Lady Killer

CHAPTER FOUR

La Vía de Putas was a street in Isola that ran north and south for a total of three blocks. Over the course of years, the street had changed its name many times, but never its profession. It had changed its name only to accommodate the incoming immigrant groups, translating 'Whore Street' into as many languages as there were nations. The profession, as solidly economic a profession as undertaking, had steadfastly defied the bufferings of time, tide, and policemen. In fact, the policemen were in a sense part of the profession. Whore Street, you see, was not a secret. Trying to keep the Street a secret would have been like trying to keep the existence of Russia a secret. There was hardly a citizen, and barely a visitor, who had not heard of La Vía de Putas, and many citizens had first-hand knowledge of the practices plied there. And if the citizenry know of something, the police—as slow-witted as they sometimes are—know of it, too.

It was here that the oldest profession clasped hands with the neophyte profession. And during the clasping of hands, bills of various denominations were exchanged so that the Street could continue its brisk trade without interference from the Law. Things got difficult for the 87th's cops when the Vice Squad decided to get puritanical. But even then, it didn't take cops long to realize that the green stuff could be divided and then subdivided. There was plenty of it to go all the way around, and there was certainly no reason to get stuffy about something as universal as sex.

Besides, and here was rationalization of the most sublime sort, was it not better to have most of the precinct's hookers contained in an area three blocks long rather than scattered all over the streets? Of course it was. Crime was something like information for a thesis. So long as you knew where to find it, you were halfway home.

The uniformed cops of the 87th knew where to find it—and they also knew how to lose it. Every now and then they would stop by and chat with the various Mamas who ran the brothels. Mama Luz, Mama Theresa, Mama Carmen, Mama Ida, Mama Inez (from the song of the same name), were all bona fide madams and could all be counted on for the discreet payoff. In turn, the cops looked the other way. Sometimes, on a sleepy afternoon when the streets were quiet, they dropped into the cribs for a cup of coffee and things. The madams didn't mind too much. After all, if you ran a pushcart you expected the cop on the beat to take an apple every now and then, didn't you?

The detectives of the 87th rarely got a piece of the long green that shuttled from customer to hooker to madam to patrolman. The detectives had bigger things going for them, and everybody has to eat. Besides, they knew the Vice Squad was getting its cut, and they didn't want the pie sliced too many ways lest the bakery close shop altogether. Out of professional courtesy, they, too, looked the other way.

On Wednesday, July twenty-fourth, at 10.21 a.m., Carella and Hawes looked the other way. Jenny's was a tiny dump on the corner of Whore Street. Most of the payoffs took place in Jenny's, but Carella and Hawes were not looking for payoffs. They were discussing The Lady.

'From what I understand,' Carella said, 'we may have to wait on line to see her.'

Hawes grinned. 'Why don't you let me handle this one alone, Steve?' he said. 'After all, you're a married man. I don't want to corrupt—'

'I've been corrupted,' Carella said. He looked at his watch. 'It isn't even ten thirty yet. If this works out, we're nine and a half hours ahead of our killer.'

'If it works out,' Hawes said.

'Well, let's go see her.' He paused. 'You ever been in one of these joints?'

'We had a lot of high-class call-houses in the Thirtieth,' Hawes said.

'These ain't high-class, son,' Carella said. 'These are very low-class. If you've got a clothes-pin, put it on your nose.'

They paid their bill and went into the street. Half-way up the block, a radio motor-patrol car was at the curb. Two patrolmen were on the sidewalk talking to a man and a woman, surrounded by kids.

'Trouble,' Carella said. He quickened bis pace. Hawes fell into step beside him.

'Now, take it easy,' the patrolman was saying, 'just take it easy!'

'Easy?' the woman shouted. 'Why should I take it easy? This man—'

'Pipe down!' the second patrolman yelled. 'You want the goddamn commissioner to drive up?'

Carella pushed his way through the knot of kids. He recognized the patrolmen at once, walked to the nearest one and said, 'What's up, Tom?'

The woman's face burst into a grin. 'Stevie!' she said. 'Dio gracias. Tell these stupids—'

'Hello, Mama Luz,' Carella said.

