Strip For Violence Read online

  Strip For Violence

  Ed Lacy

  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 t
onight'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...”