Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

Vivian Frayne — beautiful, but dead. My job, getting the filler. The catch, staying alive to enjoy the five grand fee.

1

I was lying around the House like a lox. In other words, I was lying around the house (which is a three room apartment with terrace on Central Park South) like a smoked salmon in an appetizing store, belly-side up and inert. I was lying around like a smoked salmon because I was bored. Even private detectives get bored. I was bored with skip tracings, and bill collectings, and tracking erring husbands, and untracking erring wives. In short, I was bored with the routine of my racket. Nothing of real interest had happened for months, and I’d had it. Right up to the gullet. So this day I had packed up and gone home. I had told my secretary that I was going to be lazy for the day, that I would be at home, and that I was not to be disturbed unless it was something extra special.

Turned out to be something extra, extra special.

I was lying around, in comfortable briefs, lapping up the scandal of the tabloids — when the bell rang. Unthinking, I laid the newspapers aside, crawled off the couch, ambled to the door, opened it, and felt myself grow reverently rigid at the sight of such pulchritude so unexpectedly limned within my doorway.

“Mr. Chambers?” she said.

“Mr. Chambers,” I said.

“I am Sophia Sierra,” she said.

Sophia Sierra, so help me. That was the name.

“Please come in, Miss Sierra,” I said, and as she crossed the threshold and I closed the door, I hung on to the knob for support.

“The lady in your office,” she said, “told me I would find you here.”

“Yes, yes,” I mumbled.

And suddenly, hanging on to a doorknob and ogling a Sophia Sierra, I realized I was utterly unclad except for the tightest and skimpiest of briefs.

“Forgive me,” I said, relinquishing the doorknob and making a grotesque effort at a gentlemanly bow. “I... I didn’t expect company. I... I’ll go... I’ll go make myself presentable.”

Large dark eyes viewed me from tip to toe and back to tip.

“You’re presentable,” she said cooly. “Quite presentable. Quite, indeed.”

“Thank you,” I said, and I stood there, and we ogled one another, and I do not know what thoughts she had, but the thoughts I had might make themselves too obviously apparent, so I waved her to the living room, scampered to the bedroom, donned a T-shirt, slacks, socks and loafers, and scampered back to the living room — but not before I had had a fast glance at the mirror and a fast comb at the hair.

She was out on the terrace.

It was warm for this cool time of the year, and she had removed her coat. She was leaning on the balustrade — elbows resting and hands clasped — looking out upon the city: which gave me a moment to look out upon her. She was something to look out upon. She was a picture in black and white: a living, breathing picture in black and white. Her close-fit dress was black, her shoes were high-heeled pumps of the shiniest black, her stockings were the sheerest of jet black nylons. Her flesh was cream-soft white, and her dress was so cut that a good deal of the soft whiteness of flesh was exposed. She turned, suddenly, from the balustrade, straightened, and regarded me, standing there at the entrance to the terrace. She regarded me — I regarded her.

“I’m a messenger,” she said.

“Messengers like this,” I said, “should happen to me the rest of my life. Your name really Sophia Sierra?”

“Sophie Sierra,” she said. “I’m Cuban.”

“But you speak English perfectly.”

“Oh, I was born here. I mean I’m of Cuban extraction.”

“Like a drink?” I said, touching her elbow, moving her back to the living room.

“No, thank you,” she said, and in the living room she stood stock-still, long-fingered hands on her hips, eyes moving over me. “I’ve heard about you,” she said. “Heard you’re kind of a ladies man.”

“So?”

“Nothing. Except that, kind of, I can understand it.” She moved near to me. Her face was inches away from mine. I could smell the musk-faint perfume of her. Her face was inches away from mine, but parts of her were touching me. She was built like that. “More than understand it,” she said. “I’ve kind of got a yen. I’m crazy like that. I go for people before I know what it’s all about.”

“I’m kind of crazy like that myself,” I said and I reached for her, but she moved away.

“I’m here with a message,” she said, “from someone who’s heard about you.”

“Like who?” I said.

“G. Phillips,” she said.

“G. Phillips?” I said. “I never heard of a G. Phillips in my life.”

She went to her handbag and took out a yellow sheet of paper. She brought it to me. It was a telegram. It was addressed to S. SIERRA, 11 EAST 45th STREET. It said: PLEASE CONTACT PETER CHAMBERS AT ONCE. TELL HIM TO GET IN TOUCH WITH ME. TELL HIM WHERE. I MUST SEE HIM IMMEDIATELY. HE IS A FRIEND. G. PHILLIPS.

“Maybe I am a friend of G. Phillips,” I said, “but you wouldn’t know it from me. I never heard of a G. Phillips.”

“Ever hear of a Gordon Phelps?”

“Gordon Phelps I heard of.”

“G. Phillips is Gordon Phelps.”

“Gordon Phelps!” I brushed past her and lifted one of the tabloids and turned to page three and pointed. “This Gordon Phelps?” I said.

“That’s the one,” she said.

The prize item on page three of my tabloid had to do with the murder of Vivian Frayne. Vivian Frayne had been a hostess in a dance hall called the Nirvana Ballroom. There was a photo of Vivian Frayne, a theatrical photo of a lush blonde loosely swathed in diaphanous veils. Vivian Frayne had been found the night before, in her two-room apartment on East Sixty-fourth Street, relaxedly attired in lounging pajamas, but quite dead nonetheless. Five bullets had penetrated the lounging pajamas making indiscriminate, deadly indentations within the body of Vivian Frayne. A gun had been found on the premises, but the newspaper report made no mention of the significance or insignificance of this find — other than reporting that “a gun had been found on the premises.” It did report, however, in its last paragraph, that the police were seeking “one Gordon Phelps, millionaire playboy” in connection with their investigation.

“Gordon Phelps,” I said, laying away the paper, “is G. Phillips?”

“Uh huh,” said Sophia Sierra.

“And he sent you to contact me?”

“Just like it says in the telegram,” said Sophia Sierra, staring at me.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Couldn’t he contact me himself?”

“Cops are looking for him. You just read it in the paper, didn’t you?”

“Sure I read it. But he could have called me on the phone, couldn’t he? He knows where.”

“He’s got no phone.”

“Listen, Gordon Phelps owns a thirty-room mansion on Fifth Avenue, and I’d bet that joint has more telephones than rooms.”

“He’s not in his thirty-room mansion, sweetie. Otherwise the cops wouldn’t be looking for him — they’d have him.”

“You’ve got a point there,” I said. “So where the hell is he?”

“In a little hideaway he’s got — that only a few of his friends know about.”

“Okay, so where’s this hideaway?”

“Down in the Village. 11 Charles Street. Apartment 2 A. He’s listed as G. Phillips. That’s where you’re supposed to go.”

“Okay,” I said, “I’m going. But couldn’t he have called me from there?”

“No. Because it’s a hideaway. A complete hideaway. Not even a phone.”

“Check,” I said. “Now what about... you and me?”

She went for her coat, slung it over one shoulder, turned and smiled. “What about you and me?” she said.

“Are we going to see each other?”

“You’ve got a date. For tonight. I work at the Nirvana Ballroom—”

“Like Vivian Frayne...?” I pointed toward the crumpled tabloid.

“Just like Vivian Frayne,” she said. “Nirvana Ballroom. Once you’re a regular, it’s kind of like piece-work. You show up whenever you feel like it. You throw on an evening gown and you’re working — at fifty percent of what the suckers contribute. I’m a regular. I wasn’t going to work tonight — and I won’t — unless you’re coming. Are you coming?”

“For you,” I said, “I’m coming.”

“Swell. I’m looking forward. I’ll be at my best. I’ll wear my red gown. In the Nirvana Ballroom, that’s all you wear, practically — your gown. You’ll die when you see me in my red gown, I promise you.”

“I’ll be there,” I said. “Maybe late, but I’ll be there.”

“I’ll be waiting.” She waved, went to the door and opened it.

“About Vivian Frayne,” I called. “Did you know her? Vivian Frayne?”

“I knew her,” she said and she closed the door behind her.

And all that was left was the faint musk of her perfume.

I undressed, showered, and re-dressed for Gordon Phelps. Gordon Phelps was not a friend. He was a guy I’d run into in the top-type night clubs, a guy with more loot than he could possibly spend, and a guy for whom I’d done a few favors, for a fee. He was a sixty-year-old runabout who still had plenty of vitamins jiggling inside of him. He had an austerely attractive society-type wife who, it appeared, kept a slack rein on him, and he had, also, a fabulous town house on Fifth Avenue, a fabulous beach house on Fire Island, and a fabulous country house in Georgia. Now he had a hideaway. And sinec Gordon Phelps was ordinately generous in the matter of fees (he could afford it) I was quite as anxious to see Gordon Phelps as Gordon Phelps was to see me.

2

“Glad to see you,” Gordon Phelps said, when he opened the door of his apartment to me. “And it’s about time.”

“I made it as soon as I could, Mr. Phelps.”

“What held you up? The sultry Sophia Sierra?”

“No, but she could have, if she’d had a mind to.”

“Terrific piece, that one, eh? But look out there, sonny. She’s just opposite of what she looks like. That little gal is all mind and no heart, and it’s a mind concerned with one thing — gold, pure and simple. Gold, gelt, loot, dinero. But come on in now, young fella. We’ve got a hell of a lot of talking to do.”

He led me through a small round foyer into an enormous exquisitely furnished living room, its floor moss-soft with thick rose-colored carpeting. Above the fireplace hung an oil of a rose-colored nude.

“Just beautiful,” I said.

“Would you like to see more?” he said. He had a cultured, somewhat high-pitched voice, like a coloratura soprano who drank too much. “Everything’s sound-proofed, by the way. And that fireplace really burns wood.”

“Love to see more,” I said.

He motioned me to a bedroom which was bleak compared to the warm comforts of the living room.

He showed me a bathroom with gold plumbing, and a kitchen with all the equipment including a deep-freeze, and then, back in the living room, over drinks, he said, “I could live here for months without going out once. There’s enough food and drink — for months.”

“Is that the way you’d like it?” I said. “Not going out for months?”

“That’s the way I’d hate it. That’s why you’re here.”

“Let’s have the pitch,” I said.

He paced with lithe steps. He was tall and slender and rather graceful, muscular for his age. He had white wispy hair neatly parted in the middle, a pink face, a delicate nose, loose red libidinous lips, and narrow blue eyes beneath expressive not-yet-grey eyebrows. “I want to get out of here,” he said. “And I want to get out of here soon. And I want you to get me out of here.” He went to his desk, brought out an oblong metal box, extracted a number of bills, counted them and brought them to me. “Here,” he said.

I don’t have to be asked twice. I took the bills. I counted them. They amounted to five thousand dollars, money of the realm.

“That a fee?” I said.

“It’s a fee,” he said.

“Whom did you murder?” I said.

“I didn’t murder anyone,” he said.

“Not even Vivian Frayne?”

“Wise,” he said. “A real wise son of a bitch, aren’t you. No,” he said, “I didn’t murder anyone, not even Vivian Frayne, though she was asking for it.”

“Then why are you holed up?” I said.

“Because, a little bit, I’m mixed in it.”

“And you want me to un-mix?”

“Precisely.”

I sighed again. I said, “Sit down, huh? Re-fill our glasses and sit down. Let’s talk it up, huh? But I’m telling you right now, mixed or un-mixed, I keep the fee.”

“Any way it turns out,” he said, “you keep the fee.”

“Anybody know about this place?” I said as he filled my glass.

“Very few. Most of those who know about this place — know me as George Phillips not as Gordon Phelps. I had my attorney — whom I trust — find this place for me, arrange for the lease and all that. I used a decorator to furnish — as George Phillips, and I paid him in cash.”

“Your wife know about it?”

“Heavens, no. I don’t think she’d like it. I think it would rile her. My wife can be quite fierce when riled. She also controls a good deal of... er... what shall I say... my fortune — she controls, with me, jointly, a good deal of my fortune. Her becoming riled could prove embarrassing to me, quite embarrassing — and embarrassing is an understatement, believe me.”

“Then why do you do what you’ve done?”

“Why do any of us do things... we shouldn’t quite do? We have compulsions, desires...”

“Yeah,” I said. “How about Sophia Sierra? She knows that George Phillips is Gordon Phelps and—”

“But she doesn’t know that it has any importance. It’s just a guy using a different name, so that his hideaway can actually be a hideaway. She knows — as the world knows — that I have a good deal of latitude in my married life. It has just never occurred to her that this latitude has any definition, any boundaries... thank heavens. I was drunk, one night, and I slipped — I suppose we all kind of slip sometimes. In a sense, I was boasting to Vivian Frayne, and Miss Sierra was present—”

“So Frayne knew you as Gordon Phelps too?”

