Strip For Violence

Strip For Violence

Ed Lacy

This page formatted 2005 Blackmask Online.

http://www.blackmask.com

BOOK ONE

BOOK TWO

BOOK THREE

BOOK FOUR

BOOK FIVE

She was an expensive call girl and spending a night with her came high. But he never figured on a price as high as murder.

The photograph did justice to her generous statistics. Any private eye would enjoy tracking her down, and Hal Darling was no exception.

Her name was Marion Lodge. She'd put her impressive body to good use as a call girl before she'd dropped out of sight almost a year before. Hal was being paid a fortune to find her.

But someone else was also looking for Marion—with a knife. Hal had to get her fast, or the killer would strike first.

BOOK ONE

I

“Whatcha looking for, Tiny, a bruise?” This was said by a big joker, about two hundred pounds of lard-ass, and trying so hard to be tough, he was strictly for laughs.

And that's how it all started. How a guy can live a peaceful, normal life for years, then the fickle finger of fate gives him a slight goose... and in my case put me on a three-day merry-go-round of women and murder.

It was I a.m., Monday morning, when I dropped into this dance hall. There's two kinds of dances: the hustling sort where a couple of guys or gals throw a shindig to raise some bucks for themselves; and there's the social club-office type where the main idea is to have a good time. This was a dance some company was throwing for its employees.

The big clown on the ticket-box was high. When I flashed my badge he laughed at it, looked my five-foot-one up and (mostly) down, sneered, “You a dick?” As an afterthought he had added, “Whatcha looking for, Tiny, a bruise?”

He had one of these tempting bull necks, but bouncing him around would be bad advertising for the hall. I said, patiently, “Call the private cop, or the manager.”

“Call nobody. Either you pony up a buck-fifty to get in, or scram, shorty,” he said, trying hard to make his watery eyes focus.

I didn't mind his silly chatter, but then he tried to push me. Grabbing his right hand with both of mine, I spun the hand up and outward, as I put my left leg across his right foot. I jerked him forward and let go of his hand. His head hit the dirty carpet first.

Bobo Martinez came running up, his tremendous shoulders straining at his cheap, blue uniform, his battered face angry. “What's going on...? Oh, hello, Hal,” he said seeing me. “Anything wrong?”

I nodded at the ticket taker who was sitting up, his dress shirt open, a puzzled look on his fat face. “How's things?”

“Quiet,” Bobo said, pulling the guy to his feet with one hand, neatly slamming him against the doorway to sober him up. “Usual drunks, but no trouble. Dance is about breaking up.”

I grinned at Bobo's cream-colored face, the slightly flattened nose, ridge of scar tissue over the hard eyes, his six-foot body I envied. Bobo was the perfect special cop —looked too tough for trouble.

“Tell this joker not to stuff his pockets with ticket stubs. Too obvious a hold-out on the tax man,” I called over my shoulder, as I went up the worn steps that led to the dance floor. In a wall mirror I watched fat boy feel his bulging pockets, heard him ask, “No kidding, that shrimp a private dick?”

“That's Hal Darling, head of the agency. And a rough stud, no matter how blond and baby-faced he looks.”

Bobo could lay on the baloney nice and thick.

There's always a certain air of sadness about the end of a dance. Bleary-eyed women were waiting in line for their coats, and their men stood against the wall, half-asleep. Even the music sounded tired. The whole joint stunk of stale body and whisky odors.

The coatrooms faced this little lobby, just before you got to the dance floor. A girl was sitting in the one big leather chair—stupid drunk.

She was average-pretty, although her eyebrows were painted a fantastic shape, and her sleeping face was full of that loose, contented, drunk look. Her legs sprawled straight out and part of her white evening dress was caught on the arm of the chair, showing some strong, fleshy thigh. The dress had slipped off one shoulder and a bra strap cut into her pale white skin. She had full breasts—and plainly not built-in stuff either. Her hair reached her shoulders and was dyed an outrageous red.

A guy standing beside her was begging, “Snap out of it, babe. Wake up, Louise, everybody's staring at us... whole damn office. Aw, come on... Louise!” His tall, bony frame was a good clothes hanger for a tux, but his neck was too scrawny for his wide face.

Eddie Logan, manager of the hall, came out of his office with some gray-haired fat slob whose tux was ready to pop at the seams. Eddie said, “Hello, Darling,” and the fat guy smirked and said (as I knew he would), “What's this, you two going together?”

I could see it was going to be a big night for me.

2

Eddie laughed too loudly, so I knew the fat character must be the boss of the company throwing the dance. Eddie introduced me and the boss jammed a thick cigar in my hand as he said, “Great dance. Always try to give my employees the best, a fair shake. Say, this cop you have here, haven't I seen him in the ring?”

“Where else could he get that face?” I asked. “Name's Bobo Martinez. Used to weigh in at 175 pounds—nine years ago.”

A flabby smile lit up his face. “Sure! Knew I'd seen him. The Puerto Rican flash who gave the champ a great battle. Licking the champ, too, till he was tagged in the guts in the eighth, or maybe it was the ninth round. Yeah, remember that fight, had to buy a dozen seats for some buyers and cost me...”

I took Eddie's arm. “Excuse us for a second, got some business talk with Mr. Logan.”

“Sure,” the fat guy boomed, like a king granting a favor.

Once in his office Eddie said, “Damn, that windbag's been hitting my eardrums all night. Want a shot?”

“Too late.” I'm always suspicious of a dance-hall owner's whisky—probably a combination of all the bottle heels left after every dance. Eddie poured himself a big hooker, took out his wallet and gave me fifteen bucks, asked, “Thought you was going to have two men here tonight?”

“Bobo can handle anything comes up in these Sunday night affairs,” I said, writing a receipt on the back of one of my cards. “Saving you dough, two guards cost you twenty-four dollars and...”

Eddie mumbled, “Save me hell. Just want to give that spick a bigger cut.”

“Don't ever call Bobo a 'spick,' he'll take you apart,” I said, wanting to sock him myself, but wanting his business more. “I'll have three men here for the Friday night dance, three for Saturday, and one for that Sunday tea shindig. Okay?”

Eddie said okay and we went out into the lobby. The babe in the chair was still feeling no pain but her boy friend was cursing and banging her head against the back of the chair. I went over, told him, “Easy, buddy, that's no punching bag you're handling.”

“No, it's a drunken bag. Goddamit, Louise, wake up!” He grabbed her over-red hair and started banging her noggin again. I held his hand—by the thumb—and he looked down at me, asked, his voice almost a whine, “Who the hell are you? This is my girl, so scram.”

The last button on his silk vest was inviting me to smack it, but I didn't want him to puke all over the place. Eddie was saying, “Now we don't want no trouble, mister, just...” when Bobo came up. Shoving his ugly kisser in front of the guy's face, Bobo asked softly, “What's the matter, chum?”

As usual, the sight of Bobo's tough pan took all the fight out of the guy. “My girl, Louise,” he said, “soaked up too much. I can't get her to...”

“Come with me,” Eddie said. “We'll get some smelling salts, bring her around.”

