by Ed Kurtz
He choked on a sob and took a minute to rein it in.
“I haven’t even told the cops yet,” he continued. “Jesus, there was so much blood. So I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, but I needed a friend and you told me I could come and I just don’t think I can handle your dick just now.”
Ursula swallowed, shook her head. She then burst into peals of laughter at Charley’s expense. He flushed crimson.
“Nobody asked you to handle my dick, Charley.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“I’m going to bed now,” she interrupted. “Good night, Charley.”
He did not hesitate. In less then two minutes he was back on Forty-Two, staring dreamily at the sign hanging from the arcade and trying to make sense of its fractured English: YOU WANTED IN TIME SQUARE & LESS.
All he wanted was to get out of there and somewhere safe. Somewhere he could sleep until it was time to phone up Walker in the morning.
The only place that came to mind was Eve’s.
Eve’s neighborhood was considerably less hazardous at three in the morning than either Alphabet City or Times Square, so Charley did not feel particularly apprehensive about cooling out on her building’s stoop until a more reasonable hour crept along. He decided that half past six was reasonable enough when he’d had enough of the bum routine, so he went into the corridor and buzzed her. She was disoriented and more than a little baffled on the crackling speaker, but she buzzed him up anyway.
“It’s the middle of night,” Eve said groggily when she opened her door.
Her hair was a mess, and there was a network of red folds in her left cheek from where she’d pressed her face up against the wrinkled sheets, but to Charley she remained an absolute knockout.
“It’s morning,” he corrected her. “People are going to work already.”
“I work nights, Charley.”
She staggered sleepily back into the main room and he followed her in. He turned away long enough to shut and latch the door, and by the time he was facing the room again Eve was out cold on the sofa.
He watched her sleep for a while, entranced by the soft breath passing through her plump, velvety lips and the gentle rise and fall of her more than ample breasts. She truly was a dead ringer for her late sister, but he hadn’t ever gotten the chance to really look at Elizabeth.
But now, gazing at this gorgeous sleeping woman with her small hands cradling the mess of blonde tangles that framed her perfectly balanced face, he really looked. He smiled unconsciously, the remembrance of Ursula’s unanticipated cock all but completely wiped from his mind. This was a woman, and one Charley could fall in love with.
He thought it would be presumptuous to crash in Eve’s bed, so when he could no longer stay awake he just let himself pass out on the floor. He woke up a few hours later when the phone began to ring and he immediately thought of John Walker.
Eve was curled up on one end of the couch under a thick wool blanket. She was reading a copy of Redbook and patiently ignoring the phone. Charley gradually hoisted himself into a sitting position and quietly watched her for any sign that she was aware of the nerve-rattling bell. After ten or twelve rings, the phone went silent and she turned the page.
“Don’t you answer your phone?”
“Not unless I’m expecting a call,” she said without looking up from the magazine. “I’m not.”
“Might have been Walker.”
“Walker who?”
“John Walker. The police detective.”
“Might be. But I’ve told him everything I know. I don’t have anything else to say.”
He stood up and his back cracked audibly. He made a face to indicate how he felt about it and then slowly advanced into the kitchen for a glass of water.
“Maybe he wanted to tell you something. Like a lead, something like that.”
“Sure, maybe they caught the guy. Maybe Hoffa was with him. Hell, maybe it was Hoffa—I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I don’t think it’s very funny,” Charley groaned as he returned with his water.
Eve furrowed her brow.
“I don’t either. I don’t think my sister’s murder is very funny at all, as a matter of fact. But what the hell is catching the guy, whoever he is, going do for me? Is that going to return Elizabeth to me?”
“It’ll bring a murderer to justice.”
She laughed bitterly.
“You watch too many movies.”
He realized that there was not a whole lot of justice in the types of movies he normally went for, but he didn’t bring it up. Instead he stood sullenly in the middle of the room and gulped from the glass. Eve dropped her magazine on the sofa and crossed her arms.
“You I can’t figure out. People in this city, you know, they hear gunshots and they run the other way. Somebody screams their head off in the dead of night and they pretend they can’t hear it. Hell, I got mugged once, this Puerto Rican dude had a knife this long at my throat. Probably ten people saw it happen, and guess what?”
“They didn’t do a thing about it.”
“Ding, ding, ding! Give that man a cigar.”
She reached for a Newport and fired it up.
“You are fucking A well told they didn’t do anything,” she went on. “They all just scuttled away like the cockroaches people really are. You shine a light on them and they slip into the darkest, filthiest crack they can find. That’s where they belong, most of them.”
“That’s a cheerful thought.”
“Well brother, real life ain’t very cheerful. Unless you come from Candyland, like our pal Charley, here.”
He raised his eyebrows, genuinely perplexed by the insinuation.
“What do you mean, Candyland?”
“Christ, you must think you’re Galahad or something, prancing around the countryside saving damsels in distress. In case nobody told you, death is a distress you can’t un-distress, y’know?”
“It’s not like that. Honestly it’s not.”
“What’s it like, then?”
