The Body Lovers

Chapter 10

The curb in front of the hotel on Park Avenue was lined with limousines. Photographers roamed the sidewalks, picking their way through the curious, trying for a spot to snap the greats of the international set for their society pages.

Most of the cars were chauffeur-driven, and pulled away after discharging their passengers, but another group bearing DPL plates parked wherever they wanted to, insolently occupying the space in the no-parking zones. Two mounted cops on horseback disgustedly ignored them and concentrated on keeping traffic moving the best they could.

I got out of my cab and went into the lobby past one of the photographers who looked at me uncertainly a second before he spotted someone he was sure of. I stood in line, checked my hat and coat, then drifted off looking for Dulcie. From any side except the front, most of the males were indistinguishable in their identical tuxedos, but the women stood out in the plumage and I wondered what the hell ever happened to the order of things. In nature, the males wore the gaudy colors and the females were the drab ones.

You could tell the pecking order of this barnyard by the preferential treatment accorded the greater luminaries. They were fawned upon, deferred to and waited on incessantly, always surrounded by their retinue. The babble of sound was punctuated by foreign tongues and the shrill laughter of the women, stuffy animals who strutted for the benefit of anyone who would look.

This is society, I thought. Brother.

Some of them had already formed their little coalitions and were drifting toward the elevators, deep in conversation, the women trailing behind them, their attitudes artificial, their posturing inane. There were some who had the earmarks of complacency and I figured them for either the genuine articles, born to build and control empires, or those who just didn't give a damn.

A couple of times I caught sight of myself in one of the mirrors and I looked uncomfortably out of place. Twice, men I cased as security personnel went by and we nodded imperceptibly. I was being taken for one of their own and their eyes didn't miss the way the jacket was tailored to conceal a gun or the mark of the professional any more than my own did.

At seven-thirty Dulcie arrived with several others, made her rounds of formal cheek-kissing and handshaking, but all the while searched the faces around her for me. I waved, let her get done with it all, check her wrap, then walked over trying not to grin like an idiotic schoolkid.

Dulcie wasn't the peacock type at all. Her gown was a black sheath that fitted as though there was nothing beneath it at all. Her hair was up in a mass of soft waves with lights bouncing off the silver accents like an electrical display. There was a diamond necklace at her throat and a thin diamond bracelet watch on her wrist.

But she was the most striking thing there.

I said, "Hello, beautiful."

Her fingers grabbed my hand and she tilted her head back and laughed softly. "That's not a proper society salutation, big man."

"It was the only thing I could think of."

"You did fine," she said and squeezed my fingers. "I like." She ran her eyes up and down me and said with approval, "You make quite a figure in that tux."

"Only for you, baby. I'm not a clothes horse."

"That's what I thought. I was afraid you might not come."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world. I could use exposure to some of the nicer things in life."

Dulcie threw me a tilted glance. "Don't expect too much. Some of these people come from strange corners of the world. It's still rough out there." She hooked her arm under mine. "Shall we go up to the Flamingo Room?"

"That's what we came for," I said. We started in the direction of the elevators, mingling with the others. While we waited I asked her, "Any thing new on Gates?"

"No. One of the other boys took over his appointments. He's left quite a gap in things. Mike...what do you think happened to him?"

"If I knew I'd be making him spill his guts out. He's got himself in some kind of bind and is riding it out."

"I went to the trouble of calling the agencies who give him assignments. He isn't out on any of theirs. What he had to do was either for us or for himself in his own studio. One of his friends had a key to his apartment and inventoried his equipment. He didn't take anything with him at all."

"He won't get far."

Dulcie shook her head, her face thoughtful. "I don't know. Matt Prince, who does our developing and Teddy were pretty close. He said Teddy kept a lot of money in his office desk. It isn't there now."

"How much?"

"Over a thousand dollars. He was always buying new cameras or lenses. Matt said Teddy never worried about leaving it around. He had plenty of money anyway."

"He could go a long way on a grand."

