Le Bon Vivant was right in the center of Skid Row. A well-kept, brick two-story rising up off the street. Maddy had started the place with nothing but two other girls and a case of cheap champagne back when internment had cleared out the neighborhood and things were going cheap. Six years on, the place was an institution. A fixture of the community. Like the Shriners, or the post office. ‘Round the clock, guys came by to get a little time with the cuckoos working upstairs, while other fellas popped corks in the beaded, red-draped whirlpool of the bar below. Maddy was always in the thick of things. Leading from the front. Table to table. Wink to smile. A font of gossip and jokes and double entendre. Back when Buck had first known her, she’d been Madison Irving of Troutdale. But her pretensions had since emigrated. Now, far as anyone knew, she was Madeline Le Blanc of Toulouse—a canny entrepreneur who’d smuggled her continental charms out of Vichy and over to the City of Roses. And it had to be said that the Madame had acclimated quite well. Her English was phenomenal, if strangely accented, while—out of red-blooded, Yankee-doodle fervor for her newfound home—she kept her French to the occasional bon mots, and to the curation of the atmosphere. There were French wines on offer, French cheeses, French music, French chairs and paintings and light fixtures. All of which spoke fluently enough on her behalf to fool the wanna-be sophisticates with neither the dough nor the sense to take their Francophilia someplace private. As it was, Bon’s was among Buck’s first stops whenever somebody’d lost a husband or a brother, son, father, uncle, cousin, friend, mechanic, lawyer, pharmacist, partner, or priest. Maddy didn’t mind the occasional walkthrough though, long as she got a piece. He liked her. She liked him. They had history. Long history. They respected each other—professional to professional.

“The fuck you doing here, Bordell?” she asked, taking him by the arm with a gracefully coercive motion the moment he stepped through the door, “You should have called. I got a councilman upstairs.” 

“Which one?” 

“Never you mind which one. You really should have called.” 

“Was in the neighborhood. Since I’m here, can I snag you for a minute?” 

She snorted contemptuously. “I wish it ever were that long with you. You do take advantage of one’s noblesse oblige.” 

“Nice one. Been taking classes?” 

“Shut up, Buck.”

“OK.”

“Come on.” She dragged him into the bar and through to her office. She was wearing a red Foyle dress with white cuffs, and had her black hair done up in the most triumphant victory rolls he’d seen since VJ Day. Crimson lipstick. Considerable wedges. She crossed carpet the way scissors cross paper, and if the hangdog looks nipping at her heels were anything to go off, a couple of the barflies were hopelessly in love with her.

Most stayed quiet. But a few were bold, drunk, and bolder still. 

“Maddy! Maddy, where’d you go just now? Come have a drink with me!” one of the slack-jaws sputtered as she passed. 

“Buy something worth drinking, Hughey, and peut-etre,” she answered lightly. 

Another, “I got the brandy, Maddy! You like the brandy, don’t ya?” 

“Bien sur, gentlemen, bien sur, I will be back soon, but I’ve got some business at the moment,” she patted Buck’s arm. 

Howls. Lamentations. The shaking of the walls and tearing of collars. 

“You’re one lucky son of a bitch, mister!” 

“Ditch the stiff, Maddy, come on!” 

“It’s the good brandy! Come on! Maddy! Come on!” 

The door shut behind them. Maddy’s office was small and orderly. There was an impressively ornate desk with laid out, ready envelopes, and little bouquets of cash set besides—fresh plucked. Mean streaks of sunlight came in from an east-facing window. Against the opposite wall, finishing a plate of biscuits, was Charlemagne, the biggest bear of a body man Buck had ever seen, presently licking the honey off his paws.

“Charlie,” Buck said with a tilt of his hat. 

Charlemagne sucked at a finger. Then another. Then took a long breath, set the plate aside, and nodded, “Buck.” 

Maddy threw herself behind the desk, “Charlie, dear, can you go and see that Hughey finds his way out the door in about five minutes? There’s hot air enough already.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“And Emma said one of those starched boys in the back booth tried to short her last time, talk to him, would ya?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

She lit a cigarette, “And when you’re done with all that, if Buck here is still kicking around, skip the nice stuff and just throw him out.”  

“Yes, ma’am,” the big man said for a third time but with fresh relish. 

Maddy smiled, “Thanks, Charlie. That’s all of it.” The big man stood and once he’d lumbered out the room, she continued, “Now, Buck, to what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Hoping to talk to one of your girls.” 

“Usually, a guy pays for something like that.” 

“I’m a friend to the worker, Maddy, I don’t mind paying long as it’s by the minute, not the hour.” 

“Standard rate?”  

“Fair enough.”

She flicked some ash into a clam-shaped tray, “Let me guess, it’s about this guy Thompson, isn’t it?”

Huh.

“Thomayer,” he corrected.  

“Whatever.”

“Been reading the paper then?” 

She scoffed, “‘Course I read the papers. But you’re sucking hind on this one, Buck; some Japanese beat you to it. He came by an hour ago and caused a scene, so Charlemagne saw him out. He was upsetting the girls, the customers. It happens. Every once in a while, we still get a couple of them coming around here and acting like we owe them something—like it wasn’t them who shot first. The nerve of it. Some of my girls were sweet on boys who sailed off and never came back too. I got a business to run, Buck. Girls to look after. It’s a touchy subject.” 

He nodded unenthusiastically, “Seems like it. What was his name?” 

“Who? The Jap?” 

“Yah.” 

“Don’t know.” 

“Was it Takahashi?” 

“You deaf or something? I said I don’t know. Go ask him yourself, he was still out there last time I checked, leaning on a light post. What is it with these people and surprise attacks, you think?” 