“Yes.”

“Did it worry you?”

“About Miss Sierra, no. I had hoped, soon, that I would be out of her orbit, that I’d just be another guy she had known and didn’t know any more. Men keep happening to these girls... and the remote ones just fade away and are forgotten.”

“And Vivian Frayne?”

“That one was different. She and I were much more intimate. She knew much more about me, made it her business, it seems, to know much more about me—”

“Kind of fodder for blackmail, wouldn’t you say?”

“It was fodder for blackmail, I would say.”

“Frayne?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s start at the beginning, Mr. Phelps. Let’s have it from scratch.”

He sipped his drink and set it down. He ran a tentative fingernail through his hair. His face creased into the pained expression of a constipated goat. “We’re all human,” he said. “Let’s put it that way, we’re all human. I like girls. I like girls who are young, strong, beautiful, vital. I don’t like the people in my own sphere. I — how shall I put it — I seek out, sort of, the lower depths, the physical, passionate people of a world other than my own. Perhaps I have a need to feel superior, perhaps my emotions are whipped to—”

“Okay,” I said, “with the abnormal psychology. I dig. Let’s move it from there.”

“I am a frequenter of dance halls — low, cheap dance halls. There, I am most superior. I am a millionaire. There are few millionaires in cheap dime-a-dance dance halls. And yet, you would be surprised at how many of the girls working in these dives are young, sweet, well-shaped kids from out of town—”

“Not me. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“There are bags, but there are beauties — kids trying to make a buck, kids with no talent, no knowledge, no assets, except youth and beauty. I get acquainted with these charming kids, I move slowly, I have patience, and, most of all in my favor, I have a good deal of money to throw around — and basically these kids have one prime need: money. Like that, and in that element, I can compete with my younger brethren. It was about six months ago that I went to the Nirvana Ballroom. As George Phillips, of course.”

“But of course,” I said.

“Originally, I was attracted to Sophia Sierra—”

“Can’t blame you,” I said, thinking of curves.

“But that one was too mercenary for me. She was right on top of the ball all the time.”

“What did you expect?” I said. “That she’d fall in love with you? Why, you can be her father, for Chrissake.”

“I smell maleness,” he said, “and I smell youth, and male ego, and a definite interest in Sophia Sierra. I smell Peter Chambers on the hunt, and I warn Peter Chambers right now. Take it from an old hand, Peter — not your youth, nor your maleness, nor your interest, will carry you one whit with Sophia Sierra. That one, at this moment in her life, is whore, all whore, period.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “Now get off the lecture platform. What happened with Sophia Sierra?”

“I took her out, showed her the town, let her see things big. I bought her a few frocks, a few dinners, advanced her a little cabbage, let her feel that papa was well-heeled and charitable.”

“Did you make it?”

“No.”

“Could you have?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I got close, but I didn’t get where I wanted to get. And then she came up with the lalapaloosa, and I took a raincheck.”

“Lalapaloosa?” I said.

“Ever hear of Elia Strassan?”

“Sure I’ve heard of Elia Strassan. Probably the greatest dramatic coach ever produced in America. Guy was in his prime about ten years ago, then he got sick and retired. What’s Elia Strassan got to do with this?”

“Sophia Sierra propositioned me. Seems she wants to be a great dramatic actress. Seems she wants to study with Strassan.”

“But he’s not having any... or is he?”

“Private tutorship, Sophia told me. Told me that Strassan wanted ten thousand dollars — in advance — for a year’s private tutorship. Wanted the money from me, she did, to pay over to him.”

“Did you give it to her?”

“I checked.”

“Whom?” I asked.

“First, Strassan. Guy’d had a stroke, was confined to a chair, wasn’t teaching any more. But that little lass had gotten to him, made him happy, somehow, right there in his wheel-chair. Because Strassan verified for her, said he’d be willing to take her on, privately, for a year, for ten thousand. He needs ten thousand like a hole in the head; the guy’s independently wealthy. So I checked some more. Dear Sophia had pulled this thing before — grabbed a few suckers — seems there are others like me who look for kicks in dance halls. Strassan covered for her, for reasons known only to himself.” He drank deeply of his drink. “That baby doesn’t want to be an actress. All she wants is to garner a great big bankroll while she’s young enough and beautiful enough to garner it. That’s all that’s on her mind — loot, big loot. And she uses that dance hall as a base of operations. Strange kind of whore, that kid, but all whore. I passed.”

“To Vivian Frayne?”

“Yes. Quite another type. Blonde, older and much softer. About thirty, but quite lovely. Kind of a schizo. All soft on one side, all hard on another. Queer dame, but we made out well.”

“And Sophia Sierra?”

“Like unto burst with anger. Didn’t blame me. Blamed Vivian. Hated her guts, at having lost me to her. Felt that Vivian had put the hooks in. Hated Vivian, but stayed along with me as a kind of lost friend.”

“And you and Vivian?”

“Went along for months, and most satisfactorily. But suddenly she began to swing the big bat too, looking for a home run.”

“Like how?” I said.

“Like a sudden interest in travel. Wanted two years in Europe, felt it would broaden her. Tell you the truth, I’d have been glad to be rid of her, if the request were within reason. I’d had enough. I was ready to move on to greener pastures, or should I say blonder. She wanted fifty thousand dollars.”

“What?”

“Fifty thousand. For two years in Europe. And — to be absolutely honest — I might have considered it. If I didn’t realize it was blackmail, pure and simple — blackmail.”

“When did she make the play?”

“About two weeks ago.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Oh, I was... indecisive. I wanted to think about it, because I was worried. It was, really, the first time, in my varied escapades, that the individual involved with me knew exactly who I was.”

“Indecisive or no — did it come to conclusion?”

“Not exactly.”

“What interfered?”

“I... I suppose she did, really.”

“How?”

“She died.”

Now I was pacing. I helped myself to another drink, neat, one gulp, and slam of the glass. “You kill her?” I said.

“No.”

“Did you think about it?”

“Yes. To be frank, yes. Things like that enter anybody’s mind when... when they’re frightened. I don’t know if she would have gone through with her... with her implied threat — she just wasn’t the type — a sweet, kind person, really — but I do admit to being terribly concerned.”

“Now, look,” I said. “You’ve known this girl intimately for a few months. Have you any idea who... who might have wanted to... to... was there anyone of whom she was afraid, anyone who might have had some definite motive for—”

“Sophia Sierra,” he said.

My head tilted as though a finger had been stuck in my eye. “Sophia Sierra?” I said. “Now how far can a man go when he’s put out about not being able to make it with a dame—”

“That’s not it, not it at all.” He was excited now and showing it. “I’m not accusing Sophia of anything. You’re asking. I’m telling. I know that Vivian was afraid of her, afraid of her Cuban temper, afraid of the smouldering hatred within her. Sophia was convinced that Vivian had stolen this sucker from her, and Vivian was convinced that Sophia had a deep and lasting hatred burning within her. She told me that, told me that many times.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Simmer down, Mr. Phelps. Anyone else that Vivian might have mentioned?”

He looked like a thought had just hit him.

“Okay,” I said, “what’s occurred to you?”

“A threat. A kind of threat.”

“From whom. To whom?”

“From Steve Pedi to Vivian.”

“Steve Pedi?” I said.

“He owns the Nirvana Ballroom. A rough, tough, capable man. I overheard a conversation, there at the Nirvana...”

“Between whom?”

“Between Pedi and Vivian.”

“When?”

“Oh, a couple of weeks ago. I was there, at the Nirvana. Vivian had gone upstairs — Pedi has his office upstairs. I had waited for her, at a table, and when she hadn’t returned, I had gone up after her. Steve Pedi generally has one of his bouncers stationed outside his office — his favorite bouncer, fella called Amos Knafke. Amos wasn’t there when I went up there — had other business, I assume. The door to Pedi’s office was open, and I was able to overhear the tail end of an argument between Vivian and Pedi. She was saying something like: ‘I know just what the hell’s going on around here, Steve Pedi, and you’re making criminals out of a lot of nice sweet kids, and I think you stink, I really think you stink out loud. And you’re going to put a stop to it, and do it fast, and if you don’t, I’m going to the cops, so help me, I’m going to the cops. I always knew you were rotten, but you’re even more rotten than I thought.’ That’s the way it ran.”

“A nice bit of dialogue,” I said. “Do you know what it was about?”

“Haven’t the faintest idea,” Gordon Phelps said.

“Did she get a reply?” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “Something like: ‘Sister, let me tell you something, for your own good. You’re moving in over your head, you and your damned Puritanic ideas. Butt out. Keep your nose clean, or you’ll get your head handed to you, and with a couple of holes in it. Now, that’s final.’ And her answer, before I pushed in the door, was: ‘And so’s this final Stevie. Unless you put a stop to this thing, and within the next couple of weeks, I’m going to the cops with it, and then you’ll get your head handed to you. And it’s got holes in it already.’ ”

I squinted at him.

I said, “Any ideas on what that was about. You visit her often, Mr. Phelps?”

“None whatever,” he said. “I pushed in and they both greeted me with smiles, forced smiles, true enough, but smiles.”

“Anyone else?” I said. “Anyone else on your list of possible suspects — aside from yourself?”

“No one else,” he said. “Not that I know of.”

I marched around quietly. He watched me march. Then I came back to him. I said, “I think the papers say she lived on East Sixty-fourth Street.”

“115 East 64th.”

“You visit her often, Mr. Phelps?”

“I never visited her, Mr. Chambers. I didn’t think it would be... er... circumspect. Let’s say... she visited here. Matter of fact, when I went off for vacations, she had carte blanche. She had a key to the place, of course.”

“Of course. When did she visit with you last, Mr. Phelps?”

He hesitated. “Last night,” he said.

“She was murdered last night,” I said.

“In her own apartment,” he said. “Not here.”

“When did she leave here?” I said.

“About midnight.”

“Wasn’t she working?”

“She took the night off.”

“She continue with the fifty thousand dollar trip to Europe?”

“She did.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Told her I was still thinking about it.”

“And when she left — what did you do?”

“I went to sleep. I was dead tired.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“I slept terribly. I was up in about an hour. I was worried. I had a bite to eat and I put on the radio. That’s when I heard about — about what happened to Vivian.”

“What time was that? Do you remember?”

“I don’t know. About two-thirty, three, perhaps.”

“And what did you do?”

“Nothing. Sat glued to the radio, listening. I heard, after a while, that the police were interested in talking to Gordon Phelps.”

“Any idea how you got mixed up in it?”

“I assumed that she had mentioned my real name to some of her friends, and that the police had questioned these friends.”

“So why didn’t you go down and talk to the cops?”

“Simply because I didn’t want to get mixed up in it. There’s a difference between the police wanting to talk to Gordon Phelps — a friend of Vivian Frayne’s — and the police wanting to talk to, or having talked to, Gordon Phelps, Vivian Frayne’s lover. I didn’t want that smeared over the papers. Once they talked to me — they’d get it from me. On the other hand, once this damned murder is solved — it’s over. It’s off the front pages. It’s yesterday’s news. I’d be out of it.”

“So what did you do?”

“I wired my lawyer and had him come here. I had him go to the police and tell them that I was out of town on business, and that I was due back in a couple of weeks. I told him that he was to tell them that he didn’t know where I went, just out of town on business, back in a couple of weeks.”

“And then what’d you do?”

“Called your office, but you weren’t in. So I wired Sophia to get to you.”

“Why Sophia? Why not the lawyer?”

“Because, finally, I’m getting smart. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Lawyer, himself, might get suspicious when I’m cooking on all burners. Sophia, basically, is a friend. I’m a rich man. She knows that. Her very avariciousness keeps her being a friend.”

“Very clever,” I said. “Very psychological and all that. And now what do you do? Hide here until the thing blows over?”

“Or blows up.”

“Okay,” I said. I went to the door. “I’ve got your money and I’ve got your story. Let’s see what happens from here on out.”

“Please make it happen quickly,” he said. “And keep me informed.”

“Which necessitates my coming back here, doesn’t it?”

“How else?” he said.

“So let’s do it real whodunit, why don’t we? As long as you’re paying for my kind of brains, let’s do it with a system. Let’s make it five short rings, a pause, and then one long ring. When you hear that ring, you’ll be sure it’s me, you’ll know it’s Prometheus bringing fire to man.”

“Quite the card, aren’t you, Prometheus. But that ringing idea is a good idea, really. Hadn’t thought of it at all.”

There was a good deal, it appeared, that Mr. Gordon Phelps had not thought of.