The elevator came before she could answer me and we stepped back in the car. Going up Dulcie introduced me to a few of the others there who looked at me strangely, not sure who I could be, but certain I must have some importance since I was with her.

The Flamingo Room was a burst of color and noise when we walked into it, a montage of patterns made up of people in motion, under the flags of all the nations that dangled from the ceiling, waving in idle motion under the pressure of some unseen breeze. An orchestra was at the rear, varying its selections to suit every national taste, and tables were arranged around the sides piled with delicacies from countless countries. Champagne corks popped constantly and the clink of hundreds of glasses punctuated the hum of voices.

"What ever happened to the poverty program?" I asked her.

She poked me and said, "Hush!" with a stifled laugh.

Dulcie had an incredible memory for names, even the tongue twisters. She mingled easily, the right words always ready, her capacity for pleasing others absolutely incredible. More than one man looked at me enviously for being her escort, trying to catalogue me in their minds.

When I had to, I could play the game too. It didn't come as easily and began to wear thin after the first hour. I hadn't come to hobnob and Dulcie sensed my irritation and suggested a cocktail at the bar.

We had just started toward it when Dulcie said casually, "There's Belar Ris," and swerved toward one corner of the room where three men were grouped, talking.

One dog can always tell another dog. They can see them, smell them or hear them, but they never mistake them for anything but another dog. They can be of any size, shape or color, but a dog is a dog to a dog.

Belar Ris stood with his back angled to the wall. To an indifferent observer he was simply in idle conversation, but it wasn't like that at all. This was an instinctive gesture of survival, being in constant readiness for an attack. His head didn't turn and his eyes didn't seem to move, but I knew he saw us. I could feel the hackles on the back of my neck stiffening and knew he felt the same way.

Dog was meeting dog. Nobody knew it but the dogs and they weren't telling.

He was bigger than I thought. The suggestion of power I had seen in his photographs was for real. When he moved it was with the ponderous grace of some jungle animal, dangerously deceptive, because he could move a lot faster if he had to.

When we were ten feet away he pretended to see us for the first time and a wave of charm washed the cautious expression from his face and, he stepped out do greet Dulcie with outstretched hand.

But it wasn't her he was seeing. It was me he was watching. I was one of his own kind. I couldn't be faked out and wasn't leashed by the proprieties of society. I could lash out and kill as fast as he could and of all the people in the room, I was the potential threat. I knew what he felt because I felt the same way myself.

He had the skin coloration of one of the Mediterranean groups. His eyes were almost black under thick, black brows that swept to a V over a hawklike nose that could have had an Arabian origin. Pomaded hair fitted like a skullcap and his teeth were a brilliant white in the slash of his smile.

Dulcie said, "Mr. Ris, how nice to see you. May I present Mr. Hammer?"

For the first time he looked directly at me and held out his hand. His forearm that protruded from his jacket sleeve showed no cuff and I knew I had been right. Even under a tux he wore a short-sleeved shirt.

"Delighted, Mr. Hammer." His voice was accented and deep, but devoid of any of the pleasure his smile feigned.

"Good to see you, Mr. Ris." The handshake was brief and hard.

"And are you a member of our great United Nations group? I don't remember having seen you..."

I wasn't going to play games with him. "Hell, no," I said. "I'm a private cop."

For a split second there was a change in his eyes, a silent surprise because I couldn't be bothered acting a part. For Dulcie's sake he played it with an even bigger smile and said, "I certainly approve. Anyone as charming as Miss McInnes certainly needs a protector. But here, my dear, as if there was any danger..." He let his sentence drift and glanced at me questioningly.

"Half these people here are fighting one another a few thousand miles away," I said.

Belar Ris wouldn't drop his smile. "Ah, yes, but here we are making peace. Is that not so?"

"That'll be the day," I said. I knew what my face looked like. I wore my own kind of grin that happened automatically when an enemy was in front of me and felt my eyes in a half squint and a funny relaxed feeling across my chest.

