Death of a Hooker

by Kane, Henry

  “Deal,” I said. “Pitch.”

  “She was sure she could pay in two months. Right?”

  “Right?”

  “You know why?”

  “I want to know why.”

  “Because she made a deal for the old lady to be croaked, that’s why.”

  “With whom?”

  “First she propositioned me. I didn’t go for it. If I was a knocker-offer, I wouldn’t be working like General Manager. No?”

  “So?”

  “I didn’t go for it. I passed.”

  “So?”

  “Someone else took the deal. Promised the old lady would be dead by two months.”

  “Who?”

  “On the strength of that, she made her deal to pay off Vinnie with the extra interest.”

  “Who?” I said.

  “She gave him a note for a hundred and fifty gees. With the old lady dead, that note is good, Vinnie gets paid, she winds up with zillions, and everybody’s happy.”

  “Who?” I said.

  “Roy Paxton.”

  Maybe he was telling the truth, maybe he was not Maybe he was telling the truth; maybe he was fiddling the music so I could dance until he cleaned up his dirt with Vinnie. Juan Fernandez had described a murderer as tall, dark, nice-looking. Mickey Bokino was tall, dark, nice-looking. Vinnie Veneto was tall, dark, nice-looking.

  But so was Roy Paxton: tall, dark, nice-looking.

  NINE

  On my way down to Berger, Berger and Fenwick, 40 Wall Street, I picked up an afternoon paper and glared back at the glaring headline of NO BREAK IN LUND MURDER. I read the story which stated that Mrs. Barbara Lund had been brutally murdered, that Mr. Juan Fernandez had been brutally wounded in the left arm, that Mr. Juan Fernandez was in the hospital in serious condition, and that Mrs. Barbara Lund, through her attorney, Roy Paxton, had recently (and secretly, but secret no more) disposed of her stables to that sporting millionaire, Mr. Richard Huntington Rockson, for an undisclosed sum, transfer of title effective as of the first day of October; the sale, of course, included that sweet hunk of redoubtable horseflesh named King Fleet, and then the reporter left off the murder and entered, in typically American enthusiasm, upon a recital of the wondrous feats of King Fleet and how, time and again, seeming hopelessly beaten as he dawdled many lengths behind in the backstretch, he picked up speed at the turn, ate up ground in the stretch, and nipped the very best of his opponents by a nose at the wire. So goes it in the second half of the twentieth century in the United States of America. Athletic attainment—even the athletic attainment of a horse (let alone the popping of little white balls into innocent holes by means of adroitly swung bulb-footed clubs)—rates top priority in news reports. King Fleet, dear beast, received, in life, more newspaper space than Mrs. Barbara Lund, dear departed lady, received in death, despite the fact that the story was her story and that the manner of her decease was, in the most conservative terminology, sensational.

  I alighted from my taxicab, carefully deposited my newspaper into a wicker basket municipally supplied, and hastened, squired by a Brooks-attired lad, unto the inner sanctum of Oscar Berger, which was a cooly pine-paneled room with an efficient grey-steel desk and an efficient grey-steel swivel chair and efficient grey-steel furniture and appurtenances. That goddamned room was as efficiently comfortable as a prison cell, but Oscar Berger was an investment counselor, and how much creative imagination in decor can you expect from an investment counselor? Is it not sufficient that his wonderfully peculiar bent can multiply money out of money and multiply more out of that?

  “Damn,” said Oscar Berger, perched like a pigeon in his efficient grey-steel swivel chair, “how do you like that Lund thing, huh? Wild, no?” He was a tiny man with a barrel chest, large teeth, an unexpectedly booming voice, and a faint mustache at which he constantly stroked, grandiosely, as though it were not a faint mustache but a gorgeously hirsute handle-barred mustachio.

  “Just terrible,” I murmured despondently.

  He had bright little eyes like a weasel and they glimmered now, knowingly. “That why you here, Peter? I mean, you’re working on it?”

  “Confidentially,” I murmured despondently but also, as best I could, cloak-and-daggerishly.

  “I see,” he said and pulled a forefinger along his faint mustache in the grand manner. Why is it that investment counselors are generally total idiots in all other matters except that one most important horrible matter—making money?