The woman he addressed was a fat woman with alabaster-white skin and black hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her neck. She wore a loose silk kimono, and her swelling bosom moved fluidly in the open neck. Her face was exquisitely carved, angelic, patrician. She was one of the most notorious madams in the entire city.

'What's up?' Carella asked the patrolman again.

'This guy don't want to pay,' the patrolman said.

This guy was a little man in a seersucker suit. Standing alongside Mama Luz, he seemed thinner than he actually was. He had a small paintbrush moustache under his nose, and his black hair fell despondently on to his forehead.

'What do you mean?' Carella asked.

'He don't want to pay. He's been upstairs. Now he's tryin' to beat the check.'

'Get dinero first, I always tell them,' Mama Luz said, clucking. 'Dinero first, then amor. No. This stupid, this new one, she forgets. So see what happens? Tell him, Stevie. Tell him I get my money.'

'You're getting careless, Luz,' Carella said.

'Yes, yes, I know. But tell him I get my money, Stevie. Tell this Hitler!'

Carella looked at the man, noticing the resemblance for the first time. The man had said nothing so far. With his arms folded across his chest, he stood beside Mama Luz, his lips pursed beneath the ridiculous paintbrush moustache, his eyes glaring heatedly.

'Are you a detective?' he asked suddenly.

'I am,' Carella said.

'And you permit this sort of thing to go on in this city?'

'What sort of thing?' Carella asked.

'Open prostitution.'

'I don't see any prostitution,' Carella said.

'What are you, a pimp or something? A collection agency for every madam in the city?'

'Mister—' Carella started, and Hawes gently touched his arm. There was imminent danger in the situation, and Hawes recognized it immediately. It was one thing to look the other way. It was another thing to openly condone. Whatever Carella's relationship with Mama Luz, Hawes did not feel this was a time for him to be sticking his neck out. An irate call to Headquarters and there could be trouble, big trouble.

'We've got somebody to see, Steve,' he said.

Carella's eyes met Hawes's and plainly asked him to keep the hell out of this.

'Were you upstairs, mister?' he asked the little man.

'Yes.'

'Okay. I don't know what you did up there, and I'm not asking. That's your business. But I judge from that wedding band on your finger—'

The man pulled his hand back sharply.

'—that you wouldn't appreciate the idea of being hauled into court to testify on the open prostitution permitted in this city. I'm busy as hell, mister, so I'll leave the entire thing to your conscience. Come on, Cotton,' he said.

He started up the street. Hawes caught up to him. As they walked, Hawes glanced over his shoulder.

'He's paying,' he said.

Carella grunted.

'You sore?' Hawes asked.

'A little.'

'I was only thinking of you.'

'Mama Luz is a cooperative madam. Aside from that, I like her. Nobody asked that guy to come into the precinct. He came, he had a meal, and I think it's justice that he should pay for it. The girl he was with isn't in this for kicks. She works a hell of a lot harder than a five-and-dime clerk.'

'Then why doesn't she become a five-and-dime clerk?' Hawes asked logically.

'Touché,' Carella said, and he smiled. 'Here's Mama Ida's.'

Mama Ida's looked just like any of the other tenements lining the street. Two kids sat on the front stoop playing tic-tac-toe with a piece of chalk.

'Get off the stoop!' Carella said, and the kids scattered. 'This is what burns me up,' he said to Hawes. 'The kids seeing all this. What a way to be brought up.'

'A little while ago, you sounded as if you thought it was an honest profession,' Hawes said.

'Are you looking for an argument?'

'No. I'm trying to find out what makes you tick.'

'Okay. Crime isn't honest. Prostitution is crime, or at least it's crime in this city. Maybe the law's right, and maybe it isn't, and it's not for me to question it, it's only for me to enforce it. Okay. In this precinct, and maybe in every damn precinct, for all I know, prostitution is a crime that isn't a crime. Both those patrolmen are getting paid by every madam on the street. They keep trouble away from the madams, and the madams in turn run things clean. No muggings, no rollings. A clear act of commerce. But the guy who tried to cheat Luz was committing a crime, too, wasn't he? So where does the cop go from there? Does he turn his back on all crime, or just some crimes?'

