Where There’s Smoke

2

A narrow alley ran between the rear of Abner’s mortuary and the brick rear wall of an apartment building opposite. One end of the alley opened onto Hennessy Street, some hundred feet from the jimmied door; the other end was cut off by another brick wall at right angles to the apartment building. There was a door on this wall, as well as several lighted basement windows. I went to the door and knocked on it.

“Who is it?” a woman asked.

“Police,” I said. This was a lie, but I see no harm in lying to anyone, provided it makes things easier for me. I heard a lock being turned. The door opened. The woman standing there was in her early forties, a slatternly brunette wearing a man’s woolen bathrobe belted at the waist, the sleeves rolled up to accommodate the length of her own arms.

“What is it?” she said.

I showed her the gold shield, and she nodded.

“May I come in?” I asked.

She looked me over, and then stepped back from the doorway. “I was just having some breakfast,” she said, and waited for me to move past her into the room, and then closed and locked the door behind me. The room was a kitchen. A table with a white enamel top was against one wall beneath two small windows opening onto the alley. A bottle of Scotch and a glass with ice cubes in it were the only things on the table; the woman apparently planned to drink her breakfast. A flowered curtain was partially drawn back over a doorway that led to a bedroom. I could see one corner of the bed. It had not been made.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked.

“Thank you, no.”

“Hate to drink alone,” she said, but this didn’t stop her from pouring a healthy shot of Scotch over the ice cubes and downing it in a single swallow. “You sure?” she said, and poured herself another four fingers.

“Positive.”

“What’s the trouble?” she asked, and sat at the table, and gestured for me to take the other chair. Sipping the second drink, apparently savoring it, she watched me intently. Her eyes were green.

“I was wondering if you were here in the apartment all last night,” I said.

“Why? What happened last night?” she asked.

“Routine investigation,” I said. “Were you here?”

“Sure,” she said. “Where else would I be? This is where I live. I’m superintendent of the building here. That’s what I get paid for. To be here. So here’s where I was.”

“Did you happen to hear any traffic in the alley outside?”

“There’s always traffic in the alley outside,” she said. “Abner has dead bodies coming in every hour of the day and night.”

“Did any bodies come in last night?”

“Who knows? I never pay attention any more. It’s bad enough I know what’s going on out there. How would you like to live next door to a funeral parlor? I see them carrying corpses in there...” She shivered and took another sip of Scotch. “Do you believe in ghosts?” she said.

“No.”

“I do,” she said. “I’m laying in bed some nights, and I think suppose one of them dead bodies takes a notion to go wandering, you know what I mean? If they’re not buried yet, their spirits can go wandering. I lay there in bed, and I get the shakes. I live here all alone, you know. My husband passed on two years ago, good riddance to him. He’s one ghost I never hope to see, I can tell you that. What’s your name?”

“Benjamin Smoke.”

“Mine’s Connie,” she said, and smiled. “Connie Brogan.”

“Mrs. Brogan, can you tell me—?”

“Call me Connie,” she said. “Listen, are you sure you wouldn’t like just a short one? I really do hate to drink alone, Ben. Two things I hate to do are drink alone and sleep alone,” she said, and smiled again. “Come on, have a quickie.”

“We’re not allowed to drink on duty,” I said.

“Oh. Sure. Of course,” she said. “Well, you won’t mind if I have just another little one, will you?”

“No, no, go right ahead.”

“Though, boy, I sure do hate to drink alone,” she said, and poured the glass almost half full again. “Here’s looking at you, Ben,” she said, and drank, and then asked, “Where’d you get that scar on your cheek?”

“I got into a scrape once.”

“Tough work, police work,” she said. “Nobody appreciates the job cops do. You’re a big fellow, though, I’ll bet you can take pretty good care of yourself.”

“Connie, at any time last night, did you—?”

“I like big men,” she said. “The way I see it, men are supposed to be big, and women are supposed to be small. I know I don’t look it in this floppy robe, but actually I’m a very dainty person. You know what my dress size is? Take a guess. Petite. I’ll bet you don’t believe that. That’s because I’m very busty for a woman my size. But petite is what I take. Or, in some dresses, small. But never anything bigger. How old do you think I am?”

“I really couldn’t say, Connie.”

“Take a guess, Ben. Go on.”

“Thirty-four,” I said, reducing my honest estimate by a good ten years.

“Right on the nose!” she said. “You ought to get a job at one of them amusement parks, where they guess people’s ages and weight. How much do you think I weigh? Never mind looking at my bust, because that’ll throw you off. I weigh one hundred and two pounds, what do you think of that? I’m five feet three inches tall and I weigh a hundred and two pounds, which is just about perfect for my size.”

“What I’m interested in finding out,” I said, “is whether—”

“Relax, Ben,” she said. “You’re a conscientious man, I admire that, but don’t press so hard. What is it you want to know?”

