girls don’t hang on after they’re done. They hit the dressing room and they leave.”

“Do you know where Josie was staying?”

“Carol said something about a rental. I don’t know where.” He crushed the stub of the cigarette in an empty glass. There was a shallow puddle of amber liquid at the bottom. “I should apologize to Carol, I yelled at her when Josie didn’t show up. Told her what she could do with her lousy friends.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Man, if I’d known …”

“Is Carol in?” Tom was reading Josie Stewart’s contract. There was an address typed on top, in Astoria, Oregon, and a contact name: Mark Stewart. Family. They would have to be notified. Maybe he could get an Astoria cop to do it.

Coughlin pointed at the document. “You can keep that.” He glanced at the clock on the back wall. “Carol must be in the dressing room by now. I’ll get her.”

“I’ll find her,” Matt said. “Stay here. Have another cigarette.” He was off the desk and at the door in a few quick steps.

“Your colleague is generous with your smokes,” Coughlin said, helping himself.

This time it was Tom’s turn to give him a light. He pointed at his cheek. “Where did you get it?” he said.

“Peleliu.”

Tom winced. He’d learned about the battle when the war was over. He was in Holland at the time, dealing with his own chapter of the nightmare. Nothing comparable, he thought, if comparing bottomless horrors made any sense at all.

Coughlin blew another cloud of smoke. “Which circus act did you join?”

“101^st,” Tom said. “Just like home, right? Driving the one-oh-one.”

Coughlin chuckled. “And now you’re a fucking cop. I’ve seen enough bad stuff, thank you very much. Give me music and give me girls. And the bartender likes me.”

“Not for me. I’d go up the walls,” Tom said. “Your girl, Carol, she was close to Josie?”

“Ah, can’t forget, the man’s got a job to do,” Coughlin muttered. “Josie … Carol will want to know what happened. She thought Josie got cold feet and went back home.” He looked away. “She was upset that Josie let her down. They’ve been friends since elementary school. Ballet and all that. Pavlovas in the bud.”

The office door was pushed open and banged against the wall. A shapely brunette in a flimsy pink robe strode in, followed by Matt. His smile was wide and bright. He didn’t look disappointed by show business anymore.

“What the hell, Danny!” the girl hollered, fists on hips. “You let goons in the dressing room now? Selling tickets? Classy joint, my ass!”

Tom stood up. “Please have a seat, Miss,” he said.

She swiveled on a high heel and squinted at him, head tilted. “Well, hello up there. We got ourselves a tall one. Hit your head on the rafters?” She jabbed a finger in Tom’s chest. “Now if you had come to the dressing room instead of Rocky Marciano there, we might have had a stimulating conversation. After I beat the other broads senseless, that is.”

“Carol! Stop it,” Coughlin snapped. “They’re cops.”

“Soooo? You wear a snappy blue uniform, honey?”

“Only when I can’t avoid it,” Tom said. “Please Miss, this is important.”

She sat down with a seductive pout, and crossed her long shapely legs in a strategic and practiced way. The silky robe opened and gave Tom a glimpse of skin and leopard print. Matt moaned comically in the back, and Coughlin slammed his desk drawer shut. It sounded like a shotgun report.

Tom’s patience only went so far. “Josie Stewart,” he said, more harshly than he intended. “The last time you saw her. When was that?”

“Josie?” Carol tried to look at Coughlin but Tom was blocking her line of sight. “What about her?”

“Carol …” Coughlin warned.

Tom waved a hand at him without looking back. “You keep quiet, Coughlin, or you’re out of here in handcuffs.”

Matt cleared his throat to emphasize the statement. Carol turned to him, taking in his solid presence at the door, hat brim pulled low. She sat straighter in the chair and gathered the folds of the robe, attentive now.

“When did you last see Josie Stewart, Carol?” Tom said.

She frowned, thinking. “Leaving the stage,” she said. “After the umbrella number. We all piled in the dressing room. I changed for my solo to go introduce Sandy.” She shook her head. “The dressing room was empty when I got back.”

