The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

“Tit for—” Mr. Diamond laughed harshly. He pulled on his cigarette, frowning, and began processing what Leona Ruth had said. “That blonde—you’re tellin’ me that you know where she is?”


“I’m tellin’ you that I might know,” Leona Ruth said demurely. “And I might be willin’ to tell you what I know. But you have to tell me something first.” She paused for emphasis. “What’s she wanted for?”

“Wanted for?” Mr. Diamond repeated. If he understood, Bessie thought, he was pretending not to. Or maybe he wasn’t quite as smart as he wanted people to think. Maybe he was the kind of man who relied on brawn instead of brains. She looked again, and saw the bulge under the back of his coat. She shivered. It had to be a gun.

Leona Ruth, however, couldn’t see the bulge. She wasn’t fazed by the man’s response, either. She arched her eyebrows, tilted her chin, and giggled like a gaga schoolgirl with a crush.

“Well, o’ course, Mr. Gold, I understand that you cain’t tell me everything, since you’re carryin’ out this investigation incognito and undercover, which is just naturally right. But I ain’t askin’ for much, really.” She held up her gloved thumb and forefinger, measuring a small amount. “Just one teensy-weensy little hint about—”

“Undercover?” Mr. Diamond’s eyes narrowed. He threw his cigarette on the dirt and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. “Lady, are you tryin’ to pull a fast one? You tryin’ to muscle in on—”

“Perfect!” Leona Ruth trilled happily and clapped her hands. “Why, you sound exactly like one of those Chicago gangsters—Bugs Moran and Al Capone and all those other thugs! Y’see, Mr. Gold, we’re not as rural down here in South Alabama as you might think. There has been a radio in my house since right after the Great War, when the late Mr. Adcock insisted on buyin’ one so we could be informed about what was goin’ on. ‘Miz Adcock,’ he said, ‘we need to know what’s happenin’ out there in the world, so we are buyin’ a radio,’ which was exactly what he did, an RCA batt’ry-powered receiver in a mahogany case, and it has worked perfectly ever since.” She pulled herself up importantly, looking down her nose. “And in addition to the radio, we have a first-class weekly newspaper—it comes out on Fridays—and Mr. Greer at the Palace Theater shows a newsreel before every movie feature. We may live in a small town, but we keep up with the times.”

Mr. Diamond was staring at her, shaking his head as if he did not quite believe what he was hearing. Bessie understood his confusion. Leona Ruth often had that effect on people.

“Lady,” he growled, now almost plaintively, “will you pu-leez just get to the point? Where is that blonde?”

“Not so fast, Mr. Gold.” Leona Ruth became brisk. “The point is that I know who you are, and I am eager to do my patriotic duty as a citizen to help you capture the criminal you are lookin’ for. All I ask in return is a tidbit of inside information. I am sure that Mr. Hoover wouldn’t mind in the slightest if one of his government agents gave just a teeny tiny hint to a valuable informant.” She smiled meaningfully and repeated the phrase, with emphasis. “A valuable informant.”

“Mr. . . . Hoover?”

“Mr. J. Edgar Hoover, of course.” Leona Ruth tittered. “You didn’t think I was talkin’ about the president of the United States, did you? Just a tidbit of information,” she cajoled. “What’s she done? What’s she wanted for?”

There was a moment’s silence while Mr. Diamond, knitting his brows, worked through all of this. Bessie had just come to the conclusion that the man really was a thickheaded dimwit when he smiled, snatched off his hat, and took Leona Ruth’s gloved hand in one pudgy paw.

“Okay. Okay. Now I gotcha. Yes, ma’am. Sure thing. Now I unnerstand.” He dropped Leona Ruth’s hand. “You wanna deal. Well, I don’t think Mr. J. Edgar Hoover back in Washington, D.C., would be too mad at me if I told you that the broad in question—the blonde—is wanted by the police in Cicero, Illinois. She shot Salvatorio Raggio.”

“Shot!” Leona Ruth’s eyes widened and she fell back a step, her nostrils quivering. “You mean, she’s a . . . a murderess? I was at the Beauty Bower, gettin’ shampooed and set in the comp’ny of a murderess?”

Mr. Diamond said through his teeth, “You got it, ma’am. What’s more, she shot Sal Raggio with a Remington 51 that was give to her by one of Al Capone’s gang members.”

Leona Ruth’s hand went to her mouth. “Al Capone!” she squeaked. “Did you say Al . . . Capone, Mr. Gold?”