“Did you hear any traffic outside last night?”

“Last night,” she said. “Well now, let me see. I went to bed right after the eleven-o’clock news. That is, I got ready for bed. I take a bath every night before I go to bed. Do you take a bath before you go to bed?”

“A shower,” I said. “I usually—”

“I don’t like showers,” she said. “I fill the tub with bubble bath, and I just lay back in it for maybe a half-hour. It’s very relaxing. Anyway, I don’t have a shower. All I have is a tub. It doesn’t matter, ’cause I don’t like showers, anyway. What do you sleep in?” she asked.

“A bed,” I said.

“I mean, do you wear pajamas — or what?”

“Yes. Yes, I wear pajamas.”

“I don’t wear anything. I like to feel the sheets against my body. So let me see. I must’ve got to bed around twelve — well, maybe not exactly twelve, but around that time. Do you read in bed?”

“Sometimes.”

“I never read in bed. I hate reading, as a matter of fact. What I do is I turn off the light, and in two or three minutes I drop off to sleep. That’s now, of course. When my husband was alive, he used to pester me to death all night long. Anyway, I must’ve been sleeping like a baby by a quarter past twelve. I’m usually a very sound sleeper — that indicates a clear conscience, huh?” she said, and smiled. “But last night there was traffic outside. There’s always traffic in that goddamn alley, you’d think people were dying to get in that funeral parlor.” She smiled, and lifted her glass, and winked at me over it, and said, “Did you get that?”

“Yes,” I said, and smiled. “Dying to get in,” I said.

“You’re very quick, Ben,” she said. “I like bright men.” She drained the glass and poured herself another drink. “So I got out of bed — starkers,” she said, and paused for emphasis, “and took a look out the window to see what they were bringing in this time, as if I didn’t know.”

“What were they bringing in?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I went right back to bed.”

“Was there a car out there?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of a car?”

“A Volkswagen bus.”

“What year?”

“I don’t know. They all look the same to me.”

“What color?”

“Red-and-white. The top part was white.”

“You didn’t happen to notice the license plate, did you?”

“No, it was parked with the... you know. The side of it was facing the bedroom window.”

“Did you notice who was driving it?”

“No, I went right back to bed.”

“What time was this, would you remember?”

“Must’ve been three o’clock in the morning. It was still dark, I know that. Only reason I could see out there was because of the little light Abner keeps burning over his back door. Do you think he’s a fag?”

“Abner?”

“Yes. I think he must be a fag. I’ve invited him in here for a drink on one or two occasions, and he’s always said no. That indicates something to me, Ben. I’m not bragging, but most people consider me a good-looking woman. Do you think I’m a good-looking woman? You don’t have to answer that,” she said, and smiled. “I can tell you do.”

“How long was the bus outside there?” I asked.

“I couldn’t say. I went right back to bed again. I have to get up early in the morning, you know. We’ve got a porter working here in the building, and he’s supposed to put out the garbage cans for pickup in the morning, but if I’m not there to supervise him, it never gets done. Nobody takes pride in his work any more, Ben. That’s why I admire you so much. The job you’re doing.”

“What time did you get up this morning?” I asked.

“Usual time. Six A.M., rain or shine. The porter gets here at six-thirty, and by then I’ve usually thrown on a pair of dungarees and a sweatshirt, and I’m out there to supervise him putting out the cans. Takes him a half-hour or so, and then I usually have a glass of orange juice and go back to bed.”

“Is that what you did this morning?”

“That’s what I do every morning except Sunday, when there’s no garbage collection.”

“Was the bus gone when you woke up at six?”

“Yep. Gone with the wind. What time is it now, anyway?”

I looked at my watch. “It’s almost ten,” I said.

“Where does the day go?” she said, and smiled. “I’d better put some clothes on,” she said. “Before you start getting ideas. Me sitting around in just a robe.”

I stood up, put the chair back in place under the table, and said, “You’ve been very helpful, Connie. Thank you.”

“What is it you’re investigating, anyway?” she asked. “Sit down, Ben, don’t be in such a hurry. I can tell you’re a very active man, but that’s no reason to go running off.”

“I’ve got some other stops,” I said.

“What time do you think you’ll be through?” she asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Give me a call,” she said, “huh? Maybe we can have a drink together. When you’re off duty, I mean. It’s 555-2368. Very easy to remember. Do you think you can remember it?”

“I’ll remember it,” I said.

“I’ll bet you have a very retentive memory,” she said. “Don’t forget, okay? 555-2368. Even if you’re through late tonight, that’ll be okay, you can call whenever you’re through, okay? You might feel like having a drink after a hard day’s work, who knows? I’ll be here.”

“Thanks again,” I said, and left.