3

Mr. Gordon Phelps had not thought, for instance, of the possibility that a lady named Sophia Sierra might be attracted to a member of homo sapiens, gender male, without such member depositing a bag of loot at her feet like a sacrifice at an altar. He had not thought of the possibility that Sophia Sierra might be attracted to an individual half his age without such individual having to barter for her affections like they were jewels for sale in a forbidden marketplace. Gordon Phelps had not thought, for instance, that he had absolutely no alibi: the fact that he was alone in his hideaway apartment during the time of the murder of Vivian Frayne was exactly that — no alibi. He had not thought of the fact that he was a prime suspect, adorned, like a harpooned whale, by three deadly shafts, and all of them sticking out of him: motive, opportunity, proximity. He had not thought of the fact that, even if innocent, he was withholding information necessary and pertinent to police investigation of a capital crime. He had not thought of the fact that, no matter what his lawyer had told the police, they were, right now, in all probability, making every effort to seek him out and take him in. He had not thought of the fact that perhaps the police had thought of the fact that the lawyer was transporting a load of fertilizer shipped direct by the client. He had not thought of the fact that, perhaps, Sophia Sierra—

I stopped it right there.

Once it was back to Sophia Sierra — I stopped it.

I flailed fingers at a cab and had a ride through the morass of New York traffic to the precinct station wherein were housed the minions of the law in charge of Homicide in that section of Manhattan. There, too, was housed the brain and bulk of one Detective-lieutenant Louis Parker, staunchest of the minions of the law: cop, friend, gentleman, human being. And there was informed, after prodding lesser minions, that the good Parker was on the “crazy shift,” the middle one of the three eight-hour tricks, that he was out, and that he had called in and was expected back in his office some time at about eleven o’clock.

That gave me time.

It gave me time to go to a fine restaurant and have a leisurely lonely supper. It gave me time to go home and divest myself of my clothes and put away a five thousand dollar fee. It gave me time to get into a warm tub and digest the supper and digest the facts I had about the murder of a dance hall lady named Vivian Frayne. It gave me time to think about Gordon Phelps (having his own kind of fun as George Phillips), and Vivian Frayne (having fun too until the fun stopped all of a sudden), and Sophia Sierra (and Phelps’ admonishment that she was as mercenary as an ancient Hessian), and Steve Pedi (who owned the dance hall), and the Nirvana Ballroom (which was the dance hall that Steve Pedi owned). Nirvana Ballroom. I knew where it was. On Broadway at Fifty-fifth Street. Nirvana Ballroom: perhaps the very name was a tip-off to Steve Pedi. It certainly was an imaginative name. Only someone with a weird imagination could have named it. Nirvana Ballroom. Nirvana. Nirvana, an expression contained in Buddhism, a religion that taught that pain and suffering is a part of life, and that the extinction of all desire and passion is the entrance into Nirvana: the attainment of perfect beatitude. I thought, as I climbed out of my warm tub, that to some of us Nirvana can signify the beginning of true life, but to others, Nirvana can also mean death.

At ten o’clock in the evening — fresh, clean, unsullied and unphilosophical — I presented myself at the Nirvana Ballroom.

Mr. Steve Pedi was running an enterprising joint. You paid an admission of a dollar and a half, trudged up a flight of stairs, passed through an arched doorway and entered upon a crowded blue dimness. There were at least three hundred couples on the floor, swaying in various embraces to swoosh-soft music wafted from an excellent orchestra on a podium to the right. I had to squint to get accustomed to the gloom of the manufactured lovers’ twilight. To my left, there was a carpeted stairway, going up. In front of me was a wooden barrier with swinging-gate breaks for entrance to the dance-floor proper. Against the inner section of the barrier lounged shapely young ladies in enticing attitudes, smiling invitingly at each new customer as he entered. The customers smiled back or gaped in embarrassment at the ladies, all of them encased in shimmering evening gowns. I moved along the barrier looking for Sophia and could not find her. I found a roped-off section, in an area even dimmer than the rest of the place, that contained chairs and tables and huddled couples. I also found a bar.

I went to the bar.

“Scotch and water,” I said.

“Sorry, no hard stuff,” the bartender said. “Against the law. We got coffee, raisin cake, all kinds of soft drinks, soda, and ice cubes if you need them. This the first time you been here, Mac?”

“First time,” I said. “Got a date with a young lady, kind of. A Sophia Sierra.”

“Sophia? Man, you got taste. I’ll say that for you right off the bat. Sophia Sierra. Man, that’s a chick what’s got everything, and got it all in the right places.” He jerked his head toward the roped-off area. “She’s sitting there with some broken-down joe. He ain’t nothing, Mac. My money’s on you.”

“Thanks,” I said and started for the chairs and tables.

“Hey,” the bartender called.

I went back to the bar. If his call was a raucous hint for a tip, he was entitled to it. I reached for my wallet, but he stopped me. “Nah,” he said, “it ain’t that. It’s only you ain’t allowed in there without no tickets.” Now he jerked his head toward a booth that was fitted out like a box-office for a movie house. “Over there,” he said. “They’re a buck for ten tickets, each ticket a dance, but a dance is prackly thirty seconds. Got a tip for you, Mac, seeing as you’re new here. Got two tips. Get a whole load of tickets if you want to make a hit with any of them gals, especially Sophia, she’s class.”

At the booth, I got twenty dollars worth of tickets. I carried them like a torch as I maneuvered through the dimness amongst the chairs and tables of the roped-off area, seeking my Sophia.

Off in a corner, she was seated at a table vis-a-vis to a grizzled little man whose wizened face surrounded a pair of glittering eyes that could have hypnotized a snake. I hated to break up the party, but after all, I had a date. “Sorry,” I said. “Just flew in from Las Vegas to see my girl. It’s kind of a one night stand, just tonight. Got to be back on the job tomorrow. Got to make a living, you know. Hate to cut in like this. But we’re engaged, you know. Flew in all the way from Vegas for a lousy one night stand. Tough when you’ve got to make a living. Tough when you’ve got a girl in New York. I hope you understand, Mr. ... Mr. ...”

“Feninton,” he piped. “Hiram Feninton.”

“Oh, I told you he’d come,” Sophia said. “I told you I was hoping he’d make it, Mr. Feninton.”

“Yes, yes, you did,” Mr. Feninton said. He stood up, a small bow-legged frightened-looking little man with beady eyes. “You’re a lucky young man, young man,” he said, “lucky young man. I envy you, truly envy you. Youth, youth,” he said with sudden laconic logic. “Go fight youth.” His hand fumbled in his pocket, brought out a sheaf of bills, and he peered intently as he selected one and handed it to me. “Here,” he said. “Take it. Let Feninton play Cupid to young love tonight.” Then his other hand reached into another pocket and he slipped me a pint bottle that had the feel of a whiskey bottle. “On me, on me,” he said. “Let this evening be on me.” He bowed toward her, the glittering eyes consuming her. “We’ll make it another evening, Miss Sierra, another evening. I’m looking forward, if I may, to another evening.”

“Of course, Mr. Feninton,” she said.

He bowed to me. And then his bow-legs carried him away into the dimness, and he was gone.

I sat down, still holding the money and still holding the bottle. Almost at once my knees met hers beneath the table, and almost at once one of mine was taken by two of hers, like a caress, and held warmly.

“I’m a little bit drunkie,” she said, the pressure of her knees tightening a mite. “Just a little bit drunkie. Got a little bit drunkie, kind of waiting for you, hoping you’d show up.”

“I thought the hard stuff wasn’t allowed here,” I said.

“It’s not. Here in town, dance halls don’t have a license for liquor. But you can kind of bring it in, and they provide you with set-ups, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “And Mr. Feninton brought it in?”

“He sent out for it.” She took two clean glasses from a tray and put one in front of me and one in front of her. “What’s left in the bottle?” she said.

There wasn’t much. I emptied it, half in her glass, half in mine. It was Scotch, of an expensive brand.

Her hand went to the seltzer bottle and she held it poised over my glass. “How much do you like?” she said.

“Up to half,” I said.

“Me too,” she said and squirted seltzer into my glass and into hers.

We drank Mr. Feninton’s whiskey.

“I’m drunkie,” she said, setting down her glass, “but don’t worry, I get over it easy.”

“I’m not worried,” I said.

“I go for you,” she said. “I’m crazy and I know it, but I go for you.”

“I’m crazy too,” I said. “I go for you.” I brought up the bill the man had given me. “Have a donation,” I said, “from Mr. Feninton. For young love out of Las Vegas.”

It was a hundred dollar bill. She took it and put it into her purse. “This is a crumb joint,” she said. “Once in a while you get them like Feninton, but you don’t get them often.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” I said.

“Where else can a girl earn maybe three hundred dollars a week? Like to dance?”

“Sure,” I said. “Let’s dance.”

She stood up. She wore a red silk dress, no stockings, and red silk spike-heeled shoes. She wore absolutely nothing else.

“Let’s dance,” she said.

I handed up the string of tickets.

“Forget that,” she said, and she flung the tickets to the table. “Let’s do it like Mr. Feninton said. Let’s make this evening on him.”

That gave me my little moment of triumph. I stood up, thinking of Gordon Phelps. This was the girl who, according to him, had a steel-trap mind cast in the mold of a cash register. Maybe. Maybe, according to him. But maybe not according to me. Maybe Peter Chambers, for some cockeyed reason of his own, had gone overboard for Sophia Sierra. Bing. Like that. Out of left field. Why not?

I stood up and took her arm and led her to the blue-streaked dimness of the dance-floor. We danced. She was warm and soft and clinging, and her body yielded to mine, and we ground together, lightly, in a primitive caressing embrace, swaying to the music. Prickles of sweat were hot on my spine. I did not gasp because I was ashamed to gasp. I held her and I attributed the dizziness to Feninton’s whiskey. And now her cheek was against mine again and her giggle was alive at my ear. “Perpendicular prostitution,” she said. “It’s part of the racket, taxi-dance racket.”

“Let’s sit,” I said.

“You angry with me?” she said. “Because of what I said?”

“I’m nuts about you,” I said.

“That’s the way I want it,” she said.

We danced for a few moments, most conservatively, and then we broke it up and went back to the table and sipped at Feninton’s highballs and I said, “I saw G. Phillips.”

“I figured,” she said.

“You know what he wants?”

“I imagine he wants to get out from under — on the Vivian Frayne thing.”

“Why should he want to get out from under?”

“The cops are looking for him. And it’s my hunch he killed her.”

“Why should he? Why should G. Phillips kill V. Frayne?”

“Because it’s my hunch she was sticking a finger in his ear. For a little blackmail.”

I leaned back and I looked at her. She was a smart girl. A very smart girl. Too smart, perhaps.

“That’s a cute bunch of hunch you’ve got,” I said. “Want to tell me about it?”

“G. Phillips,” she said, “is Gordon Phelps. Gordon Phelps is a millionaire. He’s got a wife who wouldn’t kind of like it if she knew all about him—”

“How do you know?”

“I get around, lover. Anyway, that sets the guy up like a pin in a bowling alley. Leave it to V. Frayne to roll the ball.”

“What about S. Sierra?”

“Now what the hell does that mean, lover?”

“Means,” I said, “that if he was a set-up for V. Frayne, he was just as much a set-up for S. Sierra. Both of you knew he was Phelps — he talked out of turn one night while both of you were present. Nobody else around here knew he was Phelps — unless either of you talked.”

“We didn’t.”

“So he was a set-up for either one of you. Logical?”

“No. Because there are people who are capable of blackmail, and there are people who are not.”

“You’re not?” I suggested.

“Damn right I’m not. Oh, I’m no angel, don’t think I’m trying to give you that idea. But there are people and people, and people are... how do you say it?... complex, crazy, mixed-up. There are people who can kill, but love their mothers and their children. There are people who can steal, but cannot kill. There are—”

“Okay,” I said. “There are people and people. What kind of people are you?”

“I’m a people that thinks that blackmail is dirty, filthy, rotten. I couldn’t do blackmail if my life depended on it.”

“Could Vivian Frayne?”

“Sure-pop. Vivian was different. But she was people too. She thought blackmail was smart, worked it pretty good in her lifetime. On the other hand, there was another side to Vivian Frayne. She could be good, kind, sweet — she was like a mother to most of the kids working in this joint. Now Vivian—”

“You didn’t particularly like her, did you?”

“That G. Phillips briefed you pretty good, didn’t he?”

“Pretty good,” I said.

“I hated the son of a bitch,” she said.

“Enough to kill her?”

“I’ve got a temper.”

“Temper enough to kill?”

“Only when it’s at tip-top point. But I cool off after awhile.”

“Did you cool off toward Vivian?” I said. “After she took a sucker away from you right under your nose?”

