“No,” Borden said. He strode over to the writing desk, where Tricia’s typewriter was still set up. A small stack of pages next to it held her latest attempt at a short story. It hadn’t been going very well, and she’d been on the verge of giving up on it and starting another book instead, maybe something about a rugged, two-fisted detective this time, or maybe an assassin, cruel but principled. She had no shortage of ideas, and the prospect of another five hundred dollars was a powerful incentive. But now that opportunity seemed to have shattered along with the glass across the hall.
“Which one’s yours?” Borden asked.
Tricia pointed out her cot and he bent to look under it. He pulled out a box of manuscript pages labeled “I Robbed the Mob!” in his own handwriting. Her original title, which he’d crossed out, had been Dark Temptation.
Borden turned to Annabelle and Rita. “Girls, do either of you remember ever seeing anyone going through Trixie’s things when she wasn’t around?”
“Why?” Annabelle said. “Is something missing?”
“No,” Erin said, “we’re just trying to figure out who might have been reading Trixie’s book.”
“Her book?” Annabelle said, in a tone of voice that sounded roughly as puzzled as if she’d been asked which of her roommates had been riding Trixie’s unicorn.
“Yes, her book,” Borden said. “This thing.” He opened the box, took out a batch of pages, waved them in the air.
“Did you ever see anyone other than Trixie reading it?”
Rita and Annabelle exchanged a glance.
“What is it, girls?” Borden said. “Spill.”
“Couple of times, while you were out working, Trix, Joyce would pull it out, read from it out loud,” Rita said. “She’d read a line or two and laugh, and some of the other girls would laugh along. I never did.” After a second she added, “Annabelle, neither.”
“You ever notice anyone paying particular attention when she did this?” Borden said.
“Sure, Stella,” Rita said. “Back when she was here, she was always egging Joyce on to read more.”
“Any particular part she seemed interested in?” Borden said.
“The part where the guy steals all the money? She got a real kick out of that.”
Borden turned to Erin. “So, what happened to Stella? Why isn’t she here anymore?”
“Nothing happened, Charley. She just moved out,” Erin said. “Girls come, girls go—” She kissed her fingertips and blew it off in whatever direction girls go. “I didn’t think anything of it.”
“And when was this?” he said. “That she moved out?”
Erin shut her eyes, as if she didn’t want to see Borden’s reaction. “About a month ago,” she said.
9.
361
Tricia and Erin waited till they were down on the sidewalk before discussing what they were going to do. No point in letting the elevator operator in on their plans, not when he was the first person O’Malley would grill upon regaining consciousness.
Before calling the elevator, Borden had run back into his office, stepped over O’Malley’s prone form, and pulled two copies of a book called Death Stalks a Bride from one of the room’s packed shelves. He’d torn the covers off both, handed one to each of Tricia and Erin, and tossed the remains of the two books on the floor. The cover showed a virginal brunette hiking up her wedding gown with both hands while running from a wild-eyed shirtless brute in overalls. The brute’s face looked a little like Billy Hoffman’s; the bride’s was unmistakably Stella’s.
“Call me immediately if you find her,” Borden had said before opening the door to the fire stairs. “Erin knows the number. If it’s busy, it just means I’m on the phone with Moe. I want to find out if there’s anyone other than him who might have seen the manuscript over there.”
“You sure it’s safe for you to stay in the building?” Erin said.
“I’m not sure it’s safe for me anywhere,” he said and pounded upstairs.
Now Erin was pulling Tricia along toward the subway entrance.
“Where are we going?”
“Brooklyn.”
“What’s in Brooklyn?”
“Cheap rent,” Erin said. “And plenty of bars. And what do you find where there’s cheap rent and plentiful booze?”
“What?”
“Artists,” Erin said.
“Stella’s not an artist.”
“No, Stella’s a model. And who knows better where to find a model than artists?”
“I don’t know,” Tricia said. “If she’s got three million dollars now, I’m not sure she’d be modeling anymore.”
