Willow seated himself in the straight-backed chair and said, “That all frantic and pissed-off part comes real easy, only I don’t got no old slouch hat and I ain’t Abe.”
The fat man peered myopically at Willow. He said, “Well, so you ain’t, so you ain’t. I thought you was Abe Browfuss.”
Willow said, “I got a cousin named Bill Rafferty in Minneapolis, if that’ll help.”
“Not appreciably. What can I do for you, partner?”
“You’re Brumshaw?”
“From a long and noble line of the same. What’s on your mind?”
“A woman.”
Brumshaw nodded. “Northwest side okay?”
“Sounds right.”
“Who sent you?”
Willow winked at Brumshaw. “I forget.”
Brumshaw returned the wink. “That’s good—short memory, long life. Well, let’s see. I got a cutie in Franklin Park and a real pepper pot out in Park Ridge—brunette and a redhead—used to do lingerie outta here but they got married and put on weight. Decent stuff, clean—seventy-five at home, C-note on the road, available nine to three—you buy an honest hour and you call the shots. The brunette don’t do Greek, the redhead goes any old route. You need phone numbers and a code phrase—twenty-five buys the package and you’re on your way to a pleasant afternoon in the hay.”
“Some other time, Sam—I’m looking for a girl who may have worked for you.”
Brumshaw looked disappointed. “That takes in a lot of territory, partner. I go back a piece.”
“You’d just have to remember this one.”
“Stand ’em on their heads and I can’t tell ’em apart. What’s her handle?”
“Gladys Hornsby.”
Brumshaw whipped out a big blue bandanna handkerchief and mopped sweat from his glistening forehead. He grinned, flashing a gold front tooth. It’d been a long time since Willow had seen a gold front tooth—several years earlier he’d known a black Dixieland trombonist who’d had two—Stovepipe Wilcockson at Webster’s Whirlwind on North Austin Boulevard. Brumshaw was saying, “Okay, let’s find out if we’re on the same railroad—she’s five-seven maybe eight, honey blonde, gray-blue eyes, built like glory glory hallelujah, little rose tattoo on the back of her right hand—how’s that?”
“The tattoo’s a late bulletin.”
Brumshaw leaned back in his swivel chair and it squealed in protest. He spoke from a corner of his mouth. “Ahh-h-h, yes-s-s, Glad-ees Horns-bee—remember her well-l-l, very well-l-l.”
His impersonation of W. C. Fields could have used some work, Willow thought. “Where’s she living, or working, or whatever?”
Brumshaw threw up a pudgy, pink-palmed hand, traffic-cop fashion. “Whoa! Not so fast, partner! What’s the beef?”
“No beef. She’s pulled a vanishing act and her aunt’s all flustered.”
Little wary lights were flickering in Brumshaw’s flat hazel eyes. “You one of Chicago’s finest?”
“No, just a busted-down private shamus investigating a family matter.”
“Uh-huh.” Brumshaw squinted suddenly, placed an elbow on his desk, hunched forward, and pinched the bridge of his prominent nose between thumb and forefinger. He said, “Oh, damn!”
Willow said, “What’s your problem—migraine?”
Brumshaw shook his head. “Huh-uh, worse than that, partner—I seem to have been hit by a sudden lapse of memory.”
Willow nodded sympathetically. “A twenty-dollar lapse, would you say?”
Brumshaw thought about it. “No, this one feels closer to fifty.”
Willow dug and chucked a pair of twenties and a ten onto the desktop. Brumshaw scooped up the money with the speed of a shell-game operator. He folded it, tucked it carefully into a pocket of his Hawaiian shirt, buttoned the flap, and leaned back, blinking. He said, “Yes, it seems to be clearing now. Gladys Hornsby, right?”
“Right.”
“Fifty thirty-one North Austin Boulevard, right?”
“Used to be.”
“Gladys quit me back in March or April. Haven’t seen her since.”
“Why?”
“She doesn’t come around.”
“I mean why did she quit you?”
Brumshaw shrugged a heavy-shouldered shrug. “Her contract was running out and she was looking to the future, she said. At that time she was doing a series of swimsuit shots for Malibu Fashions up at Seely Studios, and I heard that Wow-Wee Magazine had booked her to do a dozen calendar poses. Guess she figured she could hack it on her own.”
