Castle Murders

Eleven Necropolis

It was dark in the alley behind the Pelican Club, a single bare bulb glowing above the back door of the oriental restaurant next door. Kitchen fans blew food smells to blend with the reek of garbage. A rat skittered across the broken concrete of the pavement, stopped to sniff at an oily puddle, moved on.

Carney and Velma waited in the shadows, her hand on his arm. He was in topcoat and hat, she hatless in a dark seal coat. It was chilly, but there was no wind.

A car made the turn into the alley and approached. It was a long cream-colored sedan with flaring fenders, a continental kit on the driver's side, white tires, and a big front grille of gleaming chrome. The radiator cap was topped with a winged Nike.

The car pulled up behind the nightclub. Montanaro was at the wheel. Carney ushered Velma into the front seat and got in, closed the door.

"So, boss," Tony said, "where to?"

"Velma's place. Tell him where you live, Velma."

"The Tweeleries."

Tony grinned. "Boss, you either have some powerful mumbo jumbo workin' for you tonight, or you've gone nuts."

"Neither. But I figure the straightforward approach is best."

"You're just going to call him out, or what?"

"Actually, just going to call on him. Tweel likes to talk."

"He likes to do the talking. Boss, I don't think it's a good idea."

"No, but it's inevitable. Something's up, and I've got to find out what ― what his game is. What's eating him, maybe. Do you know, Velma?"

"Clare doesn't have anything eating him," she said. "He's an eater. He feeds."

"It's a rough universe."

"Yeah, yeah," she said, pulling out a cigarette. "Can I smoke?"

"Sure," Tony said, as he slid the ashtray out of the dashboard. "This baby has everything." He took the cigarette lighter out of the dash, flicked it. Flame danced, limning her rouged cheeks, her glistening red lips. She puffed. He put the lighter back and closed the door to its tiny receptacle.

She inhaled deeply, then let it out. Smoke billowed against the windshield. "Yeah, it's rough. There are the eaters, and those that get eaten. Clare's an eater." She looked at Carney. "You are, too."

"How about me, babe?" Tony wanted to know.

"You're dumb, but cute."

"Let's see if I have this straight now," Carney said. "There are bastards and simps, and the consumers and the consumed. Have I got it all now?"

"You got it."

"Where do you fit in?"

"I just swim along with the current. Just swim along."

"Okay, now you have a marine metaphor going. Big fish, little fish."

"Big fish with big teeth, little fish with suckers. That's pretty much it."

They pulled out onto Whiteway Boulevard, merging with the stream of late-night traffic. Crowds were just getting out of the darkening theaters, couples arm-in-arm on the sidewalks, still laughing at the gag lines, humming the tunes, occasionally pausing to window-shop. Drunks threaded in and out of the milling throngs. Beyond the canyon walls the many-footed city murmured in the neon night-mist, a monster stirring in its sleep

"They gotta be tailin' us," Tony said.

Carney gave a look back. "Don't see anything yet."

"Wait till we turn off. Boss, this is gonna be suicide. One, they're gonna try to zotz us before we cross the river; two, if we do get into Hellgate, we get wasted before we drive a block; three, say you do get to the Tweeleries. They either let you have it at the check station, or they take you in and do it, maybe for Tweel to watch."

"Drive to Manny's Garage first," Carney said.

Tony nodded slowly, then smiled. "I gotcha. Change cars, huh?" The smile faded. "But they'll just wait for us to come out."

"You drive in, drop me off. You take the new car and drive out with Velma. They won't follow you. I'll slip through the celebrity duck-out hole into Lucky's basement. I'll go up into the restaurant and out the front door. You pick me up there."

"That's great, boss."

"Nobody but Lucky and his celeb customers know about the hole. And Manny. And me, since I own half the joint. And Manny's employees." Carney chuckled. "Now that I think of it, it's not such a big secret. Still, it should work."

"It's a little risky, but I like it," Tony said. He shrugged. "Hey, you gotta take a shot, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"You pays your money and you falls on your face."

Tony laughed. "Yeah, that's exactly what we're gonna do if they tail me, maybe thinkin' you're hidin' in the trunk or some stunt like that."

