by John Roeburt
“’Night,” I mumbled, closing my eyes.
“’Night, hon. I love you.”
At least, that’s what I think she said. I was too far gone to be sure.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I left my pad around one the next afternoon feeling relaxed. The pills had done wonders. I was a new man.
I stopped at the restaurant down the block, and read the news over three cups of coffee. Javitts had given out a brief statement that appeared on page four between a two-column rape in Brooklyn and a teenage gang war killing in Harlem. It seemed that life was normal that morning.
The spread about Ricky, as I said, was brief and incomplete. It simply stated that a young drug addict had been slain in his sister’s apartment, by a person or persons unknown. There were no pictures, and no mention made of the brutal mutilation. Javitts was playing it close to his chest. I could imagine the frustration that his silence was causing the sensation-seeking boys of the press.
From the restaurant, I went back up the block to get the Jag and headed downtown. I decided to postpone calling in until I’d made what I hoped would be a fruitful visit to an informant I knew in the Village. A very helpful informant sometimes.
Greenwich Village by daylight is quite different from Greenwich Village at night. I passed the Id and glanced at the deserted bar and empty sidewalk out front that had been packed with lounging Bohemians the night before. A stray cat or two were the only evidence of life on the street now. Except for the redhead in the Id. I got a glimpse of her sitting behind the bar. She certainly had weird working hours, if you could call that trance-like automation of hers work. Maybe she was a zombie.
I grinned at the thought and turned at the next block. Two red lights later I turned again and stopped at an unbelievably ancient hotel that, through somebody’s carelessness, had escaped a condemning report. It was three stories, with the top floor bending a little to the left. I was glad my informant had a downstairs room.
The lobby, a cramped, dusty square about the size of a small ice box, was dark. I caught a mixed odor of grease, urine and disinfectant as I walked through it. The little desk clerk’s cage was empty, but I knew where I was going anyway.
I walked down the narrow corridor to the left of the desk and knocked on door “number three”.
An angry set of springs squeaked from inside as somebody moved in bed. I heard a loud, racking cough. It choked to a stop after a minute, and I heard shuffling footsteps.
“Yeah?” a husky, suspicious voice asked. “What d’ya want?”
“It’s Cole Winters, Monk. I want to talk.”
He coughed again and unlocked the door. Monk smiled at me with his one eye blinking. “Hi ya, Mister Winters. Come on in.”
I went past him. He locked the door again. “Don’t pay no attention to the mess,” he sniffed. “I been sort of sick lately and the joint needs cleanin’.”
He shuffled to the bed, the room’s only piece of furniture besides a battered dresser in the corner, and sat down on the dirty sheets.
Monk was about fifty and looked seventy. His small, skinny frame was permanently bent into a crouch from the effects of a cocaine-poisoned system. It made him look like one of those hunch-backed gargoyles in a horror movie. His left eye had been gouged out by somebody’s finger in a long-forgotten street brawl, and the effect was a little fearsome. His nose flared at the bottom in wide, ugly nostrils that were blue veined and raw from his daily cocaine snorting. Monk had been a cocaine user for the last twenty years and could be counted on to pay three to six month visits to the Tombs or Harts Island at least once a year.
His eye stared at me and he grinned.
“Long time no see, Mister Winters. Got somethin’ you want me to do?”
“Yeah. It’s worth half a C-note to me to get some information, Monk.”
His eye watered and he blinked. “Shoot,” he said, rubbing the eye with a knuckle.
“You know a kid named Ricky Parks? Young junkie. Hangs out around the Cloistered Id?”
“You bet. Skinny, red-headed kid. Strung out on horse.”
“That’s him. Did you know he was killed last night?”
He shook his head absently as if I’d asked him if he knew what time it was. Death was much too ordinary to men like Monk for it to hold more than an indifferent interest.
“I ain’t been out of the room in a couple of days,” he said. “Don’t hear much in here.”
