by Kane, Henry
He leaned back and closed his eyes and silence pulsated loudly. Then he opened his eyes and said, “Okay.”
“One condition,” I said. “Lay off her. I’ll tell her. You don’t even communicate with her. You come to her place Friday night at nine and you either get paid or you do what the hell you like.”
“Deal,” he said. And he leaned forward again. “Just what’s your angle in this, sleuth?”
“No angle. Seems it’s human nature that every deal needs a middleman and I’m serving in that capacity.”
“She trading a little meat for your capacity?”
“I’m not interested in that meat.”
“Man, you ought to try. That chick has got some crazy ways.”
“Crazier than Astrid?”
His fingers clenched about the brim of his straw hat. “Don’t talk to me about that bitch. That’s one bitch I got to get rid of.”
“She kind of helps pay the freight, doesn’t she?”
“Look, I admit I’m a fancy-man type from way back. I got no objection about a chick what pays. I’m a taker, all right, but I produce for what I take. But that’s a bitch don’t let you move, man, and I got to move. That’s one so jealous if I applaud a girl act on a nightclub floor, later on she chews me out. That’s one bitch I got to get rid of.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Easy to say, hard to do. She’s wild, a wack; you never know how she’ll turn. You’re such a great helper, maybe I’ll call on you to help.”
“She’s called on me to help.”
“Yeah, she said she was gonna. You talk to Vinnie yet?”
“I intend to—today.”
“You’ll leave me out of it, won’t you, pal?”
“Of course.”
“You get that straightened out and then, really, I’m gonna consult with you like how to break out of that deal. She helps in the loot department but, man, she straps a guy up tight like he’s married to her. If there was a chance for marriage, maybe I’d toe the line—”
“There isn’t?”
“Not a chance. With me all she wants is action, and she pays for it, but she wants her action exclusive, and she gets wackier all the time.”
“She on the stuff, Mickey?”
“Natch. You think there’s anything she’d pass by? Maybe that makes her wackier in the exclusive department. All I got to do is just lamp a broad, just look with the eyes, and she’s at me. I have belted her once or twice but one of these days I’m really gonna tie in.”
I smiled for him. “Maybe you’re just a great man.”
“I am,” he said modestly, “but I am also a guy what’s got to move around. Since I got her, I got to sneak around. Like what do you think I’m doing here in the middle of the afternoon …?”
The ebony door opened and a vision appeared. The vision was tall and blonde and stacked with more firepower than a bastion. She had blue eyes, enormous and uptilted; a tiny flare-nostrilled nose; a ripe red mouth; thick heavy glistening hair loosely pulled back, falling curled to the shoulders, exposing small coral-like close-set ears; and withal, a clean, sweet, eager, innocent expression. She moved erect and proud and with the grace of a ballet dancer. She wore a simple white dress but she filled it intricately. She protruded, most interestingly, front and rear, coming together in a wasp-like waist encircled by a wide black patent leather belt. The dress was short, the ankles slender, the legs long, the calves rounded, and the full long curves of the thighs put a sibilant rustle to the dress as she walked. Her skin was alabaster-smooth but tawny; an unusual blonde; not pale and wan, but vibrant, golden, honey-fleshed, and electric; and she had no more effect upon me than a live grenade dropped into my lap. I stirred, but Mickey stirred faster. He leaped to his feet, touched her elbow, and whisked her out. I sat with my mouth hanging open as though my teeth did not fit.
FOUR
The ebony door opened again and Sally Avalon pranced through. I closed my mouth, but I remained seated, hugging my grenade. Sally Avalon was short, stocky, mincing, mastiff-jowled, bald, and pipe-smoking, with more swish than a satin petticoat. His name was Salvatore Avalon, his acquaintances called him Sal, and his friends called him Sally, the name which he preferred (and which suited him best). Sally was an artist of international fame; one of the few in this day of the created puppets of press agents who deserved the homage the world bestowed upon him. Sally was one of the great picture-takers of our time (a time when a picture-taker married the sister of the Queen of England) and his heart was as big and kind and good as his reputation. His caricatures (constantly drawn by skillful penman and hanging in the most unlikely places in all the capitals of the world) always featured his heavy black eyebrows. Now these eyebrows soared like birds in flight. He ripped his pipe from his mouth.
“What the hell?” he said in his delightfully high, feminine, melodious voice. “Are you a magician?”
“I am a lover,” I grieved. “Alone, bereft, frustrated, and clinging like a badly trained soldier to an unexploded grenade.”
But Sally was far too sophisticated to be discountenanced by puerile poesy. “Are you drunk?” he inquired.
“Sadly, no. Sober. But that, I intend, shall be remedied shortly.”
His eyebrows descended. “But how in all hell could you have got here so quickly?”
And now my eyebrows did the flight bit. “I got here,” I queried, “quickly?”
He put his pipe back into his mouth and regarded me solemnly. “Shall we try to make sense, if you please? Just for the nonce, of course.”
“Nonce. Nonsense. Of course we shall try. Okay, make sense.”
“I called you. On the telephone.”