'No,' Hawes said. 'Only on the crimes for which he's been paid off.'

Carella faced Hawes levelly. 'I've never taken a dime all the time I've been on the force. Remember that.'

'I didn't think you had.'

'Okay,' Carella said. 'A cop can't do everything by the book. I've got a sense of right and wrong that has nothing whatever to do with the law. I thought Hitler was committing a wrong back there. No tickee, no shirtee. Basic. Maybe I stuck my neck out, maybe I didn't. I say it's Spam, and I say the hell with it.'

'Okay,' Hawes said.

'Are you sore now?'

'Nope. Just enlightened.'

'There's one other thing,' Carella said.

'What's that?'

'The kids surrounding that scene. Was it better to have them taking it all in? Or better to break it up?'

'You could have broken it up without forcing the guy to pay.'

'You're a marksman today,' Carella said, and they entered the building. Only one bell button in the hall panel worked. Carella rang it.

'Mama Ida's a bitch,' he said. 'She thinks she owns the street and the city. You've got to be rough with her.'

The inside door opened. A woman with a hairbrush in her hand stood just inside the jamb. Her black hair was hanging loose around her face. The face was narrow, with piercing brown eyes. The woman wore a light-blue sweater and a black skirt. She was barefooted.

'What now?'she said.

'It's me. Carella. Let us in, Ida.'

'What do you want, Carella? Are the bulls getting in the act now?'

'We want to see a girl you call The Lady.'

'She's busy,' Ida said.

'We'll wait.'

'She may be a while.'

'We'll wait.'

'Wait outside.'

'Ida,' Carella said gently, 'get the hell out of that doorway.'

Ida moved back. Carella and Hawes stepped into a dim corridor.

'What do you want with her?' Ida asked.

'We want to ask her some questions.'

'What about?'

'Police business,' Carella answered.

'You're not going to take her away, are you?'

'No. Just some questions.'

Ida smiled radiantly. There was a gold tooth at the front of her mouth. 'Good,' she said. 'Come in. Sit down.'

She led them into a small, cheerless parlour. There was the smell of incense in the room, and the smell of perspiration. The perspiration won out.

Ida looked at Hawes. 'Who's this one?' she asked.

'Detective Hawes,' Carella said.

'Handsome,' Ida said unenthusiastically. 'What happened to your hair? How'd you get that white hair?'

'I'm getting old,' Hawes said, touching the streak.

'How long will she be?' Carella asked.

'Who knows? She's slow. She's hard to get. She's The Lady, don't you know? Ladies have to be treated gently. Ladies have to be talked to.'

'You must lose a lot of money with her.'

'She costs three times more than the rest,' Ida said.

'Is she worth it?'

She shrugged. 'If you have to pay for it, I guess she's worth it.' She looked at Hawes again. 'I'll bet you never had to pay for it.'

Hawes studied her blandly. He knew the woman was only talking in terms of her trade. He had never known a whore or a madam who did not discuss sex as simply as the average woman discussed clothes or babies. None the less, he did not answer her.

'How old do you think I am?' she asked him.

'Sixty,' he answered flatly.

Ida laughed. 'You bastard,' she said. 'I'm only forty-five. Come around some afternoon.'

'Thanks.'

'Sixty,' she scoffed. 'I'll show you sixty.'

Upstairs, a door opened and closed. There were footsteps in the hallway. Ida looked up.

'She's finished,' she said.

A man came down the steps. He looked sheepishly into the parlour, and then went out the front door.

'Come on,' Ida said. She watched Hawes as he stood up. 'A big one,' she said, almost to herself, and then she led the detectives on to the stairway. 'I really ought to charge you for her time.'

'We can always take her to the squad-room,' Carella said.

'I'm joking, Carella,' Ida answered. 'Don't you know when I'm joking? What's your first name, Hawes?'

'Cotton.'

'Doesn't your friend know when I'm joking, Cotton?' She paused on the steps and looked down at Hawes. 'Are those sixty-year-old legs?' she asked.

'Seventy,' Hawes answered, and Carella burst out laughing.

