God Save the Child

21

At 10:30 the next day, showered, shaved, warmed, and dried, with nine hours’ sleep behind me and hot corn muffins nicely balancing cold vealwurst in my stomach, I headed back for Smithfield. I’d called my service before I left that morning and found that there were nine calls recorded from Marge Bartlett. I ignored them. I wanted Harroway and the kid. I didn’t think Marge Bartlett was in all that much danger. I wanted the kid. At 11:05 I was parked along the side of the street just down from the corner of the road that led into Harroway’s sylvan retreat. I didn’t want to get left standing on a hill this time while they drove away. The road was the only way in or out. I’d settle in here. I watched for eight hours. Nobody went in. Nobody came out.

At 7:15 Harroway’s pink and gray Charger nosed out of the leafy road and turned right, away from me toward Smithfield. It was dusk, and I couldn’t see if Kevin was in the car, but Harroway’s big blond head was clear enough. I followed. We drove through Smithfield and straight up Lowell Street into Peabody to Route One. On Route One we headed south back toward Smithfield. I drifted back a little on Route One. Let two cars in between us so he wouldn’t spot me. He pulled into the parking lot of a big new motel with an illuminated sign outside: YES! WE HAVE WATER BEDS! I pulled in after him and drove on past behind the motel, parked near the kitchen entrance, and hustled back toward the lobby. It was dark out now and bright inside. Harroway was at the desk apparently registering. A girl was with him. She was young, high school age. Her hair was blond and cut short and square. She was wearing harlequin glasses with blue rims and a high-necked white blouse with a small black bow tie. Ah, Dorothy Collins, I thought, where are you now?

The clerk pulled a key out of one of the mail boxes in back of the desk: first row, fifth from the left. He pointed down a corridor to the left of the desk, and the two of them went on down it, turned another left, and disappeared. I went in, got close enough to check the number on the box the key had come from, 112, bought a newspaper at the cigar counter, and sat down behind it in a leather chair in the lobby. Now what? I could go knock on the door. “Hi, I’m Snooky Lamson. Is Dorothy Collins in there?” I was punchy from sitting and doing nothing for eight hours. Checking into a motel with a girl didn’t seem to fit Harroway’s reputation. At 7:30 in came the man who ran confidence courses.

“Mr. Victor’s room, please,” he said.

The clerk checked. “One-twelve, sir,” he said.

Holy Christ, I thought, something’s happening. I might actually find out if I keep sitting long enough and don’t run my mouth.

Mr. Confidence went the same way Harroway and escort had gone, and ten minutes later Harroway appeared. He went across the lobby and into the dining room. Got himself a table, ordered a drink, and looked at the menu. I went back to the cigar counter, bought two Baby Ruths, sat down again, and munched them behind my newspaper. By the time Harroway had finished his steak, I had read the obituaries, the office equipment for sale classified, the ads for Arizona real estate, and was going back to the funnies for a second run-through on my favorite, “Broom Hilda.”

Harroway had pie and two cups of coffee. I looked at my watch, 9:15. We’d been there an hour and forty-five minutes. I read “Broom Hilda” again. Harroway had a brandy. At 9:45 the girl came on down the corridor and joined Harroway. He paid the bill, and they got up and left. I let them. As soon as they were out the door, I headed down the corridor toward Room 112. I figured the Confidence Man would wait a bit before he left, and if I could catch him there in the room, I might get a handle on the case, or I might get a free introductory trial offer on a confidence course. One never knows.

The door was locked. I knocked. There was no answer. I knocked again, trying to get that Motel Manager sound in it, firm but friendly. A voice said, “Who is it?” The voice was not confident.

I said, “It’s me, Vic.”

The lock turned and the door opened a crack. I put my shoulder into it, and in we went. He said, “Hey.” I shut the door behind me. The force of my charge made him back into the bed and sit on it. He said, “What do you want?” with absolutely no confidence at all.

I said, “Don’t you remember me? We met at the Bartletts’ party.”

He opened his mouth and closed it. He remembered. “You’re the detective,” he said.

“Right, and I’m detecting at this very moment.” He was wearing jockey shorts and black socks. The bed he sat on was rumpled. There were lipstick smears on the sheet. On the dresser beside the color TV were two empty bottles of Taylor pink champagne and two empty glasses, one with a lipstick half moon on the rim. “You have just shacked up,” I said. “And I have caught you.”

“What are you talking about? You’re crazy. You get out of my room right now.”

“Aw, come on, sir. What is your name, by the way?”

“I’m not telling you. I don’t have to tell you anything.” His pants were draped over the back of a leatherette chair. I reached over and took his wallet out of the pocket. He said “Hey” again but stayed on the bed. I was out of his weight class anyway, but it is always hard to feel tough in your underwear. I found his driver’s license: Fraser W. Robinson. I put the license back in the wallet and the wallet back in the pants.

“Now, Fraser, let us talk. I was sitting in the lobby when Harroway checked in with the jail bait. I was there when you came in and he came out. And I am here now. And I’ve got you. But I’ll make a trade.”