As they walked away, Bobo yawned and I gave him eight bucks, which was a good cut since I also supplied the uniform. “Drop in the office tomorrow. Got a construction job. How's the wife?”

Bobo shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Worked couple days in a dress factory, was beat. Wished to Christ I could get me a steady job.”

“This construction job is good for at least a week,” I said, wondering why Bobo never fought the champ a return match, which would have meant half a million dollar gate.

Bobo yawned again. “Chisler comes around to see me yesterday. Says if I return to the ring...”

“Forget it, you're thirty-four, way past your prime. Won't do your wife any good if you're in the nut house.”

“But a few fights mean a grand or... Sure, you're right, Hal.” He turned and abruptly walked away.

I was tracing Louise's real eyebrows, glancing now and then at the gray lace bra strap, when her boyfriend returned with a wet napkin which he held under her nose. She moved her head, pushed his hand away, and he suddenly said, “Damn you, Louise!” and punched her in the eye. Her head snapped back, she opened her eyes for a moment, sighed, and blacked out again.

As he started to follow through with another wallop, I grabbed him by the back of the collar and the seat of his pants—yanking the pants tight around his groin, said, “On your way, socker,” and rushed him toward the door. Bobo took him from there, growling, “No funny stuff or I'll beat the slop out of you!” He had that growl down perfect.

Eddie came over, pointed to the gal. “What we going to do with this study in still life?”

To make him happy I said, “Okay, I'll take her home. Opening her white evening bag, I found the usual lipstick and compact, some keys, crumpled pack of butts, a cheap wallet with three bucks in it, and her Washington Heights address.

I picked up Louise and carried her toward the door. Eddie said, “Let me help you. Must be too heavy for a little guy, Hal.”

“You know me, the half-pint Atlas. See if she had a coat or wraps.” At the top of the stairs, as the ticket taker gave me a bug-eyed look, Bobo picked her out of my arms like she was a baby, said, “I'll handle her, Hal.”

There wasn't any point in getting sore at him or Eddie, or being too sensitive about my smallness. I ran down ahead of Bobo and opened the door of my old convertible. I figured a little night air would sober her up. Eddie called out that she didn't have any coat as Bobo dropped her beside me, said, “A heavy built broad. Have fun.”

3

I drove over to the West Side Highway. This Louise had her phony dyed head on my shoulder, those painted eyebrows shooting up like lightning from her eyes. The right eye was puffed and beginning to turn purple. I hoped to hell she didn't get sick all over me. What a guy had to do to make a few bucks!

It was cool driving along the Hudson, and when we passed the yacht basin on 79th Street I saw my boat bobbing at her mooring and wished I was in the cabin, getting some sack time. The fresh air was working on this Louise and she opened her eyes—or rather her good left eye—tried to sit up, then fell back against my shoulder again. “Oho, what a head. Whole... whole side of my face feels... gone.”

I didn't say anything.

“Never felt this hung-over before.” When the thickness left her voice she sounded throaty, her tone full and sort of warm.

I could have told her about her face having nothing to do with the kicks in her liquor, but I didn't say a word. She curled up closer to me, put her fingers around my right hand. “You're a regular old chatter-box,” she said. “Never give me a chance to get a word in. Don't remember seeing you around the factory or...”

“My name is Hal Darling, I'm a private detective, you passed out at the dance, and as a favor to the owner of the hall—I'm carting you home.”

Her left eye looked over at me as she giggled. “You a dick? What's the gag, buster?”

We turned off the Highway at the George Washington Bridge, and I took my hand out of hers. She took the hand back again, asked, “Where we going? My name is...”

“Know your name and address.”

“My, my, you are the little detective. And how did you find that out?”

“By deduction—and opening your purse.”

She dropped my hand fast, felt for her purse. I told her, “Don't worry, I didn't rob you.”

She giggled, started playing with my hand again. She toyed with the callus at the edge of my palm, asked coyly, “How come your hand is so hard at the edge, Hal? Said that was your name, Hal Darling, didn't you?” At least she didn't crack wise about it being such a “cute” name, which always drives me nuts. “Aw come on, talk to me. What kind of work would make the edge of your hand calloused?”

“Spend a lot of time hitting my hands against a rubber pad.”

“Why?”

“You can kill a person with a blow from the side of your hand.”

She said, “Oh,” as though she knew what I was talking about. Then she asked, “What are you, a tough joe?”

“No, I'm not tough—being tough is a lot of crap. No, I'm just small and don't like to be walked on. That's all,” I said as we stopped for a red light at Broadway.

“Would you mind buying me a cup of coffee? I need one—but bad.”

“You'll be home in a few minutes.”

She dropped my hand. “I'll pay for it You men are so...”

I nodded up at the windshield mirror. “Seen yourself lately?”

She looked up, let out a small scream, then began to cry. “You miserable bastard, what you hit me for?”

The light turned green and I stepped on the gas. “Your boyfriend seemed to think a punch in the eye would be a sobering influence.”

“Charles would never do that!” she sobbed.

“Stop it, Charlie looks like he's slapped you around before.”

Louise lived in one of these small, old apartment houses near Amsterdam Avenue that are on the verge of becoming slums. As I parked, I saw the white of a tux shirt in the dim hallway. “Your Charlie is waiting, ask him about it.”

I opened the door and she staggered out. Charlie came over, said loudly, “So that's it, coming home with another...”

“Did you hit me?” Louise asked soberly.

“... Take you to the dance, pay for the tickets, all the booze you slobbered up like a damn blotter and now...”

“Latch off. Did you punch me in the eye, you cheap sonofabitch?”

“Watch the words or I'll shut the other one,” this Charles said bravely, reaching for her.

“Take a walk, jerk,” I said, moving between them, turning my back to help Louise; she wasn't too steady on her legs. Soon as my back was turned he came at me, as I knew he would, tried to grab my throat. When I felt his stomach against me, I dug back with both elbows.

He let out a hissing grunt, stepped away, doubled up in pain. He stood like that for a split second, then began to vomit. I pushed his hat off his head and it fell into the mess. Grabbing his oily hair I jerked his head up, crossed a right to his eye. He sat down. I turned to Louise. “Now you're even. Want some interest on his loan?”

Her good eye was staring at me with surprise. She didn't say no, so I told him to get up. He still sat on the sidewalk and I bent down and banged him on the other eye. He began to moan. I didn't want a cop to find him there, get me jammed up. “Where does this slob live?”

“On... 115th Street... and Broadway. Please, don't hit him again.”

“Hold on to the car door, or something, for a moment. I'll send Charlie-boy home.”

“Please don't hit him again.”

I snapped Charlie to his feet. He didn't look too bad, eyes weren't puffed yet, and he hadn't puked on himself. Holding him by the vest and his right arm, I walked him to Amsterdam Avenue, hailed a cab, shoved Charlie into the back seat. Giving the cabbie two bucks, I told him, “He's had too much bottle. Let him off at 115th and Broadway.”

The cabbie was a thin old man with a face full of gray stubble. Looking at the two bucks he said, “This guy gets sick in my cab, I'm done for the night.”

