Death of a Hooker

by Kane, Henry

  “Good boy,” I said.

  “Then we called you, and called you, and called you, and now you’re here, and I must say you’re in a most peculiar mood. That’s it.” He took back his handkerchief from Marilyn, sat down again, and pouted.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said. “I’ll take care of all of it. I promise you that guy’ll never go near you again.”

  “Please don’t do anything … bad,” said Marilyn.

  “Honey,” I said, “this is a personal matter with me. I’ll do what I have to do. But you don’t have to worry about Bokino any more, that I promise you.”

  “Please … nothing … nothing really bad,” said Marilyn.

  “Not much,” I said. And once again I tried out my newfound malevolent magic. Grimly I intoned, “I can’t wait to get my hands on the guy….”

  “No!” Her blue eyes gleamed and her face wore an irresistible expression which was a combination of fright and mischief and passion, and she half-rose from her chair, but Sally rose all the way from his, and she sank back. Sally removed his powder-blue jacket and hung it away, pulled down the knot of his tie, and opened his shirt.

  “Are you staying?” I said and hoped that disappointment did not despoil my bell-like baritone. What with the booze on its way and my possession of the mystical key, I was planning upon an exquisite afternoon, but my plans did not include Sally Avalon; my plans included no one but Marilyn Windsor and me, but exquisitely.

  “Of course I’m staying,” said Sally. “You don’t think I’d leave this child, now, in these circumstances.”

  “Naturally not, naturally, naturally.” I stood up and got rid of all sorts of impedimenta: a torn dress, torn undergarments, a gone-out butt, an empty bottle of Coke.

  “I can’t say that you’ve been very efficient, Peter,” said Sally.

  “Now what the hell!”

  “Please don’t swear,” said dear demure Marilyn, flitting back to form, pulling together the skirt of her housecoat, covering her knees.

  “Beg pardon,” I said, meek as milk. Sally himself had warned me that none of the usual lines would land this chick but I knew now, intuitively but solidly, that I had the bait to catch her and the line to bind her, so I did not mind being meek and weak and obeisant to hypocrisy, if it was hypocrisy. “Beg pardon,” I said. “Swear words slip out. I don’t mean to offend.”

  “Oh, my, how cute he can get when he’s on the make,” said Sally.

  “You were saying?” I said.

  “I was saying that you couldn’t have been very efficient, Peter, else none of this would have happened today.”

  “How—not efficient?”

  “According to Marilyn, once you took over, you assured her she would not be bothered again by Bokino.”

  “Yes, yes, you have something there,” I said. “Except that today’s events are the outgrowth of other events—concerning Bokino.”

  “Spoken like a true politician,” said Sally. “Lots of words, but no meaning.”

  “Meaning like this,” I said. “Early today Bokino got wrapped into a peck of wild trouble. He skipped out on it, but Bokino is an addict, a psychological cripple, and when an addict is in trouble he hits his junk, and Bokino must have hit it like mad today. You saw him. How did he look?”

  “Crazy. Absolutely.”

  “Crazy on junk, and when they’re that far out, they’re not responsible. He had an impulse to come here, and do whatever he tried to do, but you saw how easily you scared him off. I’m not trying to cop a plea on this. Actually, I’m as sore as a gleeting boil, and I’ll catch up with that bum and fix him for this, believe me.”

  Sally was wise enough to know the difference between straight goods and grandstand and right now he knew I was not talking to impress the girl. His eyes grew soft and his jowls shook gently. “Easy, baby,” he said. “A guy as shot full of H as that guy was, a guy like that can be awfully dangerous, so don’t run around losing your head trying to prove yourself. We love you, baby, and we prefer you as a live eye rather than a dead martyr.”

  “Thanks,” I said and I nodded and he smiled and nodded right back at me and the bell rang and Marilyn was on her feet headed for the door when I shouted, “Hold it!”

  She turned, blinking quizzically.

  “From here on in,” I said, “and until I tell you different, you never open a door until you ask who’s there.”

  “Excellent advice,” said Sally.

  “Who’s there?” called Marilyn toward the door.

  “Maxwell Liquor Store,” came the reply.

  She did a little bow at me, and did a little smile, as though asking permission, but I was through playing games and I turned my back on her. She opened the door and directed the man to carry the cases to the kitchen. I tipped him and he went away and I went to the kitchen with Marilyn and broke the seal on a bottle of Scotch and poured into a tumbler and added tap water and imbibed like a drunk fresh off the wagon. Then I called out to Sally: “What’ll it be?”

  “Scotch highball, tall glass, plenty of ice.”

  She turned toward a small low-slung refrigerator but I grabbed her and held her and mumbled, “I love you.”

  She held rigid, no warmth coming through. “You’re dear, dear, so very sweet,” she said.