Willow whistled. “That Wow-Wee Magazine Calendar—I’ve seen a few of those.”
Brumshaw nodded. “Yeah, Wow-Wee’s a filthy rag but it pays good. She’ll get ten grand plus royalties for that job.”
“She’ll earn it. It’ll be flat-out porn.”
“Flashing her quiff wouldn’t spook Gladys—she did an X flick couple years back.”
“Named what?”
“I forget—run-of-the-mill thing and I didn’t see it—you see one you see ’em all.”
“How well did you know her?”
“As well as any of ’em.”
“Which translates to what?”
Brumshaw ducked that one. He said, “Gladys was a nice kid—worked hard, prompt, affable, extremely cooperative—no complaints on her.”
“Extremely cooperative? How extremely cooperative?”
“As extremely cooperative as it took—never heard anything to the contrary, and I’d have heard—word gets around in this business.”
“You’re saying that she peddled her ass.”
“None of ’em peddle it, partner, not over the counter, but there ain’t one of ’em who won’t pile into the feathers for a few good assignments—even a single providing it’s a plum.”
“What’s a plum?”
“The cover of Contessa, that’s a plum! Two covers of Contessa is an orchard!”
“All right, one way or the other, Gladys Hornsby sells her snatch.”
“There’s a difference between ‘sale’ and ‘gratuity.’”
“Mostly in the spelling.”
“This is important?”
“Not very.”
Brumshaw lit a cigarette without offering one to Willow, tossing the match into a big blue glass ashtray and moving the ashtray to his right so that it obscured the printing on a thick green folder. He said, “Look, partner, this ain’t no ballpark for Virtuous Violets—if they don’t do it, they don’t work, it’s just that simple.” His tone was of the type usually reserved for the very young. “The modeling field ain’t one damn bit different than the publishing industry or the steel industry or the aircraft industry or you name it. The tomato who knows when to skin out of her skivvies does very well indeed.”
“And Gladys Hornsby does very well indeed.”
“You’re belaboring the point. She’s always had a job—you take it from there.”
“You’ve got fifty bucks of my money, you take it from there.” Willow didn’t like Sam Brumshaw, not a nickel’s worth.
Brumshaw said, “I’ve ditched my file on her—all I can give you is scuttlebutt.”
“Crazy about scuttlebutt—shoot.”
Brumshaw took a deep breath. “All right, when she left here she was cocking around with an Italian kid named Joe Orlando—just a punk, twenty-five maybe, but a top-shelf makeup man—natural talent, gonna be the best in the game. Works at UBS up on Ashland Avenue.”
“She’s still skating with this Orlando?”
“Doubtful. I heard she jettisoned him when she made it big with Mr. Right, but Orlando’s still snorting around and he’s pissed. He’s a jealous bastard and a hothead—he’s already kicked the shit out of half-a-dozen guys who got within twenty feet of Gladys. There could be some trouble there.”
“Forget Joe Orlando. Who’s Mr. Right?”
“None other than Casey Bucknell.”
“The name fails to send chills up my spine.”
“Case
y Bucknell is a quiet, lecherous, fifty-five-year-old multimillionaire who has enough sense to maintain a low profile. At last report Gladys Hornsby had him by the balls on a downhill pull.”
“How did Bucknell make his millions?”
“Same way he’ll make more—Seely Studios.”
Willow gave Brumshaw a cold, level stare. He said, “Seely Studios in a seedy, one-horse photography joint up on Milwaukee Avenue. What’s Bucknell doing, selling cocaine?”
Brumshaw’s smile was tolerant. “Partner, where the hell have you been? Seely Studios was a second-rate operation when Bucknell bought from old Maggie Seely a few years ago. Now it’s the anchor of a nationwide chain that’ll be moving into Europe sometime this month. Seely still shoots catalog stuff, but Bucknell has geared it to television commercials for local goods and services—Pancho’s Spanish Fried Chicken in Miami, Mama Mia’s Pizza in St. Louis, Duke’s Deluxe Donuts in Denver, Hong Lee’s Karate School here in Chicago—get the angle?”