I went to the dresser and put a bill on it. “Here’s twenty to get you off your butt, Monk. You get the rest on delivery. Find out who the kid was buying from and if he was in hock to anybody. Also, he had a girl. Her name’s China McCoy. She’s a junkie, too. Get me the dope on her.”
He climbed off the bed and shuffled to the dresser. He put the twenty in his pocket and nodded.
“Right, Mister Winters. I didn’t know the kid too good, but I’ll find out what you want. I’ll get a line on the girl, too. Don’t you worry none. You just leave it to old Monk.”
I would, too. However shabby Monk appeared, he was an investigator’s dream for digging up information in restricted circles. What would take me a week to learn through patient loitering, he could find in a few hours.
“How long will it take?” I asked him.
He sniffed and scratched his head.
“Call me in the morning. I’ll have it.”
“Here?”
“Yeah. There’s a phone in the hall. Get the number on the way out.”
I nodded and unlocked the door. Before I shut it I turned and looked at him. He was back on the bed, nodding to himself.
“Monk,” I said.
His misshapen face came up to blink at me. “Yeah, Mister Winters?”
“Don’t blow the twenty on sugar and forget why I gave it to you. I wouldn’t like that.”
His mouth twisted and he tried to smile. “Don’t you worry, Mister Winters. You know old Monk.”
I closed the door and shook my head. My skin was crawling. I copied down the number from the hall phone and hit the street under the clean sun.
I stopped at a drugstore on Broadway and had coffee. I nursed it until it got cold and still hadn’t become inspired. I got change from the cashier for a phone call I’d been putting off since yesterday.
Miss Trossett’s voice hadn’t changed in the two days since I’d heard it. She plugged me into Neal’s office and his clipped voice sounded in my ear.
“Hello, Mister Winters,” he said.
“Hello, Mister Neal. I’m checking in.”
“Yes?”
“There have been—complications.”
“Indeed. You mean, of course, the death of Miss Parks’ brother.”
I wasn’t the only one who read the papers. “Uh—yes,” I managed, feeling snubbed.
“I heard of it this morning,” he continued. “I’m glad you called, Mister Winters. In fact, I had planned calling you in the event you didn’t.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You’re to drop the case. Naturally, you may keep the retainer. But, as of now, you’re no longer retained.”
“It’s none of my business,” I said, “but to satisfy a nosy habit of mine, would you mind telling me why?”
He paused and I heard his loud breathing.
“Has Bradley given up the girl?”
He sighed heavily, but when he went on his voice was stronger, “No, he hasn’t. Bradley and I had a discussion about it yesterday. He intends to marry Miss Parks in the near future.”
I swallowed silently and waited.
“I’ve decided to terminate your assignment, Mister Winters, because it’s no longer of any importance. Bradley seems to value the company of dope-addicts and tramps above my desires, so I see no reason to discuss it further. I no longer consider him any concern of mine.”
“There’re one or two questions I’d like to ask your son,” I said. “Questions aside from our agreement. Do you know where he is?”
“I’m sorry, Mister Winters.
I no longer have a son.”
I frowned at the mouthpiece as he hung up.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I walked into the Id, feeling almost like one of the family by now, and recognized a dozen or more faces in the animated crowd around the bar. It was early, but the place was loaded.
I broke through the redhead’s trance, got a Scotch, and took it with me to a booth where Bradley and Louise waited. He had called the answering service that afternoon while I was at Monk’s, and had left word for an imperative meeting at the Id. Now, as I approached the booth, I wondered if this would have any bearing on his father’s revelation to me over the phone.
They sat together, hands entwined on the table, watching my approach. Louise was very pale. The horrible shock of last night had completely erased the normal vitality from her face and left nothing but a wan silence that aged her and rendered her lifeless. I felt an anger, suddenly, at Neal’s thoughtlessness in bringing her here.
I nodded when I reached them and slid into the booth.
“Hello, Louise,” I said considerately.
She raised her eyes and I felt a chill. Her stare was utterly cold and hard.
