My Nic in Time

An offering to "

The 2021 "Hammered: an Ode to Mickey Spillane" Author Challenge

". If all the persons in this tale were not eighteen, there'd be Big Trouble.

===

She was the type of woman who stopped trains in their tracks.

Zelda had buzzed her in, with a brief "She's got a story, Dick," whispered comment on the intercom. I wasn't quick enough that morning to pick up on the sarcasm.

Her blonde hair was up, a pleasant oval face, sharp nose, but it was her classy, tightly-fitting silk blouse and skirt combination that caught my attention. Her legs went up to her armpits. The fabric of her white top seemed to be straining to hold in a couple of restless puppies, their snouts visibly poking at the thin cloth. I tried not to inhale.

I stood up and went around my desk to greet her, and she extended a hand, warm and firm. My heart melted like a Hersey bar in July.

"Mr. Mallet, thank you for taking time for me. I am Kira Thrupshot." Her accent was pronounced, sounded Russian.

"Please have a seat." I gestured to the old but comfortable leather chair that seemed to work for most of my clients.

"Can I offer you some coffee?"

"Thank you, but no." She seated herself carefully, back erect, holding her purse. I was impressed with the sort of cloth whose job it was to restrain such a chest.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Thrupshot?" The large diamond wedding ring on her left hand made this an easy deduction.

She paused for a moment, not long. It was clear she had thought about introducing her situation.

Her voice was velvety, breathless. "My husband. Jared Thrupshot. You perhaps have heard of him?"

Indeed. He occupied the upper tier of San Francisco society. Shipping magnate. An address in Pacific Heights. I had seen his picture at the Opera Opening night every fall in the Chronicle, standing next to Charlotte Mailliard or Dede Wilsey. Mid-fifties, trim, with a sly smile which was not smug, not cunning, but confident. Kira looked to be about twenty years younger.

"Yes. He owns Cunxmor shipping, right? Always some trouble with the union boys?"

Usually I didn't speculate, but this seemed like a good opening.

She shook her head with a rueful smile. "No, I wish it was something as simple as some longshoremen's grievances. Even if they'd crossed the line and were threatening me, my family, or my home."

"Jared and I have been married for six years. Until recently it has been marvelous." She paused.

"I come from Ukraine. While from a good family back there, I found entrance into San Francisco society intoxicating, sophisticated, culturally richer beyond anything I could imagine in the old country."

"Jared's business takes a good deal of his time, as one might expect, and I don't begrudge him that at all. But lately he has been more than a bit distracted."

She looked carefully at me. "I am not sure how much to tell you."

"Why don't you just start in. I'll ask questions when I need to."

She inclined her head. I tried hard not to imagine how Botticelli posed his muse.

"He often returns late from work, sometimes after ten or eleven. We used to eat dinner together at home at least four days a week. Now almost never. Our conversation is less ..." she stopped, searching for a word, "congenial than it used to be."

"Go on."

"He talks less about the company, less about almost everything. He is sometimes short with me in a way he never was previously."

"Do you think there are financial issues for him? Setbacks? Shipping competition from Oakland?" I offered what seemed to be possibilities for altered behavior.

"Perhaps, but I don't think that's the main thing. The profit goes up and down, that is the nature of the beast, and of course there are always setbacks of one sort or another."

She stopped to look at me. "I have been provided with a respectable amount of money to use as I please. The San Francisco Opera is the main beneficiary, and until recently I have had the reward of an easy social life. Although the amount allotted to me has been markedly reduced the last few months."

"You think he has another interest?" I framed my words carefully. "Besides you?"

Her hands held her purse more tightly. "That is my thought."

I relaxed but didn't show it. This was going to be simpler than I first figured.

"Any other signs? Smell of perfume when he gets home? Anything besides staying out late? Maybe not coming home at all? More business travel than usual?"

She hesitated and looked uncomfortable. "Nothing directly. But our times of intimacy have grown further apart."

I gestured with a hand. "That tends to happen over time in a marriage, I have seen it before."

"No, but in our case it has been a dramatic change."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Forgive me if this is too much to divulge, but from several times a week to maybe once or twice a month. All of sudden."

"How long ago since you noticed?" I kept my voice level.

"Maybe six months."

Looking at her, I could not imagine why any husband would neglect such a creature for even a day.

