French Kiss

Chapter 14

If you ever need to get some information from a New York doorman, learn from my experience with Carl.

A ten-dollar bill will get you this: “Yeah, I think there’s some foreign kind of operation going on at the Auberge. But I’m busy getting taxis for people and helping with packages. So I can’t be sure.”

I give Carl another ten dollars.

“They got Russians in and outta there. At least I think they’re Russian. I’m not that good with accents.”

I give him ten more. That’s thirty so far, if you’re keeping track.

“I heard all this from a friend who works catering at the Auberge. The Russians keep a permanent three-room suite there…where they pimp out the hookers.”

Carl gives me a sly smile. It would seem my reaction has given away my motives.

“Oh, I see where you’re headed. You wanna know if the Russians had anything to do with the murder on seven. The cops talked to me, like, twenty times. But I wasn’t on the door that day. And how the girl got in? No clue.”

Perhaps that’s true. But I have a feeling Carl might be leading me to some other clues. I give him ten bucks more.

“Strange, though. Those Russians specialize in young, pretty, all-American blondes. You know. Fresh, clean, sort of look like innocent little virgins. Nothing like the woman who got iced. But…there is something else.”

I wait for Carl to keep talking, but he doesn’t. Instead, he hustles outside the building just as a yellow cab pulls up. He opens the door, and a weary-looking gray-haired man in a gray pin-striped suit emerges. Carl takes the man’s briefcase and follows him down a long hallway that leads to an elevator. The old man might as well be crawling, he’s going so slowly. Finally Carl returns.

“Sorry. Now, what was I saying?”

Damn this sneaky doorman. I know he’s playing me, but I’m hoping it’s worth it. Because all I’ve got left is a fifty. I give it to Carl with a soft warning: “This better be worth fifty bucks.”

“Well, it’s a little thing, and it’s from my buddy at the Auberge, and you never know when he’s telling the truth, and…”

“Come on. What is it?”

“He says that the girls never wait in the lobby or the suite or the back hallways. The Russian guys keep ’em in the neighborhood somewhere. I don’t know where. Like a coffee shop or a private house. Then the girl gets a phone call and a few minutes later one of the blondies is taking the elevator up to the special private suite.”

Bingo. I’m ready to roll. And-if you’re keeping track-it cost me ninety bucks.

But it was definitely worth it.