Strip For Violence Page 5

  2

  It was a little after 6 a.m. and I had three cups of coffee and felt better. But the more I thought, the less things added up. The rock didn't make any more sense than when Will gave me the case. The fact that it was missing didn't mean a thing—wouldn't be hard to lose a sliver like that. But if it wasn't the rock...? I ran into an absolute blank wall. Yet Anita must have known she was in danger or she wouldn't have taken the gun. Every time I thought of the gun, a wave of bitter shame and rage shook me.

  I had another coffee and the counterman said cheerfully, “No feeling worse than when you're really hung over.” He favored me with a yellow-toothed grin. “Bet you tied a good one on. Nice lip you got there, too.”

  I finished the coffee. A bar across the street was opening and I went in, downed two quick ryes. As I came out, my buddy, the counterman, was standing in the doorway of his shop, sadly shaking his head at me.

  When I got to the office, the door was open and the place looked like a hurricane had struck it. There's only a plain lock on the door so they didn't have any trouble with that. The safe was scratched and marked but they hadn't opened it. But every drawer had been turned inside out and the floor was ankle deep in papers and files. About twenty bucks of new stationery was shot to hell. I got Bobo on the phone and out of bed, told him to come right down. Then I called Artie Jenks who was going fine till he got a concussion banging his head on an unpadded canvas, told him to take over Bobo's construction job.

  I found my rubber pad among the paper, sat down and hit the sides of my hands against it and tried to think. Ransacking my office meant Anita hadn't been killed by any jerk she'd picked up, but what were they looking for? It couldn't be the rock, they already had that. Or did they? I thought till my head ached but nothing came. I still felt the rock was behind everything, but I was damned if I knew why. I went over every job we'd had in the last month, everybody I'd met or spoken to, and it all ended in a dead end.

  Bobo came breezing in a half hour later, asking, “Why the early morning rush call? Got a big job that...?”

  I told him about Anita and he fell into a chair, his rough face going pale as he mumbled, “That poor kid... murdered? But... why?”

  “'Why' will be the jackpot at the end of our rainbow. When we know 'why'—we know all the answers. She called yesterday at six and told me she had a supper date at some joint on 60th Street and First Avenue. In her language a joint meant a ginmill, so we can assume she lucked up on something during the afternoon and...”

  Bobo stared at me. “Lucked up? Some luck!”

  “... and made that date for supper. She had to take the rod before I returned to the office yesterday at about five, so that meant she expected things to happen at supper. But she came aboard my boat shortly after midnight and I took the gun from her so...”

  “Hal, for Christsakes! You... you let her go to... wherever she was going... without a rod? Why that's the same as...”

  “Shut up, Bobo! How did I know she was in danger or that... Oh hell, Anita was always playing cops and robbers. The thing is, she didn't seem frightened on the boat. She was gay, excited, maybe she expected something big to break. The last thing on her mind was death. No, she either met the killer at the ginmill and made another date with him—or her—or she was fingered there for the after-midnight date where she... got it.”

  Bobo cupped his square jaw in his wide hands, said softly, in Spanish, “May God have mercy on her soul.” Then he added in a louder voice, “She was a funny kid—played detective once too often. And who parked it on your lip? What's the matter, Hal, why you staring at me?”

  “You just said most of the answer—she played detective once too often. If we could find out who she was playing with, or rather who wasn't playing with her, we'd get places.”

  “The big IF. Who busted your lip?”

  “A cop with big ideas. Come on, let's clean up this office.”

  3

  At nine-thirty I called the New York State Employment Service, told them I needed a secretary. Then I got Thelma Johnson on the phone. She said, “Will's working. Did you find anything...?”

  “Where's he work?”

  “W-what did you find out?” Her voice was so eager she nearly stuttered.

  “Nothing, yet. What post office does Will work out of?”

  “164th Street near Amsterdam. Tell me, did...?”

  “Later,” I said, hanging up. I dialed the post office, but all some snotty-voiced character would tell me was, “Mr. Johnson will be off duty at two... You can see him then.”