"What would you like me to do, Mrs. Thrupshot?"

"If you could check on his whereabouts after work, maybe even during working hours, who he is talking with, see what sorts of things might be distracting him, that would be helpful. It would make a difference if I knew he was off drinking or gambling somewhere, as opposed to visiting, some..."

She didn't finish her sentence, but I knew what she meant.

"Discreetly of course. It wouldn't help matters at all if he thought his faithful wife was having doubts about him."

"Of course. That's one of our first principles. I think we'll be able to do what you want."

"I don't want to tell you how to conduct your business, but I do have one request." She pursed her lips.

"Yes?"

"I imagine you might think it useful, at some point, to talk to Jared himself. Please don't. He knows who you are and even if he didn't, any such conversation would surely be troublesome, and might lead him to think I had some doubts about him, that sort of thing."

"Of course. Very well. I've got some other business at the moment, but give me a few weeks and I think I'll be able to give you a decent idea of where matters stand."

She looked grateful. She opened her purse and passed over two fifties.

"Will that serve as a suitable advance?"

"Sure, that's more than enough. I'll have Zelda give you a copy of our standard contract, completely confidential, and your signature is all it will take to have us go to work."

"Thank you Mr. Mallet. A pleasure meeting you."

"Please call me Dick."

"And likewise, for me, Kira."

Another firm handshake, my knees a bit weak as she left the office.

Zelda and I talked briefly afterward. She did not seemed pleased at the effect our client seemed to have produced on me, but she's always been one of those possessive types.

Zelda is tall, only a couple inches shorter than me, with long dark hair. Today she wore a long blue dress that suffered only slightly in comparison to Mrs. Thrupshot's outfit. Zelda is smart, perceptive, and luckily adaptable to all of my idiosyncrasies. She looked long at me with those soft, piercing eyes.

"I'll start straightaway on this one, kitten. I may need to have Elliot do some shadowing later, but I'd like to get the lay of the land first."

Always good to have a new client.

===

I had lunch at Tadich's that day, thinking about how to proceed. After the pork chops and potatoes, I spotted Elvin Melli over in his usual corner booth. He was alone, but the mussed napkins and the number of martini glasses still on the table indicated he had had company earlier, so after the check I wandered over.

"Dick, good to see you." Melli's eyes always sparkled. Especially after lunch. Especially after a lunch with more than one martini.

His gray suit was rumpled, normal for him. Only exception was in court, then he always looked pressed and professional. I always wondered when bigwig clients met him for the first time what they thought, but his reputation was solid enough it didn't matter what the book cover looked like.

"You have time for a little chat?"

Melli's eyes focused on mine. Bulbous nose, fleshy cheeks, but eyes that didn't miss a mosquito at fifty yards.

"Professional?"

"You could say that. More background than anything else. You know this town better than anyone."

"Do you want to talk here? Or in my office? I'm almost done and about to head off. No afternoon appointments until three."

"If you don't mind, that would be swell."

He signaled for the check and we walked the few blocks to his office.

We went up the front steps from Montgomery, up the elevator and into the offices of the Melli Law Firm.

He settled back into his swivel chair. Out his window you could see across the Bay into the Oakland hills. A long cargo ship was gliding slowly under the Bay Bridge.

"So what can I do for you, Dick?"

"Tell me about Thrupshot family."

"What do you want to know?"

"I know the broad brush. Shipping empire, well connected to both New York and the Orient, lot of stuff coming from Asia. Pacific Heights mansion, drives a Rolls. First wife died about ten years ago."

Melli's eyes followed me closely.

"Have you seen the second Mrs. Thrupshot?"

"I have."

Elvin let out a sigh. "She's something else. A lot of folks think she just married for money."

"You don't?"

He shook his head. "She did come out of nowhere and sure doesn't mind moving up in the world. She's pretty smart from what I gather, although she's usually happy enough to just hold onto his elbow and smile for the cameras."

"She involved in any of his business interests?"

Melli shook his head. "No, she's got her society connections. And raising the girl."

"Daria? Is that her name?"

"Yup. From his first marriage. Must be almost twenty by now. I don't think the two got on well at first, but Kira has been a determined stepmother."

He toyed with a pen. "Daria's a feisty one. Has tangled with her old man more than once. In public too."

