“Okay.”
I left him, made my way down the stairs, nodded to Jake who nodded back, then went out onto the busy street to find a cab.
***
The Blue Room was a cellar club on the corner of 22nd and East which placed it near Freda Hawes' pad.
The cabbie who drove me there looked searchingly at me as I paid him.
“It's not my business, buddy,” he said when he saw the size of my tip, “but that joint is strictly not for you. If you're yearning to get mugged you're heading in the right direction.”
“Thanks.”
I stepped back. He stared at me again, lifted his heavy shoulders and drove away.
Looking up and down the street, I saw what he meant and I hesitated. I was wearing a business suit and when I saw the kind of flotsam drifting up and down the street I felt as conspicuous as a bishop in a brothel.
While I had served in the army, I had taken a combat course. Not like Wally Mitford, I kept in shape. I was confident I could take care of myself. It would have been better to have gone home and changed into less conspicuous clothes, but now I was here, I was damned if I was going home, to change and come all the way back.
There was a small neon sign that read: BLUE RO M.
The second O was missing.
I went down a long steep stairway, and as I descended, the noise of swing and the smell of unwashed bodies increased until I reached a tiny lobby.
A big Negro sat on a stool, staring into space. He showed only the whites of his eyes. A second look told me he was turned on and wouldn't know if he was on this earth or on the moon.
A red curtain screened the entrance and I lifted it aside and looked in.
The big room was packed with dancing figures and dark enough to make them weaving silhouettes. The noise of the four-piece band exploded against my eardrums. The smell of unwashed feet, dirt and reefers was choking.
To walk into that inferno, dressed as I was, would be to invite suicide. I dropped the curtain, deciding I would go along to Freda Hawes' pad and wait for her there. As I started up the stairs two youths started down.
I stopped and so did they.
In the dim light, I could see they were around twenty years of age. Their filthy hair reached to their shoulders.
Their white, dirty faces were pinched and their little eyes had the glitter of junkies.
“Look who's here,” the taller of the two said. “A snout poker. What do we do to snout pokers, Randy?”
“Stomp him,” Randy said. He was weaving a little: either drunk or drugged. “Let's get him up on the street, Heinie. Don't want to wake up old Sam.”
Heinie beckoned to me.
“Come on, creep, unless you want to be cut.” A flick knife jumped into his hand.
I started up the stairs and they slowly retreated until they moved out onto the street. I had three more stairs before I joined them in the open. I jumped those stairs, hit Randy a chopping blow on his neck, weaved around Heinie, grabbed his wrist and heaved him judo-style over my back.
He crashed down on the sidewalk.
I walked fast around the corner onto East Street, kept moving and told myself I was crazy to have come to this district dressed the way I was. The encounter with these two junkies showed me the red light. I had to get out of here fast. I looked around for a cab, but cabs kept clear of East Street.
Then out of an alley, three long-haired youths who must have been watching my approach, burst out and grabbed me. I was dragged into the alley, off balance and unprepared.
I went limp. My weight took them by surprise and the two holding me collapsed with me onto the evil-smelling concrete. I threw them off, kicked out at the third figure, silhouetted against the open alley, a bottle raised in his hand. I caught him in the crotch and he went over, screeching. One of the others heaved himself on me and we went down with a thud. I chopped the side of his neck hard and he flattened out. The last one lost his guts and ran.
I leaned against the wall, getting my breath back, then I moved onto the street, stepping over the one I had kicked who was screwed up, holding himself and mewing like a cat. I knew I must be in a mess. My sleeve was torn. I could smell the refuse sticking to the back of my jacket.
Keeping in the shadows, I walked down East Street. I remembered Freda Hawes' number. When I came to her block, I climbed five steps and entered a dimly lit lobby. The mailbox told me she was on the fourth floor. There was no elevator. I climbed, walked down a corridor to a door at the far end. There was a tatty card pinned to the door that read: Miss Freda Hawes. By appointment. Tel. East 44S6.
I thumbed the bell and waited.
Somewhere on the second floor a woman screamed: “No! I tell you no! Keep away from me!” Then silence.
I heard heavy footsteps pound up the stairs, but they stopped on the third floor. Looking over the rail, I saw a thickset man entering one of the apartments.
I thumbed the bell again.
While I waited I took off my jacket and shook off the potato peeling, the dead cabbage leaves and other horrors that had been sticking to me.
It became obvious that Freda Hawes was not at home.
This presented a problem. If she was at the Blue Room she could jive until three or four in the morning. I couldn't stay out in this exposed corridor for some six hours. I would also be risking my neck if I appeared on the street. I had to get to a telephone and get a cab to pick me up. Where was the nearest telephone?
I looked at the door and the card. She had a telephone.
Maybe the lock was brittle. I turned the handle and was startled when the door swung open.
I paused. The chilly sensation began to crawl up my spine. Was I going to have a repeat performance? Was I going to find Freda Hawes shot to death?
As I stood there, I heard a soft moaning sound that made the hair on the nape of my neck bristle. Then I heard someone coming up the stairs. Hurriedly, I stepped into the dark room and shut the door.
