by Ed McBain
“Yes. Maybe he can give us some help.”
“Find her, would you?” Tudor said. “Oh, God, please find her.”
The King and Queen was actually on the outermost fringe of The Quarter, really closer to the brownstone houses that huddled in the side streets off Hall Avenue than to the restaurants, coffeehouses, small theaters, and art shops that were near Canopy Avenue.
The place was a step-down club, its entrance being one step down from the pavement. To the right of the entrance doorway was a window that had been constructed of pieces of colored glass in an attempt to simulate a stained-glass window. The colored panes showed a playing-card portrait of a king on the left, and a playing-card portrait of a queen on the right. The effect was startling, lighted from within so that it seemed as if strong sunlight were playing on the glass. The effect, too, was dignified and surprising. Surprising because one expected something more blatant of a strip joint, the life-sized placards out front featuring an Amazonian doll in the middle of a bump or a grind. There were no placards outside this club. Nor was there a bold display of typography announcing the name of the place. A small, round, gold escutcheon was set off center in the entrance door, and this was the only indication of the club’s name. The address—“12N.”— was engraved onto another round gold plaque set in the lower half of the door.
Hawes and Carella opened the door and walked in.
The club had that same slightly tired, unused look that most nightclubs had during the daytime. The look was always startling to Carella. It was as if one suddenly came across a middle-aged woman dressed in black satin and wearing diamonds at 10:00 in the morning in Schrafft’s. The King and Queen looked similarly overdressed and weary during the daylight hours, and perhaps more lonely. There wasn’t a sign of life in the place.
“Hello!” Carella called. “Anybody home?”
His voice echoed into the long room. A window at the far end admitted a single gray shaft of rain-dimmed light. Dust motes slid down the shaft of light, settled silently on the bottoms of deserted chairs stacked on round tables.
“Hello?” he called again.
“Empty,” Hawes said.
“Looks that way. Anybody here?” Carella yelled again.
“Who is it?” a voice answered. “We don’t open until six P.M.”
“Where are you?” Carella shouted to the voice.
“In the kitchen. We’re closed.”
“Come on out here a minute, will you?”
A man appeared suddenly in the gloom, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He stepped briefly into the narrow shaft of light and then walked to where the two detectives were standing.
“We’re closed,” he said.
“We’re cops,” Carella answered.
“We’re still closed. Especially to cops. If I served you, I’d get my liquor license yanked.”
“You Randy Simms?” Hawes asked.
“That’s me,” Simms said. “Why? What’d I do?”
“Nothing. Can we sit down and talk someplace?”
“Anyplace,” Simms said. “Choose your table.”
They pulled chairs off one of the tables and sat. Simms was a sandy-haired man in his late forties, wearing a white dress shirt open at the throat, the sleeves rolled up. There was a faintly bored expression on his handsome face. He looked like a man who spent his summers at St. Tropez at home among the girls in the bikinis, his winters at St. Moritz skiing without safety bindings. Carella was willing to bet he owned a Mercedes-Benz and a collection of Oriental jade.
“What’s this about?” Simms asked. “Some violation? I had the other doors put in, and I put up the occupancy signs. So what is it this time?”
“We’re not firemen,” Carella said. “We’re cops.”
“What difference does it make? Cops or firemen, whenever either of them come around, it costs me money. What is it?”
“You know a girl named Bubbles Caesar?”
“I do,” Simms said.
“She work for you?”
“She used to work for me, yes.”
“Any idea where she is?”
“Not the vaguest. Why? Did she do something?”
“She seems to have disappeared.”
“Is that a crime?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Then why do you want her?”
“We want to talk to her.”
“You’re not alone,” Simms said.
“What do you mean?”
“Only that everybody who ever walked into this joint wanted to talk to Barbara, that’s all. She’s a very attractive girl. A pain in the ass, but very attractive.”
“She gave you trouble?”
