In a Spider’s Web Read online

  In a Spider’s Web

  a Jimmy “Soldier” Riley Story

  By Michael Lister

  Our office on Harrison Avenue in downtown Panama City was a walk-up, so I knew the man was enormous before I ever laid eyes on him—his slow movements, creaking joints, and the accompanying pained grunts of my stairs, clues that would have led a child to the same conclusion.

  He opened the door, filling its frame and gasping for breath, removed his Stetson, wiped his huge head with a silk handkerchief, and bowed. I wasn’t sure of the appropriate response to a bow, so I played it safe and did nothing. He then, with the help of his cane, crossed the room, presented me with his card, and fell back into one of my client chairs, which creaked in protest but didn’t collapse like I had expected.

  The card read: Truman Jackson Weller, Esquire.

  I studied it longer than I normally would have to give him some extra time to find any hidden oxygen in the room, then stood and opened the window behind my desk to let some air in so I could keep breathing myself. The December air that drifted in was cool, but not cold.

  The Fords, Packards, and Pontiacs on the street below moved slowly, crowded by pedestrians, while the people on the sidewalks bustled about, spilling out of the Tennessee House, lining up in front of the Ritz Theater, exiting the Ford dealership across the way. Beneath the Texaco star on the other side of the street, the horn of a bright red B-44 Oldsmobile honked incessantly.

  Since we entered the war, Panama City had nearly tripled in size. It wasn’t the same town it used to be, and never would be again. Between Tyndall Field, Wainwright Shipyard, and the Naval Section Base there was plenty of activity and money and, inevitably, crime.

  It was dusk, and beneath the last of the gray light showing above the buildings, the dark street below was illuminated by a sparse smattering of streetlamps, the flickering bulbs of shops, the passing cars, and the colorful Christmas lights strewn about.

  I wondered if she were among the throng of people on Harrison. Where was she right now? Who was she with and what was she doing? I looked for her in the crowd, as I always did, wondering how long it would be before I saw her again. Lauren Lewis and I were no longer lovers, but she haunted me just as much as she ever did, maybe more. Thinking of her made my missing arm hurt, which I found perversely comforting.

  Might I have a glass of water?” Truman Jackson Weller, Esquire, asked, dabbing at his face with his handkerchief.

  “Whiskey’s all I’ve got,” I said.

  “How judicious of you,” he said.

  “I think so.”

  I sat back down and opened my bottom left desk drawer. Withdrawing the least dirty of the glasses, then a bottle of Seagrams Five Crown, a gift from a client, I unscrewed the cap, then poured him a couple of fingers, sat the bottle on the desk, and handed him the glass—even the simplest tasks taking twice as long these days.

  Before I could return the bottle to the drawer, he had wiped the top of the glass with his handkerchief, knocked back the whiskey, and was handing me his glass in obvious hope of another.

  “By God, that’s good,” he said.

  “Beats hell out of water,” I agreed.

  This time I put the bottle up before I handed him the refilled glass.

  While I waited for him to finish his drink, I took out a crumpled Old Gold pack and shook out the last cigarette it held and lit it with a match. After finishing his drink, he removed a pristine pack of Fleetwoods from his coat pocket and lit one with an engraved gold lighter.

  “You must be Mr. James Riley,” he said.

  “Jimmy,” I said. “Yeah.”

  “You’re too young to be Mr. Parker.”

  Ray Parker was my partner—well, actually this was his agency. I started working for him when I lost my arm and left the force.

  “I do not wish to give offense, sir, but I had hoped to speak with Mr. Parker.”

  His speech was far more formal than most of the folks around here, and his perfectly pressed suit and his often withdrawn handkerchief would have let me know I was dealing with a fastidious man even if his prim manner had not.

  “No offense taken,” I said. “Most people want to talk to the legendary Ray Parker instead of the one-armed kid who works for him, but—”

  “I have offended you,” he said. “Please accept my apology. I didn’t mean to. It has nothing to do with your abilities. I know what you did, how you became a local hero of a sort. It’s just that I heard that Mr. Parker—”

  “Used to work for the Pinkertons?” I offered.

  “—is, ah, a real straight arrow.”

  I smiled. Ray was certainly that.

  “My client thinks his wife is cheating on him, and . . .”

  This, like most things, made me think of Lauren, and I wondered if her husband had ever had a similar conversation with a PI when we were together.

  “You’re an attorney here in town?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “I thought I knew ’em all.”

  “I’m from Miami,” he said. “I recently relocated here, and I only have one client.”

  I nodded and considered him. I had never met an attorney with only one client, and didn’t think Panama City had one.

  “I have a very delicate matter involving a very dangerous woman and I’m afraid a handsome young man like yourself would be just the type to be drawn into her web.”

  “I know how to be delicate and discreet,” I said. “Ray’s taught me nearly everything he knows. And as far as dames go, I’m impervious.”

  I thought “dames” might be a bit much, but that “impervious” made up for it.

  “You say that,” he said, “and I have no reason to doubt you, but this woman . . . she is not like other women.”

  “She could be Lana Turner and it wouldn’t matter,” I said.