"If they do split up to tail you, what you do is ―"

"Hey, boss, whaddya think, I'm some kinda mamaluke? If they tail me, I drive around until they get sick of it. I lose 'em and then I come back for you."

"Hey, you gotta some brains."

Tony cackled, then checked the rearview window. "Hell, I see 'em already. That's Seamus Riordan's Durant Roadmaster. I can tell by the grille."

"Seamus got first crack," Carney said. "But he won't have time."

Tony turned right onto 43rd Street and went half a block before turning into a steep ramp under a sign that read MIDTOWN PARKING.

Down in the garage, Carney got out near the glassed-in office.

"Park it. Get the new car and get over there as fast as you can. If you're delayed, when you pull up in front of Lucky's, blink your lights. The doorman will let me know, so I don't have to stand out there waiting and maybe get spotted. Got it?"

"Got it, boss."

"Manny will take care of you, or whoever's on tonight."

"Check."

He closed the door and went into the office. The night manager was Billy Pinsk. Carney ordered a nondescript rental car.

"Got just what you need, Mr. Carney. A Leland sedan, gray, no flashy stuff."

"Tony Montanaro's out there. You fix him up. Right now I need you to let me through to Lucky's."

"Door's unlocked, Mr. Carney. Always. You know where it is?"

"That door back there and to the right?"

"That's it, Mr. Carney. Straight to the end of the corridor, you can't miss it."

"Okay, thanks."

"Dark back there, Mr. Carney. Watch your step."

"Right."

He walked to the back of the garage, opened the steel door, and stepped through. It was quiet on the other side. He turned right and proceeded through gloom until he came to another door. It was ajar. He went through and followed a short corridor, came out among boilers and pipes, weaved through and around, then mounted a wooden staircase.

He pushed open the door at the top and let himself into Lucky's kitchen. It was big, full of men in white aprons and hats working furiously at counter and stove. Steam mushroomed to the ceiling. The odor of chopped onions stood out among myriad others.

Nobody gave him a look as he walked through. He thumped through swinging doors and passed the men's room. He gave a fleeting thought to relieving his bladder pro forma, not really needing to, giving Tony a little time. But he was anxious and in a hurry.

He went to the front door by way of the smaller of the restaurant's two rooms, not seeing anybody he knew.

Outside, he looked up and down the street. No Tony. The doorman asked if he needed a cab, and he shook his head. He stepped back under the sidewalk canopy and gave it three minutes, looking for signs of Tony's Leland or Riordan's Durant.

Neither showed. He beckoned to the doorman, spoke his instructions, and handed the man a fiver.

"Sure thing, Mr. Carney."

"Just let Alphonse know. I'll be at my table."

"Yes, sir."

Inside, after he had checked his hat and coat, Alphonse greeted him with a smile.

"Your table, Mr. Carney?"

"Yes. I probably won't be staying long. Just enough for a drink."

"Anything you say, Mr. Carney."

A waiter showed him across the main floor. On the way he saw a table occupied by the Bakunin triplets ― Grumpo, Cisco, and Heppo ― and two chorines, all in for a late bite after another performance of their long-running hit musical comedy, Have I Gotta Deal For You! He detoured over.

Cisco took his nose out of a racing form to say, "Johnnie, sweetheart." It was always a little disconcerting to hear his normal voice, untainted by the put-on Latin accent of his stage and screen character. "Hey, what do you say?"

Grumpo smiled his lizard smile. "Killed anybody recently?"

"Nobody. Haven't zotzed a soul since, oh, it'll be a year come Michaelmas."

"Well, that's disappointing. Next thing you know you'll be taking stray kittens home."

Heppo's childlike grin was as wide as the bald strip that ran from his forehead almost to the back of his neck. Without his wig and makeup he looked like a garment maven or a bookkeeper, anything but the brilliant comedian he was. "Hi, John," he said. "Haven't seen you in for lunch at the Penobscot lately."

"Crossing foils with that Penobscot Forum crowd is tiring. I can't stay up late writing ad libs."

"How do you think I feel sometimes," Heppo said, "mixing with the literati? Me with an eighth-grade education."

"They like you, Heppo."