“Already been sick. Get going, pal.” I gave him another buck. The profits on tonight's job were shot to hell. The old man mumbled something, pulled his flag down, and took off.

4

Louise and I walked up two flights of stairs that smelled of garbage and other human stinks that made me glad I lived on a boat. She nodded at a door and I got her keys out and opened it. She staggered in, asked, “Want some coffee?”

“No. Good night, baby.”

“Come on in, talk to me. I got the jitters.”

“What's that, new name for a big head?”

“Isn't only the liquor—it's you. Way you... you hit Charles. It was so... so cold.”

“And when you were out and he socked you, what was that, a love tap?”

She shivered. “That was just being... sneaky. It's different. Come on, don't make talking to me a big deal.” I stepped in and she shut the door and I asked, “Where's the lights?”

“Forget them, the place is a mess. And I don't like you seeing me with a black eye.”

I felt along the wall till I found a switch. It was a one-room apartment with a kitchenette stuck in the far end like a sore thumb. I opened a door leading to the John, and the only other door, a closet. There was an unmade studio couch, and all her furniture was the buck down and buck-a-week kind. I came back to her and she snapped off the light. “So you had to see my shoddy place.”

“I'm the careful type, don't want any enraged poppas or husbands coming out of the darkness.”

“You're too suspicious. Don't you think I've had enough trouble for one night,” she said, and in the darkness I felt her come close to me. She did something I liked—she was a couple inches taller than I was and she suddenly kicked off her high heels. I could feel her hair level with mine. She put her arms around my neck and I smelled the odd smell of her, mixed with the stale odor of whisky.

Louise whispered in my ear, “Suppose you think I'm a pushover?”

“Could be, are you?” I said, not touching her. I knew a lot of good reasons for not laying strays.

She laughed, breathing into my ear. She began talking, fast and low. “Yes, if being a pushover means you need some loving, a feeling you're wanted in this crazy world. You work hard every day, building up to a dance and it all turns out so dull and boring, lot of empty noise. And you wake up to find a strange man driving you home, a blond-haired, doll-faced little...”

“Cut that,” I said, trying to push her away. My hand touched a great deal of cool skin, and that lace bra strap.

“... And he talks tough and you don't believe him, only he is so hard he frightens you. It's almost like a new thrill, gives the evening a new tone, a sharp edge.”

I was fooling with the strap and it broke or came apart and I had my fingers on the heavy rise of her breast. I could still remember all the reasons for not tangling with strays.

“Aren't you even going to kiss me?”

I moved my head down to duck her lips and ducked into her firm breast, the hard nipple stabbing me in the eye. She giggled. “Now you'll have a shiner.”

“But this is the best way to get one,” I said, my lips moving against the lush smoothness of her breast.

Her laughter was a high note of hot triumph in the still room as her hands tore open my shirt.

I could still remember all those reasons for skipping quickie affairs—but I didn't believe a one of them.

5

The shrill sound of an alarm shattered my head. I sat up. The room was dim with the hard early gray light of morning. The alarm claimed it was five-thirty. Louise got out of bed and shut the damn thing off. She threw her arms back, stretched; even the morning light couldn't change the comfortable curves of her strong body, nor the wild red of her. I didn't object to seeing them, I don't believe in mixing the two “B's”—business and bed. After I talked my last secretary into working between the sheets, the office went to hell. In Anita's case there was another danger—despite her saying she was nineteen, I was sure she was jail-bait, and I'm not that sex-slappy.

Anita was a slender, almost skinny, dark-haired kid, with an eager, sharp face that reflected her constant drive. She looked more like a bobby-soxer than a secretary, but she was an efficient office worker, and I wasn't paying the world's highest salary.

She was honest, a hard worker, and a nice kid—and she was driving me nuts. Aside from throwing her young bosom all over the office (when I once politely suggested she ought to buy a bra out of petty cash, Anita said, “Hell, those two-piece jock straps are for old women.”) the kid also had the private eye bug. Her mother must have been frightened by a comic book for Anita thought being a detective was strictly being a super Humphrey Bogart. It was a source of painful astonishment for her to learn that I'd never been on a big robbery, much less a murder, that the private eye business is 99.99 per cent guard work, skip tracing, and maybe now and then shadowing a two-timing wife or husband. Anita lived in a private world of “big rewards,” childish daydreams about the “sensational capture of Public Enemy 1 to 10,” and junk like that.

Taking my mail, three letters, I sat down at my desk, asked, “Anything worth reading in these?”

“You got two bills, and a case—a great big one, a hundred bucks worth,” Anita said with mild disgust. “The boys called in, patrolled the stores last night, everything okay. We're out of cards, so I called the printer. I've also typed out four letters to dance-hall owners, usual baloney. At noon you have a lunch appointment with a slob named Boscom, owns the 5th Street Casino, a real fire-trap.”

“Thanks,” I said, opening the one letter that wasn't a bill. “Keep working through the directory, sending form letters to the other dance halls.”

“Okay, okay, Hal, and don't think it isn't just all too, too thrilling. See this?” She waved an FBI circular. “There's a two hundred grand reward on that armed car robbery in Frisco. Gee, think of lifting two million bucks... even bigger than the Brink's job up in New England. Two hundred thousand bucks... reward.” There was a far-away, dreamy, quality to her voice.

I grinned at her. “I know, two more box tops and you can send away for your tin badge.”

Anita made a comment about my mother living on a diet of bones. Talking tough was another of her charms.

The case was from Guy Moore, who was my MP officer in Tokyo. Now he was a struggling lawyer in St. Louis. An old man had died leaving an “estate”—if you can call a rundown farm by such a fancy handle—to his niece, one Marion Lodge. The case meant a lot to Guy because a bank was handling the estate and if he showed fast action on this, they'd give him some real important cases. After a lot of remembering what buddy-buddies we'd been in the army, Guy wrote he could only afford a hundred bucks, and would I kindly break my back and locate the gal. There was a check enclosed and a snapshot of the girl. The check looked prettier than the gal—she was an ordinary-looking, big kid of about twenty-one, with an overlong nose, and black hair that hung in corny curls. Guy gave me her last known address, as of 1949, on the lower West Side.

“Get your book out.”

“I'll come over,” Anita said, although the office was so small I could dictate from one end of the room to the other without raising my voice. She came over, moving her hips like a lazy heel-and-toe walker, sat down beside me, her skirt above her knees. She had on an interesting perfume. I sent Guy a letter saying I'd do my best and to airmail me any info on Marion Lodge's background, education, birthmarks, and what she was supposed to be doing in New York.

Then I knocked off a couple of mild dunning letters to remind several storekeepers they were behind on their ten bucks a month for “Darling's Protective Service.”

I was in the middle of another letter checking on a character who had skipped town with a partly paid for TV set, when the door opened and a mailman came in—a big lumbering fatso with thick graying hair. He asked, “You the dick?”

“What's wrong, a due letter?” I asked, noticing he didn't have his bag on his wide shoulders.