Fraser Robinson was looking at the door and at the window and at the four corners of the room, and nowhere did he see a way out.

“What kind of trade?”

“You tell me a lot of stuff about Harroway and the girl and the commune. And I tell no one anything about Harroway the girl and the commune and you. How’s that for swaps?”

“What if I just call the manager and have you arrested for breaking into my room?”

“It’s not your room. It’s Mr. Victor’s room. And I’d have to arrest you on suspicion of violating the Mann Act, possible statutory rape, contributing to the delinquency of a minor child, and resisting arrest. In fact, I think you’d probably get hurt resisting arrest.”

“Look, if you want dough, I could get you some. I mean I haven’t got much on me but...”

“Uh, uh,” I said. “I want information.” I took my gun out, flipped open the cylinder, checked the load, and flipped it shut. “You going to resist arrest,” I said, “or are you going to tell me things?” I looked at him hard, as I’d seen Lee Marvin do in the movies.

“What do you want to know?” he said.

I put the gun back. “I want to know what Harroway is running over there. This setup was obviously arranged and obviously routine. Harroway’s got a movable whorehouse going, and I want to know details and I want to know what else he has going.”

“He’s got everything else,” Robinson said.

“Tell me.”

“Drugs, dirty movies, sex shows, gang bangs, still photos, fetish stuff — you know, like if chains turn you on or leather bras and stuff.”

“What kind of drugs?”

“I don’t know. Everything, I guess. I’m not into drugs. I heard he didn’t deal heroin. One of the girls was talking about Quads, but I don’t really know.”

“Where’s he get the drugs?”

“I don’t know. I told you I’m not into drugs.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” I looked at the empty bottles. “You’re into New York State champagne. I forgot. How did you get in touch with Harroway?”

“Doctor Croft. Gave me a little card with the phone number. Said if I was looking for anything, to call and say what I wanted.”

“How’d he happen to do that?”

“I was having some trouble with my wife, you know. I mean she wasn’t interested much in sex, and I thought maybe I was doing something wrong; you know, technique. So I went to Doctor Croft, and he said maybe I could find a release if I wanted to and it would make our marriage better and he gave me this card. Here, gimme my pants. It’s still in my wallet.” Robinson dug it out. A calling card cheaply printed with only a phone number.

Wise old Doc Croft. Save your marriage, son; get out and screw a groupie. “Your wife ever go to Doc Croft?” I said.

“No, why?”

“Never mind. Okay, what’s the connection between Croft and Harroway?”

“I don’t know. Neither one of them ever mentioned it. Croft never said another word about it after that time he gave me the card. I never brought it up to him. I mean, it’s not the kind of thing you want to talk about, you know. I mean, how your wife is frigid and you have to go to others.” He’d found the basis for his actions as he talked. It was all his wife’s doing anyway, the bitch.

“How much does it cost?” I said.

“A hundred for a regular shack. That’s all night, if you want, but I can’t stay out all night. I mean, my wife won’t even go to bed till I come home, you know? If you want something special, the price goes up from there.”

The telling was building its own momentum, as if he’d had no one to tell about all this till now. He was getting excited. “Like sometimes I go for a nineteen-fifties’ look, like little prim broads with high necks and wide skirts, sort of cute and high-class like, like ah, oh, you know, some of those broads on TV in the fifties, like...”

“Dorothy Collins,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah, like her, and June Allyson in that movie about the ball player with one leg, like that. Well anyway. For a hundred and a half I get a chick like that, you know, dressed up and everything.”

“Isn’t that something,” I said.

“And they’ll cater parties too. You know, stag parties. Like I was at one down the Legion Hall one night they had five broads and a goat. And reefers for anyone that wanted them and a lot of other stuff I don’t know about. Jesus, you should see the equipment on that goat.”

“Sorry I missed it,” I said. “Where’s Harroway get the girls?”

“I don’t know, but they’re all young, and they live with him out somewhere on a farm or something. You know like Charles Manson, a commune or whatever. And I guess they’ll do anything he says.”

“Okay, Fraser,” I said, “you’re off the hook. But I know who you are and where you live and what your hobbies are. I’ll keep in touch.”

“Look, I told you whatever you wanted, right? I mean you got no reason to bring me into anything, have you? I mean if Harroway ever found out I told...”

“Mum’s the word, Fraser. Put on your pants.” I looked at the empty champagne bottles. “A hundred and a half,” I said, “and you get domestic champagne.” I went out and closed the door.

In the lobby I looked at my watch, 10:15; I was missing the Tuesday night movie again. Then it hit me. Tuesday night I was supposed to be having dinner with Susan Silverman, with maybe a surprise treat afterward. I was two hours and fifteen minutes late.

I called her from a pay phone. “Susan,” I said, “I’m being held captive by the West Peabody Republican Women’s Club which wishes to exploit me sexually. If I overpower my captors and escape, is it too late?”

There was silence. Then she said, “Almost,” and hung up.

As I left the phone booth I saw Fraser Robinson walk out of the lobby and toward the parking lot. Five girls, I thought, and a goat? Jesus Christ.