She stood up. Her dark eyes peered down at me, filmed with fear, or hatred. “I cooled off,” she said. “You’re a nosey son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

“I’m paid for being nosey.”

“Like how much?” she said.

“Like five thousand dollars,” I said.

Her posture eased. She smiled. “At least it’s a respectable buck,” she said. “For being nosey.”

“Who’s Steve Pedi?” I said. I stood up beside her.

“He owns the joint.”

“I’d like to go talk to him.”

“You’re liable to get bounced on your ear, lover, by an ape named Amos Knafke. Guardian of the portals.”

“I’ll take my chances with Knafke.”

“I’d like to watch, hero.”

“Be my guest,” I said. “In fact, be my guide.”

She led me to the carpeted stairway. I followed her up it and along a carpeted hallway to a door at the end, in front of which stood a massive man like a languorous behemoth. Knafke, no other.

“Steve Pedi,” I said.

“So who wants to see Mr. Pedi,” he said in a voice that sounded like gravel being sifted in a deep drum.

“Peter Chambers.”

“Who’s Peter Chambers?”

“Me.”

“Who’re you?”

“A guy who wants to see Mr. Pedi.”

Eyes drowned in the fat of a face veered toward Sophia. “Who’s the wise guy, Miss Sierra?” he rasped.

“He would like to see Mr. Pedi,” she said.

The eyes came back to me. “If it’s a complaint, buster, we got a complaint department. Mr. Pedi don’t like—”

I did not have to do it.

I did it to impress Sophia Sierra.

He got two quick fists to the belly and they went in up to the elbow. I was ashamed as I stepped over him. Of course I did not hate him.

I opened the door to Pedi’s office. “After you,” I said.

Her eyes were wild. “Wow, you’re crazy, you’re a crazy man.”

I had impressed Sophia Sierra.

She went through the open door and I went after her and closed the door behind me. A handsome, white-faced man stood up behind a desk. A very elegant man.

“Yes?” he said. “What is it? Hello, Sophia.”

“Hello,” she said and fell into a soft chair as though she were exhausted.

It was a large room, its walls cluttered with autographed photographs of celebrities. The furniture was good, big, expensive and comfortable.

“Yes? What is it, please?” he said.

“He wants to talk to you,” Sophia said. “He’s Peter Chambers. Mr. Chambers — Mr. Steve Pedi.”

“How do you do?” I said.

“What happened to Knafke?” he said to Sophia.

“I laid him out,” I said.

Pedi’s thin lips tightened. He threw a glance at Sophia, another at me, came out from behind the desk, went to the door, opened it, cast a glance beyond, and closed the door.

He came to me. He extended his hand and I took it. He had a lot of strength in his hand for a slender man. “I’m glad to know you,” he said. “You wouldn’t want Knafke’s job, maybe? Because if you would, you’re hired. Right now.”

“I’m not available,” I said.

“Too bad,” he said. “All right, what is it, please, Mr. Chambers?”

The door opened.

Knafke lumbered in.

“Where is he?” Knafke said. “Where is that mother-loving son of a bitch.”

“I’m here,” I said, softly.

“Get out of here,” Pedi said. “Out.” And as Knafke stood indecisively, Pedi repeated. “Out, out. Go watch the door.”

Knafke murmured, as he left, quietly closing the door behind him.

“What’s the pitch?” Pedi said.

“It’s personal, I think,” I said.

“Personal, like what?” he said.

“Personal like about Vivian Frayne,” I said.

“Out,” he said to Sophia. “Wait for your boy friend downstairs.”

She stood up, smiled at him, smiled at me, said, “See you,” and moved to the door and out it.

“All right,” Pedi said. “Let’s have it. What’s it all about?”

“Vivian Frayne,” I said.

“You a cop?”

“No.”

“What do you want, Mac?”

“I want to know if you threatened Vivian Frayne.”

He thought that over. “Mac,” he said seriously, “I got a few more around here like Amos. If I want, I could have you chopped up and thrown out to the cats in the alley.”

“Why should you want?”

“Because you’re poking around. I don’t like pokers. Who told you I threatened Vivian? You want to talk about that?”

“Sure,” I said.

“You a peeper?” he said.

“That’s right.”

“Figures,” he said. “All right, who said I threatened Vivian?”

“George Phillips.”

“That old son of a bitch, huh? He’s a liar.”

I told him what Phillips had told me.

“He’s a liar,” he said when I was finished.

“Okay,” I said. “Just checking.” I went for the door.

“Just a minute,” he said.

“Yes, Stevie?” I said.

“The cops didn’t mention none of this to me. They playing it cool?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“They pick up Phillips yet?”

“I don’t know.”

“If they did, he must have spilled this crap to them too. What do you think?”

“If they did, he did, that’s what I think.”

He regarded me for a long moment. He went to the desk, pulled open a drawer, brought out three new crisp one hundred dollar bills. “How you fixed for ethics?” he said. “Did the cops pick up Phillips yet?”

I took his three hundred dollars.

“No,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said. “Look, will you kind of keep me informed on how the thing goes? I ain’t mixed in this, but—”

“I might, if it doesn’t crash with the ethics.”

“Thanks,” he said and he walked to the door with me and opened it. “This is Peter Chambers,” he said to Amos Knafke. “He’s a real nice fella. Any time he wants to see me, it’s my pleasure. Dig?”

“You’re the boss, boss,” Amos said.

“Good-bye, Mr. Chambers,” Pedi said. “You’re a nice fella. I respect a guy with ethics. I like you, like you very much.”

“I’m thrilled,” I said.

“Bye, now,” he said and he closed the door and left me alone in the corridor with Amos.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Knafke,” I said. “I’m a nothing.

I was making with the showboat. I was trying to impress the girl. Maybe this can even it up.”

I stuffed Pedi’s three hundred dollars into the meat of Knafke’s beefy palm.

Downstairs, I found the lady in red morosely stirring the dregs of Feninton’s drink with the jagged end of a broken swizzle stick. “How’d you make out?” she said without looking up.

“About like I’d expected,” I said. I looked at my watch. “I’ve got to get to work.”

“Will you come back? I want you to come back. We’re open here until four, you know.”

“I’ll try. I’ll try my damnedest.”

4

“I’m fouled up on a case,” Lieutenant Parker said, when I got into his office to see him. “And it’s a bitcheroo, all because it’s got to do with a dame who had lots of glossy photos of herself, all of them sexy. So the newspapers are not going to lay off it.”

“Vivian Frayne?” I said.

“You read the papers,” he said. “The wrong ones.” He sighed and stood up, rubbing a hand across his stiff black crewcut. He was short, broad, thick and stocky, with a ruddy face and bright dark honest eyes. “What brings you?” he said. “I’m told you were here before.”

“Vivian Frayne,” I said.

He did not move. His eyes were amused. “Okay,” he said, “I feel a cockeyed deal coming on. A Peter Chambers special. What do you know, and what must I do to find out what you know?”

“Don’t have to do a thing,” I said, “except tell me about Vivian Frayne.”

“And for that...?” he said.

“I might produce Gordon Phelps.”

That rocked him. He jumped like he’d been unexpectedly pinched, in an unexpected place. “Oho,” he said. “A real Peter Chambers special. I want that guy and I want him badly. You working for him?”

“I’m afraid I am.”

“Can you produce him?”

“I can’t produce him right now.”

“When can you?”

“Let’s talk it up a little, shall we, Lieutenant? You help me, I’ll help you. It’s the old story — we’re on the same side, you and I. It’s only the approach that may be different.”

“It may be, mayn’t it?” he said. He went behind his desk, lay back in his swivel chair, lit up a cigar. “We’re anxious about that Gordon Phelps. I’d like to squeeze that out of you.”

“If you tried to squeeze, Lieutenant, I’d deny any knowledge. I think we’re past that stage, the squeezing for information stage.”

“Yeah,” he growled behind cigar smoke. “Lawyer guy came in with cock and bull.”

“I know about that,” I said.

“Figured you would.” He sat up. “When will you have him for me?”

“Let’s say forty-eight hours. Maybe sooner, but let’s say forty-eight hours at the outside. I’ll either bring him in or I’ll convince him to come in. Good enough?”

“And if we pick him up before that?”

“Then you pick him up. That’s your business and I can’t stop you from working at your business. One proviso. I don’t want a tail on me. I’d lose him anyway, but why have to go through the bother?”

“Okay, no tail.”

“Then we’ve got a deal, Lieutenant?”

“What do you want to know?”

“All about Vivian Frayne.”

“Ain’t much, really.” He puffed on his cigar. He wrinkled his face, concentrating. “Dance hall dame. Been in New York about thirteen years. Wise little operator, always lived pretty good. Never in trouble, never caught up with law. Had a nice reputation, the gals in the dance hall adored her, she was kind of like a mother-hen to them. Investigation showed she’d been to Canada a couple of times, and that’s all we know about her.”

“What about background?” I said.

“Nothing,” he said, “which isn’t unusual. Vivian Frayne’s probably not her real name. Dame comes in from Oshkosh somewhere when she’s about seventeen, probably a runaway, or a go-offer with a guy. Breaks family ties, gives herself a fancy name, and gets lost in a city of nine million. Once there’s no record on them, you just can’t trace them back.”

“What about the published pictures?”

“Those don’t generally help either in these kinds of cases. These are sophisticated glossies — who can tie up this gorgeous mature woman with the kid of seventeen that scrammed Oshkosh. Even if she has a family, and they haven’t forgotten her — those pictures wouldn’t make the connection. These kinds of cases, you’ve got to work them from the present, from the recent life of the deceased. Background is out. If you fall into background, that’s just a lucky break.”

“Okay, Lieutenant,” I said. “Let’s have it.”

“Want it chronologically?”

“Want it any way you’d like to give it.”

“Chronologically,” he said. “Sequence started here on Monday, late Monday night. She’d worked Monday, left the dance hall about four ayem, went home. Cab dropped her, and as it pulled away, two guys approached, a mug job. One stuck a knife in her back, the other did an armlock around her throat. But, as luck would have it, just then a cop turned the corner. They grabbed her bag and blew, but she struck out at one of them. She hit him and the knife dropped. The cop chased them, but they outran him, and blew. That’s the Monday night bit.”

“Did she see either one of them, I mean to recognize them?”

“No.”

“Okay, I’ve got Monday night.”

“It was a mugging, we figure it for a straight mugging, what with grabbing the bag, all in pattern. But we had the knife. There was one faint smudge of a print on it, and the laboratory boys did a hell of a job. Worked all of Tuesday, and finally came up with it. We did the search and it turns out to be a grifter named Mousie Lawrence. Ever hear of Mousie Lawrence?”

“Vaguely,” I said.

“A one-time loser, did a term about fifteen years ago for armed robbery, and that’s the last we heard of him — until now. Didn’t even know he was in New York. Fifteen years is a long time. New hoodlums grow up, you kind of lose track of the old ones unless they’re in open operation. Anyway, early this morning, about seven o’clock, cops come calling on Vivian Frayne with the gallery-mug photo of Lawrence.”

“But why if she’s said that she hadn’t recognized either one of them?”

“Just to see if she recognized the photo. After all, these guys were waiting for her practically at her apartment house. Maybe they were acquainted with her, met her at the dance hall. Like that, we’d have a better line on them, maybe she’d even be able to give us some information on the other mugger. Anyway, we wanted to see if she’d recognize the photo, if she’d have any angle on it. Reasonable?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“There was no answer to their ring. The milk bottles were outside the door, waiting to be taken in, but there was no answer to their ring at her apartment. One of the cops was a guy with brains, or maybe an impatient guy. He went down to the super, and had him open the door. They found her inside, dead. She was dressed in lounging pajamas. There were five bullets in her, and a gun on the floor beside her. The apartment was upside down, it had been thoroughly searched. And, mind you, when the super had opened the door, it had been locked — from the outside.”

“Deadlock type of lock?”

“Yeah. You had to turn the knob on the inside to lock it, or lock it with a key from the outside. She was dead and the murderer wasn’t there, so the lock had to have been locked from the outside.”

“Cute,” I said.

“Damn cute,” he said. “Anyway, that’s when I got into this, personally.”

“You think that mugging had anything to do with the murder?”

“Matter of fact, I don’t. Stands to reason. Whoever killed her was able to get in and out of that apartment. That’s for sure. If these babies were able to get into the apartment, they’d have been waiting for her there, wouldn’t they — if the job was for murder? But they were loitering outside, so they figure to be muggers, not murderers. We’re checking that angle, anyway. Had Lawrence’s photo passed around the dance hall, but the kids there clammed. Either they never saw the guy, or they don’t want to get mixed with stooling on hoods. Kids in dance halls are hip kids. They stay away from trouble, and it’s trouble, let’s face it, when you identify a hood.”