“Neither am I,” Erin said. “But if she is, the boys at 361 will know how to find her.”
Between Knickerbocker Avenue and Irving, between Decatur Street to the northwest and the long, lonely stretches of cemetery grounds to the east, there’s a desolate block where Cooper Avenue curves and quietly turns into Cooper Street—this, Erin said, was where they were going. They rode out on the BMT until it wouldn’t take them any closer, decamping finally at an elevated station in the shadow of a stained and leaking water tower; and then they walked the rest of the way, the better part of a mile, sweating under the smothering blanket of late summer heat. By the time they arrived, the sun had hit its apex in the sky and begun its slow descent toward the distant skyscrapers of Manhattan. Tricia watched its progress with no little anxiety: When night fell, she was due back at the club, and she didn’t know which would be more dangerous, showing up or not.
As they neared the end of the street they approached a building the likes of which Tricia had never seen outside of classroom filmstrips intended to teach the children of Aberdeen about the dangers of narcotics. The windows were dark with filth, the rain gutters dangled, the paint on the walls was peeling. Patches of scrubby grass grew from cracks in the paving stones out front. There were less leprous buildings on either side, but Tricia knew, somehow, that this was the one they were headed for even before the tarnished brass numerals “361” became visible on the front door.
“You’re saying artists live here?” Tricia said, and Erin nodded. “Wouldn’t you think they’d keep it looking a little nicer? Being artists, and all?”
“Have you got a lot to learn,” Erin said.
The doorbell, when they pressed it, surprised Tricia not at all by being broken. Knocking didn’t yield any better result until finally Erin began hammering the side of her fist against the door and shouted: “Rise and shine, boys! Rise and shine!”
“Easy, sister,” a man with a mellow voice said, drawing the door away from her descending hand. “We can hear you. We’re not deaf.” He wore a tunic that covered him from neck to knees over faded dungarees and a pair of wooden sandals. His hair, longer than any Tricia had ever seen on a man, was tied back with a leather strap. Between two of his knuckles, a hand-rolled cigarette slowly burned while between the next two extended the narrow wooden shaft of a paintbrush. There were smears of bright red on the tunic that matched the still-wet color on the brush.
“Hi, there,” Erin said. “Is Rudy around? Or Jim?”
“Everyone’s in the back,” the man said, “but if you wanted in on the session, you should’ve been here two hours ago.”
“That’s okay, we’re not here to paint. We’ve just got a couple of questions for the boys.”
“Questions?”
“Won’t take but a minute,” Erin said, and pushed past him. He let them go.
Erin led the way down a dark corridor lined with canvases, squares of painted Masonite and bent-wire sculptures.
“Did you think his cigarette smelled funny?” Tricia whispered.
“Hilarious,” Erin said.
They passed through a kitchen whose sink was home to a stack of dishes crusted with the residue of a month’s meals. The door to the back yard was open and Tricia saw five or six easels set up in a circle around a pair of models, a man straddling a tall bar stool and a woman sprawled backwar
ds at his feet, one arm outstretched in front of her as though to ward off a blow.
The man in the tunic followed them out, took his place at the yard’s one empty easel, tamped out his cigarette, slipped the butt behind one ear, and resumed painting.
Tricia followed Erin around the perimeter, glancing at each canvas as they passed. On the first, the man was a cowboy on a rearing horse, the woman a squaw about to be trampled. The next showed an eight-foot-tall metal man shooting bolts from his eyes and a spacewoman in a gold jumpsuit returning fire with her ray gun. The third showed a German soldier in a First World War uniform leaping into a trench; the woman was a resolute doughboy this time, bayonet fixed to spit the Boche when he landed. Each showed the pair from a different angle, of course, depending on where the painter was standing; no editor, art director, or reader would ever know the paintings came from a single sitting. But meanwhile the painters got to split one modeling fee, Tricia supposed.
Erin stopped, finally, beside a bear of a man in a denim smock, the pocket in the front erupting with a profusion of brushes, palette knives, and other implements. He dabbled the wide fan brush he was using in a jar of water, stuck it in the apron pocket, and said without turning, “Afternoon, Erin. What brings you to the hinterlands?”