"Dara Porter says I'm a rhinestone in the rough."

"She knows her gems."

"Rhinestones are a girl's best friend," Grumpo said.

"Me, I'll take the money," Cisco said. "What do you think, John? I got a tip on a twenty-to-one long shot, a two-year-old filly in the fifth at Via Appia tomorrow. She has a terrible track record, but I got the word in training-runs she clocks like the wind. Crazy? or should I bet my wad?"

Carney thought about it "Yeah, it's only a matter of time before she overcomes her skittishness. Put it all down to win, Cisco."

"Hey, I will. Thanks."

Carney said, "Grumpo, how's the new show coming?"

"Lousy."

"What, with book by Geoff Katzman and music by Ira Bremen?"

"It's going to cost a fortune to stage, which means they're not going to offer us any more money than we're getting now. And I just bought a house. I need a raise."

"Didn't you just film Have I Gotta Deal?"

"Yeah, but I already spent that money on the down payment."

"Must be a terrific house."

"It was a steal. They stole my money."

"John, have a seat," Heppo said.

"Actually, I'm just waiting for my driver. He must have gotten a flat or something. He's late."

"Well, you got time for a drink, then. Sit down."

Carney dismissed the waiter and pulled up a chair. The two chorines smiled at him and he grinned back amiably.

"Hear you've been having trouble recently," Grumpo said.

"Nah, just a little misunderstanding," Carney said.

"The Daily Times is billing it as the biggest gang war Necropolis has ever seen. Pictures and everything. It wasn't pretty."

"I don't imagine. Still, they're blowing it all out of proportion, as usual."

"Yeah, they have the box office to think of, too," Grumpo said, phlegmatically munching the end of his cigar.

"Strange things are happening," Cisco said. "I got a friend in the mayor's office says they haven't seen him for two days."

"Who?" Carney said. "The mayor?"

"Yeah. Nobody knows where His Honor is. They got no message from him, nothing. The papers are sitting on the story."

"Interesting. But he's probably down in Palm Coast again with the phone off the hook."

"A reporter I know says he's at the Tweeleries. On ice."

"He and Clare are buddies. Or were."

"Yeah, but I don't think this is friendly."

Food arrived, stacks of sandwiches and piles of cole slaw. Carney ordered a drink, and it came with lightning speed.

"You want half my sandwich?" Heppo offered. "I can never finish these."

"No, thanks, Hep." Carney looked at his watch. "I can't imagine where my driver got to."

"You need a lift?" Cisco asked.

"You have your car?"

"No," Cisco chuckled. "Hey, I just asked you if you needed a lift."

"You ought to work on that material. It shows promise."

"Promises were made to be broken," Grumpo said. "I have a car, John, and you're welcome to it, if you can get it back from the finance company."

Cisco snorted. "He's always kvetching about how hard up he is. Bullshit ― he's rich."

"Bullshit, I'm rich."

"Go on, you're rolling in it. I'm the one with the sob story. I lost fifty grand at the track last year."

"And that was after taxes," Grumpo said. "You know, Morris ―"

The brothers (fraternal triplets) always called each other by their proper names.

"― just the other day someone said you were dumb."

"Yeah? What did you say?"

"I said, _He's shit.'"

"Well, thanks, I appreciate it," Cisco said.

"If you can't stick up for your brother, who can you stick up for?"

"Stick it up your ass."

"Don't knock it if you haven't ―" Grumpo turned to one of the chorines, who was convulsed. "You can choke to death that way, honey. Spit that corned beef out."

She swallowed and gagged. Grumpo slapped her bare back.

Carney checked his watch again, then gave a glance back to the maitre d's station.

"You seem a little nervous, John," Heppo remarked.

"Maybe I am."

"Well, take it easy. You're among friends."

"With friends like us," Grumpo said, "he needs all the enemies he can get."

"Don't listen to this guy. Momma always said his mouth would take him to the top, and then right back down again."

"Momma didn't raise any mute children, except you."

"I know my limitations. I can't talk for sour beans. Shoot a Moogie ―"

Heppo made a grotesquely comical face.