“Yes, but not in a professional sense. She always arrived on time, and she did her act when she was supposed to, and she was friendly with the customers, so there was no trouble that way.”
“Then what way was there trouble?”
“Well, there were a couple of fights in here.”
“Over Barbara?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“What do you mean, who?”
“Who did the fighting?”
“Oh, I don’t remember,” Simms said. “Customers. It’s a funny thing with strippers. A man watches a woman take off her clothes, and he forgets he’s in a public place and that the girl is a performer. He enters a fantasy in which he is alone with this girl, and she’s taking off her clothes only for him. Well, sometimes the fantasy persists after the lights go up. And when two guys share the same fantasy, there can be trouble. A man who thinks the girl belongs to him, is undressing for him, doesn’t like the idea of another guy sharing the same impression. Bang, the fists explode. So we heave them out on the sidewalk. Or at least we did. No more now.”
“Now you let them fight?” Hawes asked.
“No. Now we don’t give them a chance to fantasize.”
“How do you prevent that?”
“Simple. No strippers.”
“Oh? Have you changed the club’s policy?”
“Yep. No strippers, no band, no dancing. Just a high-class jazz pianist, period. Drinks, dim lights, and cool music. You bring your own broad, and you hold hands with her, not with some dame wiggling on the stage. We haven’t had a fight in the past two weeks.”
“What made you decide on this new policy, Mr. Simms?”
“Actually, Barbara had a lot to do with it. She provoked a lot of the fights. I think she did it purposely. She’d pick out two of the biggest guys in the audience, and split her act between them. First one guy, then the other. Afterwards, when she came out front, she’d play up to both of them, and bang, came the fists. Then she didn’t show up for work one night, so I was left with a string of second-run strippers and no headliner. It looked like amateur night at The King and Queen. And the trouble with the band, believe me, it wasn’t worth it.”
“What kind of trouble with the band?”
“Oh, all kinds. One of the guys on the band was a hophead, the trombone player. So I never knew whether he was going to show up for work or be found puking in some gutter. And then the drummer took off without a word, just didn’t show up one night. The drummer is a very important man in a band that accompanies strippers. So I was stuck without a headliner, and without a drummer. So you can imagine what kind of a show I had that night.”
“Let me get this straight,” Carella said. “Are you saying that Barbara and this drummer both disappeared at the same time?”
“The same night, yes.”
“This was when?”
“I don’t remember when exactly. A few days before Valentine’s Day, I think.”
“What was this drummer’s name?”
“Mike something. An Italian name. A real tongue twister. I can’t remember it. It started with a C.”
“Were Barbara and Mike very friendly?”
“They didn’t seem to be, no. At least, I never noticed anything going on between them. Except the usual patter that goes on bet
ween the girls in the show and the band. But nothing special. Oh, I see,” Simms said. “You think they took off together, is that it?”
“I don’t know,” Carella said. “It’s a possibility.”
“Anything’s possible with strippers and musicians,” Simms agreed. “I’m better off without them, believe me. This piano player I’ve got now, he plays very cool music, and everybody sits and listens in the dark, and it’s great. Quiet. I don’t need fist fights and intrigue.”
“You can’t remember this drummer’s last name.”
“No.”
“Try.”
“It began with a C, that’s all I can tell you. Italian names throw me.”
“What was the name of the band?” Carella said.
“I don’t think it had a name. It was a pickup band.”
“It had a leader, didn’t it?”
“Well, he wasn’t exactly a leader. Not the type anybody would want to be taken to, if you follow me. He was just the guy who rounded up a bunch of musicians for the job.”
“And what was his name?”
“Elliot. Elliot Chambers.”
“One other thing, Mr. Simms,” Carella said. “Barbara’s agent told us she was living with two other girls when she disappeared. Would you know who those girls were?”
“I know one of them,” Simms said without hesitation. “Marla Phillips. She used to be in the show, too.”
“Would you know where she lives?”