“Hello, Cole,” she whispered. “I’m glad you came.”
I looked at Neal.
“She insisted on coming,” he said, reading the accusation in my eyes. “I shouldn’t have told her why I called you.”
“Why did you?” I asked him.
“To hire you,” Louise answered, “to find the butcher that killed my brother.”
I looked at her sitting there calmly across the table and found it hard to watch the venom that poisoned her eyes.
“Find him,” she said, “and tell me who he is.”
“I’m hiring you, Winters,” Bradley said. “I’m not as solvent as I was when I saw you yesterday, but I’ll get your fee somehow. Just get that fiend.”
He put his arm around her but she was rigid, her eyes boring into mine.
“Look,” I said eyeing them, “I intend to find him. I want him as much as you do.”
I reached and took her hand. It was cold. “As for a fee, forget it. I promised you I’d help, Louise. I haven’t forgotten it.”
The iciness cracked and her body started to shake with an erratic shudder as she came back from the shock that had gripped her. The cold determination broke suddenly and she clung to Bradley, sobbing into his chest.
It lasted a long time.
When it was over she wiped her eyes and she looked relaxed. She took my hand again and her moist eyes pleaded with me.
“Just find him, Cole. Put him away where he can’t do it to anyone else.”
“I will,” I promised.
We sat in silence while she made repairs to her face. The sight of her deftly dabbing at her nose in the tiny mirror of her compact made me feel much easier about her state of mind. Her coldness had been deadly; it was relieving to see the softness returning to her green eyes.
“Where will you start?” she asked, putting the compact back in her purse. “Can I help at all?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Tell me about Ricky’s friends. Did he have any enemies?”
She winced involuntarily at her brother’s name, but she answered in an even voice, “I never met his friends. They were mostly addicts, I guess. And the only real enemy he had, that I know of, was the needle. He hung around in this neighborhood, so I guess just about everyone knew him.”
“What about his girl friend?”
“Oh! I’d forgotten her!”
She leaned forward, her face coming alive.
“Of course! Her name’s China McCoy. She might know something. Cole, if you find her, maybe—”
“I know. Maybe she’ll have an idea who did it. I tried to find her last night, but she wasn’t around. Do you know where she lives?”
“No. But I’ve seen her here with Rick.”
“Tell me what you know about her.”
She sighed and shook her head.
“Not much, I’m afraid. She’s been going with Ricky for about six months. She’s an addict, too. They lived together for awhile and then split up about a month ago. Ricky said it was because she decided to stop taking drugs. He told me about it one night after he’d taken a shot and was in a talkative mood. He said China tried it “cold turkey”, as he put it, but before the night was over she was begging him for a shot. He couldn’t stand to see her in agony, so he went out and got her one. Shortly after that she moved out; and although they still went together, she never moved back.”
“Did he tell you why she moved?”
“She was set on quitting and couldn’t with him.”
“When did you see her last?”
“In here with Rick a few days ago.”
“Had she quit?”
She shook her head. “I guess moving out didn’t help. Ricky was still sharing with her.”
I nodded. Outside of enforced supervision, nothing probably ever would. Almost every junkie I’d ever met had periodic intentions of kicking his habit, but they almost never did.
“What’s this China like? I asked. “Her name doesn’t help at all.”
Louise smiled slightly. “She’s very pretty. Ricky told me she’s half Irish and half Chinese. She’s very lovely.”
“Were they in love?”
“Ricky was. I’m not sure about her. I guess she loved him as much as she could—beyond drugs.”
I lit a Camel, watching the smoke spiral upward. “Well,” I said, “one thing’s certain. I’ve got to talk to her. Right now she’s the only lead we’ve got.”
I was about to pump Neal a little about the break with his father, but I stopped before I got my mouth open.
From my position, I was facing the bar. Any thought I had of questioning Bradley was forgotten as I watched Valerie Coe glide toward me in slow, graceful strides. She walked like a contented animal.