“Sure, he’s tailoring promos to comparatively small markets.”
“And getting richer by the minute! Seely takes a hurry-up order from Sam’s Saddle Shop, and within five days a polished product is airing on hometown TV. It’s a high-volume thing, there’s a Seely installation in or near every fair-sized market in the country! Bucknell had a vision and, partner, it paid off.”
“And Gladys Hornsby’s going to marry him.”
Brumshaw snorted. “No, she ain’t. Bucknell’s married—latched onto a North Shore heiress way back when—used her money for his launching pad. It’s not a bad marriage as marriages go—Casey Bucknell does his thing and Kathy Bucknell does hers.”
“Bucknell makes money and chases pussy.”
“Basic male instincts. What else is there?”
“Kathy Bucknell—what about her?”
“A lost sheep—she drinks and screws—she’s particular about what she drinks.”
“Where does she do her drinking?”
“Why?”
“You said she screws.”
“Try the Saxon Hotel’s Raven Room—it’d go bust without her.” Brumshaw looked Willow over. “You’d be a shoo-in.”
“So Gladys is stuck with leftovers.”
“Yeah, if a Lincoln Park West top-floor condo and a red Mercedes convertible and a jade necklace are leftovers.”
Willow thought for a moment. “Lincoln Park West—Lincoln and Armitage area—little theaters, coffeeshops, outdoor cafés, French restaurants, bohemian atmosphere.”
“And pseudo-bohemians—Sartre fans who don’t understand Sartre.”
“I heard Boston put him on waivers. What’s her new address?”
“No idea, but they say she got one helluva view of Lake Michigan.”
“She isn’t posing these days?”
“Not since she hooked Casey Bucknell. She’s picking up a fat paycheck for managing the local Seely Studios—something like ten times what the job’s worth. She’s an overpaid, highly privileged figurehead.”
“She’s at Seely on a steady basis?”
“Steady enough to make it look kosher. That way, Kathy Bucknell can get stoned in peace.”
“Kathy Bucknell doesn’t know?”
“Kathy Bucknell doesn’t give a damn.”
“How long has Bucknell had Gladys stashed in this condo?”
Brumshaw winced and clapped both hands to his head.
Willow nodded matter-of-factly. “I’ll just bet you’ve had another seizure.”
“Yep, and this one’s a humdinger!”
Willow got up. “Try a strong laxative.”
When Willow opened the door Brumshaw said, “Hey, partner, that’s all scuttlebutt, remember—just scuttlebutt!”
Five minutes later, crossing State Street on the long hike back to his car, Willow smiled. Sam Brumshaw was right out of a Damon Runyon yam, a born hustler—models’ agent, purveyor of women and information and only God knew what else—hot cars, perhaps, fake passports, or shares in a Himalayan diamond mine. The smile faded when he got around to considering the green folder on Brumshaw’s desk. Its printing had been turned away from him, but he’d managed to make it out before Brumshaw had planted his ashtray on it: Hornsby. And Brumshaw had told him that he’d junked Gladys Hornsby’s file. He was a little man in a big hurry, careening out of control, and he’d get in over his head one of these days. He hadn’t so much as asked Willow’s name—he was clever but careless, the kind that can get killed in Chicago, and usually does.
Willow drove west, then north to the southern tip of Milwaukee Avenue. Seely Studios was on Milwaukee Avenue, a few blocks north of Logan Square. Willow knew the territory—he’d been to Seely Studios on several occasions, years ago. There’d been the rookie model who’d had the hots to become an actress, and it had been one hell of an affair, a real smoker. Willow had an excellent memory.
6
Friday
The Seely Studios building stood on the east side of Milwaukee Avenue, a rectangular single-story brownstone, sandwiched tightly between a hot-dog stand and a dilapidated gray frame tavern called Mickey’s Mirror Lounge. The hot-dog stand was new to Willow, but Mickey’s Mirror Lounge had been there in the old days. He found a parking slot directly in front of Seely, squeaking in behind a black Cadillac seven-passenger limousine and watching a burly, silver-haired, florid-faced man get into the back seat of the Caddy to nod curtly to the visored-capped man at the wheel. The long black car purred lushly into the northbound stream of traffic, then swung left on Pulaski Road. Willow piled out of his rusty Buick with that same old inferiority complex—he’d never owned a Cadillac, he’d never driven one, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d ridden in one—well, yes, during his mother’s funeral, but that didn’t count. Willow tried not to dwell on his mother’s funeral.
