Go For The Body Read online

  Go For The Body

  Ed Lacy

  * * *

  Go For the Body

  Ed Lacy

  This page formatted 2007 Blackmask Online.

  http://www.blackmask.com

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  * * *

  For Therese and Ollie

  Chapter 1

  IT WAS MY first day in Paris but the feeling was still with me: like I was getting ready to explode, as if my guts were a lit fuse racing up to my brain.

  Being cooped up gets me that way, although I was camped in a big room in this swank hotel. Twelve bucks a night and it was the best hotel room I'd ever been in. I'd docked at Le Havre the afternoon before, came straight to this fancy joint from Gare St. Lazare, like they told me to. I had a swell suit of clothes, an expensive big suitcase, and looked like ready money—except I had exactly forty-seven bucks on me.

  All I had to do was wait for a call, yet I was jumpy. I'd promoted a deal with one of the biggest guys in the American fight racket, and I was in Paris to put the cap on it—the deal I'd been sucking around on for over a half year. And when you got to butter up a goon like Slats, your nose is scraping the bottom of a dirty barrel.

  I'd put away a big supper in the hotel restaurant, then was up early in the morning, waiting in my room. After moping around the room like a caged animal, I went down to the lobby and told the little clerk in the worn tux that I'd be at the corner cafe, on the Champs Elysees, and to send a bellhop on the run if I got a call. He gave me a bored bow, said in good English, “I will handle it, Monsieur Francine. If you'd care to hire a car?”

  I wanted to tell him to stop playing me for a tourist, but I merely shook my head and walked out.

  The cafe was one of these semi-sidewalk deals and I had two cups of coffee and some croissants, and smoked my pipe. It was only 9:15 am. I was still sitting there at 3 p.m., loaded with coffee and beer, watching the people walking by, spotting the Americans. I stared up the street at the Arc de Triomphe, wondered why anybody made a fuss about it. I watched the Frenchmen around me drinking—mainly by colors. They would drop in for a morning shot of something Irish green, or a copper-red drink, and of course the usual foggy Pernod—any of these drinks will knock your head off.

  I hung around this cafe till my kidneys were floating; then I walked back to the hotel and on a wall in the side street there was a crude US—GO HOME sign painted with whitewash. I sat around the lobby for a long time and wondered why the hell Magano didn't contact me. He had to come up from Italy, but he knew when my ship docked.

  I had supper again, picked up some English papers at the desk, along with my key. The clerk asked. “Perhaps tomorrow, you would like a bus tour of Paris, all the historic sights, and—”

  “Stop the tourist bait,” I said, and went up to my room. I stretched out on the bed and tried to read the Limey papers and gave that up. It was after nine and I wanted to see the night life, but couldn't chance missing my call. And Magano had better call soon. My bucks would only last a few days at these rates....

  The phone rang and I jumped off the bed like a cat. The clerk said, “A woman to see you, Monsieur Francine. Shall I send her up?”

  “A woman?” I repeated, wondering if this was more tourist bait.

  “A Madame Allen. Shall I send her up?”

  “Yeah.” I put my tie back on, was combing my hair when there was a knock on the door.

  She wasn't French; she looked all-American. I mean smart clothes that could be from an expensive Fifth Avenue shop or from Kleins or Orbachs. She had a pretty face that had been given some care, her dark hair, pulled tightly away from her face, made a horse-tail hanging out of a silly little fur hat. And she had that American tourist air about her—not worried about dough or time, looking down her nose at the world. Her figure was solid and all in all she looked a little like Barbara Stanwyck, but padded with about 20 pounds in the so-called right places.

  I must have been staring at her like a jerk, for she struck a pose, asked, “Look better this way?”

  “Sorry. I—You want to see me?”

  “If you're Ken Francine, I do.” Her voice was a little deep and almost warm. “Have a message from Mr. Vince Magano.” She gave me a big wink, added, “And he told, me to keep it quiet.”

  “Come in,” I said, wondering if all this was a rib. She sure didn't look like a gangster's gal.