“When?”
“About five minutes ago. I talked with your secretary. I asked that you be in touch with me. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“No.”
“Why are you here?”
“God sent me.”
“God sent you—to me?”
“No. To a beautiful, blue-eyed, tawny-skinned blonde, with a shape which, I’m afraid, only the devil could have contrived.”
“Do you mean Marilyn?”
“Unfortunately, I know not the name.”
“Do you mean that young lady who just left here?”
“I mean none other than that young lady.”
He chuckled, around his pipe. “She … is exactly the reason I called you.”
I rose up in all my quivering majesty and implanted a kiss upon his bald pate. “Lead me to your cubicle,” I said, “and enlighten me.”
He took me to the ebony door, goosed me on my way through (perhaps he had misunderstood my filial kiss), bypassed the studio, and led me to the small room which was his office. “Sit down,” he said.
I sat.
“Drink?” he said.
“Of course,” I said.
“What?” he said.
Dreamily I said, “Anything.”
“Scotch?” he said.
“To be sure,” I said.
“Boy, that child has really clobbered you.”
“Clobbered, my friend, is a wild understatement. I’m detonated.”
“Detonated means when a bomb goes off, or even when a pistol shoots.”
“They both fit.”
“How about—devastated?”
“Okay, have it your way. Where’s that drink?”
He produced a bottle of Scotch, water, ice, and glasses. We each mixed our own drink. “What’s her name?” I said.
“Marilyn Windsor.”
“Ah, lovely,” I said, quaffing diluted Scotch.
“She’s a new model of mine.”
“I hope you appreciate her.”
“Let’s say I appreciate my male models more.”
“You’ve done her in the nude, of course.”
“Naturally. You know that’s a practice of mine. Always, preliminary photos are in the nude.”
“Would you explain that to me, Sally? I dig it with the male mo
dels because you’re an old lecher. But why with the females?”
“You malign me, Peter. The preliminary photos are part of my art, rather than part of my private life.”
“What does it have to do with art, master?”
He was quite serious now. “First off, it gives me a command of my model, even for commercial work. My models must be plastic, patient, and subject to my every whim. If they’ll strip for preliminary photos, then, already, for me, they’re psychologically sound; that is, psychologically I have the jump on them, right from the beginning. Also, I know exactly what their bodies are like and which are likely subjects for whatever special clothes I might want them to wear, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”
“And second off?”
“My real work. My art work. A good deal of that is nude, or semi-nude; but even draped, I must know exactly the structures of the bodies I work with.”
“May I have a peek, oh master?”
He grinned. “That wouldn’t be quite professional.”
“But you said you called me because of her.”
“I did.”
“Is she going to be a client of mine?”
“I’ve recommended it.”
I turned up one palm in a gesture of supplication. “Well, I sort of like to know the structures of the bodies I work with, too.”
Sally Avalon was a great man in the repartee department and my plea sort of touched him where it tickled. The grin matured to a chuckle and he stood up.
“One photo,” he said.
“Settled,” I said.
I am a man who believes in compromise.
He went away and came back with a large glossy color print. I looked at it and moaned. “Lord,” I said. She was honey all over and not even Frank Lloyd Wright had ever dreamed up such structure. I turned it over and slapped it down on the desk as though I were retiring from a pot in poker. I did not look at it again. I did not dare.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” said Sally.
“I told you I was in love.”
He sat down. “You fall in love, and out of love quite often, don’t you?”
“It’s the cross I bear.”
“Have you ever thought of switching?”
“To what?”
“To the other gender.”
My turn to chuckle. “Always in there pitching, aren’t you? So far I’m rapturously happy—or as rapturously happy as I can be—with the female gender. However, if I ever take the turn, you get first crack. Okay, pal?”
“Okay, pal.”
“Now let’s talk about Marilyn Windsor.”
He lit his pipe, puffed. “She’s going to have a great career. She’s young, an excellent model, and new. Beautiful face, beautiful figure, and that little extra something. You know, a piquancy.”
“How new?” I said.
“About three weeks. And I’m keeping her under wraps. I’m paying her top price, fifty bucks an hour, and I’m using her every day. Later on, I’ll recommend her to the right agency, and from there on in, she’ll really go. That kid has got what it takes; everything, except, perhaps, brains.”
“How young?” I said.
“Twenty-one.”
“And what’s wrong with the brains?”
“Perhaps I’m being harsh. Naive, I suppose, would best express it. Like a child, wide-eyed and believing. And, like a child, unpredictable in reaction, and unorthodox in action. She’ll do the right thing at the wrong time, and the wrong thing at the right time, and be convinced that she’s correct both times. I’ve found her quite delightful, but quite bewildering.”
I tapped a fingernail upon the turned-down photo. “Sally, my prospective client can have the mind of a cretin and I’d still be all the way overboard.”
“As long as there’s romance lurking in back of that mind of yours, my advice is—tread carefully. You may toss her, but I’ll wager you won’t toss her by the acknowledged methods.”
“Thanks,” I said. “How’d you get to her?”
“She got to me.”
“How?”