'You bastard,' Ida said, but she could not suppress the chuckle that came to her throat. They passed into the upstairs corridor. In one of the rooms, a girl in a kimono was sitting on the edge of her bed, polishing her nails. The other doors along the corridor were closed. Ida went to one of the closed doors and knocked on it.

A soft voice answered, 'Si? Who ees it?'

'Ida. Open up.'

'One minute, per piacere.'

Ida pulled a face and waited. The door opened. The girl standing in the doorframe was at least thirty-two years old. Black hair framed a tranquil face with deep-set brown eyes. There was sadness on the face and around the edges of the mouth. There was nobility in the way the girl held her head, in the way she kept her shoulders pulled back, one hand clutched daintily, protectively, to the neck of the kimono, holding it closed over the thrust of her breasts. There was fear in her eyes, as if she dreaded what was coming next.

'Si?' she said.

'Some gentlemen to see you,' Ida said.

She looked to Ida plaintively. 'Again?' she said. 'Please, signora, not again. I beg you. I am so—'

'Knock it off, Marcia,' Ida said. 'They're cops.'

The fear left Marcia's eyes. The hand dropped from the neck of the kimono. The kimono fell open, revealing the first rise of her breasts. All nobility left her face and her carriage. There were hard lines about her eyes and her mouth.

'What's the beef?' she asked.

'None,' Carella said. 'We want to talk to you.'

'You sure that's all?'

'That's all'

'Some cops come in here and expect—'

'Can it,' Hawes said. 'We want to talk.'

'In here? Or downstairs?'

'Call your own shot.'

'Here,' she said. She stepped back. Carella and Hawes entered the room.

'You need me?' Ida asked.

'No.'

'I'll be downstairs. Want a drink before you leave, Cotton?'

'No, thanks,' Hawes said.

'What's the matter? You don't like me?' She cocked her head saucily. 'I could show you a few things.'

'I love you,' Hawes said, grinning, and Carella looked at him in surprise. 'I'm just afraid the exertion would kill you.'

Mama Ida burst out laughing. 'You bastard,' she said, and she went out of the room. In the hallway he heard her mumble chucklingly, 'The exertion would kill me!'

Marcia sat, crossing her legs in a most unladylike manner.

'Okay, what is it?' she asked.

'You been working here long?' Carella said.

'About six months.'

'Get along?'

'I get along fine,'

'Have any trouble since you've been here?'

'What do you mean?'

'Any arguments? Fights?'

'The usual. There's twelve girls here. Somebody's always yelling about using somebody else's bobby pins. You know how it is.'

'How about anything serious?'

'Hair pulling? Like that?'

'No. I try to steer clear of the other girls. I get more money than they do, so they don't like it. I'm not looking for trouble. This is a cushy spot. Best I ever had it. Hell, I'm star of the show here.' She pulled the kimono up over her knees. 'Hot, ain't it?' she asked.

'Yes,' Carella said. 'Did you ever have any trouble with one of your customers?'

Marcia began flapping the kimono about her legs, using it as a fan. 'What's this all about?' she asked.

'Did you?'

'Trouble with the customers? I don't know. Who the hell remembers? What's this all about?'

'We're trying to figure out whether or not somebody wants to kill you,' Hawes said.

Marcia stopped fanning her legs with the kimono. The silk dropped from her fingers. 'Come again,' she said.

'You heard it the first time.'

'Kill me? That's crazy. Who'd want to kill me?' She paused, then proudly added, 'I'm a good lay.'

'And you never had any trouble with a customer?'

'What kind of trouble could I—' She stopped. Her face went pensive. For a moment it took on the quiet nobility of her role as The Lady. When she spoke, the moment was gone. 'You think it could be him?' she asked.

'What do you mean?'

'You're sure somebody wants to kill me? How do you know?'

'We don't know. We're guessing.'

'Well, there was this guy…' She stopped. 'Naw, he was just talking.'

'Who?'

'Some jerk. A sailor. He kept trying to place me all the while he was here. Finally, he done it. Remembered me from New London. I was working there during the war. The submarine base, you know. Good pickings. He remembered me and claimed he got cheated, wanted his money back. Said I wasn't no Italian count's daughter, I was just a plain phony. I admitted I come from Scranton, but I told him he got what he paid for, and if he didn't like it, he could take a flying leap. He told me he'd come back. He said when he came back, he'd kill me.'