"You are not one of those who have confidence in the United Nations then, Mr. Hammer. That is too bad. It is such a monument to...to..." He paused, searching for words. "The integrity of the world."

I said, "Bullshit."

"Mike!" Dulcie's face had turned pink and she nudged me with her elbow. "What a terrible thing to say."

"Ask the boys who were in Korea or Viet Nam or Stanleyville. Ask..."

Belar Ris threw his head back and let out a deep chuckle. "That is perfectly all right, Mr. Hammer. You see, it is people like you who must be convinced, then you will be the most firm advocates of the united world. It will take much discussion, many arguments and positive persuasions before things are resolved." He held out his hand to me again. "Good evening, Mr. Hammer." His fingers tightened deliberately and I threw everything I had into the grip. I could do it that way too. He felt me buck him, then let my hand go. "It is a good thing to have the opinion of...the man on the street," he said. He nodded to Dulcie, gave her a small bow that was typically European. "Miss McInnes."

He walked away, his blocky figure the picture of confidence. Dulcie watched him a moment, then turned to me. "Is that what you came for? If I thought it was to get in a political argument...You embarrassed him!"

"Did I?"

Then she let the laugh go, trying to stifle it with a hand. "It was funny. Even when you said that awful word."

"So wash my mouth out with soap."

"Really, Mike. Now can you tell me why you wanted to meet him?"

"You wouldn't understand, kid."

"Are you...satisfied?"

I took her arm and steered her toward the bar. "Perfectly," I said. "Someplace in the pattern there's a place for him."

"You're talking in riddles. Let's have our drink and you can take me home. I have a big weekend with a new issue of the magazine in front of me and can't afford any late nights until it's put to bed."

"That's too bad," I said.

Her fingers tightened on my arm. "I know." She rubbed her head against my shoulder. "There will be other times."

I left Dulcie outside her apartment and told the cab driver to take me back to my hotel. Upstairs, I got out of my tux, mixed myself a drink and slouched in a chair with my feet on the window sill, looking out at the night.

Sometime not too long ago a point had been reached and a bridge crossed. It was too dark to see the outlines of it, but I could feel it and knew it was there. Too long that little thing had been gnawing at the corners of my mind and I tried to sift it out, going over the puzzle piece by piece. One word, one event, could change the entire course of the whole thing. Out there on the streets Pat and his men and the staff of the paper were scouring the city for that one thing too. Somebody had to find it. I finished my drink, made another and was halfway through it when my phone rang. It was my answering service for the office number with the message that I had several calls from the same number and the party gently insisted that they were urgent.

I dialed the number, heard it ring, then Cleo's voice said, "Mike Hammer?"

"Hello, Cleo."

"You never came back."

"I would have."

"You'd better come now," she said.

"Why?"

"Because I know something you'd like to know." There was a lilt to her voice as if she had been belting a few drinks.

"Can't you tell me now?"

"Nope. I'm going to tell you when you get here." She laughed gently and put the phone back. I said something under my breath and redialed her number. It rang a dozen times but she wouldn't answer it. I cradled the receiver, then got up and climbed into my clothes. It was eleven-thirty and one hell of a time to be starting out again.

There are times when something happens to Greenwich Village. It gives a spasmodic heave as if trying for a rebirth and during its convulsions the people who dwell in her come out to watch the spectacle. It's hard to tell whether it's the inanimate old section or the people themselves, but you know that something is happening. Windows that never show light suddenly brighten; figures who have merely been shadows in, doorways take life and move. There is an influx from neighboring parts, people being disgorged from taxicabs to be swallowed up again in the maw of the bistros whose mouths are open wide to receive them.

The peculiar ones with the high falsettos, skin-tight pants and jackets tossed over shoulders capelike display themselves for public viewing, pleased that they are the center of attraction, each one trying for the center of the spotlight. Their counterparts, sensing new prey available, ready themselves, then stalk toward their favorite hunting grounds, masculine in their movements, realizing that sooner or later someone will respond to the bait being cast out, then the slow, teasing struggle would begin, and they, being the more wise, would make the capture.