  “Confidential,” I repeated, sagging into an efficient steel chair. “May I ask a few questions, Ozzie? But confidential.”

  “Naturally, confidential,” he said.

  “How much dough did the old lady leave?”

  His big teeth showed in a smile that would have done credit to King Fleet. “That one is easy. The police have already been here and asked that very same question. Fifteen, sixteen million; maybe more.”

  “What about the daughter-in-law? Astrid? She have any loot?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You know that the old lady left a will?”

  “Of course.”

  “Now what about Astrid?”

  “What about Astrid, Peter?”

  “Has she made a will? Do you know?”

  “I know. She has not made a will. Why should she? She had no estate to devise.”

  “Okay,” I said mildly. “I’m just asking. I’m trying to cover every angle.”

  “Very interesting,” he said, moving forward in his efficient swivel chair. “I get a kick out of this.”

  “You mean the death by murder of a sick old lady?”

  “No, no,” he said reproachfully. “I mean this sort of interrogation. You got any theory?”

  “No. You?”

  “The work of a degenerate,” he said. “No question. A psychologically unsound person. Who else? A sex maniac. Don’t you agree?”

  “I do,” I said. “Now, Oz, we’ve got the old lady out of the way, and the daughter-in-law out of the way—what about the lawyer, this Roy Paxton—how’s he fixed in the loot department?”

  “Bad,” said Oscar Berger.

  “How bad?”

  “Alimony has been cutting in; you know, he’s had two wives. Also he won’t listen to sound advice. All his flyers have gone sour. That lad doesn’t have a nickel of his own; and he’s a chap who admires living high off the hog.”

  “What do you mean by bad in the loot department?”

  “I said he doesn’t have one solitary nickel of his own, didn’t I?”

  “You said,” I said, “but how do you know?”

  He studied me for a moment. “Confidential?” he said.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said.

  “Well, sir, the boy owes me ten thousand dollars.”

  That pushed me forward to the edge of my efficient chair. “How long has this been going on?” I inquired.

  “Not too long.”

  “How long?”

  “A few weeks.”

  I leaned back. “Now, Oz, I know you. You’re a business man. You’re not going to lend a no-loot guy ten thousand bucks just because he’s tall, dark, and handsome. So how come?”

  “He needed money. He’s somewhat of a friend, and he is a client, and he had rather good collateral.”

  “Like what?” I said.

  Oscar Berger smiled his horse-smile and twirled at an imaginary tuft end of mustache. “He negotiated a note. For a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I took it over as collateral for my comparatively small loan to him.”

  “A note,” I said, “from whom to whom?”

  “From Astrid Lund to Roy Paxton.”

  “For a hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

  “That’s right.”

  “For what?”

  “For services rendered. He’s her lawyer, you know.”

  “But if Astrid Lund, as you told me, had no money, what good as collateral is a note of hers?”

  “Peter, dear boy, as you sa
id, I’m a businessman—and you are not. There was consideration for my loan to Paxton, an excellent bonus.”

  “What good—if the collateral is worthless.”

  “Not worthless, lad. I knew that Astrid was the major beneficiary of the old lady’s will. I knew that the old lady was fatally ill. How long could she last? So Astrid Lund’s note, as collateral, wasn’t half bad. As it happens, in the light of what has happened, right now, it’s perfect. Roy Paxton is practically in possession of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars since Astrid Lund is practically in possession of millions.”

  “May I see that note, Oscar?”

  “Confidential?” he said.

  “But of course,” I said.

  He touched a steel button on the steel desk and a secretary in steel-rimmed eyeglasses entered and said, “Yes, Mr. Berger?”

  “Miss Battle,” he said, “would you kindly get the Paxton file from my safe, please?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Berger,” she said and turned and went out.

  “Big hips, that one,” I said.

  “But nearsighted,” he said.

  “You go to bed with her?”

  “I go to bed with all my secretaries.”

  “They must all be nearsighted.”

  “Ha, ha,” he said. “Each to his own. You’re a Romeo-type. Me? It’s secretaries. They do or they’re fired. And the salary they get takes all into consideration. I’m entitled, believe me.”