"They okay now?"

"Far as I can tell, although she's a bit on the wild side. Second year at Cal."

He raised his eyebrows. "The girl's been quite enamored of the new scene."

"Like what I've heard about up in the Haight?"

He nodded. "The kids today are a strange crew, Dick. I'm older than you, but I can guess what sorts of mischief you got into growing up. These days? Its a different kettle of fish."

"Music, drinking, sex? A fistfight every once in awhile? All of that sounds fairly familiar."

Melli's eyes narrowed. "And drugs. Maybe you don't know so much about that."

"Drugs have been part of the music scene forever, Melli. We both know that. Show me a San Francisco jazzman who didn't indulge, and I'll sell you my boat slip in Sausalito."

"It's different, Dick."

"Harder stuff? Even the old guys did heroin."

"Different. Goes with the music. Wild. Rebellious. Some unpleasant overtones behind the main beat."

I left his office in better shape than when I arrived.

===

For the rest of the week I shadowed Thrupshot every night. It didn't take me too long to figure out his routine. Came down the stairs of his Front Street building where his office was, hailed a cab and went somewhere in North Beach for dinner. And a night with the boys, playing cards or dice, or just smoking and talking. Didn't look like anything alarming, never stayed out much later than eleven, then made his way home. The only piece out of the ordinary was the way he handled one specific bike messenger.

Courier service in the city has been done by bicycle probably since the first bike arrived on the docks. Delivery was fast and cheap, and any businessman was glad to know his invoice or contract would get hand delivered to a client in a matter of minutes, not hours. Pony Express for a big messy city.

This particular specimen of the trade was a small scruffy guy, wild looking, maybe early twenties, not wearing the uniform or insignia of the regular courier fellows. Two or three days a week he would be waiting for Thrupshot when the big man hit the street at the end of the day around four or five in the afternoon.

Thrupshot would give him a package or manila envelope, and the guy would tear off on his mission. It was odd, since the standard business routine meant the bike guys dealt with the mailroom or the shipping department, not the owner.

I made a note to follow him some day, just to see what was up.

But no sign of any wandering attention from Cunxmor's owner.

===

I was down at Pier Thirty on the waterfront one Thursday night, trying to get some sense of Thrupshot's labor climate, even though that didn't seem to have anything to do with things. The clouds had closed in low and the wind off the water was raw. Even the seagulls seemed peeved.

I had checked the ship arrival announcements in the Chron, and one of Thrupshot's had docked earlier that afternoon. Although I knew there wouldn't be any unloading done until the next day, I wanted to see about how the longshoremen were dealing with Thrupshot these days. I was dressed like a worker, dungarees and a work shirt and overcoat, an old wool cap pulled down low. I tried to look hungry.

A couple of rough looking guys were eyeing me when I walked by the pier's gates. Nobody would have mistaken them for kindergarten teachers.

"So you fellas know what the Drogisto is carrying?" I began, waving towards the ship. "Any chance of some extra work?"

The two exchanged a glance. "If you're in the union you know the deal, Mac," said the big guy. I thought the accent sounded Slavic. "Got your ILWU card?"

"Not with me, back at my boarding house. But if there's some work I might stop by tomorrow."

I continued. "I'm stuck in town, need a few extra bucks. I know Jenkins."

This got their attention. Dave Jenkins was a name any union man within five hundred miles knew.

"Maybe," the guy's tone changed a bit.

We chatted for long enough to make them think my interest was real.

"This is Thrupshot's ship, right? Looks like it's come up from Mexico?"

"Yeah, from Acapulco." The bigger guy was giving me a hard look again. "You a friend of Thrupshot's too?'

I snorted and offered them a smoke. They took me up and I lighted our cigs up.

"No one who's a friend of Dave is also a friend of Thrupshot," I said. This made them laugh.

I couldn't get any more info. If I wanted more, I'd have to go through with the charade of signing up the next day, which I wasn't inclined to do.

"Thanks fellas." I gave a wave.

"Didn't catch your name," the big guy said. I didn't like the way he looked at me.

"O'Leary. Dave might know me by my nickname, 'Trouble.'" The other guy laughed.

"Right. Fair enough."

We shook and I was off.