The waiting room of Seely Studios had been completely done over since Willow’s last visit. It was painted charcoal, carpeted in thick burgundy, and furnished with burgundy-cushioned, spindly-legged, ivory-colored chairs of the type that inspired very little confidence in men of Willow’s proportions. A woman’s influence was obvious, Gladys Hornsby’s, probably. Somewhere music played dimly—lush strings and a number from better days, “Flying Down to Rio.” He’d seen a few minutes of that old motion picture and he’d never forget it—a line of long-legged, scantily clad chorus cuties dancing on the wing of an airliner at something like ten thousand feet. Willow had very little use for heights—he was shaky on tall ladders—and the mere thought of riding an airplane wing was enough to send the pit of his stomach crashing into his scrotum.
The receptionist’s desk was deserted, Willow was alone in the waiting room, and the building was silent. He lowered himself gingerly onto one of the fragile ivory chairs, lit a cigarette, and picked up a three-weeks-old copy of Newsweek. He’d paged halfway through it, looking for the sports section, waiting for someone to take notice of his presence, when his ears perked. From down the long burgundy-carpeted hallway branching east there’d come a sound of distress, something that could have been interpreted as a muffled scream—a female voice, he was positive. Willow stood to peer around the corner, observing that the hall was empty and its doors closed. Inquisitive, he dropped the magazine, killed his cigarette, and left the waiting room to start down the hallway, slowly, cautiously, on his toes, listening for another sound. He got one. From behind a door on his immediate right came the second scream, louder, hoarser, more riveting than its predecessor. Willow tried the door and found it locked. He’d learned one thing in Korea—when in doubt, do something. Willow did something. He stepped back to pin himself against the wall. He lowered his right shoulder and charged, blowing the door from its hinges with a sound like a cannon shot, and found himself standing on the rim of a cone of scalding white light in the center of which stood a startled, hulking, bushy-faced, black-jacketed ruffian holding an elderly woman by the throat. The poor old lady’s eyes were wide with shock and Willow didn’t hesitate. He h
it the bushy-faced man just above his right eye, very hard indeed. The assailant went down like a sack of wet macaroni, and the elderly woman tottered away to fall flat on her back, her heels high over her frosty head, her rose-colored panties on vivid display. From a shadowy corner of the room a male voice roared, “Whaddafuck?” and a fat man rushed at Willow, grappling with him and hollering, “Hey, Charlie, for Christ’s sake, Charlie, where are you?” Willow snarled, “Charlie, Schmarlie!” He bumped the new arrival to arm’s length and hit him just above his left eye, also very hard indeed. The fat man staggered in numerous directions before collapsing facedown on top of the prostrate old lady, who said, “Whoo-o-o-o-sh!” and lay very still. Willow, fully aroused now, went into a gorilla-style crouch, glancing about, awaiting another challenge. Suddenly the room was flooded with light. A husky, blue-uniformed man had clogged the doorway, brandishing a pistol half the size of an anti-tank gun. He leveled the awesome weapon at Willow’s navel and said, “All right, Godzilla, the party’s over! Up against the fucking wall!”
Willow wasn’t a firearms identification expert, but he knew a .357 Magnum when he saw one, and he complied with considerable alacrity. The uniformed man stepped behind him, frisked him, and said, “Don’t you twitch one fucking muscle, buster! You’re on your way back to the funny farm!”
Willow said, “Come on, asshole, there’s been an attempted mugging here—call the cops!”
The uniformed man said, “Oh, you better believe I’ll call the cops!”
A woman’s voice drifted over Willow’s shoulder. “Good Lord, can’t a girl go to the john without the roof flying off? Somebody drag that obese bastard off of Mabel before we all go up the river for pornography! What the hell’s going on here?”
Death Wore Gloves Page 3