  It was a messy job picking up the papers, sorting them. About an hour later the door opened and a slight, brown-skinned young woman stood there. She wore a print dress and owlish-looking glasses, and on second look she was rather pretty. “What do you want?” I barked.

  She held out a card.

  “I'm not buying any...”

  Bobo asked if she spoke Spanish and she said, “You asked for a stenographer.” She had a clear, fierce voice that was like a chip on her shoulder.

  “Yeah. What...? Oh,” I took the card. Her name was Shirley Lee. “I'm Hal Darling, this is Bobo Martinez. I run a detective agency. We've had a little rough stuff, but that doesn't usually happen. Can you type, take dictation, Shirley?”

  “Miss Lee, to you. The office wouldn't have sent me if I couldn't do office work,” she said coldly.

  For a moment I didn't get it, then I knew—my barking at her, the brush-off she must have received as “colored” on other jobs. “The job pays $40 a week, five days, nine to five. We have a simple routine—not hard work—but for the next day you'll be busy getting these files back in order. Want the job?”

  “Yes, Mr. Darling.”

  “Take off your hat and start working. By the way, everybody calls each other by first names around here. Right, Bobo?

  “Sure. Here, I'll show you how we file these cards, Miss... Shirley,” Bobo said.

  Telling Bobo to hang around and wait for me, I drove up to 164th Street and Amsterdam Avenue, which wasn't far from Louise's place. The first postman I saw told me Will's route was “Some place on 170th Street.”

  I had to drive around the neighborhood a few times till I saw Will go into an apartment house. He seemed to have a little guy tailing him. I went in. Will had his bag on the floor, was busy putting letters into the nest boxes. When he saw me he said, “Hey, get out of here. Have an inspector timing the route. Can't talk to you, see? Find anything?”

  “I want to ask you a few...”

  “Later. You want me to lose my job?”

  “Well... Okay, where?”

  “I'll be in your office about three. You find where the rock came from?”

  “Just be damn sure you're at my office by three. All I've found is one of us sure has rocks—in the head!”

  I got into my car, headed downtown. In a million years I couldn't see a slob like Will mixed up in a murder. For that matter, I still couldn't believe Anita was dead. And I felt like a dope, the lack of clues, of motives, lack of something to start on. Hell, maybe I was playing this all wrong, should give everything to Saltz. I was only a small-time operator, this might be over my head. That would be my out....

  But there wasn't going to be any out—I, and I alone, had to find the killer because Anita was working for me, because I'd robbed her of a chance to save her life when I took the gun away.

  I looked like hell, so I drove to the yacht basin, took a shower and a shave, changed my clothes and felt better— but still half asleep. I put on an old pair of shoes—the kind with a metal shield over the toes—used to prevent industrial accidents, and as good as brass knuckles for kicking.

  It was a little before noon when I returned to the office. Shirley and Bobo had done a good job, things almost looked normal again. Bobo had the afternoon papers for me—they had a picture and a one-column story on Anita. Shirley said, “You've had quite a few calls. All requested you phone them back.”

  She handed me a lis
t of every dance hall I was working for. Bobo said, “What's the pitch? Odd they should all call.

  “Beats me,” I said, reaching for the phone.

  I made exactly eighteen calls—they were all the same, nearly word for word. Soon as I'd say, “Hello, this is Hal Darling,” a frightened voice at the other end would say, “Darling? I'm canceling our contract—at once!” I'd ask “Why?” and the hall owner would say nervously, “Can't say why, Hal, but everything's off. Sorry.” And they would hang up. Some of them skipped the “Sorry” finish.

  When I was done I told Shirley, “Don't buy anything on the installment plan....”

  She tried to smile. “Knew this job came too easily.”

  “Well, I have enough in the till to keep us going for a few months, but I sure as hell can't understand this. Bobo, you stick around the office, I'm going to have a chat with a few of these characters.”

  I drove up to see Eddie Logan and when he saw me he got pale, wouldn't explain a thing except, “Hal, leave me alone. Somebody big is pressuring me.”