A sureness seemed to be the dominant attitude. Everybody seemed so sure of themselves for that one single night. The heavy damp that should have been oppressive worked in reverse, a challenge to stay outside and dare the elements, a reason to go indoors to expend the excessive energy that was suddenly there.

I got out of the cab on Seventh Avenue and walked through the crowds, watching them pulsate across the streets at the change of the lights, feeling the static charge of their presence. I wasn't part of them at all and it was as though I were invisible. They had direction of purpose, to be part of the pleasure of the rebirth. I had direction of course only and picked my way to the house where Greta Service had lived and pushed Cleo's bell.

The buzzer clicked on the lock and I went inside, let the door shut behind me and went up the stairs to the top floor and stood there in the dark. I didn't knock. She knew I was there. I waited a minute, then her door opened silently, flooding the landing with a soft rose glow from the lights behind her and she was wearing one of those things you could see through again.

"Hello, Mike."

I walked inside, let her take my hat and coat from me and picked up the drink she had waiting on top of the table. Her project had been finished and her work area was rearranged, her tools and equipment placed to become part of the decorative concept of the room. Through the skylight and the full French windows I could see the outline of New York above the opaque surfaces of buildings around her.

"Pensive tonight, aren't you?" She went over and pulled a cord, then another, closing out the view through the windows. It was like pulling the covers over your head in bed.

"Sorry," I said.

"No need to be. You'll loosen up. Even if I make you."

"It's one of those nights," I told her.

"I know. You felt it too, didn't you?"

I nodded.

She walked past me, the sheer nylon of the full-length housecoat crackling, the static making it cling to her body like another skin. She switched the record player on and let Tchaikovsky's Pathetique seep into the room. She turned, swirling the ice in the glass in her hand as the subtle tones began their journey into life. "Fitting music, isn't it?"

I looked at her and tasted my drink. She had built it just right.

"They don't know it out there," she said. "They take time out of their expressionless little existences trying to find something vital here and leave things as they found them. They really go away empty."

"What did you have to tell me, Cleo?"

She smiled, crossed one arm under her breasts, balanced the other on it and sipped her drink. "But you aren't one of them."

"Cleo..."

She paid no attention to me. She walked up, took the drink I didn't know I had finished from my hand very slowly and went and made me another. "Do you remember what I told you when you were here?"

"No."

"I said I wanted to paint you."

"Look..."

"Specially now." Her eyes viewed me with an odd interest. She turned her head from side to side, moved to study me in a different light, then said, "Yes, something has happened to you since the last time. It's better now. Like it should be. There isn't any softness at all left."

I put the drink down and she shook her head very gently. "It's something you want to know, Mike, but you'll have to do what I want you to do first."

I said, "I found Greta."

"Good," she said, and smiled again. "It's more than that now though, isn't it?"

"Come on, Cleo. What have you got on your mind?"

She walked up to me, turned her back and took my hands, wrapping them around her waist. Her hair brushed my face and it smelled faintly of a floral scent. "I work for the Proctor Group too, or have you forgotten? I knew when you went up to see Dulcie McInnes. You should never have said what you did to her Miss Tabor. That old harridan can't stand dominant males."

"I was there," I admitted.

She turned in my arms, her body a warm thing against mine. "And I was jealous." She smiled, let her arms crawl up my sides, her hands going to my face, then lacing them behind my head. "I saw you first," she grinned. "Am I teasing well enough?"

"I'm hurting. Don't lean on me too hard."

"There was some strange speculation about Teddy Gates. Now he's missing after you paid another visit up there. People are talking, yet nobody really knows anything at all."

"Except you."

"Except me," she repeated. "You found Greta Service, but it couldn't have ended because you're here now to find out something else."

I ran my fingers down the small of her back and felt her body arch under them. "What's your price, Cleo?"

"You," she said. "I'm going to paint you first. I want you permanently inscribed so I can look at you and touch you and talk to you whenever I want and know you'll never fade away." She raised herself on her toes and her mouth touched mine, lightly. Then she let herself down and pushed away from me, her eyes sad little imps dancing in far off places.