“I got her blood on me. I got the smell of her blood in my nose and I can’t shake it. I can’t get rid of the smell of her blood.”
“So what? You play Colombo so you can smell the tulips again? That’s dumb, Charley. And sort of creepy.”
“Creepy is a poor kid getting knifed in a theater. That’s creepy. And if you think the Keystone Cops are bending over backwards to—”
“I don’t,” Eve cut in. “I know they’re not. But it’s done, man. It’s over. For me. And definitely for you—it was over for you after you gave your statement and went home five days ago.”
“Not hardly,” he said gruffly. “Not by a damn long shot. Listen, Eve, you were right. You were one hundred fifty percent right.”
“About what?”
“About Chester Price. He killed your sister, he tried to kill me, he even tried to burn himself to death. They’ve got him now, the police do, if he’s not already dead from the burns. But he got into my apartment. He killed the guy I live with. He killed Franz.”
She shot up, her eyes like saucers and her mouth hanging open.
“What the fuck, Charley? What did you do?”
“What do you mean what did I do? I just told you they got the guy, didn’t I?”
“And you got somebody else killed, too? Jesus Christ! I told you not to mess with that cat. I told you!”
“If I hadn’t put the cops on him he might never have gotten caught. Maybe he’d have killed somebody else. Probably he already has.”
“Was Franz worth that to you? Was it worth trading in a friend for some dead chick you never knew?”
Charley wrinkled his nose, and he was surprised when one of his eyes welled up.
“It…it’s not like that…,” he stammered.
“It’s exactly like that. Goddamn it, Charley. You’ve got to mind your own fucking business. This isn’t a game. People are dead…”
She cut herself off and choked on her tears. Now the
y were both crying and both pretending not to be. Either of them might have found it funny if they weren’t both so thoroughly devastated. Charley collapsed on the sofa, across from Eve, and buried his face in the crook of his arm. For some time thereafter there was no other sound in the place apart from the incessantly ticking clock and the occasional sniffle. Then Eve scooted over to Charley’s side of the sofa and wrapped her arms around his shoulders and chest.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Before he could fully register what was happening he found his mouth meeting hers and the tips of their tongues met in the middle. She gave a soft moan as the kissing turned to more adventurous exploration that required the shedding of so many layers of mid-winter clothes. Soon he was cupping her large breasts, seen three times before, but their true softness never yet fully experienced by him. Then, slipping one hand behind her back while firmly gripping her left breast with the other, he gently guided her backward across the length of the sofa.
The gentleness stopped there. Eve nipped at his mouth, startling him. Once the initial shock wore off, he leaned into it. She bit his lower lip, hard enough to hold on. It hurt, but didn’t mind. In a way, he quite liked it. Similarly he enjoyed the raking of her long, lacquered fingernails from the nape of his neck to the small of his back. It stung hot, and he was certain she’d broken the skin. Perhaps he was even bleeding.
Though would have smelled the blood.
In seconds Charley and Eve were naked, all except for his socks and the panties that dangled from her right ankle. It started slow, experimental, the way sex always is with a new partner, but in no time at all they burst into a frenzy of hard, loud, almost violent lovemaking. Eve bared her teeth like a junkyard dog, her eyebrows squashed down low over her eyes.
She looked furious. She felt furious.
Hot sweat cooled as it ran down Charley’s back, chilling his skin and raising goosebumps even on the welts Eve left with her nails. He relished it, this sensory overload—hot and cold, pain and pleasure. For a second, he thought he heard her actually growl.
The telephone started to ring again. They disregarded it by silent agreement. After fifteen rings it finally stopped.
He and Eve, on the other hand, kept on going.
Chapter 12
The Fourteenth Precinct of the city’s police department was housed in an ugly three-story building on Thirty-Fifth, seven blocks south of the Deuce. It was an unimposing structure that made up for its lack of intimidation by the two dozen squad cars that were parked all along both sides of the street. Chevy Caprices, most of them; big white boats that concealed enormous block engines under the hoods. Unlike the sundry small time crooks who were forcibly led into the station in cuffs after a ride in one of those cherry top cop yachts, Charley had managed to travel there by his own steam and of his own accord. All he had to tell Walker on the phone was that he was there when Price’s pad went up in flames, and the detective said for him to get his ass to the station, pronto. Charley complied.
The uniformed girl at the front desk made a call when he strode up to her, and within a few minutes he was escorted to the second floor and through a vast maze of noisy, paper strewn cubicles that eventually dropped off in the corner assigned to Detective John Walker.
“Sit,” Walker demanded with a sharp gesture towards a metal folding chair. Once again, Charley complied.
“Am I going to be arrested?” he asked.
Walker lowered his substantial eyebrows down over his eyes and tightened his mouth.
“Are you confessing to something, McCormick?”
“I was at Chester Price’s pad last night. He tried to strangle me before he set himself on fire. I put him out.”
“Go on.”
“All right. Then I snuck out through the fire escape and went home. My roommate was dead when I got there. Stabbed, I think. Just like Elizabeth Hewlett.”
“And it didn’t occur to you to phone me up?”