  “Who?”

  “You expect me to risk my life by telling you. Maybe I told you too much as is...”

  “Stop this movie dialogue... risking your life. Don't make sense or...”

  “Hal, I like you, all I can say is I was surprised myself at the pressure. I mean, all this trouble for a lousy thing like a policing job. Now do me a favor—get out of here!”

  I didn't bother calling on the others. I still had the dizzy feeling I was running around in circles. I had to stop, sit back and wait for a break, something that made sense would give me direction. But there was one more chore to handle.

  4

  I drove to 60th Street and First Avenue. There were two bars near the corners. The first joint didn't look like a place where you'd eat supper—and Anita had said she had a supper date. I showed the barkeep her picture in the Paper, asked, “What time was this girl here last night?”

  “Wasn't here last night, or any other night.”

  “Who's on at night?”

  “Me. This is my place, run it myself. Who are you?” I flashed my badge too fast for him to read it, said, “I know she was here last night, she was to meet me. I couldn't make it.”

  “Not here, bud. Maybe she stood you up too. I'd remember her if she'd been in.”

  “Why would you remember her?”

  “Because she looks under age and I wouldn't have served her.”

  The minute I walked into the other bar I had a feeling this was the one... it was a big place, with tables and a waiter, couple men eating lunch. The barkeep was a well-built lean fellow. When I asked if he was on last night about six, he kept on washing shot glasses, finally asked, “What you selling?”

  I flashed my badge but he grabbed my hand, said, “A private copper,” and didn't seem much impressed. “Spill it, what's on your mind, snooper?”

  “Who was on at supper time last night?”

  “Let's say I was on.”

  “Work long hours, don't you?”

  He started drying the glasses—this was a high-class bar. “I'm not kicking.”

  I put the paper on the bar, pointed to Anita's picture. He didn't blink an eye. “Ever see this girl before?”

  “No.”

  I slid a folded ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Sure?”

  He grinned. “Save your green, mac. You asked me and I told you—I never seen her, except in the paper.” He walked down to the other end of the bar, started slicing oranges and lemons.

  I stepped into the phone booth, checked on the liquor license. It was owned by a corporation that was a front for “Cat” Franklin, but the “Cat” owned plenty of bars.

  Stopping at the bar on my way out, I said, “Tell the 'Cat' hello.”

  The barkeep bent down and picked up a big sleeping tomcat from behind the bar, said, “Tell him yourself.” He laughed at me—with his eyes—as I walked out. He was a sharp joker.

  5

  I FELT SO RESTLESS, baffled, I didn't know what to do. I drove over to East 28th Street, to a studio gym run by Prof. Amatu, an old Japanese man with a face as wrinkled as a prune who was my judo teacher. After I got into my judo clothes, I did some warm-up exercises, practiced a few falls, and he took me on. He was about my height and even though I was half his age, he threw me twice in succession, jarred the tired restlessness out of me.

  Then we worked on a hold I was specializing on—use it to get my Second Degree Belt. This was a variation of the overhead throw, where you sit down, pulling your opponent with you, your legs kicking into his gut, sending him sailing over your head. Only now I suddenly let go of his shirt or coat, got a neck grip. If I held on to his neck right, the force of his own body going over would snap the neck.

  After we'd worked out in slow motion Prof. Amatu said, “Now you work with dummy-man—this much too dangerous.”

  I worked with a full-sized dummy and the old man watched, said, “Very good, very fast.”

  “And frustrating as hell. I'm curious to see if this will really work.”

  He said softly, “Never be curious about death, my student. I pray you will never have need of this hold.”

  “Sure but... seems silly to perfect something and never use it.”

  “No, a weapon is a force in itself, without ever being put into use. A gun need never be fired to be an effective force. Remember, knowledge is the greatest weapon of all.”

  I didn't feel up to hearing a lot of philosophical cracks, so I showered and went back to the office. Bobo said Shirley was out to lunch. I hardly touched my can to my desk chair when the phone rang. A man's voice obviously disguised, said, “Darling?”