She was in blue this time. A jersey sheath that hugged each pore of her magnificent body. I watched, transfixed as she neared the table, unable to tear my eyes from the jutting breasts and bold hips that moved lazily beneath the tight material.
She reached the table and stopped. Bradley and I jumped up almost falling over ourselves.
“Louise,” she said, “I’m terribly sorry. I just heard.”
Her voice was low. A soft, musky contralto.
Louise smiled tearfully. “Thank you, Valerie,” she whispered.
I swallowed loudly and Louise glanced up.
“Oh,” she said, “you don’t know Cole, do you? Miss Coe, this is Cole Winters. Cole—Valerie Coe. Cole is a private detective. He’s helping us.”
Valerie smiled brilliantly and I felt my knees quiver.
“How do you do, Mister Winters? I’m glad you’re helping. Please sit down.”
I smiled shyly and moved out of the booth to stand by her.
“Hi,” I managed. “Won’t you join us?”
She seemed hesitant, but then she smiled slightly and moved in, across from Louise. Bradley and I sat again.
I ordered her a drink and when it came I was surprised that Louise touched my arm. “I’m sorry, Cole,” she said. “I’ve got to go home. I can’t stand it in here any longer.”
I smiled and laid my hand over hers.
“I understand. Go on home and get some sleep. I’ll call you about any news.”
She turned to Valerie. “You won’t mind? I hate to be rude, but my head’s splitting.”
Valerie took her hand.
“Of course. I understand,” she smiled. “Please go home and get some rest.”
As they were leaving, I stood up and Louise stared at me for a minute and then fell into my arms, weeping softly. I rubbed the back of her neck, feeling about as useful as yesterday’s scratch sheet.
“Take it easy, baby,” I whispered. “I’ll get him. I promise.”
As soon as they were gone I sat down and turned to Valerie. We stared at each other for a minute without speaking. I don’t know wha
t she was thinking, but if it was anything like what was running through my head we were bound to get along.
“Hi,” I said smiling.
She dimpled beautifully.
“Hi. You really a private-eye?”
“Really. You really a writer?”
Her eyebrows arched quizzically.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Louise.”
“Oh.”
She sighed and the dimples disappeared. “It’s terrible about her brother. Louise is such a sweet girl.”
“Did you know him?” I asked.
She shrugged gently.
“Not well. Just saw him here and there.”
I sipped my Scotch and said, “Does your being a writer explain why you’re—” I gestured at our surroundings. “Well, you know.”
“Why I come here? Yes. I do feature articles for periodicals and Sunday supplements, but my first love is novel writing. I’m gathering material, as it were, for a book I’m going to write about the Village.”
She faced me, an eagerness brightening her face, lighting it up beautifully. “The Village is so interesting. Don’t you think so? It’s happy and pathetic and brutal and kind all at the same time. I’ve met dope-addicts and pickpockets and just about every type of negative personality there is. I’ve seen men who wish they were women and girls who crave to be men and a few who don’t seem to care which they are. I even met a real private-eye.”
I grinned at her enthusiasm and dropped my eyes to her jutting breasts. “Gender; male,” I said, just to keep the record straight.
She blushed politely, but somehow I knew it was an effort—something expected of her.
“It’s really a world all by itself,” she said, getting back on the Village kick, “an uninhibited, Bohemian jungle. It’s primitive, really. No codes. No conventions. Oh, I just know it’ll make a wonderful book! I’ll let you in on a secret. I’m going to write a great novel. Someday soon everybody’ll know me. My name’ll be linked along with Rand and Ferber. Wait and see.”
Her gray eyes sparkled with dedication, and I found myself nonplussed. Such fanaticism didn’t belong in eyes like hers.
Then the gray softened again and I felt a stir run through my veins. What the hell? She was the loveliest thing I’d ever seen. A little kooky, maybe, about her writing. But the rumblings she’d started in my loins had nothing to do with her mind.
