Don't Call Me Madame

by Kane, Henry

  Don’t Call

  Me Madame

  Henry Kane

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Martinis and Murder

  Also Available

  Copyright

  MURDER FOR PROFIT

  Peter Chambers waited while Goldie Dorn locked the apartment, and then he escorted the madame to the street. They picked up a cab to Fifty-third and Second, and all the way down Pete listened to her curse the errant Dorothy Steel. It wasn’t so much that the girl had violated a rule of the stable; but Goldie highly resented being sold out to a blackmailer, no matter how high he was in the rackets.

  There was no answer at the apartment, so Goldie tried the knob. The door opened, and Chambers followed her in. There was a small foyer and a large living room. Seated in an easy chair was a slender brunette with a surprised expression along the edges of her mouth and a small hole in the middle of her forehead.

  “Out!” he said.

  “Jesus Christ!” said Goldie.

  “Move!” said Pete. “This guy means business.”

  ONE

  TONY Starr was a new tenant in the Kips Bay Apartments on 32nd Street and Lexington Avenue. A month ago he had signed a two-year lease, depositing four months’ rent as security, but even then he knew he would forfeit the security (he could afford it) because he had no intention of staying out the two year period. Once the estate was settled, he would return to London. He hated New York. He hated everything about New York. He hated every memory of New York. He hated …

  For a month now he had been a quiet, anonymous tenant, one among six hundred other tenants in the vast complex of the tall, modern, newly constructed, expensive high-riser. He knew nobody in the Kips Bay Apartments, and nobody in the Kips Bay Apartments knew Tony Starr, which was exactly the way he wanted it. He had a satisfactory three-room apartment, but it was, in fact, temporary. His mother was dead — quick, so terribly sudden, a heart attack in London — and he was here in New York to wait out the settlement of the estate. He had several times been to her lawyer’s office (her lawyer — not his father’s) and had signed all the necessary papers and had been advised that the settlement of an estate takes time.

  Time!

  But Jesus Christ, how long?

  For a month now he had been good, quiet, patient, anonymous. He had been drinking heavily, but he had not touched the white stuff. This evening, finally, he had indulged himself in the white stuff and he was feeling good. Good? God, he was flying. And he wanted a girl. And so at seven-thirty of this warm May evening he showered, and now at the bathroom mirror he was shaving: Tony Starr, twenty-eight years of age, tall and slender with regular features. He had black hair and dark eyes that now, because of the white stuff — the dilated pupils merging with the irises — appeared to be as black as his hair.

  He finished shaving, and in the bedroom he dressed in a white shirt and a conservative tie and a fine suit in the latest of fashion. He put money in his wallet, plenty of money, and from a large metal box transferred a portion of the white powder to an ornate little snuffbox, a gift from his mother. He pinched a bit of the powder and sniffed it, a last sniff, and then snapped shut the little snuffbox. He looked in a mirror and grinned. He had big fine white teeth. He had a pleasant, engaging, comfortable, boyish grin. He did the grin again, and stopped it. He shrugged and went away from the mirror.

  He knew, precisely, what his procedure would be. He would go uptown to a cheap hotel and there register under some assumed name — but as Mr. and Mrs. He would knowingly leer at the clerk, and pay in advance whatever exorbitant fee was demanded, take the key to the room and keep it with him. Then he would go to one (or many) of the hooker bars that John Edison had recommended. John Edison, his friend who owned the Palisades Club in London, made frequent trips to New York and knew all the spots. (John had also given him the private numbers of some of the best madames in town.) And in one of the hooker bars he would find a hooker who pleased him. He knew, however, he was not easy to please. Unless the hooker suited his taste, she could be distasteful. She would have to be tall, blonde, willowy. His mother had been tall, blonde, willowy. And had had small breasts, and long legs, and a big behind. The hooker would have to have small breasts and long legs and a big behind. A big behind excited him terribly.

  He resisted the snuff box, went out of the apartment, and locked the door. And then unlocked the door and went in again to find what he had forgotten. He rummaged through drawers and felt a thrill when he enclasped it, long and slim and graceful: a press-button knife with a six-inch blade. He dropped it into a pocket and went out to the warm May night, Tony Starr, tall and handsome and fashionably dressed, impelled by need and seeking his pleasure.

  TWO

  MARK Montague was a playwright and a pusher. One was his vocation, the other his avocation, but he did not quite know which was which. He had had two off-Broadway shows produced, but neither had produced any money for him. On the other hand, the pushing splashed down a steady stream of wealth like a small Niagara, and also gave him a splendid amount of free time which he devoted to the writing of plays. He liked his situation: it was pleasant, comfortable, and rewarding. One day when he made it big as a playwright he would give up the pushing. That day was not yet.

  The pushing had begun during his freshman year at college. He had made a contact and had begun to peddle marijuana. He was a fine student, an enterprising peddler, and an excellent entrepreneur, and by the time he had graduated summa cum laude he had also graduated to peddling hard junk to a select, sophisticated, and growing clientele. Mark Montague, a playwright and a pusher — but not a user — was a happy man. He was young, rich, handsome, and at seven-thirty-five of this warm evening in May he was a very happy man, having just completed, in the lavish bed of his lavish bedroom, a delightful experience of sexual intercourse with a lavishly beautiful young woman named Sandi Barton. “Jesus,” he moaned. “You are something!”