“Got a photo for me?” I said.

“Sure. Had a lot of them made. We’re looking for the guy.” He opened the middle drawer of his desk, brought out two photographs, each about four by six, and handed them across to me. One was full face and one was profile. I looked at them briefly and put them away.

“Figure a time of death for her?” I said.

“About one o’clock Tuesday night, that’s the best figure.”

“Wasn’t she supposed to be working then?”

“Took the night off, probably had a date.”

“Any idea whom she had the date with?”

“Yeah, we got an idea. We got an idea she had a date with your client.”

“Really,” I said, and I shifted the subject. “The place was thoroughly searched, you say. Which seems to mean that whoever killed her was looking for something.”

“Whatever they were looking for — they found it, I figure.”

“Why?”

“Because we did a pretty good search ourselves. We found nothing that meant anything to anybody. All we got was the gun right there on the floor, and a diary.”

“Ah,” I said, “there we go. Always a diary.”

“The gun was something,” he said, “but ah the diary, that was nothing. The gun was the murder weapon, but the diary was a kind of new one, with only sporadic entries, which were mostly about somebody with initials G. P.”

“This G. P. have a key to the joint?”

“Nope. Diary specifically says no. Diary says that G. P. was never even at her apartment. Though I bet she was at his. There’s one key on her ring that we haven’t found a door for. I bet G. P. is behind that door somewhere. She saw G. P. Tuesday night before she came home to get killed.”

“How do you know that, Lieutenant?”

“Diary states the date with G. P.”

“Brother,” I said as I went to the door, “you’re one guy who doesn’t figure to jump to conclusions, in my book. Why link initials G. P. to Gordon Phelps?”

“Believe me, I haven’t jumped to any conclusions.”

“Have it your own way,” I said. “Can I see that apartment, Lieutenant?”

He looked dubious.

“You really want Phelps, don’t you?” I said. “Well, you can have him within twenty-four hours. Now can I see the apartment, Lieutenant?”

Again he opened his desk drawer and dipped into it. He threw me a bunch of keys. “You know the address?” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good luck,” he said.

“Any prints on the gun?” I said.

“None,” he said. “Smudges, no prints. And no prints in the apartment that could do us any good.”

“It’s still bothering me,” I said.

“What?”

“Why you insist on linking initials G. P. with Gordon Phelps.”

“There happened to be a serial number on the gun. That told us, after checking, that the gun belonged to a gentleman playboy by the name of Gordon Phelps.”

I trudged the dark city streets from the precinct station house toward Broadway. I dangled keys in my pocket and facts in my brain. The keys jumbled and so did the facts. Parker knew nothing and neither did I. I had a couple of extra facts, but still I knew nothing. I knew where I could lay my hands on Gordon Phelps, and Parker didn’t, but that did not bring me closer to the same solution Parker was seeking. And I knew more about Mousie Lawrence than Parker did, but that was because he was law and order and I was law and disorder.

Mousie Lawrence, born Morris Lawrence, was a fifty-year-old man with the moral scruples of a hungry hyena. He was small, wiry, rough, tough and heartless. Fifteen years ago he was still groping, clawing for his niche in the world of his peers — that was when he was apprehended and jugged for armed robbery. But Mousie was not stupid and he had come a long way since then. Ten years ago, he had hooked up with a major narcotics outfit operating out of Mexico City, and he had been paired off with Kiddy Malone. They had fitted together like a nut and a bolt, they had complemented one another: they were a rousing success in the nefarious traffic which was their milieu. They were front men, advance men, salesmen. Operating out of Mexico City, and with limitless funds at their disposal, they descended upon various points in the United States where they set up depots, organized intricate personnel, managed and stayed with an operation until it was meshed, geared, flawless, and self-performing. Then they retreated to home base, where minds concentrated on the next site of burgeoning business for this enterprising duo. Mousie was a sour little man, dry and humorless, and a teetotaler both of alcohol and drugs. Kiddy Malone was an addict, a small man like Mousie, but outgoing, robust, twinkling-eyed and happy-natured when he was on the stuff — and since he was in the business, he was always on the stuff. Kiddy’s true Christian name was Kenneth, and I was much more intimately acquainted with him than I was with Mousie Lawrence. Kiddy was an Irishman out of Dublin. Fifteen years ago he had been a seaman who had jumped ship and had remained, without benefit of quota or citizenship, in the United States. Kiddy was a womans’ man, and I had met him when he had got into trouble with his first woman (or second or third or thereabouts). He had been effusively appreciative of my efforts in his behalf and a casual acquaintanceship had ripened into a rather ribald and entertaining friendship, until Kiddy had begun to sin with the syndicate, and I had begun to disapprove of the new ways and habits of one Kiddy Malone. Before long, Kiddy’s papers were straightened out, a forged citizenship was forged for him, and he began to go to the right tailors, the right haberdashers, the right barbers, the right hooters, and he began to flash bankrolls as thick as salami sandwiches. He also began to hit the stuff himself — a mainliner — and he became a personality. Then came Mexico City, his hookup with Mousie, and the flourishing of a successful partnership.

I hailed a cab, as I thought about Mousie and Kiddy. If Mousie was in New York, so was Kiddy, and if they were in New York, they were working on a deal, and if they were working on a deal, it was not the kind of deal that Parker was talking about. Mousie and Kiddy in a mugging act was as difficult to contemplate as Rogers and Hammer-stein doing words and music for the pornography of a college-boys’ stag party. Something stank.

At Fifty-fifth and Broadway, I paid the cabbie, and once again I paid admission for the privilege of entering into the fragrant dimness of the Nirvana Ballroom. I went immediately to the bar.

“Hi, Mac,” said my bartender. “You back already?”

“Who can resist Nirvana?” I said.

“You looking for Miss Sierra?”

“Yes,” I said.

“She ain’t in a good mood, if you ask me. What did you do to her, Mac?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Maybe that’s why she ain’t in a good mood. Why don’t you go try again?”

“I’m going,” I said.

This time I bought one dollar’s worth of tickets. I found the lady in red seated at exactly the same table, and alone. She seemed to be studying the untouched drink in front of her, but that study was not all-inclusive because she said, without looking up, “Sit down, lover. Glad you’re back. Have a drink. Glasses on the tray, bottle under the table. And it’s Scotch.”

I reached and found the bottle and it had hardly been used. I poured, restored the bottle, said, “You off the stuff?”

“Oh, I don’t deny I like to drink,” she said. “But I like to drink with company I like. You’re company I like, but you weren’t here. Where were you?”

“Looking at pictures,” I said and I brought them out, full face and profile, and I handed them to her quick-like, all of a sudden — and I saw her start before she pulled back into control. “Do you know the guy?” I said.

“No,” she said and returned the pictures.

“Ever see the guy?” I put the pictures back in my pocket.

“Where’d you get those pictures?” she said.

“A friend of mine gave them to me.”

“Give them back to him. Because they’re trouble.”

“How would you know? You never saw the guy, remember?”

“I’m psychic,” she said, and she smiled, and I wished I could stay with her.

“I’m going up to see your boss again,” I said.

“Look, let’s stop playing shuttle-cock. You my date for this evening, or no?”

“Yes, but I got work to do in between.”

“Well, if you’re not back within an hour after you get out of here, I’m not waiting. We’ll catch up another evening.”

“I’ll try to be back,” I said.

“It’s your life,” she said. She looked at me, dark-eyed sullen for a moment, looked past me. “Don’t bother going upstairs for the boss,” she said. “He’s at the coffee-bar, and he’s watching us as if he’s expecting us to break a law.”

I did not turn around. I said, “I’d like to talk to him alone.”

“You mean you want me to blow?”

“Just so’s I can talk to him alone.”

She stood up and kissed the top of my head, lightly. “Good bye, crazy-joe. The hell with you.”

She went away.

I reached down for the bottle to add more color to my drink and saw the well-shod feet stop at my table. I said, still stooped for the bottle, and just to impress him with my prowess as a peeper: “Sit down, Steve. Have a drink. On the house.”

I heard his chuckle.

“Not drinking,” he said. “Thanks. But I’ll sit.”

He sat.

I put the bottle back under the table.

He reached across the table for my drink and drank from it. “I’m going to break down for you, fella,” he said. “Because that son of a bitch George Phillips tried to give you information that put me in the middle.”

“Like what?” I said.

“Like that bull about my threatening Vivian.”

“That was bull?”

“Bull,” he said. “He’s full of it. His name isn’t George Phillips; it’s Gordon Phelps.”

“Who’s Gordon Phelps?” I said.

“A very rich bitch,” he said, “who as George Phillips has himself a ball.”

“How do you know?” I said.

“Vivian told me.”

“Why did she tell you?”

“Because like she had him hooked. Because like she was trying to figure out how to make it pay off. So she took me into her confidence. She asked me for advice, how she could put the hooks in.”

“And did you tell her?” I said.

“I don’t monkey in that stuff. And if I did, I wouldn’t monkey with a dame like Vivian. She was too... unpredictable.”

“So how’d she do with Phelps-Phillips?”

“She discussed him with me. She had him hooked. He really went for her. Even gave her a gun once to protect herself. She asked me to check if he was really Gordon Phelps. I checked. He was. Then she figured she’d hit him for fifty — fifty big ones. She asked me if he could stand a shove like that. I told her he could.”

“So?”

“So, maybe even if he could stand that shove, he figured it would only be the first of many.”

“Are you trying to say he killed her?”

“He tried to put me in the middle, didn’t he? I figure he told you what he was supposed to have overheard between me and Vivian — to put you on to me for that murder. Okay, so I’m putting it right back on him. Like that we’re even up. You go from there, fella.”

“Where do Mousie and Kiddy go?”

“Pardon!” he snapped.

“Mousie Lawrence and Kiddy Malone.”

“You’re using fancy names, fella. Better watch your step.”

“You know them?”

“No.”

“It gets around to murder — everybody tells a lot of lies, Stevie.” I pushed back from the table and stood up.

“You leaving our attractions?” he said and the capped teeth gleamed in an ironic smile.

“Reluctantly,” I said.

“Why don’t you stick around? I been told Sierra’s done a flip. Sierra don’t flip often. Why don’t you take advantage of it?”

“Got to go talk to people,” I said, “to people that talk the truth. I’m going to talk to a stoolie, Stevie. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” he said and his soft voice had the flat rasp of a dull knife cutting stale bread.

5

Lorenzo’s was a discreet supper club between Park and Madison on Fifty-third Street, which served string music with its meals — fiddles, zither, and two guitars. It was a plush joint that catered to a late crowd. The inner room had a recessed upstairs gallery, much sought after by the stay-uppers: it was a mark of distinction or a mark of a large gratuity to the maitre d’ to be escorted to the upstairs gallery. It was also the mark of having once been pointed out by the proprietor of the establishment.

I was instantly escorted to the gallery and I was seated at a corner table, alone. I inquired of Mr. Dixon, and I was informed that he would be with me shortly. And shortly, he made his appearance, plump in a fastidious dinner jacket, smiling and affable. He was short, fat, smooth and bald, clear gray eyes swimmingly magnified behind the thick lenses of black-rimmed, studious, straight-templed spectacles.

“Ah, Mr. Chambers,” he said in a voice like the purr of a cream-fed cat. “Always welcome.” He sat down, sighingly, opposite me. “I am breathless in anticipation. I hope it’s big.”

“Not too,” I said.

“That’s what all my customers say — but, of course, since it is their money, they’re prejudiced. I’m prejudiced too, I suppose, but let me be the judge. What is it, Mr. Chambers?”

“Steve Pedi. Mousie Lawrence. Kiddy Malone.”

“Together, or separate?”

“Pedi is separate. Mousie and Kiddy are together.”

“Which is as it should be,” he said. “On one category, you’re going to save money. What I have to offer on Pedi isn’t worth any money.”

“Will you offer it, please?”

“With pleasure,” he said. “Stephan Burton Pedi owns a ballroom called The Nirvana. He bought the joint about ten years ago, but he didn’t operate it himself. He had connections in California, Canada, Florida, and France — some kind of business connections. He’d come in, now and then, and look things over at The Nirvana, but he only took over active operation a few months ago.”

“What kind of business connections?” I said.

“I don’t know,” Lorenzo said. “He’s a shrewd guy, a smart apple, and he sits very strong with some of the best people.”

“By the best people, I take it, you mean the worst people.”

He shrugged, smiled. “He’s fixed tip-top in the connections department. He’s a good guy to stay away from, if you want my advice.”

“I’m not here for advice.”

“That’s all I know about Steve Pedi. For free.”

“What do you know about Mousie and Kiddy, not for free.”