"I'm a funny woman, Mike. I'm young-old. I've seen too much and done too much in too short a time. What I really want I can never have, but I have sense enough to realize it, so I take what I can get when I can get it, or is that too complicated?"

"I understand."

"This is Cleo's last stand here." She swept her arm around to take in the room. "It's very little, but it's a sanctuary of a sort. From here I can see the other part of the world and nobody can touch me. I can stay here forever and ever with all the good parts of me right where I want them, never changing, never turning their backs. Do I sound too philosophical?"

"You can do better."

The imps in her eyes danced again. "But I don't want to. I'm alive here, Mike. Now I'm going to make you part of that life. I won't sell you. I won't give you away. I'm going to keep you. You're going to be mine like nobody else ever had you."

"Cleo..."

"Or what you want to know won't be yours."

I put the drink down. "Your show, kid. Do I loosen my tie?"

"You take off your clothes, Mike."

She painted me that night. It wasn't what I had expected. The background was a jungle green with little bright blobs of orange that seemed to explode outward from the canvas, distorting the sensation of seeing a flat surface. There was a man in the picture and it was me, but not so much the physical representation as the mental one. It was the id rather than the ego, the twilight person you were only when you had to be. She had seen things and caught them, registering them for all time as we know it and when I saw myself as she did it was the same as looking at the face of an enemy. The short hairs on the back of my neck raised in sudden anger at the confrontation and I knew what Belar Ris had seen just as I had seen him. My .45 was there too, exact in detail almost to seeming three-dimensional, but it was away from my hands as if I didn't need it.

During the hours she had discarded the sheer nylon, working unfettered, concentrating solely on the portrait. I could study her abstractly, enjoying the loveliness of her body, then in the stillness my mind had drifted to other things and Cleo was only a warm outline of motion, of long smooth sweeps of pink, blossoming mounds that were half hidden behind the easel, then quickly there again. I had time to think in an unreal world where thinking was all there was to do. The extended strands of the web began to join together with the cross sections of odd conjecture, and little by little, piece by piece, the thing that was possible became probable.

She let me have that one brief look, then turned the canvas to face the wall.

"You're mine now," she said. Her finger touched a switch and the lights faded gradually into nothingness and the two of us were there alone, people again, barely visible, whitish silhouettes against the velvet of night.

Behind the curtains a false dawn marked the beginning of a new day. The spasm outside was over and whether the Village was in the agony of rebirth or the throes of death, I would never know. We had bought the hours at a price. We had spent excesses we had accumulated during that time, and for a little while there was that crazy release that was a climax and an anticlimax that left no time for work or thought any more.

I looked at the day crawling through the skylight. She had pulled back the blinds so that the glass was a huge square of wet gray overhead, wiggling with wormy raindrops that raced to the bottom to form a pool before dripping off the edge of the sill.

I rolled off the couch and reached for my clothes. I could smell the aroma of coffee as I got dressed and called for her twice without getting an answer. I dressed quickly, found an electric percolator bubbling in the kitchen, poured myself a cup hurriedly and swallowed it down.

Then I saw her note.

It was written in charcoal on a sketching pad, just a few lines, but it said enough.

Mike Darling...the man Sol Renner saw Greta with has his picture in the paper beneath. Thank you for everything, it was lovely. You'll never leave me now.

Good-by,

Cleo.

I yanked the paper out from under the pad. It was the same copy Biff had shoved under my nose the other night. The man in the picture was Belar Ris.

The web was pulling tighter, but I still couldn't see the spider. I put my hat on and went back through the studio. The easel was still in place, but the picture was gone. The place still smelled of her perfume and the nylon thing was lying across the back of the chair. Pathetique was still playing, the record never having been rejected.

She had chosen a good piece. Symphony No. 6 in B minor, Opus 74. Tchaikovsky should have stuck around to write another. This one would be even better.