  She stepped in, walking with a long-legged strut, and looked around. “Room must cost a fortune. Fit my room into one corner of this.” She had a slight double chin and I don't know why her hair was pulled so sharply from her face; it gave it a drawn look which the double chin contradicted.

  “What's the message?”

  “Mr. Magano called me. I'm to tell you he'll see you tomorrow.” She ran her eyes over me. “You a gangster too? Look like a thug.”

  Up to now she annoyed me, but I suddenly felt good, relaxed—I'd see Magano in the morning and set the deal. I said, “Sit down. You his doll?”

  She laughed. Judging by her teeth and facial muscles, she was around thirty-five. “Don't know if that's a compliment or not. I'm Marion Allen, a magazine writer. Want to do an article on him—how the deported American gangster is making out in Europe. He wrote me from Rome that he'd let me know when he'd be in Paris. I've just come down from Amsterdam to see him. Now, I gather, I'm to see him through you.” She walked by me to the chair, and she was pretty tall. She sat down, stretched her legs out. She knew she had good legs.

  I stared at her, wondering why all the jazzing around, the hide and seek. Why didn't Magano get in touch with me direct? Why didn't I meet him in Italy?

  She lit a cigarette, said, “Don't concentrate so; thinking doesn't go with your rugged face. And don't ask me what this is all about; I don't know. What are you, buster, a strong-arm man?”

  “I'm a fight manager. Just came to Europe yesterday to line up some fighters, with Magano's help. Hanging around all day waiting to hear. Listen, let's go out and have a drink or something?”

  She sighed. “Fast worker type. You're a regular breath of fresh air from home. And don't tell me the latest news from the States—I don't care to hear it.”

  “What you going to do, write US—GO HOME on the walls here?” I asked. There was a mocking tone to her voice that kept me on edge. But I couldn't take my eyes off her and I sure liked what I saw.

  She must have seen it in my eyes for she said, “Buster, stop looking at me as though I was a mouthful of canary for your tomcat teeth.”

  “Might eat you, at that. I just might—some day,” I said coldly. “But for now, I merely want company. I'm a stranger in town, and all that stuff. Okay, you can beat it. I'll tell Magano you called.” I put on my coat, finished combing my hair. At the door I said, “If you're rooted to that chair, take it with you.”

  She stood up, my eyes following her every movement. She said, “I believe you'd actually throw me out.”

  “You believe right. What's a good night spot?”

  She smiled again. “All right, buster, let's have a flag of truce. I'll be your guide. But no pawing, and I haven't any dirty postal cards on me.”

  On the Champs Elysees we hailed a cab that looked like a fugitive from a museum. She gave him an address on the Left Bank. We settled back on the seat and she said, “Notice how wide the streets are. Napoleon's idea—so he could run the people down with horse troops if they got out of hand. It's narrow streets that make for good barricades.”

  “Don't take this guide stuff too seriously. Been over long?”

  “Since '48. I'm kind of a literary bum.”

  “What's that mean?” I asked, because I knew she wanted me to.

  “I'm not quite a writer; only able to bat out readable but stupid articles about fashions, or cute little travel items, for the ladies' magazines in the States. I sell often enough to keep eating and traveling.”

  “When you going back...?”

  “Never,” Marion cut in. “Too much tension, the frantic scramble for a buck that drives me nuts. Don't get me wrong, I think the USA is a great country—only not for me.”

  “Know what you mean.”

  “You do?”

  I nodded. “Been restless myself ever since the war. Figure there ought to be more to living than eating and sleeping in order to work so you can keep on eating and sleeping. Thought when I got a few cents ahead, I'd do what I wanted.”

  “But you never got ahead.”

  “I've been loaded once or twice. But still didn't know what I wanted to do. And always in the back of my noggin the idea of running to Europe, but not sure what I'll find here either.”

  She laughed, a bitter laugh that excited me. She said, “Welcome to the club—the Society of Miserable Americans! You won't find what you're searching for; in Europe we're always outsiders, and have to keep franc-pinching or lira-pinching—the lowest form of scrimping. And we're not liked, to use an understatement. Everybody looks at us as if we had an atomic bomb up our sleeve.”