  “Yeah, this is Hal Darling.”

  “You've lost your girl, your business. When you going to smarten up, play ball?” There was the click of the guy hanging up.

  Bobo said, “Sure a short call. Who was it?”

  “Wish I knew. Some punk telling me to play ball.”

  “Jeez, Hal, what's going on here? Anita killed, office looking like a wastebasket, jobs called off and... Hal, you working with the cops? I mean, don't try to play badge like Anita was...”

  “Can it, Bobo. Sure I'm working with the cops, but... I also am doing everything I can, too. As for the rest of this puzzle, your guess is probably better than mine.” I took out a scratch pad, wrote down the name of every person I'd seen or heard about yesterday, today. It sometimes stirs your brain, but now it didn't do a thing. Will Johnson's name popped up three times, “Cat” Franklin was down twice, seeing him at the club last night, being in his bar this morning... but it didn't mean anything.

  As I was playing around with names, the phone rang and I motioned for Bobo to grab the extension on Shirley's desk as I picked up my receiver. A man said, “This the Darling agency?”

  It wasn't the voice that called before. “Yeah, Hal Darling speaking.”

  “I'm Edmund Winn, Mr. Darling, manager of the Light Fantastic. Would you be interested in bidding for the police concession in our hall?”

  “What? I sure would!” The Light Fantastic was the biggest dance hall in the city, used two dozen guards every night.

  “I've heard of your good work, am favorably impressed. If you'll kindly send me your bid today, I'll give you my decision in a day or so.”

  “Be in the mails within an hour.”

  “Splendid. Good day.”

  I hung up. Bobo yelled, “What is this? They usually hire the big outfits like Pinkertons, Burns. What a break this can be for us!”

  “First my business is taken away, then I get the biggest deal of my career. Somebody is playing cat and mouse with us, and I have a strong hunch who the cat is. Franklin own the Light Fantastic?”

  “Everybody knows that.”

  “Wanted to be sure.” This was the third time the 'Cat's' name had come up in less than twenty-four hours. It was two-fourteen. “Bobo, ask around, find out where Franklin's office is. Going to pay him a visit.”

&nb
sp; “That smart move, Hal?”

  “I got to stop this running in circles. Get going, I have to wait here till three—the postman is coming.”

  “What postman?” Bobo asked, getting his cap.

  “Some... eh... crummy case we got in yesterday. Be back by three-thirty.” I was really playing this too close to the cuff, not telling Salts; or even Bobo about the rock.

  6

  When Shirley returned, I sent off the bid to the Light Fantastic, then showed her the forms for checking our nightly patrol service—so far no storekeeper had canceled that—and the rest of the office routine. She was good, caught on fast.

  Bobo returned at three, said the “Cat” had offices under the name of the City Amusement Agency over on Fifth Avenue and 43rd Street. I waited till three-thirty, called Will's house. Thelma said, “Oh my, Mr. Darling, he must have been so excited he forgot to call you. Will's rehearsing!”

  “He's what?”

  “It's all so wonderful—he was picked this afternoon for a TV program! Out of all the people in New York, they picked my Will. You know, the postman, the forgotten man, and all that And he gets a hundred dollars and...”

  “He be home for supper?”

  “Oh no, he'll be their guest for supper and...”

  “Damn it, this is serious. I must see him. Soon as you hear from him, tell him to call my office at once.”

  “You mean you've found something about the stone?”

  “Not a damn thing!” I said, dropping the receiver in its cradle.

  Bobo said, “How not to win friends and influence clients!”

  “Got to stop blowing my top. Come on, let's see the big shot.”

  “Maybe I'd better stay here.... I mean, never know what will come up, who'll pay us a visit?”

  “Shirley will be okay. Whatever they were looking for, they know it isn't here. And we'll return soon.” But Shirley worried me, we weren't playing with kids in this deal. I told her, “On second thought, best you lock up now, call it a day.”