Just as I was about to get in my car I saw the scruffy bike messenger guy careen by on his bike and pull up next to the gate to the pier, where they had a guy checking IDs, maybe union documents, before anyone could get close to the ship. They talked briefly, and Mr. Bicycle went through.

About ten minutes later he came out with a package, threw it in his front basket and peeled off

Was he working for Thrupshot or himself? Or someone else?

I hopped in the heap and followed him. He went north along the waterfront but took a sneaky left down Market Street, weaving in and out of traffic. He was faster than me, but I managed to keep up until he turned right way down on Haight Street. It was easier to follow then, and he had the hill to climb after all.

He rode up almost to Divisadero, when he pulled off the pavement, hauled his bike up a flight of stairs and entered an old blue Victorian, not in very good shape. Peeling paint, covered windows. He disappeared and I made note of the address, 858 Haight Street.

I waited about an hour but it looked like he wasn't coming out again.

===

Next day Zelda greeted me when I got to the office around eleven.

"So, anything new?"

Zelda's eyebrows moved up and down like a couple pinball paddles. Her long rose colored skirt was snug on a pair of hips that could cause traffic accidents. Her long dark hair was loose, her eyes probing. She's been driving me crazy the five years she had been working with me. She hated it when she thought I was playing coy with a case.

"I had a productive morning down at Main. Went through the library's news files, the Chron and the Examiner. Mr. and Mrs. Thrupshot tied the knot back in 1961. She is the former Miss Kira Slutsanova, apparently from a prosperous family in Kiev. The wedding section didn't say how she managed to get away to the US, but everyone you could ever want was at the wedding. Charlotte Mailliard, Herb Caen, the Gettys."

"It appears she expends most of her time and energy on the Opera, fundraising, a leading member of the Friends of the Opera group. Mr. Thrupshot himself, usually, but not always, attends Opening night for the gala photo-op scene, but rarely after that."

"Couple other things. Overheard some gossip the other day at Tadich's about Thrupshot. Looks like Cunxmor's has had some financial difficulties lately. I have a few money questions I want to see if I can get answered down at Bank of America.

Zelda sat on the corner of my desk while I put my overcoat on the rack by the door. The way her hips pushed out against her skirt would have made the Cheshire Cat smile.

I picked up the phone. DAvenport 3-4974 I dialed.

"Hi Sheila, Dick here. Sorry to trouble you. Have a second for an old friend? ... Look, I need a little info on Jared Thrupshot's personal account. ... No I don't have any authorization, just asking as a favor. ... Current balance, any recent unusual activity, as in the last year. ... No, I know you can't divulge names on checks or anything, I just am interested in his account. ... Excellent, that'd be super. You're a sweetheart. ... Right, bye."

Zelda looked at me closely and the notes I had jotted down. The white blouse she wore today had trouble holding everything in place. Her breasts would have made a field of cantaloupes jealous.

"They're not supposed to give that kind of info out, Dick. You'll never be able to use it for evidence."

"Right kid, I just have a hunch and wanted to know. Sheila's benefited enough from us over time that she can take a peek without any trouble. BA isn't going to be worried over that."

I looked over at Zelda and said, "Some funny money going in and out."

===

One of the nights after I followed Thrupshot home around eleven, I lingered for a bit in my car down the street from his mansion on Jackson Street. The houses here were immense, immaculate, all the top floors would have stunning views out north towards the Golden Gate. I couldn't imagine what living in that sort of splendor would be like.

A green British roadster, an MG, pulled up in front of Thrupshot's place, and a young woman parked and got out. She was tall, willowy, handsome by any standard. When she went up the stone steps and in the front door I figured it had to be Daria.

The next morning I threw some eggs in the pan and had two cups of coffee before going to the office.

Zelda looked up from her desk.

"So, kitten, I am going to have to go down to Fresno on the Collins thing. Let's have Elliot do the honors on Thrupshot for a few days until I get back and see what we find out. You may want to have him take a look at this bicycle messenger guy too. I think something is up there."

Elliot was one of those free spirits who more often than not was a handy ace in my back pocket. His work ethic was unparticular, he did odd jobs here and there in town, construction, small boat repair, but more important, he had a face and a persona that could blend into any crowd, become invisible in this crazy city here. Even more important, he'd been with me in Manila and Saipan. If I needed a pair of eyes, or some extra muscle, he was there for me and was always happy for some different side work.