I smelt fresh cigar smoke.
A neon sign across the way was flashing on and off, spelling out: GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!
Its red light kept lighting up the small room. Across the way was a door that stood ajar.
I heard heavy footfalls pass and go on up the stairs. A trickle of sweat ran down my face. My mouth was dry. My heart was thumping.
The moaning sound came from the inner room.
Bracing myself, I fumbled my way over to the door and peered into the darkness. I could make out the outline of a bed, but nothing else. My hand slid down the wall, found a light switch. I hesitated, then turned the switch up.
The harsh overhead light made me blink.
The scene that came into my view made me catch my breath.
A woman, stark naked, lay on the bed. Her wrists were tied to the bedposts, her ankles too. She had a rag stuffed into her mouth. On her right thigh was a livid round burn: a burn that could have only been made by crushing a burning cigar end into her flesh.
I knew this was Freda Hawes. She was small, beautifully built, around twenty-five. A few years back, she could have been pretty, but now the edges had hardened, the mouth, the eyes showed the steady downward slide.
All this I took in in one brief glance, then I reached her, got the gag out of her mouth and her wrists untied. Then I started to free her ankles.
“A drink . . . the kitchen,” she croaked.
I found a light switch in the living room, found the kitchen, opened the refrigerator. It was stocked with bottles of gin and charge water. I found a dirty glass which I rinsed under the tap, poured a heavyweight slug of gin and a featherweight slug of charge water. I hurried back and seeing how her hands were shaking, I lifted her head and fed her the drink.
She drank greedily, shut her eyes, her fingers gripping my wrist.
“More!”
“That'll hold you,” I said gently. “You . . .”
“More! Hear me, you sonofabitch! More!” There was a yell of despair in her voice so I went ba
ck and produced the mixture as before.
When I returned she was sitting up on the side of the bed, the sheet across her lap. She snatched the glass from me, drank, then threw the glass across the room. It shattered against the wall.
“Cigarette!”
I took out my pack, lit a cigarette and fed it between her trembling lips.
She sat still, her heavy breasts hanging forward, dragging at the cigarette, letting smoke drift down her pinched nostrils. I stood back and watched her.
After some minutes, the gin began to work. She looked up and stared at me.
“Who are you?”
“Just passing. I heard you making noises, so I looked in,” I said, sure she wasn't ready yet for me to show my hand.
She nodded.
“I've always been lucky. I thought I was going to stay right there until next month. Sit around. I like you. I want a pee.”
She wobbled across to the bathroom and shut herself in.
On the floor, by the bed, lay a stub of a cigar. I picked it up and regarded it. It meant nothing to me or was the smell a little familiar? My nose again, I thought and laid the cigar on the night table.
She came out of the bathroom, opened a closet, put on a wrap, then walked into the kitchen. I heard the gurgle from bottles and she came back with another glass in her hand.
“Thanks, boy scout. Keep this close to your chest. I'm fine now. Take the breeze, will you?”
“Lieutenant Goldstein should be told about this,” I said gently.
She slopped her drink, then stared at me, her big dark eyes opening wide.
“You're not another of those bastards, are you?”
“Have there been more than one?”
She sat on the bed, motionless for some moments, then she drank half the contents of the glass, shuddered, then looked around as she dropped the cigarette end on the floor.
I picked it up and crushed it out in an ashtray, lit another cigarette and gave it to her.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Gordy was blackmailing me.”
She closed her eyes, nursing her glass.
“Oh no . . . not again,” she muttered. “So what are you going to do? Burn me?” She let the glass slip out of her hand. It bounced on the tatty wool rug and the gin and water made a little puddle. She cradled her head in her hands and began to moan.
I moved away from her and sat in a chair. I waited, silent.
“Hell! I'm starting to live like a hog,” she said as if speaking to herself. She got up, picked up the glass and went into the kitchen. She came back with a drink that would have felled an ox.
“You still here? I told you to take the breeze.”
“I need your help.”
She peered at me. Then she took a gulp from the glass.
“Help?”
“That's right. My wife stole a bottle of perfume from the Welcome store,” I said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “She got caught on the scanners. Gordy wanted twenty thousand for the strip of film. He's dead now, but the film is somewhere. I was hoping you would tell me where to find it.”
With an unsteady hand, she put the glass on the night table.
“Jesse was a sonofabitch, but he got to me.” The gin was working on her now. “I don't know how many times I told him to cut out this blackmail caper, but he wouldn't listen. I kept telling him it would land him in trouble. He wouldn't listen.” She peered at me. “Judas! Am I drunk! Get the hell away from me! Leave me alone.” She reached for the glass, knocked it over and again there was a puddle on the rug.
I sat still, watching her.
She said the usual four letter words, then she held her head in her hands again.
I remained still.
After some minutes, she looked up and glared at me.
“Look at this!” She flicked her wrap aside and showed me the burn. “That bastard came here and he burned me. He too wanted the film. So go ahead and burn me and see where it gets you!”
“Who was it?” I spoke gently, as if I were talking to someone who had just had a major operation.
