Death of a Hooker

by Kane, Henry

  It was, finally, beginning to come to me. We all have our weaknesses and Beverly Crystal, hard and cool in many other respects, was soft and hot in the matter of compulsive gambling, and her need for dabbling with horses was as urgent as the need of the men who dabbled with her—and more expensive. If not for her neurotic compulsion for gaming, Beverly Crystal would have been a rich woman—she earned a lot and in her business there is no tax bite—and she would have been in a position to lend money to the likes of Mickey Bokino rather than borrow from the likes of such. But we all have our weaknesses, patent or hidden, and which of us dares cast the first stone?

  “How much did you go for?” I said.

  “Guess,” she said.

  “The bundle,” I said.

  “I started making fifty dollar bets, and then a hundred, and then a couple of hundred to get even, and then more, and more, and more. You know how it goes.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “I was scared two ways. Scared of Bokino and scared that I was running out of dough that could earn me a lot more dough. If I bet the favorite, the dog won; and if I bet the dog, the favorite hits the wire in a canter.”

  “How much do you have left?”

  “Nothing,” she said. She stood up. She glanced at her highball and rejected it. She went to the antique cabinet, poured sour-mash sipping whiskey into a shot glass, but she did not sip, she gulped. She poured again, gulped again, laid away the shot glass. “It’s a mess but I can get out of it,” she said, “and you’ve got to help me. Please. I’m begging.”

  “Mickey’s been pressing?”

  “But pressing, brother!”

  “Threats?”

  “First a little bit, but real now, and I’m scared right down deep to the belly. Last night was last call. He came here and laid it on the line. Unless he gets paid by nine o’clock tonight, in full, he doesn’t ask again. After that I can expect acid in the face, enough to wreck me, and if a plastic job fixes it, I’ll get acid again. You know Bokino, he’s a crazy junkie, and when he makes threats, he doesn’t kid. And you know that organization. They’d catch up with me no matter where I’d run.”

  I stood up and started walking around. “And what can I do for you?”

  “Two things. First I want you to go to Bokino and ask him for a three-day postponement. That’s all. A three-day layoff. He gets paid in full Friday night at nine o’clock. I’m sure you can swing that for me. Can’t you?”

  “Yes, I think so. And what’s the other thing?”

  “I want you to lend me six thousand dollars.”

  “What?” I stopped walking around. “I beg your pardon?” I said.

  “Six thousand dollars.”

  “Me?” I said.

  “Please,” she said.

  “Why me? You’ve got a million friends.”

  “Sure, until you need loot, emergency loot, and then suddenly you’ve got no friends. I’ve been asking and I’ve been getting polite answers which all add up to the old run-around. Everybody stalls. Nobody’s come up with a dime.”

  “What about Dunbar?”

  “He scraped himself clean to get up the thirty gees.”

  “But that horse-buying deal is off, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he get back his thirty thousand from Paxton?”

  “Yes.”

  “So?”

  “Most of it wasn’t his and he gave that back where he borrowed it from.”

  “But some of it was his, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “So?”

  “He needs it. All of it. For the same reason I need your six thousand.”

  “And what reason is that?”

  “I … I can’t tell you. I’m not allowed.” She came to me. “Pete, please,” she said, “you’ll get paid Friday night; same time Mickey Bokino gets paid. It can’t fail. It’s a sure-pop. And, man, you’ll be doing me the best turn of my life. Please. I’m begging.”

  “How soon do you need it?”

  “By Friday noon.”

  I moved away from her, started walking again, and stopped at the door. “Friday noon and you return it by Friday night plus you return thirty thousand to Bokino the same night?” It was puzzling but then an idea thudded through my mind and skidded to a stop. I practiced at being a detective. I watched her as I said, “King Fleet is running at Belmont on Friday.”

  It hit. Somewhere. Like a pebble dropped into a well. I knew it hit, somewhere, but I didn’t know where.