“You didn’t see her leave?”

“No.” She hiked her shoulders. “I hoped she would stick around, but she was tired, I guess. It’s hard work out there when you’re not used to it.” She leaned to the side, trying to lock eyes with Coughlin, but Tom was still in the way. “What’s the deal with Josie, why are you asking? She chickened out, okay. Small town girl.” She sneered.

“When she didn’t show up the next day, you didn’t wonder?” Tom said.

“Wonder what? I went to her place and got no answer. She left, okay? Boohoo, poor baby blue. I thought she had more grit. I would never have pushed for her with Danny otherwise. I thought she had what it took, that she could swing it, okay? I was wrong.”

“What’s the address of that rental?”

Carol rattled it off. The place was five blocks away. Walkable, in a pinch. Had Josie been nabbed on the way? But what about the dress, where did she get it?

Tom pulled a sheaf of pictures from his pocket. He selected one that didn’t show the body, only the black dress. “Does this come from the costume rack, Carol?”

He dropped the photograph in her lap.

“Harold’s dress?” she said. “What the hell’s going on?”

*****

“A cab driver did it?” Gina said.

Tom was nursing his second cup of coffee. He sat in a booth this time. It was more private than the counter.

“Carol recognized the dress,” he said. “There was that cab driver, Harold. He was always hanging around the dancing joints, carrying this big box, chatting up the girls. He told a story. Might even have been true. How he found a box on the back seat of his taxi, one night, with that dress inside, gloves, and shoes. And he was on a quest to find the girl that the dress was made for. His Cinderella, he said. One day he would find her. The girls thought he was a bit of a nut, but inoffensive. A romantic with a bee in his bonnet. Sweet.”

“Sweet, my foot,” Gina said.

“There are no witnesses but Josie must have agreed to try on the dress,” Tom said. “It was a beautiful ball gown. What girl doesn’t want to look like a movie star for one night.”

“No other girl had tried it on before?” Gina said.

“Oh yeah, many did, but it didn’t fit, or it didn’t fit well enough to satisfy Harold. He was picky.”

“And it fit her perfectly,” Gina said. “My God. But why did he kill her? He found his Cinderella, shouldn’t he be the happiest clam on the beach?”

Tom waved at Rose, the girl behind the counter. “Can I have a piece of cherry pie, Rose?”

“What was wrong with him?” Gina said. “A big screw got loose?”

Harold Jenkins was a veteran, like Tom and Danny Coughlin. Apparently healthy, lawfully employed, a little odd. A loose screw, sure, who didn’t have one. It took a lot of screws to keep a man together. Tom could hear his own rattle at times.

“The girls didn’t take him seriously but they liked him,” he said. “And it doesn’t look like he tried anything with Josie. She didn’t have to fight him off.” He wasn’t going to describe the autopsy to Gina, not with a piece of pie in front of him. Josie hadn’t been assaulted. There wasn’t a scratch on her. Apart from the stabbing. “Maybe getting what he wanted threw him for a spin. What would his life be now? Nothing to aspire to, nothing to look forward to, no more dreams. The end of everything. It can be scary to look at emptiness.”

They were silent long enough for Tom to finish the pie. It was very good, freshly baked. He found a pit. He remembered his mom saying it was good luck—make a wish, Tommy.

“And then he killed himself,” Gina said. “What a damn stupid waste.”

She picked up Tom’s empty plate and coffee cup, and joined Rose behind the counter. People were streaming in from the bus depot.

An hour after leaving Carol and Danny Coughlin, Tom and Matt knew what cab company Harold Jenkins worked for and where he lived. A small house near Golden Gate Park. Getting a warrant for his arrest was a formality. When he didn’t answer the knock on the door, Matt kicked it in. They found him hanging from a beam in the attic.

The box that had contained the dress was open at his feet. There were a couple of black sequins in it.

*****

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