“She’s in the book,” Simms said. He paused and looked at the detectives. “Is that it?”
“That’s it,” Carella said.
Outside, Hawes said, “What do you make of it?”
Carella shrugged. “I’m going to check with the musician’s local, see if I can’t get a last name for this Mike the drummer.”
“Do drummers have big hands?”
“Search me. But it looks like more than coincidence, doesn’t it? Both of them taking a powder on the same night?”
“Yeah, it does,” Hawes said. “What about Marla Phillips?”
“Why don’t you drop in and pay a visit?”
“All right,” Hawes said.
“See what a nice guy I am? I tackle the musicians union, and I leave the stripper to you.”
“You’re a married man,” Hawes said.
“And a father,” Carella added.
“And a father, that’s right.”
“If you need any help, I’ll be back at the squad.”
“What help could I possibly need?” Hawes asked.
Marla Phillips lived on the ground floor of a brownstone four blocks from The King and Queen. The name plate on the mailboxes listed a hyphenated combination of three names: Phillips-Caesar-Smith. Hawes rang the bell, waited for the responding buzz that opened the inner door, and then stepped into the hallway. The apartment was at the end of the hall. He walked to it, rang the bell set in the door jamb, and waited. The door opened almost instantly.
Marla Phillips looked at him and said, “Hey!”
He recognized her instantly, of course, and then wondered where his mind was today. He had made no connection with the name when Simms had first mentioned it.
“Aren’t you the cop who was in Mr. Tudor’s office?” Marla asked.
“That’s me,” he said.
“Sure. Cotton something. Well, come on in, Cotton. Boy, this is a surprise. I just got home a minute ago. You’re lucky you caught me. I have to leave in about ten minutes. Come in, come in. You’ll catch cold standing in the hallway.”
Hawes went into the apartment. Standing next to Marla, he realized how tall she truly was. He tried to visualize her on a runway, but the thought was staggering. He followed her into the apartment instead.
“Don’t mind the underwear all over the place,” Marla said. “I live with another girl. Taffy Smith. She’s an actress. Legit. Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you,” Hawes said.
“Too early, huh? Look, will you do me a favor?”
“Sure,” Hawes said.
“I have to call my service to see if there was anything for me while I was out. Would you feed the cat, please? The poor thing must be starved half to death.”
“The cat?”
“Yeah, he’s a Siamese, he’s wandering around here somewhere. He’ll come running into the kitchen the minute he hears you banging around out there. The cat food is under the sink. Just open up a can and put some in his bowl. And would you heat some milk for him? He can’t stand cold milk.”
“Sure,” Hawes said.
“You’re a honey,” she told him. “Go ahead now, feed him. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
She went to the telephone and Hawes went into the kitchen. As he opened the can of cat food under the watchful eyes of the Siamese who had materialized instantly, he listened to Marla in the other room.
“A Mr. Who?” she asked the telephone. “Well, I don’t know anybody by that name, but I’ll give him a ring later in the afternoon. Anyone else? Okay, thank you.”
She hung up and walked into the kitchen.
“Are you still warming the milk?” she asked. “It’ll be too hot. You’d better take it off now.” Hawes took off the saucepan and poured the milk into the bowl on the floor.
“Okay, now come with me,” Marla said. “I have to change, do you mind? I’ve got a sitting in about five minutes. I do modeling on the side. Cheesecake, you know. For the men’s magazines. I’ve got to put on some fancy lingerie. Come on, come on, please hurry. This way.”
He followed her into a bedroom that held two twin beds, a huge dresser, several chairs, and an assortment of soiled cardboard coffee containers, wooden spoons, and clothing piled haphazardly on the floor and on the top of every available surface.
“Forgive the mess,” Marla said. “My roommate is a slob.” She took off her suit jacket and threw it on the floor, slipping out of her pumps at the same time. She began pulling her blouse out of her skirt and then said, “Would you mind turning your back? I hate to be a prude, but I am.”