  “Oscar, the businessman,” I said.

  “Ha, ha,” he said.

  Miss Battle returned with the file. I took more notice of her. She wasn’t half bad behind those steel spectacles. She laid the file on the desk, turned and retired. Oscar Berger kept his eyes upon the oscillating buttocks until they disappeared from view, sighed, licked his lips, stroked his mustache, opened the file, drew out two notes, and extended them to me. I rose and accepted them. One was a note from Roy Paxton to Oscar Berger in the amount of twelve thousand dollars.

  I said, “Didn’t you say ten thousand?”

  “Correct,” he said.

  “Says here twelve thousand.”

  “Correct,” he said.

  “Like the additional two thousand is the bonus?”

  “Correct,” he said.

  “You and Vinnie Veneto,” I said.

  “Who is Vinnie Veneto?” he said.

  “Skip it,” I said.

  The other note was On Demand from Astrid Lund to Roy Paxton in the sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The reverse side bore the handwritten scrawl: Collateral for twelve thousand dollar loan from Mr. Oscar Berger. Beneath that was the signature: Roy Paxton.

  I returned the notes, said, “Thank you, goodbye.”

  “What? No more questions?”

  “No more questions.”

  He teased. “Not even one lousy little last one?”

  “Well, okay,” I said. “Shoot,” he said.

  “Did you ever get the clap from one of those steel-rimmed secretaries of yours?”

  “Yes,” he said, “as a matter of fact, I did.”

  “Did you give her two-weeks severance pay?”

  “Meaning?” he said.

  “Meaning,” I said, “when you fired her.”

  “You too can be wrong,” he said. “I didn’t fire her—I married her. Three cheers for the twenty-four hour cure. Three cheers for penicillin. Hip-hip, hooray! Hip-hip, hooray! Hip-hip—”

  On the last hip-hip, I bolted.

  Such are the doleful goings-on in the staid offices of your stuffy investment counselors, the fellers to whom you turn over your pelf to make it multiply. And the poor private eyes get the criticism. As do casting directors. As do the theatrical agents. As do the movie producers. As do the TV producers. Ah. Ah, me. All that is writ is not on water. Look closer, my brethern. Look upon yourselves.

  I sailed into my office and started to sail past my secretary but she stopped me. No need for worry about sway-hips anent my secretary. My secretary could not sway her hips if she tried. My secretary’s ample hips were encased in the square rigging of an adamant corset that permitted no sway, no wriggle, no wiggle; hardly permitted a deep breath. My secretary was old, wrinkled, sour, dour, and very dear. My secretary was short, fat, ancient, loyal, and lovable. My secretary lifted shaggy-dog eyebrows, shook unapproving jowls, and intoned: “And where the hell do you think you are going, kind sir?”

  “To my office,” I said, “if it please your majesty.”

  “It does not please my majesty.”

  “So drop dead, kindly, if you please,” I said.

  “You first,” she said, “but you’re not going in.”

  “Wow,” I said. “I just came from an office where the boss gives the orders.”

  “Maybe that’s where you came from,” she said. “Now you’re here.”

  “And why can’t I go to my office?” I said.

  “You have a customer,” she said.

  I glanced about the waiting room. “I don’t see any customer,” I said.

  “The customer is in your office.”

  “And what am I supposed to do—sit out here in the waiting room?”

  “It’s a special-type customer, sweet sleuth.”

  “No customer is that special type.”

  “Correction. This one is.”

  “No one is,” I said. “Who’s so special?”

  “Detective-lieutenant Louis Parker of Homicide. Special?”

  “Special,” I acknowledged and grabbed her jowls and kissed her eyebrows while she spluttered and fought and hugged me all the while.

  TEN

  Detective-lieutenant Louis Parker, Homicide, New York City, was short, stout, ruddy, beetle-browed, and black-haired. Detective-lieutenant Louis Parker, Homicide, New York City, was all cop in the true tradition of what cop should be: fair, honorable, stern, compassionate, dogged, patient, wise but not cynical; his work was as a religion to him, and he was as incorruptible as a dedicated clergyman.