  I tried to press her to me but she held off. “Please, dear,” she said. “Mr. Avalon’s out there, and he’s asked for a drink, and he’s a guest.”

  “Sure,” I said and let go.

  She bent to the refrigerator and the bisected curve of her remarkable rump in that tight yellow housecoat started my juices going but I held back like a dike. Patience, dear Peter. She came up with ice cubes and started building Sally’s drink and I said, “We’ve a date for tonight, haven’t we?”

  “If you wish, of course. But I believe I’m working tonight. With Mr. Avalon. Those were the plans. Unless he’s changed those, too.”

  “Well, even if you’re working, you won’t be working all night.”

  “Of course not. But I just wanted to tell you.”

  I aimed a kiss at her mouth but she ducked and it hit her chin and then she was out of the kitchen bringing Sally his drink. Patience, dear Peter, don’t race your motor. That’s a delectable gal you’ve got that yen for, but a weird little gal, runs hot and cold, but you’ve learned of the faucet that turns the tap to hot, so patience, dear Peter, this is an intricate kid but a true daughter of Eve and it was Eve who created original sin.

  I gulped my whiskey and left the glass in the kitchen and out of the kitchen I said to Sally, “What’s the program for today?”

  “Why?” he said.

  “Because right now I’m cutting out, I’ve got work. But I’ve a date for tonight with your lovely model and she tells me that you two may be working tonight, so what’s the program?”

  He sipped, ran his tongue over his lips. “This afternoon’s business is postponed, we’ll work it tomorrow. I’ll stick around here and then take the kid out to dinner. Then I’m taking her back to the studio. Call for her there, if you want.”

  “Do I come in soup and fish again?”

  “Oh no. Tonight I’ve got to do her legs and some tight shots of that beautiful puss and some touching up of yesterday’s work. No special evening clothes. I suggest you call at about … ten o’clock.”

  “Okay?” I said to Marilyn.

  “Love it,” she said.

  “And just in case you want to see her early tomorrow,” said Sally. “No dice. She’ll be with me from about nine in the morning. Until about four. After four, she’s all yours.”

  “I wish she were,” I said.

  “Very subtle,” he said.

  “Regardless,” I said to Marilyn, “right now I pre-empt your time for tomorrow. You’ll be here after four where I can reach you?”

  “I’ll be here,” she said.

  “Early or late, I’ll be in touch with you. After four.”

  “Yes, master,” she said and the blue eyes, somehow
, were derisive.

  “And tonight I’ll see you at ten at Sally’s.”

  “Yes, master,” she said.

  I could not resist. “How does it feel to know you’ve got a guy tied hand and foot and drooling?”

  “You mean Mickey Bokino?” she said.

  A hip little number, eh what? An assured little number, eh what? A ravishing little number, eh what? A true little daughter of Eve? But Eve got hers and so would this little bitch because somehow I had stumbled upon the chink in her psyche and so I could afford to be temporarily lethargic and a good-natured guy as the butt for jokes and I said, “Yeah, sure, I mean Bokino, and you’ve called me master and I haven’t called you mistress, and don’t answer your door until you know who’s behind it, and I’ll see you at ten o’clock. Goodbye all,” I said, and I drifted the hell out of there.

  The sun had begun to slant from the west and I walked south, strolling to take some of the burn out of me. I had played it cool but I hated Bokino’s assault for a number of reasons. First off, I was stuck on the girl and the thought of Bokino ripping her clothes and opening his made me want to puke with rage and disgust. Next, I had laid the law down to him, and, junkie or no, he had double-crossed me. And next, he had hurt me both professionally and socially. Professionally—with Sally Avalon. A private richard is in a business where most of his business is recommended and Sally was an influential guy who had and could recommend business and why in all hell should he recommend business to a goof who proved that he could not handle it? Socially—with Marilyn Windsor. I was playing the big man with her and wanting to impress her and what kind of big man could I be and what kind of impression could I make when one day I tell her not to worry about a guy and the next day the same guy comes up to rape her?

  I was strolling toward 34th with some of the burn cooling out of me. I had done a cop-out in front of both of them but the cop-out had been fair and satisfactory and what I had said had been true. A junkie overshot on junk can be crazy-wild and I had no doubt that Mickey-boy, with all his troubles, was as overshot as a peeping tom shacked behind a haystack in a nudist camp. And strolling toward 34th, cooling out, the unreasonable pity of compassion began flowing through me. Poor Mickey-boy was in the middle of a pincer movement more deadly than fallout. Sally had done exactly right in informing Astrid Lund but dear Sally had no idea of the crazy wrath he might have unbuttoned because Astrid was also a junkie and every junkie is prone to overshoot when the going gets choppy. Between the madness of a jealous overshot Astrid Lund and the sanity of an outraged egomaniac like Vinnie Veneto, a stumble bum like Mickey Bokino could come down with a case of sudden death faster than you and I can come down with the common cold. And there, at 34th Street, the switch was complete, and I was back to protecting an overgrown oaf as vulnerable to crossfire as a strip of real estate between Israel and Egypt.