  I wanted this job. I wanted to handle a case while Ray was away. I wanted to really contribute to the agency.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I just can’t take any chances.”

  “Ray’s out of town on a case. If it has to be him, you’ll have to wait a while.”

  “How long?”

  “Can’t say exactly, but a while.”

  “Well, sir, I guess I climbed up those wretched stairs for nothing,” he said. “Thank you for your time.”

  He began to rise, pushing his enormous girth up with the help of the arms of the chair. I waited, expecting them to snap, but they didn’t.

  “We’re the only agency in town,” I said.

  “I realize that, sir, but I’m forced to wait for the return of your partner or to hire an outside agency to come in.”

  I knew if I wanted this job, wanted to prove my worth to Ray, I was going to have to tell him. I hadn’t told anyone—not even Ray—and I wasn’t sure I could, but if I wanted this chance I was going to have to.

  “I really am immune to women,” I said. “A woman I used to know made good and damn sure of that.”

  A huge smile on his fat face quickly turned to laughter. From deep within, a laughter that shook his enormous gut rose out of him in genuine amusement.

  “By God you’re entertaining, sir,” he said. “But in my experience the only men who are immune to women are dead. If I may be so crude, not even a, ah, shall we say queer sort of fellow would be immune to the wiles of this woman. And you, sir, are neither dead or . . . the, ah, other thing.”

  “I’m half dead.”

  He laughed again. “I admire your persistence, sir. Really I do. But—”

  “You know the incident that caused this?” I asked, pointing to my missing right arm with my left.

  “I read about it in the paper, sir,” he said. “Very heroic. Very heroic indeed.”


  I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “My arm wasn’t the only part of me that was injured.”

  His eyebrows shot up. He was a smart man and a discerning one. I wouldn’t have to say anything else about it.

  “Well, sir,” he said, “in that case you might just be the perfect man for the job.”

  “My client thinks his wife is cheating on him,” Truman Jackson Weller, Esquire, said.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “That if that sort of thing bothered him, he should have taken greater care in choosing a wife.”

  I smiled and nodded.

  We were in the rooftop garden of the eight-story Dixie-Sherman Hotel, high enough to have the best view of the gulf and the bay and to make the city below look sleepy and peaceful. From a Seeburg Hi Tone Symphonola in the corner, the Mills Brothers were singing “Paper Doll.”

  “This bother you?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “A lot of PIs won’t do divorce work,” he said.

  “I’m not one of them.”

  He smiled as if that told him something about me, his fat cheeks pressing up to nearly close his eyes.

  Sitting at the corner of Jenks and Fifth Street, and the only high-rise around, the Dixie-Sherman was built in 1925 by W. C. Sherman. When it opened in 1926 many locals referred to it as the “white elephant” downtown, but upon hearing their charge that it was “too much hotel” for the area, Sherman replied, “I’m not building for today, but helping to build a thriving city.” The sleeping rooms numbered one hundred and one, and each came with a bathroom, a telephone, and elegant furniture—and started at three dollars.

  “Who is this client?” I asked.

  “A very dangerous man,” he said.

  “You know a lot of dangerous people?”

  “Comes with the territory. Do criminal work, you’re going to spend a lot of time with criminals.”

  “Lot of criminals aren’t dangerous,” I said.

  “True. Very true, but I assure you this one is. It’s not too late to withdraw from this case.”

  Over the years, the Dixie-Sherman attracted many celebrities. Beatrice Houdini stayed here in ’37 while on tour looking for the ghost of her husband, Harry. Tonight, it was Clark Gable, who was finishing up gunnery school at Tyndall Field. A small note in the personals of today’s News Herald had alerted people to the actor’s presence, and the place was even more crowded than usual with young dancers looking for a good time—and a glimpse at “the king.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Mickey Adams.”

  He was right. I only knew of Mickey Adams by reputation, but that was enough to know that he was in fact a very dangerous man, the kind who enjoyed inflicting pain on others. What kind of woman would be with him? I had to find out.

  “He’s a very proud man, sir,” he said, “quick to take offense, quick to retaliate in the most severe manner over perceived insults of the merest order.”

  “I’m in. When do I start?”

  “How about tonight?” he asked. “She should be here any time now.”

  “How will I know her?”

  “Easy. She’ll be the most alluring young woman to grace this place tonight. But don’t let her delicate looks and desirability deceive you. She’s dangerous and deadly. Watch yourself or you’ll be dangling by a spider’s thread.”

  It wasn’t that Angel Adams was beautiful or even seductive, though she was certainly those. It was that she so closely resembled Lauren Lewis that made it impossible for me to take my eyes off her from the moment she stepped out onto the rooftop garden.

  She had Lauren’s silky brown hair, her long, elegant neck, her dark brown eyes, her flawless olive skin. Perhaps a little taller than Lauren, and maybe a bit heavier, though still slender, Marie Adams, who everyone called Angel, looked to be a looser, more relaxed version of the person who, for me, would always be the woman.

  Of all the women in all the world, why did she have to remind me of Lauren?

  For a while, every woman reminded me of Lauren, but lately all I had been able to observe was how unlike her every other woman was.