He studied buffed fingernails, looked up and cocked his head at me. “I don’t get you,” he said. “I think you know about as much as I do about those two. Why are you trying to throw your money away?”

“I don’t want to know about their past history. I want to know about their present. Are they here in New York?”

“Yes.”

“How long they been here?”

“Oh, about a month, I think.”

“Why are they here?”

“I don’t know why they’re here — yet. I’ll know, sooner or later, but I don’t know yet. You want to be in touch with either one of them?”

“You know where?”

He rubbed his hands together. “I sit worth a thousand bucks to you?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Lorenzo doesn’t kid. You know that.”

“And what do I get for my thousand bucks?”

“You get where they’re staying, you get under what names they’re staying, and you get information about the brand new gal Kiddy’s palsy-walsy with.”

“Deal,” I said.

“Cash?” he said.

“What else?” I said. “You call at my office tomorrow at four.”

“Excellent, dear Peter.” He sat back, clasped his hands over his stomach, and closed his eyes as though he were communing with the spirits. His eyebrows came together in concentration as he said, softly. “Mousie is Emanuel Larson. Kiddy is Kenneth Masters. They have a suite at the Montrose Hotel, Fifty-seventh and First, Suite 916. Kiddy’s new gal is a waitress, works in a fish restaurant on Fulton Street called Old Man Neptune. She’s a red-head with a terrific shape, and she ought to be in a pleasant mood these days, because she’s a user and Kiddy keeps her well supplied with the stuff. Her name is Betty Wilson, three room apartment at 244 West 65th Street, first floor, rear apartment to the right; there are four apartments on each floor, two in front and two in the rear; its an old brownstone, a walkup, and you don’t have to ring downstairs if you don’t want to because the entrance door is on the fritz and it doesn’t snap shut on its lock.” He opened his eyes. “Okay?”

“Wow,” I said in wonderment.

The Montrose was one of those newly-built thousand-room monstrosities, tier upon jagged tier of stone and chrome, brick and steel. I stalked through the lobby as though I belonged there, went into one of the shiny-doored elevators, got out at nine, marched to 916, put my finger on the doorbell and squeezed.

Nobody answered.

I took the elevator back down to the main floor. I wanted a look-see into Suite 916. I was right there at the premises, and you never can tell what a look-see can turn up, even a fast look-see.

I went directly to the desk.

It was long and wide with a white marble top. There were five clerks behind it. I reached across and grabbed the lapel of the youngest of the three, a slender kid with a butch haircut, sad eyes, a white face and a black bow tie.

“I’m Jack Larson,” I shouted. “I got a brother here. Emanuel Larson. 916.”

“So what?” said the slender kid. “Leggo, will you, Mac?”

Two other clerks moved over. One was a portly, white-haired man with glasses.

“My brother called me,” I shouted. “Called me, threatening suicide. I got here fast as I could.”

“Suicide?” breathed the slender kid.

“You heard me. Suicide.”

I let go of the kid and he sagged. “Suicide,” he breathed, wetting his lips.

The white-haired man took a ring of keys quickly, came out from behind the desk quickly, said, “All right, Mr. Larson, come along with me.”

He was sprightly for a fat man. We ran across the lobby and into an elevator. “Nine,” he said to the elevator boy, “and no other stops.”

Upstairs, he opened the door of 916. All the lights were on. We went through a small square foyer into a large square sitting room. It was an expensive suite. But something in the middle of the ankle-deep carpet completely destroyed the decor of the room: Mousie Lawrence, fully dressed, and very dead. He lay, face up and hideous, his upper lip shot away and writhed back in a bullet-destroyed broken-toothed grin. His eyes were open in an unblinking fish-stare. His forehead and ears were stamped with the wax-yellow of death.

The white-haired man gasped, retchingly, as he bent to examine him. I did not have to bend to examine Mousie to know he was dead. Instead, I went through to the bedroom. That, too, was brilliantly lighted, but it was uninhabited. A shoulder holster, with pistol, was on the bed. Another holster, belt-type, and also with pistol, hung on the knob of the closet door. I opened the closet door. Clothes, nothing else. I went back into the sitting room. The white-haired man was on the phone, chanting, “Yes, yes, dead, Mr. Larson; no, Masters is not here...”

I went to the door. I took the elevator down; I crossed the lobby and walked out into the street.

I walked all the way from Fifty-seventh and First to Forty-second and Park where the Automat stayed open all night. I had a cup of coffee and smoked many cigarettes. Whoever had killed Mousie had been a friend. Guys like Mousie and Kiddy didn’t keep their artillery in the bedroom unless they were entertaining a friend in the sitting room — a friend, someone whom they trusted, that is, unless it was Kiddy himself who had put the blast on Mousie. That sort of thing has happened before: they both toss off their holsters, but one of them has an extra piece on his person and that is the piece he uses to put a splash on the ankle-deep carpet and spoil the decor of the sitting room. But why should Kiddy Malone kill Mousie Lawrence? Then again, why not? People fall out, even animals of the stripe of Mousie and Kiddy, and I could inquire into that because I knew where to catch up with Kiddy Malone. Where else would Kiddy Malone be, but with his brand new girl friend, Betty Wilson. There was no rush, however; I had time: I wanted Kiddy Malone well bedded-down before I called upon him. I sighed, grunted, pressed out my cigarette, mopped up the dregs of my coffee, went out into the street, found a cab and asked to be taken to 115 East 64th Street.

Parker’s keys were as welcome as penicillin in a bordello. Everything worked smoothly. One key opened the downstairs door, and in the vestibule a gander at the bell-brackets produced 4C as the Frayne apartment. Upstairs, another key opened the door of 4C. I put on the lights and I approved, noddingly, as I stalked about as appreciatively. Vivian Frayne, before the holes, had done very much of all right for herself. She had had a beautifully-appointed two-room apartment, rich and elegant: somebody with money and taste had furnished it, or perhaps someone else had had the money and Vivian had had the taste. Nevertheless, although it was an ocular delight, my inspection of apartment 4C added not a whit to my investigation into the death of its occupant. I put out all the lights, all but the foyer light, and I was just about to switch that, when I heard the sound.

Somebody was poking at the lock.

I flicked off the foyer light and, in darkness, I took up a station behind the door. I panted through an open mouth, feeling the perspiration bristle against my skin. I waited, and waited, and waited...

Finally, the door swung open. And closed.

Somebody was feeling for the light switch.

Somebody brushed against me. I sprang.

We went to the floor together, but it was a quick struggle. I found a spot, lashed out twice, and there was no more resistance. We both lay still, me on top. The body beneath me was soft and warm with very little muscle hardness. I pushed up, went to the light and flicked it, and there, sprawled supine but always attractive, lay Sophia Sierra, not unconscious, her eyes fluttering, surprise still a mark on her face. Her right hand held a sharp-pronged pick-lock. A black velvet short-coat was over the red dress. She blinked until, it appeared, I came into focus, for, immediately, she sat up.

“You!” she said.

“You!” I replied. “I’ll be a son of a bitch!”

“You are,” she said and rubbed at her jaw.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I said. “And with a professional pick-lock yet?” I helped her up. She shook her head groggily, but then she smiled, and I went soft all over again. “What are you doing here?” I said, but I said it much more pleasantly.

“You first,” she said. “You tell me first.” We went together to the living room. I put on the light. She took off the black coat and spilled out on a couch. She looked tired and frightened, but, somehow, that added to her allure.

“Honey,” I said, “you’re a nice, sweet, attractive gal, and I’m crazy about you.”

“Yeah, I remember,” she said.

“But I’m working on a murder thing, and I’m working in co-operation with the cops.”

“Cops?” she said as if I had really gone mad.

“You heard me. I’m here because the cops gave me permission to be here. In fact, they gave me the keys to get in here. But you’re here by virtue of a pick-lock. You’ve broken in here and you’re trespassing. That’s a crime either way. If I call the cops in — which I should do — you’re deep in trouble right up to that gorgeous chin of yours. Is that what you want me to do?”

“No,” she said.

“Then you’re going to have to talk it up, sweetie. First of all, what are you doing here?”

“I might be jammed in Vivian Frayne’s murder.”

“Did you kill her?”

“No.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ll tell you, if you let me,” she said.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Phelps wasn’t the first guy she pinched right from under my nose. I was burning when that happened—”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I beat it out of the Nirvana at that time. I took off a couple of weeks. I went for a vacation. Matter of fact, I went to Cuba. I wrote her a few letters and told her what I thought of her and her tactics. I told her I had friends, real bad boys. I told her that that pretty face of hers was going to be mashed up by them, maybe even worse was going to happen to her. I was hot then, burning. And she was scared witless.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me, when I got back. First, she tried to soft-soap me on the Phelps deal — that it wasn’t her fault, that she hadn’t made a pitch for him, that he’d just kind of gravitated to her. After I thought about it, after I cooled down — I figured that to be true. I really didn’t hold it against her.”

“What’s this got to do with her being scared witless?”

“She said something else to me, back there at the beginning, when I got back from my vacation. She said that if anything ever happened to her, the cops would know that it came from me, if it came from me.”

“How would they know?”

“She was saving my letters, she said. If anything happened to her, the cops would get those letters, and they’d know that I was behind whatever happened to her.”

“I get it,” I said. “How’d you feel about that?”

“Once I cooled off, I didn’t care. We kind of became pretty good friends after that, as a matter of fact. I think you can figure the rest.”

“You mean,” I said, “you came here tonight hoping to find those letters. So that no heat would be going toward you on her murder.”

“Correct.”

“Honey, this is from the horse’s mouth. Don’t waste your time. Those letters are not here.”

“How the hell would you know?”

“Honey, the cops’ve racked this joint up pretty good. If your letters would have been here, they’d have found them. And if they’d have found them, they’d have yanked you in for questioning. You can be sure of that.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she said softly.

An idea hit me. “Did Vivian Frayne have a vault, maybe?”

“No.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I’ve had that checked. By experts. You can depend on that. No vault. Not in any bank in the whole city of New York.”

I snapped my fingers. “If she saved your letters,” I said, sure of my hunch, “I think I know where they are. Now if you want to stop being a liar, I’ll make a try for your letters.”

“I’m telling you the truth, you damned—”

“About Mousie Lawrence,” I said.

“Mousie Lawrence? I never heard of a—”

“The picture I showed you. Back there at the Nirvana?”

“Oh.” She sucked in her breath.

“You were lying about that, weren’t you?”

“Yes... but only because I don’t like to talk about what isn’t my business. Kids like me, we learn to keep our noses clean.”

“Start getting it dirty, sweetie, because if I opened up to the cops about you, you’d be really jammed.”

She strode about the room. I watched her, enjoying every nuance of movement. She went to the couch and sat down. She put her face in her hands. “I want to be fair,” she said. “What do you want to know? What do you want to know about the man whose picture you showed me?”

“You know him?”

“I don’t know him as Mousie Lawrence.”

“You know him by any other name?”

“Manny Larson.”

“Fine,” I said. “Where do you know him from?”

“The Nirvana. And there was another guy.”

“Kiddy Malone? Kenneth Masters?”

“That’s it. Masters. Lenny Masters. They were picking out girls, girls who would kind of work a little racket without worrying too much about it.”

“What kind of racket?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Did they approach you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you take their proposition?”

“No.”

“What was the proposition?”

“Simple. I would be given a few little packages, oh, a few small little packages, no bigger than a couple of lumps of sugar, no bigger than that. They’d be given to me at home, a man would deliver them. Then, at the dance hall, sooner or later, a man would be dancing with me and he would say, ‘I come from Larson.’ And I was supposed to say, ‘Who’s Larson?’ And he was supposed to say, ‘A friend of Masters.’ Then, while we were dancing, I was supposed to slip him the little packet and he was supposed to slip me a folded hundred dollar bill. Somebody, later on, would come to my home to collect. Either I had all the packets, or I had hundred dollar bills for the packets I didn’t have. I’d get five bucks for every transaction. Could happen two-three times a night, they told me.”

“Why didn’t you take the deal?”

“Because it was penny-ante.”

“Didn’t you also figure it for trouble?”

“I did, but they explained that it couldn’t actually be trouble. If anything happened, I would just tell the truth. On the other hand, I was to keep my nose clean. If I talked about it — without trouble — then I would be causing trouble, and like that, the least that would happen to me would be a dose of acid in my eyes.”