“You know I always like seeing you, Rudy,” Erin said. She looked over his canvas, which showed the woman on a heart-shaped mattress, naked and quite a bit bustier than the model was in life. The man in his picture was at the top of a stepladder, training a movie camera downwards. “Nice work. Is this for Charley?”
“He wishes,” Rudy said. “I’ll get five times as much for it from Hefner.”
“Fair enough. Rudy, listen, there’s someone I need to find, a model. I thought you might know where she is. Stella Dane?”
“Stella Dane,” Rudy said, scratching his chin with a thick and discolored fingernail. “Stella Dane. I remember her—I think. Was she the one I used on The Big Blade? Or was she Death Rides the Rails?”
Erin pulled out the cover of Death Stalks a Bride. “I don’t know those two, but here’s one Bob Maguire did of her.”
“Oh, yeah, her. Sure. I painted her two, three times. We had her here for a session like this once. Jim, you remember Stella Dane?” A man across the way looked up, blinked twice, shrugged.
Tricia crossed to his easel, showed him her copy of the cover.
“Oh, sure, the tall girl,” Jim said. “With the feet. She had these unusally long feet.”
“Do you know where we could find her?” Erin said. “It’s important.”
“No idea,” Jim said. And Rudy nodded.
“Let me see that,” one of the other painters said, and Tricia brought the cover around to him. “Yeah, right—Stella. Isn’t she the one who was talking the whole time about how she wanted to be in television? How she was really an actress and a singer and I don’t know what-all else. Like maybe one of us would pull a record contract out of his back pocket if she kept talking about it. You remember Norm made her pose with a cigarette in her mouth just to shut her up?”
A couple of the others nodded.
“Any idea where she is now?” Tricia said
“Nope.”
Tricia looked around the circle, saw heads shaking. Then a small voice said, “Excuse me?” They all looked down. From where she was lying on the ground, propped on one elbow, the squaw/spacewoman/doughboy said, “I think I know where she is.”
“Keep your mouth closed, honey,” one of the painters said. “I’m working on your face.”
But Tricia darted over to the woman.
“Hey,” the painter said, “get out of there, you’re lousing up the pose.”
“Just one second,” Tricia said. Then, to the model, “Stella Dane, right? This girl?” She showed her the cover.
“Yeah, that’s her,” the model said. “I saw her just the other day.”
“Where was this?” Tricia said.
“At the fights,” she said. “In the basement at the Stars Club.”
“She was in the audience?” Tricia said.
“No,” the model said. “She was in the ring.”
It took them a bit more than an hour to get back to Times Square and from there it was a short walk west to the Stars Club, a squat building in the shadow of the piers. It stood a scant quarter mile south of the Sun and though it was supposed to be independently owned, Tricia knew from the newspaper articles she’d read that Sal Nicolazzo was involved behind the scenes. He hadn’t really gone out of his way to hide the connection—he also had a piece of one of the city’s last remaining ten-cent-a-ticket dance halls, and a year ago he’d renamed it the Moon.
The doorman stationed outside the front door of the Stars looked like the least likely man in New York to be found wearing a top hat, but a top hat was what he was wearing. Beneath it he sported the crumpled face and cauliflower ears of a boxer who’d taken one too many trips to the mat. His fighting days looked to have ended around the time of Carnera, if not Dempsey, and he glared at anyone entering the building as though nursing a deep resentment that boxing attendance hadn’t come to a halt the day he left the sport.
The lineup advertised on a card beside the door promoted three afternoon fights, the first already underway, Mick “the Brahmin Brawler” Brody against Jerry “the Jackhammer” Lamar. After that it was Norman “the Mountain” Peakes against Steve Curtis, who had no nickname, apparently, and then the headline bout, featuring former middleweight champ Bobo “the Hawaiian Swede” Olson, fresh out of a short-lived retirement, against Ramy “the Chemist” Farid. Those were the fights in the main arena on the ground floor. In a box at the bottom of the card there was also a mention of an exhibition bout in the basement, pitting a fighter called the Houston Hurricane against one called the Colorado Kid. Those two fighters conspicuously were identified only by their nicknames, not by name and not with photos. According to the girl out in Brooklyn there was a reason for it—the Houston Hurricane was one of the cover models from Death Stalks a Bride, and not the one in overalls.