He shook his head, giving Anita a fast going over, which she enjoyed. “Naw, I'm here on business.” His voice went with his bulk, a deep, rumbling voice.

“Grab a chair and tell me about it.”

He glanced at Anita, then back at me. I said, “Miss Rogers is one of my most trusted ops, in on all my good cases.” Anita slipped me an amused look, told him in a hammy slinky voice, “Rest your load, big boy.”

He slid into a chair opposite me, and from the hesitant look on his face I knew he was having wife trouble. After a while you can spot things like that I was absolutely wrong.

He said, “Johnson is my name, Will Johnson, see? Want to see you about this.” He dug into a pocket of his blue-gray uniform and carefully took out a small envelope, out of this came tissue paper wrapped around a sliver of cloudy dirty-looking stone. It was less than half an inch long, almost paper thin, wide as a match stick. As I picked it up he said, “Careful, don't break it, see?”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Rock of some kind. Get this, Mr. Darling, there's no mystery or crime involved here, just curiosity. Want to find out where this rock came from.”

“What makes you so curious?” I asked as Anita took the sliver from my hand, fingered it, smelt it. He sighed. “It's a silly story. About a month ago I come home and was sitting in my living-room, reading. Was about four in the afternoon, see? I hear a sharp noise at the window, then over my head. I go over and there's a small, clean hole in the window pane, another in the metal Venetian blinds. Back of where I was sitting we got one of them imitation fireplaces and a copper vase on top of it There's a dent in the vase and on the floor I find this little hunk of rock. See, at first I didn't think nothing of it, was sore about the hole in the window. Then I start thinking this sure had a hell of a force.... Excuse me Miss....”

“Sure,” Anita said sweetly, “you mean it had a goddamn hell of a lot of force.”

Johnson blinked and I told him, “Miss Rogers takes shots —in the head—to make her sound rugged. The rock had plenty of force, so what?”

“So what? It went through glass, a metal blind, made a dent in the copper vase over my head—see, it might have killed me!”

“You think somebody is trying to murder you?” I asked as Anita became bug-eyed.

Johnson shook his big head. “No, no, only telling you why I got so interested in the rock. Nobody hates a postman. Like I say, it's been on my mind so much. Thelma, that's my wife, she says 'Willie, stop thinking so much about it, see a detective before you get a nervous breakdown.' See, that's it.”

“And you picked me—just like that?”

“No sir, not just like anything,” Will said. “Figured you're a small agency, wouldn't charge much, see?”

“Yeah I see. Of course you realize this may all turn out to be as simple as a kid playing with a slingshot and...”

“It ain't simple, Mr. Darling. I live five flights up, nothing higher than two-story private houses around me. Have to be some slingshot, wouldn't it?”

“I'm not turning down the case, Mr. Johnson, only don't expect any fantastic solution, like this coming from Mars or...”

“How do you know it didn't come from Mars?” he snapped.

Anita giggled and I wondered if the postman was nuts or just a plain liar. Anyway, I wasn't dropping cases—even the stupid ones. I said, “You know I charge thirty dollars a day, and expenses.”

“That much? We mailmen don't make much and with the high cost of living —”

“And we dicks aren't exempt from the high cost of living.”

He sucked on his fat upper lip. “How many days you think it will take? And expenses, what will they amount to?”

“Hard to say. Let's turn our cards face up, Johnson. What were you planning to spend?”

“Well...” he coughed and swallowed. “See, I'll make a deal with you. I'm a poor sucker and...” he waved a hand at my office ”... so are you. Suppose I give you all I can afford—a hundred and fifty bucks—and let's say you put in a week on it, full seven days, and forget the expenses? That a deal?”

He clinched the deal by taking out an old wallet and decorating my desk with fifteen tens. “I'm buying it, only remember, I can't guarantee a solution in a week. But I'll give it a good try.”

“That'll all I want, just try hard for a week—seven days.”

“Where do you live and when can I see your apartment?”

“I live at 22 Staymore Avenue, that's Marble Hill, up past Spuyten Duyvil. I'm off today, it's my comp day. See, any time you want to....”

“Have a lunch appointment Suppose I get up there around two?”

The mailman said fine and we stood up and shook hands-at the door he turned, said, “Don't lose that stone, or break it. It's... well... a memo to me.” He sounded worried.

“I'll take good care of it.”

When he left, I gave Anita four of the tens, told her “Might as well pay your salary for the week. This is a weirdie.”

“He's lying,” she sad, looking at the stone. “Odd dark color.”

“You'll probably find there's some construction work near by and this came off while blasting.”

“I'll...?”

“Sure, I'll look the apartment over and then you can make like Dick Powell.”

“Oh no, not on this crummy stone?”

“If you'd rather pound out form letters....”

Anita thumbed her nose at me. “Giving me a big choice, but I'll take the stone deal, Hal... Darling.” The way she said it left no doubt as to her meaning.

7

I phoned a couple of fellows working for the electric and phone companies whom I sent some good rye to every Christmas, asked if they had a Marion Lodge as a customer... and drew a blank. At eleven Bobo dropped in, got the address of the construction job he was to guard, signed out for a night stick. Curly Cox who'd been a fair lightweight when I was an amateur flyweight, came in to put the bite on me for work. I promised him something over the week-end, slipped him two bucks, then drove down to the 5th Street Casino.

Thirty or forty years ago this had been a club for wealthy sports, now it was a seedy-looking place, badly in need of a coat of paint and about everything else. It had a capacity of 250 people, and a sagging balcony with a few dozen tables and a dirty bar. Boscom looked like a walking caricature of an old-time saloonkeeper: short and fat, beady eyes, pink nose, thick little mouth—even an ancient pearl stickpin in his loud tie. He had a bullet-headed punk with him, local tough written all over his nasty puss. Evidently this was my competition.

“When I introduced myself, they both looked astonished and bully-boy, whose name I never did get, asked Boscom, “Hey boss, you kidding? This little blond nance is a guard?” I let the “nance” crack go by, although the punk's short thick neck was interesting. Boscom was sitting at an old desk, puffing on a cheap rope, and he squeaked, “He's been keeping order at my dances... Ain't had no trouble and...”

“And you pay him off with a few bucks and leftover bottles,” I cut in. “You're a businessman, Mr. Boscom, and policing your dances should be done on a strict business level that...”

“Look, anybody starts anything, I give them the business all right—with this!” The punk held up a beefy fist.

It was a warm day, I had on one of my good suits and the carpet was dirty as hell, so I didn't want to take this joker. I tried to keep calm as I told Boscom, “Bet this clown hasn't a license—that means if there's a real rumble, you not only could be sued, and lose your liquor license but...”

“Who you calling a clown?” tough-boy growled. Boscom seemed to be amused by it all.

“Let me tell you something about policing a dance,” I said to Boscom but watching the punk's feet. “There's a difference between a guard and a bouncer. Using your fists or a billy is the last thing you want done. Know who the best guard I ever had was? A midget! Lost him when he got a steady job with a carnival. Only real trouble you get at dances are drunks, and when they saw this midget bawling them out, they laughed and that was that Of course, always had another man that could handle any real trouble. Now for twelve dollars a man, I supply you experienced, intelligent, uniformed men who...”