  “But sweetie,” I said. “What good can six thousand do you? That’s going to be a four-horse race, practically a walkover, and the King will be odds-on.”

  “Please … please don’t ask me.”

  “What about The Dancer?” I ventured.

  “What about The Dancer?”

  “Why don’t you borrow from him?”

  “Because he doesn’t have a quarter, that’s why. He’s a lad that’s always shooting high, but he’s never gunned it down big. Not yet. He will. Someday. But not yet.” She came to me and put her arms around my neck and pressed her body to mine. Her breasts were like cannonballs and she squirmed. Whisperingly she implored, “Please, please, I’m begging you.”

  She knew her business. I was upset.

  “Lay off,” I said.

  “What’s the matter?” she whispered.

  “Stop wriggling.”

  “I’m not wriggling.”

  She wasn’t. Only one isolated part of her was, and that was wriggling where it could do the most damage. I lifted my elbows and broke out of our strange dance. She stood alone, wrists limp and eyes filled with tears, and for a moment I was sorry for her. She had used up the only ammunition in her arsenal and she had not brought down her quarry. “Please, please,” she said quite simply.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said and turned the knob of the door.

  “Where you going?”

  “Bokino. Remember him?”

  “Thank you. And, please, the other thing?”

  “I’ll be in touch with you.”

  “Before Friday noon?”

  “Before Friday noon.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  In the modern living room, the jockey and The Dancer, fresh highballs in hand, were smiling amiably. The Dancer said, “Earl has been telling me some nice things about you, Pete-boy.”

  “To you,” I said, “I’m not Pete-boy.”

  He shifted his glass to his left hand and extended his right.

  “Shake, fink,” he said. “I may be able to throw you some business some day.”

  “Declined,” I said, “in advance.”

  “That’ll be the day—when a fink turns down a crumb of bread.”

  “Good-bye, Bev,” I said.

  “Shake,” commanded The Dancer. “All is forgiven, Mr. Fink.”

  “Look, die or something, will you! You’re bothering me!”

  That hit The Dancer in his dander. He flung the glass at me. I ducked but I had had it. My left hand turned into a fist around his tie and I pulled him to me. I smacked and back-smacked with an open right hand, closed the hand, and shot a short one to his chin. I released the tie and I was ready to make my graceful bow of adieu but the handsome bugger was stronger than I had thought. He was on his feet and the feet were moving. He came at me in a rush. My left was out to parry but he hit where I had no left to parry. His hands moved wildly which covered the thump of his knee to my groin. I bent double in a bow of anguish which was not at all akin to my intended bow of adieu. As I came up from my enforced crouch, I saw Earl Dunbar hurtling through the air, landing upon The Dancer, and clinging like a monkey to his back. Meanwhile Beverly was pulling at me and in my pain I permitted myself to be led and when I straightened up I was in the foyer and she was pleading with me.

  “Please, Pete, please, no more, no more. I got troubles enough. I don’t need a raid. I don’t need cops. I got troubles enough without cops.”

  “Yeah.” I grun
ted. “Yeah, I suppose you have.”

  “Good boy,” she said, pulling me toward the door.

  And from the living room came the wail of The Dancer redolent of Gertrude Stein: “A fink is a fink is a punk is a punk, yellow like a dog, a dirty yellow dog….”

  I strained for the living room but she hung to me like ivy.

  “Please, no, please, no,” she said. “You got more brains than that.”

  “Yeah, brains,” I said intelligently as I stopped for breath.

  “Please, now, I beg you, get the hell out of here.”

  Right is right and she was right, as right as rain, whatever that may mean. I brushed her off and I got the hell out of there.