“Pretty,” I said. “Real pretty. They set up a dope-drop in a dance hall. It’s all quiet and furtive in there anyway. They pick special girls who know enough not to shoot their faces off. They use stooges for delivery and pick-ups. A girl has two-three transactions a night. They pick twenty girls and they’re doing a minimum gross business of four thousand bucks a night, which is approximately twenty-five thousand bucks a week. Given a little luck — once the thing shapes up — it runs a year. That’s over a million dollars worth of business, just in one year. Could be much more than that. Could run much more than a year. Could use more than twenty girls, could use fifty. Could step up the amount of transactions a night to five or six. Those figures could run up fast to real heavy millions. Fantastic, out of one lousy little dance hall in New York. And the guys who set it up would be in the clear. There’d be layers and layers of in-between nobodies who would take the rap once the thing busted. How about Steve Pedi? Did he talk to you about this?”

“No.”

“Did he know what was going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you talk to him about it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was afraid to. They warned me what would happen if I discussed it. I wasn’t going out of my way looking for trouble.”

“And the racket’s been working? Going on right now?”

“Yes, I think so. Since they talked to me, I’ve kind of been watching. It’s hardly noticeable, no one would notice unless they were actually watching hard for it, but I’m pretty sure it’s been going on.”

“Okay,” I said, “thanks. Now get up. Let’s get out of here.” I started putting out the lights.

She stood up and wriggled into the black velvet short-coat.

“My letters...?” she said.

“But of course. Your letters.” I chuckled. “What’s a murder case without letters? It’s like a spy case without The Plans, or The Papers, or The Formula.” I took her hand. “Come on. Let’s go try for The Letters.”

6

The cab dropped us at 11 Charles Street. I paid the cabbie, waited until he tilted his clock, then added two dollars to the fee. “Please wait,” I said. “You’ll have another customer in a few minutes.”

I pushed the Phillips’ button — five short pushes, a pause, and then one long push.

The clicker clicked back. Upstairs, after his peek-hole routine, Gordon Phelps opened the door for us. He was wearing expensive slacks and a white silk sport shirt. He was very pale. He kept chewing on his red lower lip as though he were trying to pry loose a piece of stuck cigarette paper.

“I bring you a guest,” I said.

“Ah, the sulphuric Sophia,” he said. “Welcome.” But he kept chewing on the red lower lip. “Any news?” he said.

“Plenty,” I said. “Sophia, would you please go into the bedroom, and close the door behind you?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“It’s just that I’ve got some very personal stuff to talk to Gordon about.”

“The hell with both of you,” she said, but she went into the bedroom, though she slammed the door viciously.

“Any news?” Gordon Phelps said. “I’ve been dying here.”

“The cops are very anxious for you,” I said.

“As Sophia would say — the hell with them.”

“They’ve got reason to be anxious. Special reason.”

“Special? Why—”

“Vivian Frayne was murdered with bullets shot out of a gun that belongs to you. That’s definite. On the line.”

“My gun?”

“Your gun, Mr. Phelps. You the guy that used it?”

“Stop that.”

“Want to explain the gun?”

“That’s easy, man. I gave Vivian Frayne a gun that belonged to me, even gave her cartridges for it.” He shifted. He was now biting on the upper lip. “Gave it to her, as a matter of fact, because of that girl in there, because of Sophia Sierra. Vivian was very frightened of her for a time, wanted some sort of protection. I gave her my gun at that time.”

“That your story?” I said.

“It’s no story. That’s exactly what happened.”

“Okay, get your jacket on, and start getting out of here.”

“What’s the matter with you? What are you talking about?”

“I think it’s time for you to change your hideaway,” I said. “I’ve got a feeling that cops are getting close to this place.”

“No,” he said, but now he was chewing on both lips.

“Yes,” I said. “Here’s my idea. Slip into a jacket and go over to my place.” I gave him my address and apartment number, and my keys. “Nobody’ll be looking for you there. Except me. I’ll stay here for a short while. When I go, I’ll lock up.”

He closed the collar of his sport shirt, went to a closet, unhooked a suburban coat, and shrugged into it. He was as pale as the belly of a shark. He shoved a hand into his trousers’ pocket. “Here are my keys,” he said.

“I don’t need your keys.”

“Then how’ll you lock up here?”

“I have Vivian Frayne’s keys.”

I took them out and jingled them. He looked as though he were going to faint.

“Where’d you get those keys?” he said.

“From the cops. One of those keys fits here, as you know.”

“I know,” he said. “What the hell goes? Have you been trading information with them?”

“No, sir. Else they’d be here already.”

That seemed logical to him. He nodded, seemed to want to ask another question, changed his mind, and went back to eating his lips as he buttoned the coat.

“Either I or Sophia, one of us, or both, will be back at my apartment pretty soon,” I said. “We’ll use the same system. Five short rings, a pause, then one long one. You get that, open up. Otherwise, don’t open up, just stay put.”

He started for the door.

“There’s a taxi waiting downstairs,” I said.

He turned. “You think of everything, don’t you?” He said it almost sardonically.

“I’ve been paid five thousand dollars to try to think of everything,” I said.

When he was gone I brought Sophia Sierra out of the bedroom. I said, “Take off the coat, kid. Make yourself comfortable.”

She took off the coat and made herself comfortable.

“According to you,” I said, “she didn’t have a bank vault, and according to me she couldn’t have had your letters in her apartment. On the other hand, she had a key to this place, and she was free to come here even while Phelps was away — according to him. So, throwing all those accordings together — this would be the spot where she’d hide something out, provided she had something to hide out. I don’t think she even trusted Phelps on that deal. If she had, Phelps would have told me. He’d have produced those letters. The guy’s trying his best to get out from under: told me about threats he heard from Pedi, told me about her fear of you, told me that Vivian was convinced that you had a deep hate going for her. Now, if Phelps knew where those letters were, he would have produced them for me: it would prove up that hate you were supposed to have for her.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, breathlessly.

I continued to ramble. “So if they’re here, they’re somewhere where Phelps wouldn’t be likely to fall over them. That excludes all the usual places. What does it include? Well, I’ve been in the business of looking for things for a long time, and people just don’t have any special imagination when it comes to hiding things. They’re influenced by movies and television, and they do the usual ordinary thing, and, somehow, they think they’re doing something unusual.”

She was on her feet.

“I’ll start with the bedroom,” she said.

I went for the rose-colored nude, reclining over the fireplace, maybe because I’m attracted to rose-colored nudes, and sure enough, first crack, there was the Scotch tape on the brown-paper back. I worked fast, ripped open the back, and pried out three letters complete with envelopes. They were all addressed to Vivian Frayne, all in one handwriting, feminine and flowery. But there was another envelope there, a legal-sized envelope, unaddressed, blank but sealed and somewhat bulky. I opened that quickly. It contained a marriage certificate from Montreal, Canada, expressing a marriage between Vivian Jane Frainovitski and Stephan Burton Pedi. It was dated four years ago. The envelope contained one other document: it was a certificate of divorce from a court in Montreal, Canada, dissolving this self-same marriage between Vivian Jane Frainovitski and Stephen Burton Pedi. That was dated three months ago. I replaced the documents in the envelope and stuck that into my pocket. Then I put back the rose-colored nude and, with three envelopes in my hand, I went to the bedroom. Sophia Sierra straightened from bending to look under a radiator.

“These the letters?” I waved them.

She came near. She looked at the letters in my hand.

“Yes,” she said. “All three?”

“All three,” I said.

“Gimme.”

I did not give. I put the letters behind my back.

A pleasantly crafty look crept into her eyes. A feminine look, pleasant to a male; a filmed, narrow, seductive look; a look with a little smile about the eyes. She came very near to me now, and she put her arms around me. Her lips came to mine and opened softly against my opening mouth. She kissed, soft-lipped and close. I stood as though rooted, savoring her, her arms tightly around me, my own arms behind my back. That’s a lousy way to make love.

She released me, moved back, seemed shy.

“Gimme,” she said softly.

I swallowed to find voice.

“Not yet,” I croaked.

Her hands flung up. “Why? Goddamn you, why?”

I went into the living room, and she followed me.

“Sweetie,” I said, “not yet. You’ve got to string along with me. I’m working on this thing and I can’t turn anything over to anyone before I get it straightened out.”

“But why? I don’t understand.”

“I suppose you’ve got to be a man,” I said seriously, “to be able to understand. With a man there’s work and there’s love. So I’m not turning anything over to anyone, not until this thing is cleared up and wrapped away. That’s my work,” I said stubbornly.

Somehow it got through.

She went for her coat, lifted it by its collar, and threw it over one shoulder like a knapsack. “What do you want me to do?” she said quietly.

“Go to my place and wait there for me. Phelps is there.” I grinned. “You two ought to be able to spend an interesting evening together until I get there. You ring five short rings, wait a second, then one long one. He’ll open up for you.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll leave here with you. I’ll put you in a cab.”

“You coming with me?”

“No.”

“Where you going?”

“Maybe to get killed,” I said.

I got her a cab and I got me another. I sat and sifted it around in my head as I was driven toward 244 West 65th Street. I had it. I had most of it. A lot depended on Kenny Masters, nee Malone, alias Kiddy. I sifted it around, and I liked what I had.

The stoolie-genius was correct again: the entrance door to 244 opened to a push. The hallway was dim and dank, with an old smell of cooked fish. I climbed to the first floor, went to the rear apartment on the right. There was no bell. Paint peeled from the top of a green door. I stood in front of it for a long moment, rubbing my lips against my teeth. Then I knocked.

There was no answer.

I knocked again. And again and again.

I was worried that I might wake a neighbor, but I kept knocking, rapping softly but continuously.

At long last there was a sound, footsteps, a Soft barefooted patter.

I stopped knocking. The muted sounds inside ceased.

I knocked again. Once. Hard.

“Yes?” It was a woman’s voice, soft-pitched. She was in darkness. No light had come on in the slit beneath the door. “Yes?” she said. “What is it? Who is it?”

I put my mouth close to the crack of the door.

“Open up,” I said.

“Who is it? What do you want?”

We were speaking in whispers.

“I want Kiddy Malone,” I said urgently. “Open up.”

“There’s no Kiddy Malone here,” she said.

“You want cops, lady?” I whispered.

There was no answer.

“I’m a friend of Kiddy’s,” I whispered.

“Who are you?”

“Tell him Pete Chambers. Tell him, quick.”

Silence. Then the shuffle of the bare feet.

I leaned my forehead against the door. When I moved it back I saw the dark stain of my perspiration. I took out my handkerchief and wiped my face. I put it back.

I touched myself, almost involuntarily, touching for a gun. I had no gun on my person. I wished I did have. Then again, perhaps it was better that I didn’t. A cokey is a tricky individual to cope with. You cannot predict his mood. Perhaps an approach with a gun would frighten him. I waited, rigid, leaning against the door. It seemed a long time before I heard her again. This time it was the tap-tap of high heels. I moved from the door and braced myself. She was going to open up, otherwise she wouldn’t have put her shoes on. A woman is a woman: a woman does not open a door to a stranger when she is barefooted. She had also probably primped a bit, which is why she had taken so long. A woman is a woman.

I heard a click. A strip of light appeared beneath the door.

“Are you there?” she whispered.

“Right here,” I said.

I heard a bolt pull away. The door opened wide and I entered directly into a living room. I did not see the woman. She had remained behind the door as I had entered. Now the door closed and I heard the bolt shoot back into place. I still did not see the woman. She was behind me and I did not turn. I saw Kiddy Malone and that is why I did not turn.

He was seated in an armchair, squarely in the middle of the room, facing me. His hair was tousled but his face was clean and shaven. He was wearing expensive, tight-fitting, black silk pajamas of the ski-type. He was smiling, but his smile was stiff. His eyes were good, better than I had expected. He had stuff in him, but he had it right — he was not overloaded, nor was he in need of a jolt. His blue Irish eyes were clear, the pupils not too widely distended. That pleased me. And his hands were steady, which pleased me even more, because one hand was holding a huge automatic.

“Hi, Kiddy,” I said.

“What do you want?” he said.

“That the way to greet a friend?” I said in as gay a voice as I could muster.

He seemed ashamed. The smile became more real, less rigid.

“It’s a pretty lousy time to come calling, ain’t it?”

“It’s because it’s important, Kiddy boy. I come as a friend and” — I gestured toward his gun — “look how you greet me.”

“You heeled?” he said.

“Would I come heeled — to a friend?”

“Touch him, Betty.”

I finally saw her. Once again the stoolie-genius was correct. She was a red-head with a sensational shape, built for a stripper rather than a waitress. She was tall — probably a head taller than Kiddy — with a full large powerful figure, and friend Kiddy had done all right by her in the matter of night clothes. She was wearing high-heeled white silk lounging shoes and a white silk tight-mesh negligee, practically transparent. Long full thighs glistened in the silk as she moved toward me. Unfortunately, there was a disconcerting note, disconcertingly similar to Kiddy Malone’s disconcerting note.

She too was holding a gun.