  Calmly she said, “Well, thanks.”

  “Well, shit,” said Mark Montague.

  “You are something,” said Sandi Barton.

  “Well, thanks,” said Mark Montague.

  Thus the brilliant dialogue after a sensational act of copulation.

  He gave her a cigarette and took one for himself and they smoked.

  She was a dancer, a singer, an actress, but she too, like Mark, had an avocation. Hers was call girl, but Mark Montague had no knowledge of Sandi Barton’s avocation because she had consistently and efficiently precluded him from that knowledge. She had met him during her soubrette role in Peas and Grass, his recent short-lived off-Broadway musical, and their acquaintance had ripened. She knew he was a playwright, but did not know he was a pusher. He knew she was an actress, but did not know she was a prostitute.

  It was a lovely romance.

  Now she leaned over him, kissed his chest, tapped out her cigarette, and got out of the bed. He admired the long graceful dancer’s legs, the white concave belly with its slender slit of navel, the small tight pear-shaped breasts, the glowing, protruding, pink-red nipples. And she turned and went from him, and he admired. The wide shoulders, the white skin, the long c
leavage of spine, the high hips, the big round firm dancer’s ass, the buttocks enticingly undulant.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  “Bathroom, baby,” she said.

  “Why the hell are you going?”

  “When you got to pee, you got to pee.”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, sweetheart. Dumb you’re not.”

  “A date is a date,” she said. “It’s a dinner date.”

  “Yeah. You and your fucking Peter Chambers.”

  “Don’t be coarse, Mark. It doesn’t become you.”

  “Shit,” he said.

  She went into the bathroom and closed the door. Chambers. Chambers was a beau, but not as insistent or as frequent a beau as she made him out to be for Mark Montague. Chambers liked her, no question, and did see her often, no question, but not at all as often as she pretended for Mark Montague. There was nothing, really, between her and Peter Chambers, but as far as Mark was concerned it was an affair, and as far as Mark was concerned, seeing Mark was cheating on Peter Chambers. That gave her room to move, and a lot of time off from Mark. Hell, business is business, and a girl has to live. Chambers knew all about her: Mark did not.

  When she came out of the bathroom, Mark was dressing.

  She wanted to call Goldie Dorn but of course she could not in his presence. An actress does not have a madame, does she? An actress has an agent, right? She was dying to call Goldie, but Mark was dressing.

  “You going over to his pad?”

  “Yes,” she said and was immediately sorry. Should have said she was going home, that Chambers was picking her up at home. Too late now. A good hump in the hay curdles the wit, and Mark Montague, with whom she was coupling in the interests of her professional career (the other professional career), was, no matter what else her course of action would develop, one hell of a curdler of wit.

  “I’ll drive you over.”

  What do you say to that?

  “Right,” she said. “Thank you.”

  The big Caddy slid to a stop outside Chambers’s apartment house on Central Park South. If Mark had gone off, she would have gone off, but Mark did not. He went with her into the outer lobby and she pushed Chambers’s button and hoped for an answer. If there was no answer she would say she was late, ask Mark to drive her home, say that Chambers would probably contact her there.

  The buzzer rasped a response.

  “Thanks for the lift,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Mark said.

  “Call me tomorrow?”

  “I’ll do that,” he said.

  She took the elevator to the penthouse apartment. She touched a finger to the bell and the door opened. He was naked except for a pair of boxer shorts. Jesus, what a beautiful man! What a ruggedly handsome man! Tall and lean and with all the muscles. For a moment she thought about the muscle down there between his legs. She had never had it.

  “Well,” he said, “to what do I owe the unexpected — ”

  “Mark …”

  “I dig.” He made a bow and grinned. “Please to come in.”

  This was Peter Chambers the private eye, ear, nose and throat — the works. This was the guy, already a wild living legend in his own time, who knew all the questions, and most of the answers, and all the places to find any answers he did not have. This was the man for whom even Goldie Dorn had the highest respect, and there was no greater compliment. So why have I never laid the bastard? Because that’s the kind of crazy game we’ve got going between us. We’re both stubborn.

  “A drink?” he asked.

  “You’ll save my life.”

  “You talked me into it.”

  He knew what she drank and made it for her: Scotch on the rocks. For himself he fixed a Scotch with water. And they clinked glasses and smiled and drank and said nothing and he looked at her.

  Exquisite. Bright blonde hair, enormous blue eyes, a tiny nose, a sensuous mouth, and a figure to drive you right up the wall.

  “So how’s about it?” he said. “A quickie?”

  “Quickie or slowie — for a hundred bucks you’ve got it.”

  “A whore is a whore is a whore.”

  “You just said yourself a mouthful, pappy.”

  That was their game, and that was why they had never made it.

  Neither one gave in: they were equally stubborn.

  “From me,” she said, “no love for free.”

  “It’s free for Mark.”

  “Mark is career.”