“I’m surprised they let women box,” Tricia said.
“They who? The boxing commissioner doesn’t; the city of New York doesn’t. But a lot of things go on behind closed doors that they don’t allow.”
Tricia aimed a thumb at the ex-pug, who was letting a well-dressed couple enter. “Looks like an open door to me.”
“Just try getting past our friend there if he thinks you’re an undercover cop, or an inspector.”
“And what exactly is he going to think we are?”
“The two of us?” Erin said, putting one arm around Tricia’s waist. “He’s going to think we’re girls who like watching other girls hit each other.”
Erin tugged at Tricia to get her moving and whispered, “Put a little sex in it.” The advice was superfluous; it didn’t take guidance on Erin’s part to make Tricia do the things that got heads swiveling. It wasn’t something Tricia turned on and it wasn’t something she could turn off. Cars that would’ve honked angrily at your typical New York jaywalker honked appreciatively instead. Passersby stopped passing, if they were of the male persuasion, and those with female companions were jerked promptly into motion again, departing with an involuntary glance back over one shoulder. The boxer at the door to the Stars Club didn’t budge from his post, but his thick-veined eyes widened as they approached and his massive jaw swung down like a drawbridge.
“We’re here for the fight,” Erin said.
The boxer said, slowly, “Upstairs...or down?”
“What do you think?”
“I, I...look, I,” the man said, and then started over. “They got a rule here. No ladies allowed unaccompanied, see?”
“Do we look unaccompanied?” Erin said. “I’m with her. And she’s with me.”
“But—”
Erin stepped forward, walked her index and middle fingers gently up the front of his too-tight jacket. “Or you could say we’re both with you. If anyone asks. And no one�
��s going to ask, will they?”
“I don’t know—”
“Mister,” Tricia said, “we’re old friends of one of the fighters.”
“Oh, yeah? Which one?”
“Stella Dane,” Tricia said. “She and I used to live together. We...shared a room.” It was true, Tricia told herself, only slightly ashamed of the deception. It wasn’t her fault if the man leapt to conclusions.
Which he seemed to be doing, judging by the blush that reddened his ravaged cheeks. “You and she...”
“They were very close,” Erin said. “Like family. You’d let a fighter’s wife in, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure,” the boxer said. “But...”
“Well,” Erin said, pulling the door beside him open, “then you should let my friend in.”
The man shoved the door shut again, firmly, wagged an index finger at the two of them. “If anybody asks, I’m gonna say I didn’t see you. You snuck by me. If there’s any trouble, I’m not taking the fall for, for, for a coupla...”
“A couple of what?” Erin said, hands on hips.
“You know what,” the boxer grumbled. “I don’t need to say it.”
“All right, then,” Erin said.
Inside, a narrow staircase led down and a wide one led up. The wide one was better lit. From upstairs came the sound of feet slapping canvas, of wooden chairs sliding against a concrete floor, of men and women hooting and gasping. And of punches landing. Then a bell rang and you could hear a collective sigh—of relief, of despair, Tricia couldn’t tell.
“Ladies and gentlemen...” came the amplified voice of a ring announcer. “The winnah and still champeen...Jerry, the Jackhammer...”
The voice faded as they began picking their way downstairs. Tricia held onto the railing and took care not to trip. She heard Erin’s steps behind her. The basement ceiling was low and the lights hanging from it were all trained on the ring in the center of the room. There was an announcer here, too, and a microphone dangling at the level of his mouth, but the ring was empty otherwise, except for a stool in each corner and a metal pail beside it.
Hard Case Crime: Fifty to One Page 7