Naturally, he was not as smart as he was cooked up to be. If I were on a rash errand, her coming to frisk me would have been a godsend. I could have clipped her gun, used her as a shield, and taken my chances. But I was not being rash this trip. I stood meek as a frightened patient behind a fluoroscope. She touched me.

“No gun,” she said.

His smile contracted to pursed lips.

“Sorry, fella,” he said.

“I come as a friend,” I said. I wanted to hammer that through.

His gun was no longer pointed at me. It rested, within the grip of his hand, in his lap. He looked like a mischievous boy caught holding the matches with which he was going to set fire to the kitchen.

“Give my friend a drink, Betty,” he said. “He drinks Scotch, the best in the house.”

“You’re in good shape,” I said.

“The best,” he said. “Sit down, friend. Make yourself to home.”

I sat down on one end of a divan. The red-head had disappeared into another room, but she came back quickly, without the gun, but with a tray on which was a bottle of Scotch, an open bottle of soda, a pitcher of water, and glasses.

“If you want ice...?” she began.

“Oh, no, thank you. This is fine.”

She sat the tray down near me, and she sat herself down on the other end of the divan.

“How do you like my Betty?” Kiddy said.

“A beautiful lady,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said and she smiled with strong white teeth. She had a wide high-boned face and enormous blue eyes.

“She’s the greatest,” Kiddy said. “Big as she is, she’s—” He stopped speaking suddenly and frowned. “What brings you, Petie? In the middle of the night?” And now his smile was a frightened smile. “And how the hell did you know to get here?” His eyes darted to Betty’s and back to mine.

I poured a lot of Scotch and gulped it raw. I needed it.

“I found you,” I said, “because you’re in trouble. When you’re in trouble, that’s when a friend is supposed to find you.”

“He is a friend,” he said to Betty, nodding seriously.

I looked about the room. It was plainly furnished. The floor was bare.

“Not quite like the Montrose,” I said, “eh, Mr. Masters?”

His gun popped up, levelling on me.

“Please don’t point that thing at me, Kiddy,” I said. “I’m on your side. I’m with you.”

“What the hell goes?”

“Did you kill him?”

“Me? You out of your brains? Me?” Then his eyes narrowed craftily. “Kill who?” he said.

“Mousie Lawrence had most of his face shot away. Both your holsters were there in the bedroom. Yet you’ve got a piece right here in your hand. That what you shot him with, Kiddy?”

“Not me. You’re out of your brains. Why should I cool Mousie? Mousie’s my partner.”

“Was,” I corrected.

“Mousie was my partner.”

“Then what about the gun you’re holding?”

“I kept two pieces here. The one the lady’s got, and this one. Kept them here. Kept a load of junk here too. Kiddy’s no dope, man.”

“Kiddy, you in shape?” I said.

“The best,” he said.

“Did you blast Mousie? Because if you did, I’m the boy to cover you up, and you know it. Did you, Kiddy boy?”

“No! No, no, no!”

Kiddy Malone did not kill Mousie Lawrence. I had my story. Now it was all up to him.

“Okay,” I said. “I know the deal. And I can pull you through. If you work with me.”

The gun lowered into his lap. His hands were clenched over it. “You know nothing, pal,” he said. “You don’t know no deal. You’re just a talker. You’re trying to make a buck, that’s what you’re doing. Trying to talk your way into a buck.”

“I don’t want to earn any bucks, Kiddy.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“I want to pull you out of a deal, Kiddy. You’re a dead man, Kiddy. You know that. Down deep, you know that. We’re old friends, Kiddy. You’re just sitting here waiting to get killed, maybe trying to shoot your way through, but getting killed in the end anyway.”

He stared at me for a long time. Then, without any change in expression, he began to cry. The tears came out of the inner corners of his eyes and ran down his nose. He made no effort to wipe them. He sniffed, once.

“Okay, Betty,” he said. “Get out of here.”

She stood up and smiled at me.

“I hope you’re really a friend,” she said. “He’s a good guy.”

“Yes,” I said, “he’s a good guy.”

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’ll go to sleep now.”

“Yeah, go to sleep, baby,” Kiddy said. “The stuff you got in you, you’ll sleep real good, real good. Good night, baby.”

She went away, and I watched her going away, and I enjoyed watching her go away. She closed the door of the other room behind her.

“Give,” Kiddy said. “Let’s hear.”

“We start at the start,” I said, then I threw in a threat. “What I know — the cops know. I may fling a guess here and there — but the cops, they’ve got it all nice and clean.”

“Talk, baby. Kiddy’s listening.”

I drew a deep breath. “You and Mousie,” I said, “came into town to set up the Nirvana. Sweet deal too. Package stuff, passed through some of the smart chicks, at a hundred bucks a throw.”

His eyes widened, but he nodded. He was mystified but he was approving of me.

“Steve Pedi was in on the pitch...” I threw it and let it lie. He smiled, nodding.

I had it all. It was complete.

“Steve Pedi,” I said, “was in on the pitch, although he would deny it if it ever shaped up trouble. He just didn’t know a thing that was happening to his girls, if it shaped up trouble. Like that, the most that could happen to him would be a revocation of his dance hall license. But it didn’t figure to shape up trouble. That was his end — the local end. With a little political pressure, a little gelt passed in the right places — this thing could run and run. You guys were here to set it up, to get it running, and it was just beginning to go — when a crazy dame butts her nose in. Vivian Frayne. Somehow, she got wind of what was cooking — maybe one of the chicks there let it bleed a little — and this Frayne is nuts in the mother-hen department. She gets to Steve and threatens to blow the whistle unless the operation is cut off quick.”

“Crazy dame, huh? Boy, how some dames is crazy.”

“Stevie-boy fast-talks her, but she’s a dead pigeon from the moment she opened up. Here’s a crazy dame that’s do-gooding on an operation that can gross millions of bucks. All right. So Stevie calls you guys in. You’ve got to pop her, and pop her quick. No sense calling in anybody else, because anybody else only widens out a murder clique. Keep it close, figures Stevie-boy, because Stevie-boy is a pretty smart fella. So you guys are going to pop her, and pop her quick, although you’re kind of out of practice, you’re big shots now. How’m I doing?”

“Keep punching, pal.” In his own way, Kiddy was being proud of me.

“He rigged it,” I said, “to make it look like a mugging killing, but it got scrambled and he was boiling. He had to move very fast after that, because if she began to think about it, she might get the angle, and then it would be the whistle. So he made the move himself. Now I’ll be telling you things you don’t know.”

“Tell me, boy,” Kiddy said. “You’re a brain-guy, I always said so.”

“Steve Pedi used to be married to Vivian Frayne. He still had the key to the apartment. He also knew there was a gun in that apartment that belonged to a guy called Phelps who had a grudge against her because she was trying to pull some black dough out of him. That set it up pretty good, if he could lay his hands on the gun. So he goes to her apartment, rings the bell and she’s not home. He uses his key and goes in. He finds the gun and he hides out, probably on the terrace, until she comes home. She gets into her lounging clothes, he comes out, and pops her with Phelps’ gun, which he leaves there. He reminds himself that she must have the marriage certificate, also the divorce decree — because they were married and divorced. He figures if he can hunt that up and get rid of it, he won’t be tied in at all, there’d be no idea that he might have a key. So he gives the place a search and he doesn’t find either document. Okay. That’s not fatal. So if the stuff is found, he gets tied in a little, but it doesn’t mean a thing — unless it gets tied tighter, and there are only two guys in the world who can tie it tighter. Get it, pal?”

“I get it, pal.”

“You and Mousie.”

“I get it, pal.”

“Am I giving you any new stuff?” I said.

“A little,” he said.

“But you guys didn’t know, when he came visiting you at the Montrose, that he had just paid his visit to Vivian’s. He had locked the door from the outside, just to make it look all kosher — he’d probably figured Phelps had a key to her place, which he didn’t — and he came for a friendly call at the Montrose. But he had first provided himself with another heater. If he gets rid of you two, he’s clean, completely clean on the murder that you guys messed up — and the operation keeps going, because you guys can be replaced. He’s a smart cookie. He pulled a murder himself. A smart cookie gets rid of anything that can tie him to murder. You guys can tie him, so he’s set to get rid of you. As far as the organization is concerned, he’s got a clean beef — you guys tripped on a murder. And what’s more he’s a hero, because it turns out the cops figured a print on the knife that was dropped as Mousie’s. You following?”

“I’m getting ahead of you,” Kiddy said, but he was not approving of me any more, he was growing sad.

“So he comes to the Montrose,” I said, “for a little chatter. He’s going to ball you guys out for the miss, and plan a new little deal for Vivian who’s already dead, only you guys don’t know it. He’s got the new heater on him. He comes, and you all sit around and chat. He’s a friend, practically the boss in this operation, so your guns are in the bedroom, and you’re all gentlemen. Next, he starts shooting, clips Mousie. Your turn now, Kiddy. Pick it up from there.”

“I rammed him,” he blurted. “Gave him the rush, the head to the belly, and knocked him on his behind. I didn’t have a gun op me, so I ran. Here I am, pal.” He lifted a hand to his hair and pulled at it, ruminatively. “You found me. So he’ll find me.”

“So will the cops.”

“The hell with them.”

“They’re your salvation, Kiddy. Wake up, man.” “What the hell you talking about?”

“You’re in the middle, Kiddy, and you’ve got no out. Pedi’s gunning for you, but you might get out of that. But the organization is also gunning for you, because you stink now, you’re through. You messed a murder, you messed a big operation, and you’re an actual eyewitness to murder, Mousie’s murder. Witnesses to murder don’t live long when they’re on the wrong side of the organization. You’re dead right now, kid, and you know it, and even if you get out of here, you’ve got no place to run, and you know that too. You’ve got nothing, nobody, except one friend — me. I can keep you alive, Kiddy.”

I had my fingers crossed. He was crying again, but I did not care about that. He either accepted me or he rejected me. Now. He was a hophead. Which way would he turn?

“I can keep you alive,” I said and I waited.

“How?” he said.

I had him.

“Listen, kid,” I said. “Listen hard. You’ve got no choice. You’re a dead man. The whole organization is after you, and Pedi is pushing them, because with you alive — he could be dead, convicted as a murderer. Okay, he killed Mousie. He killed your pal. And you’re next. So you’ve got nothing to lose. You turn around on him. I take you in. I take you in, personally, and you turn around on him.”

“Sure, but what happens to me?”

“Nothing, really. Maybe they won’t be able to prove the Frayne murder on him, but they’ll prove Mousie’s murder, with you as State’s witness.”

“Sure, but what happens to me?” he insisted.

“Nothing, pal. The best happens to you. You’re an alien, an illegal alien. What happens to you — you get deported. The cops figure to work with you. You’re State’s witness. You spill your guts, the whole deal. They fix you up with a bodyguard. They even change your name for you, and they deport you back to Ireland where you get lost in the shuffle if you don’t play the bright spots too hard. Even Mexico can’t reach out for you when you’re lost somewhere in your own country. After awhile, they forget about you. Pedi’ll have the chair, so he can’t press them. You’ve got dough. After awhile you get it together, and you begin to move around. My advice, stick to Europe, stay away from here. Are you listening to me, Kiddy? I’m making a live one out of a dead one. Are you listening?”

“Yeah, I’m listening.”

“Do I make sense?”

“God damn right you do.”

“I’m glad you were in shape to listen.”

“Me too. I’m glad I was in shape. Lopsided, you might have been a sorry boy for coming here.”

“I took my chances, Kiddy.”

“Yeah, you took your chances. Why?”

“I wanted to make a live one out of a dead one. I know you a long time, Kiddy.”

“Yeah, a long time, boy.”

“Go get dressed, Kiddy. Right now.”

“Yeah, I’ll go get dressed. Right now. Here, hold this.”

And he gave me his gun.

I brought in Kiddy, and then I brought in Sophia and Phelps, and Parker’s people brought in Steve Pedi. I requested that the cops did not make Phelps’ involvement public, and they agreed (which earned my fee). Then I did it big and loud and glorious, with gestures, but all of that was to impress Sophia Sierra. She admired me and I adored being admired by Sophia Sierra. I omitted any reference to her letters which brought more admiration, and at the end of a long night, I was sitting pretty. Parker saw it my way about trading with Kiddy — his testimony in return for deportation, and good riddance — and at long last I was back in my apartment, alone with Sophia Sierra, and we were getting looped on Rob Roys (not too sweet) and we were nice and tight when I returned her letters. For this she repaid me with her love, vernacularly speaking. And I, of course, gave her a receipt — more of the same. Though tiring, a nice arrangement.

That there was a moral to all that had happened, I was sure. But I didn’t dig for it. Who needed it?