  THREE

  Noisy as a garbage-grinding truck at dawn, noisy as a drunk at curfew, noisy as a spiteful baby, noisy as a million leaky faucets, noisy as a shrew attached to benzedrine, New York at noon is Bedlam at its wildest, and I sat small in the deepest, dimmest recess of my cab which stuttered, stalled, and spluttered through the traffic-infested streets. Occasionally I peeked out upon the huge buildings belching forth their steady streams of hungry humans with empty stomachs rushing to be filled; but mostly I crouched in my corner and glared at the meter which registered more waiting-time than riding-time. New York by day is not my dish. My preference is for night when the pace is slower and the lights lower and these selfsame blowzy frowzy lousy creatures tilting at the cafeterias are transformed, as though by the special magic of night, into charming and unhurried ladies and gentlemen, beautifully clothed, selecting the proper wine and the fork for the proper food whilst exchanging scintillating dialogue peppered with philosophical nuggets of wisdom, or so it seems.

  I was on my way to Gotham Loan and at length I arrived at 500 Fifth Avenue, was discharged from my cab, propelled through revolving doors, swept along a marble lobby, squirted into a crowded elevator, expelled at the fourth floor (all of which was Gotham Loan), and there I exhaustedly asked a bored receptionist who looked upon me as though she could not care less, “Would you tell Mr. Bokino that Mr. Chambers would like to see him?”

  “I would—”

  “Thank you.”

  “—except he’s not in.”

  “Not in?”

  “Out for lunch,” she said.

  “His secretary?” I said.

  “She’s here. What was the name again?”

  “Chambers.”

  “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Chambers?”

  I sat while she pushed a plug into her board and conferred into her mouthpiece.

  Gotham Loan on Fifth, like all the other branch offices, was done in the solemn decor befitting a worthy and prosperous enterprise dealing in high and low finance, cash, collateral, conditional sales, and co-makers. Beyond the reception foyer was a vast room honeycombed by glass-encased cubbyholes where interviewers interviewed interviewees and where checks were cashed and small loans consummated. Then there were the three offices of the three Assistant Managers (every branch office of Gotham Loan Association had three Assistant Managers). Each Assistant Manager in every office of Gotham Loan was a fine, upright, well-bred college graduate, and these Assistant Managers handled the legitimate loans of consequence. Then there was the General Manager, who handled the illegitimate loans all of which were of consequence. The General Manager was of a completely different breed from the Assistant Managers, as were his customers. Thus the legal facade and the illegal interior of an intricate loan shark business owned and operated by Vinnie Veneto and but one of many of his interesting commercial exploits. Mickey Bokino was General Manager of the Fifth Avenue office.

  A door opened and Miss Sara Evans, Bokino’s secretary, came through and said, “Hello, Mr. Chambers.” Miss Sara Evans was bespectacled, short, prim, plain, and plump (Veneto knew better than to supply Bokino with an attractive secretary).

  “Hi,” I said. “The girl tells me the boss is out to lunch.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Miss Evans.

  “Do you have any idea where he’s eating? It’s important.”

  She came close to me. She said softly, “Really important, Mr. Chambers?”

  “It could be a matter of life and death,” I said, and I was not lying.

  She nodded, understandingly. She said, in her soft, prim voice, “He didn’t go directly to lunch. I believe, if you hurry, you can catch him at the Avalon Studios.”

  I felt my eyebrows come together. “Is he having his picture taken?”

  “I have no idea. You know Mr. Bokino. Mr. Bokino is unpredictable. He said that there was where he would be, from approximately twelve to one, if anybody important inquired.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “for considering me important.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said.

  I walked. Avalon Studios was between Lexington and Third and walking was most expedient at that hour in traffic-choked New York unless you could commandeer a helicopter. Avalon Studios was one individual—Sally Avalon—by far the most important and most successful photographer in the City of New York, which means in all of the United States. I knew that Mickey Bokino was a vain man, but how vain can you get, sitting for a portrait by Sally Avalon, at Sally Avalon’s excruciating prices? I was wrong (as too damned often I am). Mickey Bokino was not sitting for a portrait. Mickey Bokino was sitting alone—as I entered the lush, plush, silent, photo-festooned waiting room—in a high-backed teakwood armchair. Mickey was resplendent in tan mohair, brown shoes, brown tie, tan shirt, and his cocoa-brown snap brim straw hat was making nervous circles in his lap. His jaw was freshly shaved, each black hair of his head was combed into place, and he fairly stank of buoyant masculine perfume. His chin jutted, and a questioning grimace grew around his eyes, when he saw me.