“Astrid Lund brought her.”
“Astrid Lund!”
He sipped of highball, resumed his pipe-puffing. “The kid won a beauty prize down in Dallas, Texas. An agent spotted her and booked her with a dancing show in Los Angeles. From there it was Las Vegas as a show girl. There, Astrid spotted her, and felt that she just wasn’t the type, that she was wasting her time. You know Astrid. She just naturally gravitates toward young people. She talked to the girl and told her to come to New York, that here in New York, she, Astrid, would help her. The girl arrived about a month ago, and Astrid brought her to me.”
“And now,” I said. “What’s her problem?”
“Actually, the naïvete. Doing the wrong thing, which, out of sheer ignorance and unsophistication, she thought to be the right thing, and which has now been discovered to be the wrong thing.”
“That’s great as a conundrum, Sally. But now let’s have it kind of right side up.”
To my relief, he finally laid aside the pipe. “You know Kiki Kalmar?”
“That’s not a bad-looker herself.”
“Too coarse for my taste, although I’ve used her on occasion, when she fit. Anyway, Kiki’s in town and dancing at a club in the Village called Cafe Tottila.”
“I know,” I said.
“Of course, Roy Paxton haunts the place. Couple of weeks ago, Paxton had a friend in town, fella from the West Coast, just a two-day stay. Paxton called Astrid to ask whether she knew a cute girl as a date for his friend. Astrid called Marilyn, and then they made a party of it for the evening—Astrid, Mickey Bokino, Marilyn and the West Coast fella, Paxton, and Kiki when she was not performing. Fella from the West Coast turned out to be a mild old guy but Mickey flipped his wig when he saw Marilyn.”
I shook my head. “You’d figure that Astrid would have more sense than to expose him to that one.”
“I sometimes think she does these things just to see how firm a hold she has on him.”
“So?” I said.
“The next day Bokino called Marilyn for a date. She went out with him. I trust you now understand what I mean about naïvete.”
“I understand.”
“Bokino is pretty sharp. He told the kid not to mention the fact that he was seeing her to Astrid. He told her that he was only a casual acquaintance of Astrid, but that she had an old-woman crush on him, was a bother to him, and was awfully jealous. And then he started rushing her, day after day, night after night, any time he could get away from Astrid.”
“And you knew about this? And you let her?”
“I didn’t know about it, not any of it—until this very day.”
“You mean she told you?”
“Yes, finally, today, after we were through working.”
“And what caused this confession?”
“Fear. It had finally begun to seep through to her that this was a wicked, ignorant, loathsome animal.”
“You mean he made his move?”
“According to her, he did not, and I believe her. Even the Bokino’s of this world know when, where, and with whom to tread softly.”
“Then how did she know?”
“From his talk, his manner, his attitude, his boasting when he was high on the stuff, or drunk on whiskey. He even propositioned her on taking a shot.”
“Of what?”
“Heroin.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes. I think that’s what finally triggered her telling me. We discussed it quite thoroughly. I informed her of his status with Astrid, and I also told her what a dreadfully dangerous man he could be. The poor kid was finally scared out of her wits. It was sort of a council of war; she had to adjust herself to an attitude—because he was calling for her.”
“Yes. I saw him.”
“I am, of course, completely inadequate in matters of this sort. She suggested that perhaps she should call Astrid and tell her. I agreed, but I suddenly bethought myself
of the possible punishment he might mete out in return. I was utterly confused—and then I bethought myself of you. Of course, you were the man for this. I told her about you, described you in the most glowing terms.”
“I shall be forever grateful,” I said. “When do I see her?”
“Tomorrow.”
Crossly I said, “Why the inordinate delay?”
His jowls shook as he chuckled. “I’m sure it will keep. I instructed her to comport herself with him exactly as always; that is, until she had your advice and you got behind her.”
“Oh, I’ll get behind her, Sal. Firmly.”
“You can handle this, Peter, can’t you?”
“Are you kidding? That guy’s a lead-pipe cinch. A wrap-up. But why couldn’t I have seen her today?”
“Because I’m going to see her today. I have sort of a brotherly—or would you say, sisterly—affection for her. I’m taking her to a cocktail party and dinner up in Scarsdale. Now, your appointment with her is at two o’clock tomorrow at her apartment.”
“And where would that be?”
He wrote her name, address, and phone number on a small sheet of paper. I folded the sheet reverently and placed it in my pocket.
“And now, if you please,” he said, “how did you get here so quickly after my call to your office?”
“I didn’t come in reply to your call. I had some business with Bokino, went to his office, was told he’d be here, and came here.”
He sighed. “Explanations take all the mystery out of life, and all the magic, don’t they?”
I looked at my watch. I said, “May I use your phone?”
“I take it you are terminating this delightful discussion.”
“I’ve got work to do.”
“So have I, as a matter of fact.” He pointed a delicate finger at an ivory phone. “Use away, my friend.”
I called Beverly Crystal, who responded quickly. “Chambers, here,” I said. “Okay on that postponement. You’ve got until Friday night at nine. He won’t bother you until then.”