  We crossed the Seine. The river looked dark and cold. “Then why do you hang around?” I asked.

  “Why do losers keep betting on horses? I travel from country to country, hoping to get unlost, hit the jackpot of contentment. I'm a very insecure character. Sometimes me gets me hysterical. Look, don't get me started on myse
lf. I'm my favorite subject; I've baffled enough psychiatrists as it is.”

  She gave me an uneasy feeling, like she was talking to herself. “Okay, then shut up.” I could almost feel her stiffen; then after a long pause she said, “You may not be as dull as I thought. Although the direct type can be boring, too.”

  I not only wasn't in the mood for chatter, I didn't even know what she was beefing about. We didn't say a word till the cabbie stopped and we got out and I paid him 175 francs and Marion said, “That includes the tip.”

  I asked him if that included service, in French, and he said a little sadly that it did and I gave him an extra 20 francs. Marion said, “You're as full of surprises as a grab bag. You speak good French.”

  “Learned it in the army. OSS.”

  “Oh God, not another cloak and dagger clown?”

  “Yeah, but in Italy. Now what?” We were standing on the corner of Rue de Vaugirard, which looked like a lot of streets in Brooklyn. It was a little chilly. We walked down a dark side street and Marion kept peering at the house numbers. I asked, “What do they do, hide the night clubs here?”

  “Looking for the Rose Rouge; saw some wonderful African dancers when I was there last summer. We'll try the next block.”

  We walked down a couple more dark, narrow streets and in a dim street corner light we saw a very tall, thin Negro walking a poodle. Marion said, “He must be an African, skinny enough. Let's ask him.”

  We hurried after him and she called out in French, “Monsieur, can you tell us where the cafe Rose Rouge is, where the Africans dance?”

  He said in English, “You're several blocks from it. Shut tonight, anyway.” He was wearing a worn army jacket, a heavy scarf, old pants, and a beret. I kept staring at his lean brown face as Marion thanked him and then I cut in with, “Aren't you Bud Stewart?”

  He nodded, said, “Thought I recognized you. Fought you once. You got an Italian name—uh—”

  “Francine. Ken Francine. Still throwing leather?”

  “Put it this way; I'm still looking for fights. You?”

  I laughed. “Hell no, you proved to me I belonged outside the ring. Think of meeting you here! What you doing in Paris?”

  “Live here.”

  Marion bent down to pat the black poodle. The dog backed away, and Bud said in real good French, “Ernest, stop that.” Then he told Marion in English, “Pay him no mind; he always acts like that with tourists. Think my wife trains him to.”

  Marion said, “Ernest—what a delightful name for a dog.”

  Bud grinned and moved his face so the light hit it more. He wasn't marked, after all these years of boxing. “We got him from some Left Bank character who insisted we call him Ernest. Since it was a cuff job, I can't complain.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence, then the poodle began to whine softly and Bud said, “Well, got to hit the sack. So long, Ken.”

  “Yeah. You know we thought you were an African and—”

  “I know, all Negroes look alike,” he said stiffly, nodded to Marion, and walked away.

  We watched the dark street swallow him and Marion said, “Don't think your friend cares for us. Who is he?”

  “Guy I once boxed. I was a Golden Glove heavyweight champ before the war.” I held up my hand so she could see my ring with the little raised golden glove and the ruby in the center of it. “Spent five years in the army before I could turn pro. Was twenty-five when I came out; lost too much time and... That's a crock; I really wasn't good enough for the pro leather slingers. This Bud Stewart clouted me silly in my first pro fight. Imagine meeting him here...”

  “Let's start walking before you say it's a small world,” she said and the sarcastic edge to her voice made me sore at her again.