  “What the hell,” he said, “are you doing here?”

  “Ask that question like you’re looking in a mirror,” I said.

  “Me?” Strong square teeth were displayed in a grin best described as wry. He pointed to a gold-knobbed ebony door which divided the waiting room from the studio proper. “I’m waiting for somebody.”

  “Oh,” I said and sat down near him.

  “You come to see Sal?” he said.

  “I come to see you,” I said.

  The eyes tightened in the grimace. “I got an office, pal.”

  “The office told me you were here.”

  “I told the office only important.”

  “It’s important,” I said.

  He lifted his hat and crossed his legs. “What?” he said.

  “Beverly Crystal,” I said.

  “Don’t talk to me about that hooker bastard. Go be nice to people. Did she tell you?”

  “She told me.”

  “Go be nice to people. That bitch has now got me locked in a jam like it shouldn’t happen to a dog.”

  “I’m trying to unlock it. For both of you.”

  “Like how?” he said. “Like three days,” I said.

  “What does it mean three days?” he said.

  “You gave her until tonight, nine o’clock.”

  “You bet I did, the hooker bitch.”

  “I’m asking for a postponement. Three days. Until nine o’clock Friday night.”

  The chin jutted again. The grimace faded, replaced by a questioning expression. “You going to make good for her, pal? Or you representing somebody that wants to make good?”

  “No. To both questions.”

  “Then what’s with the bull?”

  “Three days,” I said. “She’s got an angle going. If you give her three days, she may put it over.”

  “Yeah. Put it over. I’ve been getting that bunk for weeks now. The only one it’s got put over on, so far, is me.”

  I switched the tack. “Mickey,” I said, “you’re no putz.”

  “The way things has been going, I certainly am.”

  “But you’re not, really. You’re a pretty smart apple.”

  “Flattery will get you somewhere, pal. What’s with thi
s new bit?”

  “Acid in the face doesn’t produce thirty gees.”

  “But it produces satisfaction, pal. That crumb of a bitch soft-talked me into one big mistake, brother, but one big mistake. Okay, if I made a mistake, she made a bigger mistake, and when that pretty face gets scarred up, she’ll carry her mistake around for the rest of her life.”

  “And what’ll you be carrying around, Mickey, except a lot of lead and not even a fancy funeral?”

  “That’s enough of that, peeper.”

  “Let’s be sensible, Mick. Do you want your thirty gees or do you want her with a scarred face?”

  “Thirty gees.”

  “Must it be by tonight?”

  “There’s always a line that’s got to be drawn, sooner or later. This one is more later than sooner, believe you me, pal.”

  “But is it vital?”

  “What’s—vital?”

  “Is it absolutely necessary that you have that dough by nine o’clock tonight?”

  He shrugged heavy shoulders. “Well … no … not absolute. But you know Vinnie. He’s liable to shoot in auditors in any office at any time. The Fifth Avenue office is about due, which shoves me up to the neck in jam.”

  “Must it be paid by tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Friday night okay?”

  “If there’s a chance….”

  “I think there’s a chance, Mickey, or I wouldn’t be here talking to you. You put acid on her face and you’ve got satisfaction but you’re still stuck neck-deep in the same jam. You give me the word that it’s okay until Friday night and the whole jam may dissolve and everybody winds up friends again.”

  Dark eyes narrowed and regarded me quizzically. “Do you really think she’s on to something, peeper?”

  “Yes, I do. Let’s put it this way. I think that acid threat has convinced her and she’s scared right to the marrow. I think she wants to pay, and I think she’s trying, and I think she thinks she has a chance. I also think you’ve got nothing to lose, and I think you’d be awfully stupid to be stubborn. All she’s asking is until Friday night; after that, you can make whatever move you like.”