Hawes turned his back, wondering why Marla Phillips thought it perfectly all right to take off her clothes in a nightclub before the eyes of a hundred men, but considered it indecent to perform the same act in a bedroom before the eyes of a single man. Women, he thought, and he shrugged mentally. Behind him, he could hear the frantic swishing of cotton and silk.
“I hate garter belts,” she said. “I’m a big girl. I need something to hold me in. What’s supposed to be so damn sexy about a garter belt, anyway, would you mind telling me? What was it you wanted, Cotton?”
“Somebody told us you used to room with Bubbles Caesar. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right. Oh, goddamn it, I’ve got a run.” She pushed past him half-naked, bent over to pull a pair of stockings from the bottom drawer of the dresser, and then vanished behind his back again. “Excuse me,” she said. “What about Barbara?”
“Did she live with you?”
“Yes. Her name is still in the mailbox. There, that’s better. Whenever I’m in a hurry, I tear stockings. I don’t know what they make them out of these days. Tissue paper, I think. I’ll have to take her name out, I suppose. When I get the time. Boy, if I only had time to do all the things I want to do. What about Barbara?”
“When did she move out?”
“Oh, you know. When there was that big fuss. When Mr. Tudor reported her missing and all.”
“Around St. Valentine’s Day.”
“Yes, around that time.”
“Did she tell you she was going?”
“No.”
“Did she take her clothes with her?”
“No.”
“Her clothes are still here?”
“Yes.”
“Then she didn’t really move out, she just never showed up again.”
“Yes, but she’ll probably be back. Okay, you can turn now.”
Hawes turned. Marla was wearing a simple black dress, an off-shade of black
nylon stockings, and high-heeled black pumps. “Are my seams straight?” she asked.
“Yes, they seem perfectly straight.”
“Do you like my legs? Actually, my legs are too skinny for the rest of me.”
“They seem okay to me,” Hawes said. “What makes you think Barbara will be back?”
“I have the feeling she’s shacking up with somebody. She likes men, Barbara does. She’ll be back. I guess that’s why I really haven’t taken her name out of the mailbox.”
“These men she likes,” Hawes said. “Was Mike the drummer one of them?”
“Not that I know of. At least, she never talked about him or anything. And he never called here. Excuse me, I have to put on a new face.”
She shoved Hawes aside and sat at the counter top before the large mirror. The counter was covered with cosmetics. Among the other jars and bottles, Hawes noticed a small jar labeled Skinglow. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands.
“This yours?” he asked.
“What?” Marla turned, lipstick brush in one hand. “Oh. Yes. Mine, and Taffy’s, and Barbara’s. We all use it. It’s very good stuff. It doesn’t fade out under the lights. Sometimes, under the lights, your body looks too white, do you know? It’s all right to look white, but not ghostly. So we use the Skinglow, and it takes off the pallor. A lot of strippers and actresses use it.”
“Do you know Mike’s last name?”
“Sure. Chirapadano. It’s a beaut, isn’t it?”
“Does he have big hands?”
“All men have big hands,” Marla said.
“I mean, did you notice that his hands were unusually large?”
“I never noticed. The only thing I noticed about that band was that they all had six hands.”
“Mike included?”
“Mike included.” She turned to him. “How do I look? What time is it?”
“You look fine. It’s—” he glanced at his watch—“twelve-fifteen.”
“I’m late,” she said flatly. “Do I look sexy?”
“Yes.”
“Well, okay then.”
“Do you know any of the men Barbara saw?” Hawes asked. “Any she might run away with?”
“Well, there was one guy who called her an awful lot. Listen, I’m sorry I’m giving you this bum’s rush act, but I really have to get out of here. Why don’t you call me sometime? You’re awfully cute. Or if you’re in the neighborhood some night, drop in. She’s always serving coffee, that goddamn screwy roommate of mine.”