  “How you doing there?”

  “I think I’ve got him. His next show — and he’s writing it right now — I’ll be up there big.”

  “You like him?”

  “He’s a nice, clean, sweet guy, and a guy with a hell of a lot of talent.”

  Talent — maybe. Nice, clean, sweet — forget it. Mark Montague was high up there in the rackets now, a jobber in hard drugs, and making it pay big. Chambers knew all about Mark Montague, knew where his money came from, and knew a lot of his customers. She did not know, and he did not consider it his province to inform her. Could be there was love going there; certainly there was career, and he knew how much career meant to her.

  This was a kid who had dropped out of Smith College in her junior year because career was burning her ass. She had made rounds, and done bits in shows, and then Goldie Dorn had found her and latched on to her and taught her how to make money while still fostering her career. Now there was dough for dancing lessons, and acting school, and a voice coach, with a hell of a lot of dough left over. But a whore to be a whore has to be a whore, and this beautiful chick was a born whore, hot for money, avaricious.

  “I’m only twenty-two,” she had told him, “and I’m going to make it as an actress, but I’ll be a rich actress. Two careers, and one doesn’t really interfere with the other. Goldie’s girls are expensive, and I’m very expensive. Pete, I can easy turn ten tricks a week — and I do more — and my minimum fee is a hundred bucks and I do better than that, believe me. Half to Goldie, and with all my expenses and everything — I still put away five hundred a week. Hell, I put away more. My goal is to have a hundred and fifty thousand bucks free and clear, and then I’ll stop turning tricks for hire. Baby, I’ll have that by the time I’m twenty-seven, maybe before, but until then I don’t fuck for free, not even with you, unless it’s career. Jesus, why don’t you get up that hundred? I swear I’ll spend it on you that very same night.”

  “I’m stubborn.”

  “Man, when you take me out to one of your fancy night clubs, it costs you as much or more, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s fun.”

  “Lay it on the line and you’ll have much more fun than that, I promise you.”

  “I don’t buy it.”

  “I sell it.”

  “Who’s stubborn now?”

  “Ethics is ethics. This is my business. I don’t give samples.”

  “A whore is a whore.”

  “Correct. You just said it again very good, pappy.”

  And now Sandi Barton finished her drink and went to the phone and called Goldie Dorn. “Hi, mama,” she said.

  Goldie said, “Where the hell you been?”

  “With Mark.”

  “Fuck Mark.”

  “I did that. Now I’m ready for Matthew, Luke, John …”

  “A john is what I got for you. He’s waiting.”

  “Where?”

  “The Commodore. Suite 1701. Told him you’d be there at eight.”

  “I’ll be there. Who is he?”

  “A nice old guy. A big wheel in motors from Detroit. He goes for a yard and a half. You’ll stay all night, or as long as he wants.”

  “All night for a hundred and fifty?”

  “He figures to tip you, and the tip is all yours.”

  “Right, mama. You’re a smart lady.”

  “You home now?”

  “No. I dropped in o
n Peter Chambers.”

  “ESP. That’s ESP. I was just going to call him. Put him on, sweetie.”

  Sandi held out the receiver.

  “She wants to talk to you.”

  He took it. “Hi, golden Goldie.”

  “Pete, I’d like you to come over.”

  “When?”

  “Can you be here by nine-thirty?”

  “Sure.”

  “But like prompt, please?”

  “What’s up, Goldie?”

  “We’ve got to be somewhere else at ten, but I want like a half-hour alone with you first. Half-hour’s enough to fill you in on the score.”

  “Urgent, Goldie? From the way you sound …”

  “It’s urgent, Pete.”

  “I’ll be there at nine-thirty sharp.”

  “You’re a doll, sweetie.”

  “See you later.” He hung up.

  Sandi was smiling. “The old bag goes for you, Peter.”

  “I go for you.”

  “I go for a hundred.”

  “A hard little bitch.”

  “Soft. I’m soft, honey, and you know it. Except when it comes to principle. I’m a professional, baby, and I’m against breaching professional standards.”

  “Not even for love?”

  She was very near him. Her eyes teased him.

  “Do you love me, Peter?”

  He ducked it. “I dig you.”

  “And I dig you. So get up the hundred and I’ll call Goldie to send another gal to Commodore John. I’ll be losing money, but I won’t be breaching standards.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Boy, you’re the stubborn bastard, aren’t you? Me, I’m patient. One day you’ll come around. You’ll get up the hundred, and I’ll ball you to death. And don’t think I’m not looking forward.”

  “Yeah. That’ll be the day.”

  “A great day coming …”

  She laughed, and kissed him fleetingly, and went about her business.

  THREE

  IT was an amber-lit tavern on 80th Street near Madison Avenue. It was a rather pretty place, with dark-wood walls, red carpeting, and red velvet draperies, and the piped-in music was not the harsh discothèque stuff but soft, sweet, romantic ballads, most of them instrumentals. It was called Tom’s Pub, and the single bartender behind the bar was called Tom, and Tony knew from John Edison that the Tom behind the bar was the Tom of Tom’s Pub, the owner, and he knew from John Edison just how the place worked.