"― that I can do. There was this guy below our place when we were kids, ran a fix-it shop. When he worked he screwed up his face like this." Heppo did it again. "His name was Mort, but they called him Moogie, for some reason. Anyway, I been cashing in on him ever since."

"An artist uses the material of everyday life," Carney said.

"And a comedian buys his gags from a good gag writer," Grumpo said.

"Grumpo," Carney said, "your best gags are your own. In fact, you're eponymous for the quick retort. Grumpoisms."

Grumpo looked rueful. "I wish I was a surgeon. Or a dishwasher. Anything but a professional wiseguy." He seemed to mean it.

The meal went on, the talk gravitating to show business. Carney decided to stay put for now, as he was reluctant to take a cab alone. Not because he feared an ambush ― if one came it could be a litmus test by which to judge the possible outcome of the evening ― but because the cabby might get hurt.

At some point, Cisco threw down his half-eaten sandwich. "Let's get out of here. It's late and I'm tired."

"Spoken like a trouper," Grumpo said. "Let's vamoose. John, you're welcome to share a cab with us."

"Thanks, I will."

Grumpo picked up the check and looked it over. "This is outrageous. John, if I were you ―"

Carney's fifty was already in the tray, and the sight of it spoiled Grumpo's punch line. All he could do was grin awkwardly and say, "That's decent of you." Grumpo was not known as the world's fastest check-grabber.

Outside, Cisco herded the girls into a cab and waved goodbye to them.

"I'm bushed," he said. "Besides, I think they're both virgins. They're from out in the Midwest somewhere."

"Yeah, Virginia." Grumpo said.

"No, from some farm state."

"Aren't they all? Virgins are a cash crop out there. They ship 'em all east to the Boulevard."

"How about Studio City?" Cisco asked.

"Studio City? Virgins? Are you kidding?" Grumpo appealed to Heppo. "He's gotta be kidding."

A cab pulled up. Carney had been vainly searching up and down the street.

"Coming, John?" Heppo said.

"Yeah." Carney got in.

The cab pulled away, and Carney settled back, unsure of what to do.

"Where are you going, John?" Grumpo asked.

"Hellgate."

"Driver," Grumpo yelled. "East Seventieth and Bennington, then over the river for this gentleman here." He turned around on the little flip-down seat. "We'll pay the fare since you were stupid enough to pick up the check."

"Forget it. Hellgate's a long way."

"Well, if you insist," Grumpo said affably. "I like arguing with this guy. You always lose to your benefit."

Cisco turned the conversation back to virginity and related matters, and was in the middle of a story about a sporting house up in Eindhoven with an employee whose specialty was something akin to fruit arrangement, when Carney spotted a gray Leland parked on the street.

"She takes these pineapple slices see…" Cisco was saying.

"Stop here, driver," Carney called.

"Sounds so good I'd probably eat it myself," Grumpo said. "Are you getting off, John?"

"Good night, boys."

"Well, don't take any wooden Indians. Whatever that means."

"Take care, John," Heppo said.

Carney got out and watched the cab move off. The street was quiet. He walked back to the parked sedan.

Tony and Velma were intricately entangled, his hand lost in her dress.

He tapped on the glass.

Tony jumped. He rolled down the window. "Boss! Hey, we got tailed. They wouldn't quit, so I pulled over to wait 'em out."

Carney gave the street the up-and-down. "Looks like they were convinced. You can stop the verisimilitude now."

When Carney got in, Velma was reapplying lipstick and Tony was wiping it off his face.

"Sorry about that, boss," Tony said.

"You could have phoned the restaurant."

"I didn't want to leave Velma."

"Forget it. But I'm docking you a hundred out of your pay."

Tony was silent for a moment. He put away his handkerchief. "Gee, boss, I'm sorry as hell. I feel like such a finòcchio. I really shoulda figured some way to phone."

"I said, forget it. We lost them. Now let's get moving."

Tony started the car.

Velma gave Carney an enigmatic smile conveying a suggestion that she had meant to do some mischief and was delighted to have succeeded. But it was only a suggestion.

"Go up to Dutchtown," Carney said.

"Dutchtown? I thought we was going to cross the river."

"Later. I need to get in the spirit."

"Check."

The car moved off into the night.