“Intelligent? You cracking I'm a dummy?” bully-boy snarled, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.

Guess I still could have avoided trouble, but there was a gleam in Boscom's eyes that got me sore. He deliberately had the punk in so he'd have a ringside seat for a free brawl. I said, “Two-bit goons like you come at bargain rates, dime a dozen. And in a real scrap you're not even worth a dime.”

“You little sawed off...!”

He didn't try to sock, instead he charged, a horrible scowl on his face. I grabbed his lapels, pulling him toward me, jockeying around till I had Boscom at my back. The punk had a hand at my throat, another about to wallop my kidneys, as I sunk one foot in his stomach and suddenly fell back on my shoulders. We landed with a boom, but his arm and my other foot broke the fall for me. I pushed my shoe in his gut as hard as I could and let go of his suit—fighting down a desire to grab his neck. His body made a neat arc as it sailed through the air and crashed into Boscom and his old desk. There was a deep grunt from Boscom, then the sound of broken wood and glass. I jumped to my feet, brushed my suit.

The punk was sprawled across the desk top, a busted ink bottle dripping on Boscom, who was doubled up in his chair, both hands holding his pot belly. The goon must have kicked him as he came in for a landing. For a second I stared at bully-boy and was scared the clown had broken his back—even a simple judo fall can be dangerous as hell. But when he got his wind back, he sat up and worked his shoulders, blinked his glassy eyes.

With mock politeness I said, “Sorry, Mr. Boscom, but you saw him start the show. Now you know what I mean by knowing how to handle yourself. Shall I call you tomorrow, talk over a contract?”

Boscom's doughy mouth was sucking air but he managed to grunt, “Yeah,” as I walked out.

8

I drove up the West Side Highway, watching the shad fishermen working their nets out in the Hudson, turned off at Dyckman Street and went up Broadway. Will Johnson lived in one of these neighborhoods where everybody had been averaging fifty a week for years—nobody real poor, nor eating high off the hog either. I climbed five flights, stabbed the doorbell with my finger. A plump woman in a worn, pink housecoat opened the door. When I introduced myself, she said, “Come in. I'm Mrs. Thelma Johnson. Willie—the detective is here.” She sounded nervous as she called Willie, and when she spoke, all her face seemed to work.

Will came shuffling down the hallway in slippers and as he shook my hand, Thelma said, “Excuse me, I'm cooking,” and went into the kitchen.

Their living-room was a comfortable, standard job, a couple of bad paintings on the wall, even some artificial flowers. Except for being neater, it reminded me of Louise's place. Will said, “Of course I've had the window fixed, but there was a hole in the bottom pane, and here's the one in the Venetian blinds.” I examined a jagged hole in one of the thin metal slats. He showed me the copper vase over the fireplace, the dent in its side. “See, I was sitting here, reading, when it happened. Little lower and it would have ploughed through me.”

“If it hit the bottom pane, then it must have come up, from the street,” I said, brightly, pulling up the blinds. He had a nice view, nothing around but open lots and private houses. I could see the Empire State from his window, and part of the Hudson and New Jersey.

Will said, “The view is worth walking all them stairs. Hey, want to see something real good?” He took an old pair of binoculars out of a desk drawer, handed them to me and pointed to a tennis court about six blocks away. The glasses were powerful, I could plainly see a girl in white shorts banging a tennis ball against the side of a small house. She had her back to me, but her legs were lean and muscular, and her small breasts jumped against her T-shirt.

“Man, you should see the broads there on a Sunday,” Will said, winking like a school boy. “That one you see now, she's there all the time.”

“Nice-looking dish,” I said, scanning the rest of the area. “Any building or excavating near here?” He said no and as I turned to give him the glasses, I saw part of a pink housecoat in the doorway. Thelma was listening hard.

I asked the routine questions, to make it look like I was working and again he told me the bunk about it only being curiosity on his part. As I was leaving, Thelma asked if I wanted tea and cake. I told her no, and Will said to be careful not to lose the sliver of rock. I assured him it was in my office safe, but when he mentioned the stone Thelma looked sick and worried.

It was a little after two-thirty when I returned to the office. I couldn't make Will and his wife, they didn't look the type to be mixed up in anything shady. Anita was reading a true detective magazine. She asked if I'd read about this gal working behind a soda counter who recognized Public Enemy No. 3 by this wart he had on his pinky? Got a reward of two thousand—”

“Forget it,” I said, giving her the sliver. “Knock off for the day and snoop around Will Johnson's place. Some open lots around there, see if any of the rocks look like this sample. Ask around if anybody else got their windows busted. Check with the weather bureau as to what kind of a day it was a month ago... unless it was real sunny he wouldn't have the blinds down in the middle of the afternoon.”

“This assignment is jazzy as all get-out!”

“Look Humphrey, or are you Robert Ryan this afternoon? The guy is paying us, we give him a day's work at least. I'm going to hunt for this Lodge babe, will stop back here before I go home. Call me at six. And grow up—life isn't all cream puffs and excitement.”

She screwed up her cute face at me, pointed to my cheek. “You shouldn't walk around with lipstick there.”

“Where?”

“Here.” She kissed me hard on the cheek, pulled away and laughed. She dropped the rock in her bag and walked out—her hips waving goodbye.

9

I washed up, stopped for coffee and a sandwich, then drove to the last known address of Marion Lodge, a fairly clean rooming house on West 22nd Street. The owner vaguely remembered her, thought she had moved to some place on West 67th Street. There, I had to show her picture to a dozen candy store and newsstand people before one of them remembered Marion lived in a house down the block. This was a real flea-hive, stinking of insecticide and the blowsy old bag who ran it stunk from a lot of other things. It was a small apartment house that had been made into rooms and she said she had seen too many people come and go to recall any. A couple of bucks acted as a refresher course: Marion had fallen behind in her rent, been locked out. A month later Marion had sent the back rent and a truck called for her two suitcases. “Don't know why she bothered, nothing in them but cheap rags and... What? Aw, how do you expect me to remember the name of the trucking company? Some big truck all painted a baby blue...”

At a bar I got a handful of dimes and started calling the various moving companies in the phone directory, asking what color their vans were painted. A buck-twenty later I struck pay dirt. The rest was easy—the company kept records and I found Marion had moved up in the world—to a high-priced brownstone on East 71st Street. This had been converted into small, ritzy, furnished apartments—the kind you pay two hundred a month for. The janitor lived in the basement of another house down the block. A quiet, middle-aged man who liked to talk, he studied the picture, told me, “Tell you, mister, I've only been on the job less than a year and I never saw her. But people don't move around much, far as I know, we've only had one vacancy in last two years, apartment 3F, and I sure remember the last tenant there, Miss Margrita de Mayo!”

My face showed the name didn't register and he added, “Margrita, the TV sensation!” A silly note of pride crept into his voice, the way nobodys talk about a celebrity.