'When was this?'

'About a month ago, I guess.'

'Do you remember his name?'

'Yeah. I don't usually, except this guy raised a fuss. They all tell me their names, you know. First thing. Right off the bat. I'm Charlie, I'm Frank, I'm Ned. You'll remember me, won't you, honey? Remember them! Jesus! I have a hard enough time trying to forget some of them.'

'But you remember this sailor, do you?'

'Sure. He said he was gonna kill me. Wouldn't you remember? Besides, he had a goofy name.'

'What was it?'

'Mickey.'

'Mickey what?'

'That's what I asked him. I said, "What is it? Mickey Mouse?" It wasn't Mickey Mouse at all.'

'What was it?'

'Mickey Carmichael. I can remember him saying it. Mickey Carmichael. Firecontrolman Second Class. That's just thew ay he said it. As if he was saying, "His Majesty, the king of England." A nut. A real nut.'

'Did he say where he was based?'

'He was on a ship. This was his first liberty in the city.'

'Which ship?'

'I don't know. He called it a tin can. That's a battleship, ain't it?'

'That's a destroyer,' Hawes said. 'What else did he say about the ship?'

'Nothing. Except he was glad to be off it. Wait a minute. A strike? Something about a strike?'

'A striker?' Carella asked. He turned to Hawes. 'That's a Navy term, isn't it?'

'Yes, but I don't see how it would apply to a noncommissioned officer. He did say Firecontrolman Second Class, didn't he? He didn't say Seaman Second? Firecontrolman striker?'

'No, no, he was a sergeant or something. He had red stripes on his sleeve.'

'Two red stripes?'

'Yeah.'

'He was a second-class petty officer,' Hawes said. 'She's right, Steve.' He turned to the girl. 'But he said something about a strike?'

'Something like that.'

'A mutiny?'

'Something like that. A strike or something.'

'A strike,' Hawes said, half to himself. 'Strikers, picket lines—' He snapped his fingers. 'A picket! Did he say his ship was a picket ship?'

'Yeah,' Marcia said, her eyes widening. 'Yeah. That's exactly what he said. He seemed pretty proud of that, too.'

'A picket destroyer,' Hawes said. 'That shouldn't give us much trouble. Mickey Carmichael.' He nodded. 'Anything else you want to ask her?'

'I'm finished.'

'So am I. Thanks, Miss.'

'You think he's really gonna try to kill me?' Marcia asked.

'We'll find out,' Hawes said.

'What should I do if he comes here?'

'We'll get to him before then.'

'But suppose he gets past you?'

'He won't.'

'I know. But suppose he does?'

'Try hiding under the bed,' Carella said.

'Wise guy,' Marcia said.

'We'll call you,' Carella said. 'If he's our man and you're his target, we'll let you know.'

'Look, do me a favour. Let me know even if I ain't, I don't want to sit here trembling every time there's a knock on the door.'

'You're not scared, are you?'

'Damn right I am,' Marcia said.

'It should help your act,' Carella answered and they left.

The administration building for the Naval District that boundaried the city had its offices downtown on Worship Avenue. When Carella and Hawes got back to the squad, Hawes looked up the number in the phone book and dialled it.

'Naval Administration,' a voice answered.

'This is the police,' Hawes said. 'Let me speak to your commanding officer.'

'One moment, please.' There was a pause and then some clicking on the line.

'Ensign Davis,' a voice said.

'Are you the commanding officer?' Hawes asked.

'No, sir. May I help you?'

'This is the police. We're trying to locate a sailor from a-'

'That would fall into the province of the Shore Patrol, sir. One moment, please.'

'Look, all I want to—'

The clicking on the line interrupted Hawes.

'Yes, sir?' the operator asked.

'Put this call through to Lieutenant Jergens in Shore Patrol, would you?'

'Yes, sir.'

More clicking. Hawes waited.

'Lieutenant Jergens, Shore Patrol,' a voice said.