Buck went to the window. The street was bustling. “Where?” 

“You’re the detective. Figure it out.” 

“OK. Hold on.” 

“Damnit, Buck, I was jok—” but Buck lost the rest as he hurried out to the street. Now was his chance to catch Takahashi and get the list off him. Then he could cut the bastard out altogether. He could handle Whitmore; could talk his way into the full bonus. It wasn’t personal, he just couldn’t have some asshole getting underfoot. Getting in the way. Cocking things up. Wasn’t how he did things. 

Takahashi wasn’t hard to find. All Buck had to do was follow the stares far as the streetcorner, where the kid stood lock-legged, with a paper-cutter mustache, the smile of a grocer’s boy, and the eyes of a truant officer. He was twenty-four at the oldest, done up in duds typical for the neighborhood—the same ole’ jacket, suspenders, and flat cap hanging off every other Joe Nobody—but since internment a Japanese fella stuck out down here whatever he wore. Buck went straight over, hands in his pockets, sidling up, grinning big and broad and stupid, “Name’s Frank, ain’t it? Frank Takahashi?” he asked. 

The kid paused. Looked around. Smiled back politely. “Do I know you?” 

“No, but we got a friend in common. A Mrs. Doreen Whitmore.” He stuck out his hand, “Name’s Buck—Buck Bordell—how are ya?”

“Oh, right. Nice to meet you.” Cautiously, he shook, “Mrs. Whitmore told me you’d be in touch.”

“She did, huh?” 

“Yah, she called this morning.” 

“Well, good. Good-good.” 

Another pause.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“Great minds, kid. Natural place to start, ain’t it? Speaking of, I hear you got thrown out of Bon’s already. Hell of a thing when a guy can’t even find welcome in a cathouse, ya know? Hell of a thing; hell of a world. What’d ya make a scene or something?”

“It was them causing the scene.” 

“Maddy says otherwise.” 

“Is she the madam?” 

“The owner.” 

Kid shrugged, cheery little kick to his voice, “Well, she’s lying. I just asked a question, and she started in on me.” 

“Don’t take it personally. Maddy can be a bit territorial, that’s all.”

“Territorial,” Frank repeated philosophically, “That’s rich.” 

“Is it?” Buck asked, reaching for his cigs and sewing up the smile tearing ‘cross his face with a fresh-lit little needle, “You can’t be too surprised she took that kinda talk poorly.”  

“I didn’t say that to her, of course.” 

“Smart.” He took a drag, “But you went in guns blazing, huh? Asking about Thomayer, and all that? What’d she say?”

“Other than calling me a ‘Jap?’”

“Yah, other than that.”

“Nothing really. She just sicced the big guy on me. What’d ya make him? Six-four? Six-five?”

“Don’t know.” 

“Six-five, I bet.” 

“Well, don’t take all that too personal either—getting thrown out by Charlemagne’s a rite of passage.”  

Cheery, “If you say so.” 

“And I do. Smoke?” Buck offered. The kid passed, but Buck lent him some anyway via a long and level exhale. He was generous like that, “So… me and you, huh? Paired up. You do much of this sorta thing before?”

“Lots in the army.”

“They got PIs in the army?” 

“No, I mean the being part of a unit; a squad—that part.”

“Well how ‘bout the PI part?”   

“Nope.”  

“Yah, me neither.” 

“But if it’s what the lady wants, I suppose we best figure it out. That’s the job.”

“Took the words right outa my mouth, kid,” Buck said, plugging up another smirk. And then, after a spongy, blue-thin minute, ventured, “Still… the specifics might be tricky.”

“You think?”  

“Well, there’s two schools of thought, isn’t there? There’s the divide and conquer approach—which maybe you’ll be partial to, given your army experience—and then there’s the option that we treat this case like some kinda three-legged footrace and spend the whole time tripping up on one another, which doesn’t seem ideal.”

“I think Mrs. Whitmore envisioned us sticking together.” 

“Sure. OK. But joined at the hip? If you try getting back into Bons, you’re just gonna get chucked out on your ass again.” 

“You and the madam are friends; you can vouch for me.” 

“Fat fucking chance. I don’t got that kinda pull. Nobody does.”

The kid was practical enough to agree, but Buck could tell the implication irked him. Ego’s a tricky thing when it comes to bird-dogging—a fella needs some piss to go with his vinegar; some animating enmity—but this ain’t the business for preening, self-satisfied little pricks who think the world gives a hot damn about a shaking finger. No, a fella’s gotta take it as it comes and give it back into the ribs; gotta know when to bite and when to chew. 

“What’d ya say, kid? Daylight’s burning.” 

“Yah, sure, why not? Go ahead. I’ll wait.”  

“There we go.” 

“Do you need a pen?” 

“What?” 

“A pen. Do you need one?” 

“What the hell for?” 

“For the notes you’re going to take.”  

“I ain’t taking notes.” 

“What if you forget something?” 

“Then I forget.” 

“What if it’s important?” 

“Then I won’t.” 

Kid cocked his head, scratching at the side of his mouth, “Gotta say, friend, that doesn’t make as much sense to me as it might to you.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ll pan your nuggets for ya and leave the rest. Trust me, most the time, more’s just more.”

“Not sure I agree on that count either.” 

“Well take it ‘round the corner. Maddy can see ya standing here and it’s winding her up.” 

“Fella can stand where he likes, can’t he?” 

There was that pride of his, cracking out and sizzling on the sidewalk. Buck smiled and flicked a salute into his hat brim, “Suit yourself.”