“Sure, girl with the fine, fine legs,” I said. “Still live there?”

“No, sir, moved to a big suite in some hotel. But when I first came she was a struggling young actress and...”

“Got any old rent records here?”

“No, sir. But when she got her big break, it made me feel right good that a nice, quiet, young woman like her...”

I left and called my buddy in the electric company, dialed him back ten minutes later. “No record of any Marion Lodge in 3F, Hal,” he said. “Bills were sent in the name of a Mary Long. After four months it was changed to Margrita de Mayo, with a letter from Miss Long requesting her deposit be applied to Miss de Mayo's account.”

“What's all that mean?”

“Probably sharing the apartment and then this Spanish one took it over, often happens when people who share a place split up. You know: the Long girl took the table radio, or something, instead of the deposit, or... Say, isn't that Margrita the...?”

“Yeah, the owner of the world's best legs. Thanks. See you.”

Mary Long and Marion Lodge—same initials, and when a person takes on a phony name they usually keep the same initials. The next step was to see Margrita—which would be a pleasure. But it was nearly six and I was pooped. Going to the office, I read the evening paper as I kept the edges of my hands hard by hitting them against a rubber pad. The ads said Margrita was singing at the Emerald Club, a swank spot, and I decided to drop in on her later.

At six-ten Anita called and when I asked what was new, she said, “I got a date for supper. Some joint at 60th Street and 1st Avenue.”

“Well, eat well.”

“You never ask me out for supper...”

“I do better—I pay your salary.”

“And that's nothing to brag about. One of these days I'll stuff an apple in your puss and eat you.” She sounded excited.

“I'd be tough chewing. See you in the morning, early and belching,” I said, hanging up.

Before closing the office, I made the usual check of the safe and one of my three guns was missing—a .38 special, I was so mad I nearly busted the glass slamming the door.

I drove over to the construction job Bobo was guarding. Although he had a permit to carry a rod I never let him —his face was all the protection he needed. No sense packing a rod unless you intend to use it.

Bobo was sitting in a chair propped against the shack that was the contractor's field office. He had his nightstick across his lap, an old cigar in his mouth—the picture of a guy with a snap job. When I started bawling him out, he asked, “What gun, Hal? I wouldn't take a rod without telling you.” And his rough, tan face showed real surprise.

When I mentioned that only he and Anita knew the safe combination, Bobo said, “Cheez, Hal, I wouldn't pull a dumb trick like that. Maybe Anita took it, she's wacky enough.”

If Bobo said he didn't have it, that was that And Anita would most likely be in the movies—she went every night —I could stop at her house before I turned in.

I drove to the yacht basin and Pete, who was just coming on duty as night man, called out, “Hal, looking for you. Be there in a minute.”

He finished gassing up a small cruiser, then came down to the floating barge that was the landing dock, pointed to my dinghy. The seat was busted. “One of those fat-assed drunks off the big sloop out there was horsing around, fell into your dinghy. Have it fixed by morning. He gave me a ten spot to do it. Sorry but...”

“Forget it,” I said, as we both stepped into the 16-foot inboard launch, and Pete gave her the gun, telling me, “Yell when you want to go ashore.”

“Yeah. Right now I'm going upstream after some shad.” Pete licked his thin lips. “I go for a juicy broiled shad.”

“Catch you one,” I said, leaping aboard my boat. I opened the hatch, waited for a moment till the stuffy cabin air went out. I changed to bathing trunks, put on my running lights, and started the old Packard. The tide was coming in fast and when I untied the boat, I had to race like a rabbit back to the cockpit, throw the clutch in, give her a sharp rudder to avoid the craft anchored upstream from me.

In the spring, shad come up the Hudson from the Atlantic to spawn. The silverbacks run in deep water, in the center of the river, and while I might have battled the six-mile current while trying to fish, instead I ran up to a point just below the George Washington Bridge. There, on the New Jersey side, there's a neat cottage that is a fishing club. Due to an irregularity in the bed of the river, the water is deep right up to the shore line, and shad can be caught from the bank. A few old duffers knew of this spot, fenced it in, and set up this fishing club.

In the darkness of early evening, I saw the lights of a couple pipes and cigarettes on the porch of the club as I put the anchor over, waited to see if it caught, then shut off my engine. I hooked a sleek blue and silver two-pounder within a matter of minutes. The fish put up a good battle, but like the guy said, “I ain't here to fight 'em but to eat 'em.” Then it took me nearly a half hour and two eels before I got the second one—a big three-pounder.

I cleaned the fish and on the way back to the mooring at 80th Street, I put the smaller one on the stove with some corn. After I tied up, I ate, sat around and listened to the radio over a couple of highballs, then showered, dressed, and yelled for Pete. I gave him the shad and he thanked me for cleaning it. Leaving him at the dock, I got my car out of the parking lot. It was almost ten as I drove east toward the Emerald Club.

10

THIS WAS a low-ceilinged room with the walls done in a violent lobster red, covered with nude women painted a bold purple. The ceiling was supposed to be one great green emerald and a lot of indirect lighting gave it a cut-stone effect. It looked like hell to me, but then I'm no art critic. A lot of upper-bracket jokers gave the joint a big play, and it was crowded. I stood at the bar and had a Tom Collins which looked like a fruit salad with all the sliced melons, oranges, and cherries floating around the top of the frosted glass. It must have been expensive fruit—they charged two-fifty a drink.

When I finally got past the fruit, the drink wasn't weak, and the music from a five-piece band was blue and moody. The barkeep said Margrita came on at ten-forty-five. I watched the playboys and dolls milling around, wondering how many millions they'd add up to if their bankbooks were put end to end. A big, strapping character who looked like he was born to a tux came in, followed by a stocky ex-pug who had bodyguard written all over his rough face. The pug looked familiar, but I couldn't call his name. Without even glancing at the head waiter, the big character sat at a table, and without asking a waiter rushed over with a soda and Scotch. The bodyguard had a beer.

The character was Big Ed “The Cat” Franklin, the star of one of those Congressional investigation committees television shows. Franklin's smooth voice, his good looks, made the citizens roar with laughter as he made a monkey out of the investigator, made the audience ferget Franklin's criminal record, that he was called “The Cat” because of the number of times he'd been gunned and lived. At the tail end of prohibition he'd started as a strong-arm goon, pushed his way up. I asked the barkeep, “'Cat' Franklin own a piece of this club?”

“I believe Mr. Franklin owns the entire club,” he said coldly, but like he was sure the sun rose and set in Franklin's behind.

About this time the lights dimmed and Margrita came on. She was a tall blonde with a full figure, and a passable voice. She wore a transparent skirt that clouded up near her waist. As she moved about, you saw two shapely legs, and if you were lucky, the solid curve of her hips and... well, I guess she wore a G-string or something.