'This is Detective Cotton Hawes,' Hawes answered, figuring he'd throw a little rank around among all this brass. 'We're looking for an enlisted man named Mickey Carmichael. He's aboard a—'

'What'd he do?' Jergens asked.

'Nothing yet. We want to stop him before—'

'If he didn't do anything, we wouldn't have any record of him. Is he connected with this building?'

'No, he's—'

'Just a moment, I'll get you Personnel.'

'I don't want—'

The clicking cut him off again.

'Operator?' Jergens said.

'Yes, sir.'

'Put this through to Commander Elliot in Personnel.'

'Yes, sir.'

Hawes waited.

Click-click.

Click-click.

'Commander Elliot's office,' a voice said.

'Is this Commander Elliot?'

'No, sir. This is Chief Yeoman Pickering.'

'Let me talk to the commander, Pickering.'

'I'm sorry, sir, he's not in right now, sir. Who's calling, please, sir?'

'Let me talk to his superior, will you?' Hawes asked.

'His superior, sir, is commanding officer here, sir. Who's calling, please, sir?'

'This is Admiral Hawes!' Hawes shouted. 'Connect me with your commanding officer at once!'

'Yes, sir, Admiral. Yes sir!'

The clicking was frantic now.

'Yes, sir?' the operator asked.

'Put this through to Captain Finchberger,' Pickering said. 'On the double.'

'Yes, sir!'

The clicking clicked again.

'Captain Finchberger's office,' a voice said.

'Get me the Captain! This is Admiral Hawes!' Hawes said, enjoying himself immensely now.

'Yes, sir!' the voice snapped.

Hawes waited.

The voice that came on to the line wasn't having any damned nonsense.

'Admiral who?' it shouted.

'Sir?' Hawes asked, recalling his Navy days and remembering that he was talking to a Naval captain, which is very much different from an Army captain, a Naval captain being a very high rank, indeed, full of scrambled eggs and all sorts of highly polished brass. Considering this, Hawes turned on the oil. 'I'm sorry, sir, your secretary must have misunderstood. This is Detective Hawes of the Eighty-seventh Precinct here in the city. We were wondering if we could have the Navy's assistance on a rather difficult problem.'

'What is it, Hawes?' Finchberger said, but he was weakening.

'Sir, we're trying to locate a sailor who was in the city a month ago, and who is perhaps still here. He was off a picket destroyer, sir. His name is—'

'There was a picket destroyer here in June, that's right,' Finchberger said. 'The U.S.S. Perriwinkle. She's gone now. Left on the fourth.'

'All hands aboard, sir?'

'The commanding officer did not report anyone A.O.L. or A.W.O.L. The ship left with its full complement.'

'Have there been any other picket destroyers in port since then, sir?'

'No, there haven't.'

'Any destroyers at all?'

'We've got one scheduled for the end of the week. Coming up from Norfolk. That's all.'

'Would it be the Perriwinkle, sir?'

'No, it would not. It would be the Masterson.'

'Thank you, sir. Then there is no possibility that this sailor is still in the city or scheduled to arrive in the city?'

'Not unless he jumped ship in the middle of the Atlantic,' Finchberger said. 'The Perriwinkle was headed for England.'

'Thank you, sir,' Hawes said. 'You've been very kind.'

'Don't pull that admiral routine again, Hawes,' Finchberger said, and he hung up.

'Find him?' Carella asked.

Hawes replaced the phone in its cradle.

'He's on his way to Europe,' he said.

'That lets him out,' Carella said.

'It doesn't let our hooker friend out,' Hawes answered.

'No. She might still be the target. I'll call her and tell her not to worry about the sailor. In the meantime I'll ask Pete for a couple of uniformed men to watch Ida's joint. If she is the target, our boy won't try for her with cops around.'

'We hope.'

Hawes looked up at the white-faced clock on the squad-room wall. It was exactly 11 o'clock in the morning.

In nine hours, their killer—whoever he was—would strike.

From somewhere across the street in Grover Park, the sun glinted on something shiny, blinking its rays through the grilled window of the squad-room, flashing momentarily on Hawes's face.

'Draw that shade, will you, Steve?' he asked.