  She took me down a lot of steps to a sort of deep cellar called Caveau de la Bolee, where we sat at a plain wooden table and had hot rums while some joker with a pale, thin face and uncombed hair stood in the center of the floor and recited poetry. We were the only Americans in the joint and I could tell she liked that. Marion said, “Isn't this charming? The cave is over five hundred years old. It has been a monastery, a prison, and a general hideout. Real French atmosphere.” _

  I don't know why I was still angry at her, but to annoy her I said, “This stinks. Let's blow.”

  “I suppose you'd rather go to a gaudy tourist cafe.”

  “What's wrong with that? We're tourists.”

  Marion shrugged, and she was even better stacked than I thought. I paid the check—150 francs, or about 40 cents—and we left, followed by the stares of the French and I guess a few snickers. Outside, we finally got a cab and Marion told him to take us to the Madam Eve in Montmartre. This turned out to be a lot of bright neon signs and when we got inside, a small place, but very plush.. The tablecloths should have been made of uranium, from the prices they charged. There was a three-buck admission tab, and when I glanced at the wine list, the cheapest champagne was 4000 francs, or a dozen bucks. We had a bottle and I was steaming because I'd talked myself into this clip joint. We watched the show without talking; it consisted of a chorus that couldn't dance and several shrill singers, and the big deal was all the gals were nude from the waist up—a nipple show.

  After two drinks we'd finished the bottle and to save dough I ordered two shots of whisky, which was another mistake—they cost four bucks each and tasted like radiator fluid. Marion asked in an over-sweet voice, “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Time of my life,” I growled, wondering if I had enough to cover the bill. I made my whisky stretch and when the alleged show was over, we danced once. She was a good dancer and I wanted to hold her tight but her eyes kept mocking me, saying, “You asked for this, you big dummy,” so I played it cool and after the dance we left.

  The bill, with a 20% service clip, came to 11,300 francs, or about $35, and when I asked if I could pay in American dollars, the waiter broke his back bowing while Marion groaned, said, “Wish I had francs—you'll get stuck at the legal rate, three-fifty to the dollar. But you insisted on being a tourist.”

  She was right about this being a tourist trap—the only French in the place were the chorus gals and the waiters. It was nearly midnight when we hit the street. When I looked around for a cab, and she said, “We can walk to my hotel.”

  We walked in silence. I held her arm and was aware of the long stride of her legs, the firm movement of her body. She lived in a small hotel on Rue de Clichy and at the door she said, “Be sure to call tomorrow—whenever Magano can spare me an hour. And thanks for the evening.”

  “Not much of an evening. Big deal—bare knockers.”

  She laughed. “Haven't heard that word in years. Knockers. That's about all they had. And I have better ones.” She had her coat open and sort of puffed her blouse out for me to stare at—and I did.

  “In the interests of science, think I might find out for sure?”

  She slipped me a cold smile, as though she'd been waiting for me to make the play. “Wouldn't that be too much like my paying for my drinks?”

  I nodded. “Guess it would. Good night; I'll get in touch soon as I hear from Magano.”

  “Do that.”

  We shook hands and I walked up a wide street full of seafood restaurants, and got a cab. It seemed only a five-minute ride to my hotel, but being after midnight, it cost me double and by the time I got to my room and counted my green, I had exactly eight bucks to my name. But it didn't matter, in the morning when I saw Magano, I was to get a bankroll.

  It took me a long time to fall asleep. I had the feeling that if I'd put a little more work into it, I could have been sleeping with Marion. But hanging around the fringe of that idea was another one: I'd played it smarter this way; something about her screamed trouble.

  I got to thinking about Bud, sorry I hadn't gotten his address—he could give me tips on the fight setup here. I kept tossing around and finally at three in the morning I took a hot bath and went back to bed and slept like a drunk.

  The phone woke me. It was after eleven. A harsh voice asked, “Francine?”

  “That's me.”

  “You know who this is, don't you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I'm in a cab on the corner. Make it snappy.”

  “Take me a few minutes to get dressed,” I said and hung up. I took a cold sponge, skipped a shave, and scrambled into my clothes. There was only one cab waiting at the corner and I opened the door and he said, “Get in.”