Some ten months before, Margrita had been merely another singer, with a bit role in a TV musical, one of those heavy-costume jobs. She'd be still playing bit parts if she hadn't tripped over a power cable, landing flat on her back —exposing a pair of lovely legs in close-up to thousands of living-rooms and bars. You remember the hassle this caused, the TV program apologizing all over the screen, then the flood of letters and calls, demanding to see more, saying there was no need to apologize for legs like those. Overnight the big blonde guest-starred on several programs, packed them in at a Broadway theatre, was in every column. She had a smart publicity agent, was exploited to the hilt—I remember one front-page picture of her in a museum, raising her skirts to compare her gams with a famous statue. Within two months she had her own TV show, was said to be raking in the folding money.

Her legs were something: not the thin stems most show girls have, rather they were heavy and strong, her thighs a lush curve of real muscle. I was embarrassed, for watching her sent a warm wave of excitement crawling over me. I was staring at her open-mouthed, like a fresh kid. Considering the energy I'd spent with Louise that morning, nothing should make me get up steam for days.

When she finished her act, I gulped my drink, asked where I'd find the manager. The barkeep's eyes got a little troubled till I said, “Want to see him about some insurance business.”

Via the head waiter and a lantern-jawed bouncer who had a neck thicker than Margrita's thigh, I finally made the manager's office. Flashing my tin, I told him about the estate, that I wanted to see Margrita about locating a former roommate of hers.

He was a sharp-faced guy with tired, suspicious eyes. Calling her on the house phone he said, “Miss de Mayo, there's a private dick claims he wants to see you about an estate. Expecting any process servers?... Certainly.” He looked up at me. “She's too busy to see you and...”

“Tell her it's about Marion Lodge,” I shouted at the receiver.

He was about to hang up but we all heard her say, “Wait—I want to see him.”

A waiter took me to her dressing-room. We walked through a cramped kitchen and sweating cooks and pearl divers—all in sharp contrast to the lush atmosphere of the club.

Although she was a big-name star, Margrita's room had barely enough space for a dressing-table, a closet, and a single chair. She was seated at the table, combing her long honey-blonde hair. “Make it fast, I have to change for my next number,” she said, looking me over in the mirror.

I dislike all six-footers on sight, but she was six feet of lovely stuff that I could sure go for. The tiny room was hot and she was sweating a little, a warm sultry smell. I told her about Marion Lodge, and still talking into the mirror she said, “Yeah, I remember her. Dizzy kid, bitten by the stage bug. You know, yokel girl coming to storm Broadway. Last I heard of her she was marrying some rich old character out West.”

“Know his name, the city?”

She was brushing her hair—her hands up—and she shrugged and it was simply unbelievable she was that well stacked—that it was all real. “No. That was nearly a year ago.”

“Remember who you heard this from? Anybody else know her?”

“I just heard it—someplace. And we only shared that flat for a short time—didn't know her well. You say this uncle left her a farm?”

“Not much of a farm. Tell me, I've traced her through several cheap rooming houses, then she suddenly blossoms out in this expensive set-up. She suddenly lands a good job?”

Margrita said, “Sure, dumb country kids always land a 'good' job! She had a second-hand mink, several high-priced gowns, and no visible means of support What does that make in your book?”

“Call girl? That when she became Mary Long?”

Margrita shrugged again and all she was wearing was this thin blouse and that transparent skirt, and she was so big, had so much of everything, it was overpowering. I told her, “Please, cut it out.”

She finally turned, stared directly at me. “Cut what out?”

“Honey, I'll be the first to admit you pack a lot of high-powered sex. Now stop teasing me into making a pass so you can have me thrown out on...”

“You louse!” she snapped, jumping to her feet, standing like a monument to desire. “You little miserable bastard of a man!”

I didn't stand up—I would have looked ridiculous, not even reaching her shoulders. I said softly, “Relax, Miss de Mayo. Wouldn't mind tangling with you, but at the moment I'm only trying to locate Marion Lodge, help her get some dough. So the poor kid went all the way down the road, selling herself for...”

“Save your tears, you'd stand in line too. Oh, sure she was a sucker! Broadway seemed something clean and high, beautiful and exciting... only she found it was raw and filthy, heartless, and so... so... terribly lonely!”

I clapped my hands lightly. “When you get too old for the stage, you can always write a sob column.”

Margrita's full lips sneered at me, “Mac, when I get old I'll have this racket licked, spend all my time reading the most interesting book in the world—my bankbook!”

“Let's get back to Marion Lodge. Does she ever write you? She must have mentioned the city she was moving to? Must have...?”

“Told you I haven't heard from her in a year. Besides, she was doing okay, this two-bit farm wouldn't mean a thing to her.”

I got up. Even standing on my toes I wouldn't be level with her eyes. “Okay, Miss de Mayo, sorry to have bothered you. Have to report Marion Lodge's last-known occupation—whoring, end of the trail. Or would you say, Another innocent little moth was burnt by the Great White Way, seduced by the greatest whore of them all—ambition?”

Her lips quivered for a moment, then she said harshly, “Wise little pimp, aren't you. Say what you like. I have to change now.” She fiddled with some buttons on the back of her blouse and her “dress” suddenly dropped to her feet. I was wrong, she wasn't wearing a G-string, she was stark naked.

She turned, picked up some cold cream from the dressing-table, began to rub her face—as though I wasn't there, but watching me in the mirror. There wasn't any point in my saying a word—everything I wanted to say she could see too plainly in my eyes. One crack from me and the jar of cold cream would be bouncing off my face.

I walked out There was something screwy about her, and dangerous, that I didn't try to understand. Or maybe it was all in my mind, angry at her height, at her teasing me. I stood in the narrow hallway outside her door for a moment. I thought I heard her crying.

“What you doing, short-ass?”

The voice was deep and suave; I looked up to see “Cat” Franklin standing in the kitchen a few feet from me.

“I'm listening at the keyhole, what the hell did you think I was doing?” I snapped, walking past him, ready to knee him if he tried to stop me.

He merely stepped aside, smiling down at me.

11

The two-block walk to my car cooled me off somewhat. And driving back to the boat I tried to figure out exactly what I was angry about. I'd talked less than ten minutes to Margrita, it was the only time I'd ever spoken to her, yet I felt as steamed as if I was an old boyfriend she was handing the brush. It didn't make sense.

Pete took me out to my boat and I undressed. It was too warm for pajamas, so I climbed into my bunk, snapped the lights off. From a nearby express cruiser I heard dance music, sounds of several women and men laughing. My own boat was rocking gently and I kept thinking of Margrita and Louise, how the relationship between a man and a woman should be so simple, and always ended up so damn complex, full of knots. Maybe it was a reflection of our world, where even the relationships between nations were all screwed up.

I tried to sleep, but then I started thinking of Marion Lodge, wondering how hungry and disillusioned she must have been when she started peddling it, if she still wore her hair in those corny curls when she was hustling, what a lousy thing it was that society made a commodity out of that, how lucky men were that they were not built so they could sell....

I heard the launch coming and it didn't pass me, but came alongside. Pete called out, “Company, Hal.”

I said, “Come aboard,” and sat up and snapped on the light and there was Anita coming down the cabin steps! I pulled the sheet across me like a startled school girl as Anita said, “Well, well, so this is where you live. Very cozy.”