“I did, but some other cat told me you were off duty.”
“There are actually several policemen in this city, you know. More than ten, I hear tell.”
“I trust you, Walker. I wanted to talk to you. That’s why I called this morning.”
“Okay, so somebody killed your roommate. Not you?”
Charley blanched. “Me? No! It was Price. Price did it all.”
“Okay, so Price did it. What’s your proof of that?”
“First of all, that guy is a crazy bastard. I guess it’s all burned up now, but his pad was full of all kinds of creepy pictures, nude girls with the faces cut out. Scratched out, to be precise. Plus he took that shot at me, and Eve told me he’d be stalking Elizabeth for a while—”
“Elizabeth’s sister.”
“Right. I didn’t know her when I gave my statement outside of the Harris, I swear to God I didn’t. I met her later, by chance actually. I kind of needled that info out of her and went to check it out myself. That’s when I got shot at.”
“Christ on a crutch, kid. You’ve got some goddamned temerity.”
“I don’t know what that means, sir.”
“It means balls.”
“Oh, okay.”
“So what makes you think Price killed your boy?”
“Stabbed, just the same as Elizabeth.”
Walker massaged his broad chin with a beefy hand. Charley noticed the thick wedding band on his ring finger for the first time.
“Body still there?”
“I should think so,” Charley said sullenly. “I jetted out of there in a hurry after I saw him.”
“Where’d you go?”
“To a friend’s place.”
“Yeah? A friend called Eve?”
“That’s right.” He couldn’t see any harm in leaving out the whole episode with Ursula. It didn’t have anything to do with the case at hand, anyway.
“All right. Let’s take a trip over to your place, then.”
“Aw Christ, Walker. I can’t look at him again, not like that.”
“Then close your eyes,” Walker said as he rose from his chair and seized his porkpie hat from the desk. “Let’s go.”
“Sure as shit,” Walker grumbled over Franz’s bloody, prostrate form.
He crossed the room in broad strides and picked up Charley’s phone and dialed the station to request more police, a coroner and a cup of coffee. Charley just loomed in the doorway like a phantom, gawking at poor Franz. It was like any road accident anywhere in the world—you tried like hell not to be the morbidly curious rubbernecker, but you just couldn’t look anywhere else. The blood had all dried up since Charley had found him. It had turned brownish, and it was beginning to smell sour.
Walker rang off and planted his hands on his hips, thinking. Pretty soon there was going to be a circus on Charley’s block. He was surprised it did not happen more often.
“Are you sleeping with her?” Walker suddenly piped up.
“What? Who?” Charley knew damn well who, but he wasn’t letting on.
“The Hewlett sister. Eve.”
“No,” Charley adamantly lied. “Of course not.”
Why would he want to know that?
“Just wondering. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
“My friend is lying dead less than ten feet from me and you’re asking me about my sex life. Not very sympathetic, Detective.”
“I’m not in the consoling business. I’m in the homicide business. If the guy who witnessed the first murder and is involved in a related one is all of a sudden screwing the sister of the first victim, I’d like to know about it.”
“Well, I’m not,” Charley said in a huff. Then, for emphasis: “Jesus.”
Another squad car and the county coroner’s van arrived not long after that. There was a flurry of activity in the apartment, from fingerprint dusting to mysterious measurements being taken. Soon Franz was bundled up into a thick black plastic bag and carried out by a pair of stone-faced guys in white uniforms.
He was gone forever.
Charley felt cold and empty inside.
The county coroner was finishing up some notes in a little spiral notepad when Charley tapped him on the elbow.
“He was stabbed, right?”
The coroner morosely nodded and went on with his notes. He took off a few minutes later, followed by the sundry officers and coroner’s investigators, and pretty soon there was only Charley and Walker left.
Charley said, “What am I supposed to do with that couch?”
“City’ll pick it up if you want,” Walker answered. “You got someplace to stay tonight?”
“I can’t stay here?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to.”
“You’re right. I don’t. I got a friend in Staten Island. I might go crash with him for a while.”
“Not with your new girlfriend?”
“Maybe. Is it pertinent?”
“Not just now. But stick around. Don’t jet off to Vegas or anything. This thing ain’t hardly done yet.”
Charley screwed up his face at that. For him it was. Price was burned to a crisp but presumably still breathing and in police custody. He was done. And Charley was done with all of it.
Chapter 13
Bloody Birthright took only three more shooting days to wrap up, and Charley spent the entire time living in Andy’s Tottenville Colonial. On the first night he got loaded with Andy and Carla and puzzled at their kissing session a couple of hours into it. Andy was an enigma, all right.
The second and third nights Charley had to get back to Manhattan to work for Sol. Andy lent him his car for this, a beat up ‘63 Buick Riviera with a cracked leather interior and a tilt wheel that didn’t tilt anymore. Charley was considerably taller than Andy and felt like he was piloting a clown car all the way across the Shore Expressway with the wheel jammed down on his knees like that. Still, it was nothing short of extraordinary getting from the south end of Staten Island to the East Village in just over an hour. It was as if Charley suddenly had a private jet.