  Even in the crowded room, where most people were dancing and everyone was eagerly awaiting the arrival of Clark Gable, all of the guys and many of the girls watched Mrs. Adams. She was something to see, graceful, elegant, uninhibited—a girl who seemed oblivious to her beauty and knew how to have a good time.

  I tried several times, but I couldn’t avert my eyes. It was by far the worst surveillance I had ever done, and I was glad Ray wasn’t here to see me, but I couldn’t help myself and I couldn’t care.

  Watching Angel caused something to happen in me, something I didn’t think was possible, a stirring, and I wondered if what I was feeling was a phantom sensation or the first, faint flutterings of hope.

  Before long she became aware of my unwavering gaze, eventually we locked eyes, and soon she was walking toward me.

  “Wanna dance, soldier?” she asked.

  “I can only hold you with one arm,” I said.

  “Well then, hold on tight.”

  Without any tentativeness or gentleness, she grabbed the shoulder of my missing arm firmly, caressing it the way she would if no part of it were missing.

  Our bodies pressed against each other, we swayed around the dance floor to “Speak Low,” our mouths near one another’s ears. She was so soft, smelled so good—not unlike Lauren did, or how I now remembered. The sensation down below from before persisted and intensified, and I thought I might actually care.

  “How’d you lose your arm, soldier?” she asked.

  So many people, women especially, avoided my missing arm—with their eyes, hands, and words. It was refreshing to have someone be so direct about it.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “Did you kill the Jap bastard who took it from you?”

  Most everyone called them Japs, but few women I knew used the word “bastard,” and I found it edgy and endearing, as if what had been done to me warranted its use.

  I shook my head. “It happened here. I was a cop at the time.”

  “I just assumed—”

  “Everybody does,” I said. “I never served. Never got the chance.”

  All around us, other young people moved about, their expressions saying they had left the troubles of the war and the world eight stories down below. Many of the boys were in naval and air force uniforms. Those who weren’t wore Palm Beach suits or Wilson Brothers shirts and slacks, the girls they held tightly in colorful Carole King dresses or Jantzen outfits.

  “Were you very brave?” she asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, I bet you were,” she said. “You can be scared and still be brave.”

  “I think it’s the only time you can be brave.”

  “Whatta you mean?”

  “Isn’t bravery acting in spite of fear?”

  “And you weren’t afraid?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t care,” I said.

  “About?”

  “Anything.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s an even longer story.”

  “It involves a woman, doesn’t it?”

  “Doesn’t it always?”

  I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “Pardon me, kind sir, but this lovely lady promised me a dance a few minutes ago,” Clark Gable said.

  All eyes in the garden were on him, several couples had stopped dancing, and a group of swooning girls stood just behind him.

  I turned back toward Lauren—I mean Angel. “Is that true?”

  “Was before I met you,” she said. “Now I’m not sure what’s true.” I think the lady wants to keep dancing with me,” I said. “Why don’t you pick one of the girls behind you before they pass out?”

  “Because she promised me,” he said. “And I intend—”

  “Listen, thickness, I told you—”
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  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Frankly, I don’t give a damn who you are,” I said. “The lady’s not available.”

  “It’s okay, soldier,” she said. “I’ll dance with him.”

  Releasing her with my one hand, I walked away and didn’t look back.

  Taking the elevator to the ballroom on the second floor, I got another drink and watched the couples pretending to be happy, or at least temporarily thinking they were, for as long as I could stand it. I then waited in the lobby for her to come down. A couple of hours later when she did, I followed her, and I wasn’t the only one. She had apparently attracted some fool from the Wainwright Shipyard with money in his pocket and an inability to take a hint.

  They walked up Fifth Street to Grace, then down to a bar on Fourth. He was obviously drunk. She didn’t seem to be. I was somewhere in between, but it was still the easiest tail I ever did. They never even looked back.

  Nick’s is a small, dark bar that serves hard liquor and a lot of it. It has a Wurlitzer jukebox with fluorescent lighting, a small dance floor, and a couple of pool tables in a room in the back.

  I was sitting at the bar nursing a tall-neck bottle of Schlitz, staring into the large mirror on the wall behind the bar. In the mirror, I could see a few couples dancing in front of the jukebox, the colorful lights of its pipes and grille panels flashing on their faces. Beyond them in the back room, Angel Adams was sitting on the edge of one of the pool tables, legs crossed, sipping a martini, while two men shot pool on the other one and the bucks-up Wainwright employee chatted incessantly in her ear.

  “Nice view, huh?” the bartender asked, placing another bottle of Schlitz on the bar in front of me.

  I could tell from the way his eyes widened and his mouth smirked he was talking about Angel.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “She’s sweet, too,” he said, “but sad and lonely, and mixed up with the wrong man.”

  “Her kind always are,” I said.

  A perky brunette in a blue polka-dotted dress plopped down on the stool next to me.

  “What’ll you have?” the bartender asked her.

  “Gin Collins,” she said.

  As he moved off to fix her drink, she pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes out of her small purse, placed one between her lips, and leaned toward me.