  I do not have many friends. Louis Parker was a friend.

  Detective-lieutenant Parker, seated behind my desk, was comfortably chewing upon the truncated remains of a fat cigar.

  “May I come in?” I inquired.

  Amiably, he grinned. “Please do.”

  “Are you Mr. Chambers?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “I’m Detective-lieutenant Parker,” I said.

  “A cop?” he said. “Phew.”

  So we laughed, and I sat down on the customers’ side of the desk, and I said, “What brings you, Louie?”

  “I was passing through on my way up to the St. Moritz Hotel. Figured I’d drop in. Your wonderful Miranda outside said you’d either be calling in shortly, or coming in. Figured I’d hang around a while.”

  “Pleasure visit or business visit?”

  “A bit of both, my boy. It’s always a pleasure to see you, business or no.”

  “Is this on the Lund thing, perchance?”

  “Yes, perchance. I’m the fella in charge.”

  “Good. I’m glad.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I knew the old lady, and I liked her, and I’d like to see this thing cleaned up quickly, and you’re the guy for that because you’re the best in the business.”

  “Thank you. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Because you’re the best in the business?”

  “Because you knew the old lady.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Are you tickling around on this matter, Pete?”

  “Now what makes you ask that?”

  “I know you, my boy. You just said that you knew the old lady and that you liked her. You’re in the business yourself. Figures you’d be tickling around a bit on your own. Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come up with anything?”

  “Nothing that you should know—yet.”

  He put fire to the remnant of his cigar, half closed his eyes, smiled. “You will keep me
in mind, won’t you?”

  “Louie, pal of my heart, you know how I work. I’m not a stoolie. I don’t throw people to cops on some flimsy evidence that I might pick up. Cops can be rough on people. Every cop isn’t Louie Parker.” I shrugged. “I respect your integrity, pal, and I think you respect mine. When and if I really come up with something….”

  He nodded. “I know. Okay. Change of subject. I read your statement. What were you doing there that evening, Pete?”

  “I had to see Mrs. Lund, the younger. Astrid Lund.”

  “Should I know what about?”

  “She’d have to tell you that, Louie.”

  “She told me that she owed you three hundred dollars for some work you’d done for her and you came there that evening to collect. Will you corroborate that?”

  “It’s true, as far as it goes.”

  “Should it go further?”

  “Not for the time being, please.”

  “And then as you were going down in the elevator, you heard the shots?”

  “Yes, that’s right. And down there in the lobby, there was the old lady dead, and Fernandez coming up to his feet. Real professional-type thing, huh?”

  “Not quite, I don’t think.”

  “Come again, Louie.”

  “Not quite professional, Peter. Professional is the way Anastasia got it in that barber shop—two cool hombres wearing masks, pumping him full of bullets, and not a witness in the world to see their faces and be able to identify them. Those were skilled professional killers. And professional, of another type, was the way Little Augie got it in his car out in Queens. First a call to that restaurant to set him up, and then he’s dead in his car—he and his woman companion. No witness left, that’s professional. And professional was the way Scalise got it in that vegetable store up on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx. A staked-out plant, two skilled assassins, four bullets, a dead Scalise, a getaway car, and no witnesses. Any time we have any line on it, a professional job has two assassins, and there’s never a living witness. That’s professional.”

  “And the attempt on Frank Costello?” I said slightly sarcastic.

  “Nobody in the Department thinks that was a professional attempt. That was a little-time hood trying to make a rep as a big-time man. Notice, it was a single individual. Notice, the guy said, ‘This is for you, Frank,’ which gave Costello time to turn and duck. And notice, also, that a doorman, who saw the incident, was not killed. All of these facts came out at the trial of the guy accused, a kid named Vincent Gigante, who, by the way, defended by a smart lawyer named Maurice Edelbaum, was acquitted.” Parker chewed on his cigar. “There’s a good deal of similarity between that case and this one. Both were in the lobby of a large apartment house, Costello’s on Central Park West; both were late evening affairs; both left alive a doorman who could serve as witness; but neither, in my opinion, was quite a professional affair. Am I making sense, Peter-boy?”