“Get me that robe hanging on the door. What are you doing here?” I asked, as she sat down on the bunk opposite me, lit a cigarette. She had on high heels, a smart suit, and her face was flushed and covered with a lot of make-up. She looked older, almost a little hard. Maybe it was her overbright eyes—I was certain she'd had a few drinks.

“Now, Hal, is that a way to greet a friend, barking at them?”

“Stop the chatter and get me the robe.”

“Get it yourself, I like you the way you are,” Anita said, blowing a cloud of smoke at me. “I really go for all those nice muscles ridged across your tummy. Hal, you look much better undressed. My, warm in here.” She fanned her skirt showing the V her thighs made to her black-lace panties.

“If I get up I'm going to fan something—your backside. Now what the...?”

She came over and sat on my bunk, stared at me with big sad eyes. There wasn't any liquor on her breath. “Why don't you stop with this big-brother act? Hal, am I poison, that hard to take?”

There was a serious, pathetic quality to her voice—this was my big day with the gals! And for a fast moment I asked myself why I was playing the brother clown, Anita was young, pretty, and burning up.... But my so-called better sense kept warning... lay off!

“Don't start that, Anita. You're not hard to take, on the contrary you're—Hell, baby, you're a kid. We'd only end up in a mess. I like you; if I didn't I wouldn't worry about hurting you or...”

“You drive me nuts with this kid routine, that little girl-with-a-doll line. I know what I want, what... Here, is this a child's kiss?” She fell on top of me, her lips hard and pressing, her hair all soft on my face.

I tried to push her off, or at least I was thinking about it, as I managed to say, “Anita, give us time. If it's to be you and me... we'll know it.” Having her on my bunk, so near me, was almost too damn much to resist.

“Why should we wait?” she whispered, her lips moving against my ear. “I'm sure, and you... you just said you liked me. Darling, you're all I've been thinking about these last couple months. When I first started working for you... you gave me a laugh kick. I mean, you weren't at all what I thought a shamus would be. Then, I've gotten so crazy about you I can't think straight, I...”

The “shamus” did it, reminded me she was merely a thrill-happy kid. I pushed her away. “I'll give it to you straight—I'm scared of you. You're pretty and impulsive and probably would be terrific in the hay, but honey I'd never know when you'd change, when all that pep and energy would be directed against me, find myself doing time because you're under eighteen and...”

“Do I have to bring a birth certificate to bed?” she asked, poking a finger at the hair on my chest.

That sounded so silly we both laughed and that really tore it. She stood up, looked around, dropped the ash from her cigarette in the sink. “Gee, this is like a little apartment What a compact kitchen, everything....”

“We old sailors call it a galley. Find anything on the rock?”

“No, walked my legs off around that part of town. Found nothing. Hal, if I did something big, say like finding that Frisco money, grabbing that big reward would...”

“Don't you ever stop thinking about rewards?”

“Why should I? Think of the mugs who did the job, all those millions around them and every buck too hot to spend. Must drive them nuts. But suppose I did find that, or got one of the other rewards, would you run away with me? To Mexico, to Europe?”

“Honey, with that sort of green stuff I'd fly to the moon with you!”

“All right, keep making fun of me, one of these days I'll do something big and take your bluff—one of these days soon.”

“Sure you will. Sydney Greenstreet called me this afternoon, said he was afraid you'll drive him out of business.”

She stuck out her tongue at me. “You'll see. Is there a bathroom here, or is it any porthole in a storm?”

I pointed to the large picture of the blowfish that covered the door to the bow, and the John. “That's a door—the handle is the piece of food under the seaweed—what the fish is diving for.”

“That's a door?” Anita said, going over to examine it. “How clever.”

“Called the 'Blowfish Madonna.' Anchored off Fire Island last year and some artist got the bright idea of painting the door. Really got a soulful expression on the fish. There's a light switch on your left—and you work the pump handle beside the John to flush it.”

Soon as she shut the door I jumped out of bed, put on pants and shoes. She'd left her bag on the bunk and I opened it, took out my .38 special and tossed it under the covers. The hand line I'd used to catch the shad was drying over the sink, and I cut off two heavy sinkers from it, dropped them in her bag—so the bag would feel heavy.

I was putting on a T-shirt when she came out. “Come on, I'll put you in a cab, send you home.”

“I about expected that—brother!”

“Who you all dolled up for tonight?”

“You.”

She sounded so blue I didn't have the heart to bawl her out for taking the gun—that could wait till morning. “Come on,” I said, taking her arm, starting for the deck. She gave me a hug and a kiss that nearly smothered me. “For the... stop it!” I said, breaking away.

“Knew I could get your water on,” Anita said, walking by me, a silly triumphant sway to her small hips.

I whistled for Pete and we stood on the deck, my arms around her shoulders. Again I felt confused, feeling leery of her and at the same time almost sorry for the kid. It was a clear night, with a half moon and all the stars out. Anita said quietly, “Sorry I was a pest.”

“You're no pest, only... things like this can't be rushed. Maybe some day I'll wake up, start chasing you and...”

“You'll never have to chase me, Hal. Gee, it's great standing here, all those stars—”

“If we were out on the Sound, away from the city lights, see many more stars.”

“Okay, let's go.”

As Pete came into view, I said, “Just take it slow, Anita. I don't mean to be so... so...” She lowered her head and I kissed her softly and she straightened up, said in a queer voice, “Thanks.”

I helped her into the launch and we were lucky, there was a cab at the parking lot, unloading guests for one of the big yachts. I slipped her five bucks for cab fare, told her that since it was after midnight, she should sleep late, not be in the office till noon.

Taking me back to my boat, Pete said, “First you're lucky with shad and now this girl—don't know how you little guys do it—”

“Stop it,” I said, feeling tired and let-down.

12

I fell asleep the moment I hit the sack, had a crazy dream where I was judging a beauty contest and as far as I could see there were rows of legs—all of them the strong legs of Margrita, but when I raised my eyes the faces were all Louise's, complete with black eyes and cockeyed eyebrows. And they were all saying, “Thanks,” and it was the haunting voice of Anita. And then reporters were all about me, shaking my shoulders, asking...

I opened my eyes to blink into a flashlight. A hard voice asked, “Where's the damn light?”

I fumbled among the blankets for the .38 I'd taken from Anita. A big hand shook me wide awake, asked for the light again. I switched it on. Two burly jokers were standing there, filling the cabin, the five-foot-five headroom making them stoop. In the doorway I saw Pete's frightened pale face.

One of them was hatless, his hair crew-cut, giving him a flat-headed odd look. Neither of them had to flash their badges, I knew they were cops. He grunted, “Lieut. Hank Saltz, police department. Get dressed.”

I got up. The other dick picked up the gun lying at the foot of the sheets. Slipping on my pants I said, “I've a permit for that. What's this all about?”

“Got an Anita Rogers working for you?” Saltz asked in that ragged voice of his.

I nodded. “What did the kid do, steal a car or...?”

“She got herself beaten to death,” Saltz said slowly, as though enjoying the words. “I'm from Homicide.”