“How would I know? A cop. I can smell a cop a mile away. A big bastard: blue, staring eyes. If I had been his mother I would have drowned him as soon as he had popped out.”
I looked at the dead cigar and it jelled. Herman Webber!
No regular cop would have burnt her.
“You gave him the film?”
She suddenly dropped backwards across the bed, putting her arm across her eyes.
“I want a drink.”
I picked up the glass and went into the kitchen. I made a drink and came back. Then putting the glass on the night table, I picked her up and laid her on the bed with her head on the pillow.
“Going to start burning me?” she asked, but she smiled for the first time.
“Won't you help me?” I said, looking down at her. “Did you give him the film?”
“I told him where he could find it.” She gave a drunken giggle. “I said I had mailed it to my sister in New York.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“He's a cop, baby. He'll call your sister and he'll know she hasn't got it and he'll be back.”
“She'll tell him yes and when he gets there, she'll spit in his eye. My sister and I work together.”
“But he'll be back.”
“I'll be the hell away from here by the time he does.”
“I want that film. Would fifteen hundred dollars buy it for me?”
She studied me. Maybe this was a mistake because there came into her eyes an expression only a greedy hooker has.
“Come again?” she lifted her head. “How much?”
“Fifteen hundred. It could get you away from here. Do you know where the film is?”
She caught hold of my wrist.
“You mean you'll give me fifteen hundred bucks for the film?”
“That's what I mean.”
She blew out her cheeks. The gin was now hitting her hard and I began to wonder uneasily if she was going to pass out.
“I know where it is. You give me the money and you get it.”
She reached for the drink, but I took it out of her hand.
“Skip it baby! You're already floating.”
She nodded.
“Yeah . . . gimme a cigarette.”
I lit one for her and watched her try to get hold of herself.
“Where is it?” I said.
“Anxious?” she smiled. “I know. Let's have the money first, buster. That's what Jesse always said to me: money first.”
“The money is in the bank. You won't get it until tomorrow. You won't get it until I get the film. I want it now!”
“Then tomorrow we go to the bank, get the money and I'll give you the film. How's that, buster?”
“If that's the way you want to play it. By tomorrow you could be dead. That ex-cop isn't the only one after the film. There's a killer after it. Okay, if you want a bullet as Gordy got a bullet, we'll wait until tomorrow.” I got up. “Can I use your phone? I want to call a cab.”
She was sitting up now, her eyes scared.
“Hey! Wait a minute! What's this about a killer?”
“Your pal Gordy had a film that could put a lot of rich women in jail,” I said. “Someone - probably a husband — tried to get the film and he shot Gordy. It could be your turn next. Consider yourself lucky that an ex-cop burnt you. Your next visitor could kill you.”
I went over to the telephone and called a cab service.
They said a cab would arrive in ten minutes.
I heard scuffling and looked over my shoulder to see Freda climbing into a dress. She was acting like she was about to miss a train.
“No need to panic, baby. You've forgotten your pants.”
“I'm coming with you! I'm not staying here alone!”
“You don't come with me. You lock the door when I've gone. Maybe this killer won't kick it down. See you . . .” and I went into the living roo
m.
She rushed after me.
“I'll give it to you. Honest! Can I come with you?”
She was now a frightened child who had got at the gin bottle.
“Okay . . . come on then. You've forgotten your shoes.”
“You won't run out on me?”
“Get your shoes and your pants on. I'll wait.”
She peered blearily at me.
“What do I want pants for?”
***
The cab dropped us outside the Imperial hotel. We transferred to my car.
She leaned against me as I started the motor.
“I'm trusting you,” she said. “I'll give you the film, but you will give me the money, won't you?”
“Boy scout's honour.”
She giggled. She was still very drunk.
“This is the first time I've ever trusted any man in my whole life.”
“You have to begin sometime, baby.”
I looked at the dashboard clock. The time was 23.15.
Even though it was late, I wasn't risking driving up to Gordy's house. Goldstein could have a cop staked out there.
My garage doors were open. I drove the Merc straight in, got out, shut the doors, turned on the light as Freda came weaving out.
“Where's this?” she asked, clutching hold of my arm.
“My home. Come on in. I'll get you a drink.”
“That's talking.”
I unlocked the door into the house and together we moved into the living room.
“Hey!” She weaved and peered. “This is nice.”
“Sit down.”
I led her to a chair and parked her. She lay back, staring around.
I pulled the curtains, then fixed her a mild gin and tonic.
“Let's talk, baby,” I said, sitting close to her. “Just relax and tell me about Gordy.”
“What about him? He's dead.”
“That's right. How did you meet him?”
“Last summer. Why should you care?” She sipped her drink, then put the glass on the occasional table by her. “He had got this job at the stores. His wife had left him. He had a little money. A guy needs a woman from time to time. We clicked. There was something about him that got to me. He was always talking about what he would do if he could get hold of big money.” She grimaced. “Most men talk that way. Then one night while we were in bed, he told me about this scanner thing. He said he could raise a million dollars. We were both pretty drunk, but he seemed so sure.”
1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place Page 11