  First flanking move was my entrance into a phone booth and my call to Astrid Lund. Astrid Lund, I was informed, was not at home. Where could I reach her? They did not know. I used another coin and made another call in the full knowledge of its futility, but hoping. I called Mr. Bokino at his office. Mr. Bokino was not in, they had no notion where he was nor any idea when he would be back. I stepped out of the phone booth and poked in my pockets for cigarettes. My finger touched a key and at once I knew where I was going.

  Bokino himself—possibly, possibly—had provided the means for his own rescue.

  I waved down a cab and we weaved up to 72nd Street, more particularly, 12 East 72nd Street, a walkup without a doorman where, third-floor front, Astrid Lund had a hideaway, four rooms for fun, mostly with Mickey Bokino. At No. 12, I paid off the cabbie, plowed through a hooked-back downstairs door, climbed the wearying three flights, stood still until I recovered my breath, and then, using the key Bokino had given me, I opened the door without any preliminary fanfare or bell ring.

  The smell of cordite struck as I entered as the smell of garlic strikes as you enter an Italian bistro. I was directly in the living room and the first thing I saw was Astrid Lund, utterly dead, supine on the floor with her nose shot away and a seeping hole of leaking blood where once her right eye had been. And the next thing I saw was Mickey Bokino, wild-eyed and fuming at the mouth like an epileptic, a large black automatic seeming small in the massive paw of his hand. And the large black automatic was accurately pointing at me.

  SEVENTEEN

  I closed the door behind me and my hands, behind me, clung to the knob, mostly as a prop to keep me vertical. Sally had been as correct as a Baptist deacon at a spinster’s tea. The guy was as hopped as a brewery. The whites of his eyes were pinkish-red and the eyes had no irises; there was only the dull glow of the black distended pupils.

  “You sure have been having a rampage for yourself, haven’t you, Mickey-boy?” I said.

  “What do you want? What are you doing here? How did you get in?” The voice rasped, the gun waved, my knees sagged, and I hung to that knob as a spirited lover might hang to an absconding mate.

  “How I got in?” I said. “You gave me a key, remember?”

  “Key? I gave you a key? When the hell did I give you a key?”

  “At your office. On the Lund murder. I was supposed to catch up with Astrid with her panties down.”

  The head bobbed and a glint of comprehension came into the opaque eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Well, she’s sure got her panties down now, hey, boy?”

  My hands came free from the knob and they dangled, circulation needling back, at my sides. “But I didn’t come here for her, Mick. I came here for you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “To try to help.”

  “Help—what?”

  “You’re in a log jam with Vinnie.”

  Now the eyes were critical, narrowing in suspicion. “You know everything, don’t you, smart guy?”

  “I’m in that kind of business, Mick-boy. You are in a jam with Vinnie, aren’t you?”

  “And how in a jam!”

  “The auditors came.”

  “They came, and I went, pal. I blew. I breezed. I powdered. What the hell else could I do, thirty gees short?”

  “Nothing else, I suppose.” I moved slowly, warily, into the room, my eyes averted from the dead body on the floor. “Blowing, breezing, powdering—that I understand. Your being here—that I understand. But your being here with a gun in your hand and with her dead on the floor—that I don’t understand.”

  “First I want to know why you’re here, pal. Did you come for me, or did you come for her?”

  “I didn’t come for either of you. I came to you. She had nothing to do with it. I came to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I heard about the Vinnie thing and I heard about your runout. This figured to be your first stop—so I came.”

  “I’m still asking—why?”

  “Because when a slob gets into a jam trying to be a big man to a hooker—it’s the kind of weird wistful sad operation that brings out the boy scout in me. All you tried to do was impress a whore—all of us, one way or another, up and down the status scale, have done the same thing, perhaps in other ways. So I came here to talk to you, to try to help. After all, if Bev gets up that thirty tomorrow night, you might still be able to square yourself with Vinnie. So I come here and what do I find? I find you in a far worse jam than before—the kind of a jam about which I can’t do one damned thing.”

  “I didn’t do nothing,” he said.

  “You didn’t do nothing, didn’t you? What’s that in your hand—a water-pistol? And what’s that on the floor—a mirage?”

  For the first time, the gun stopped pointing at me. The hand holding it dropped but the gun remained in the hand. “Self-defense,” he said.

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “This gun ain’t my gun. I don’t own no gun. This is her gun.”

  “So what?” I said.

  “Self-defense,” he said.

  “Mickey, I know you’re coked up, but you�
��ve got to talk sense, and you’re not talking sense. Now, come on. Make a stab at it.”

  “Oh, I’m flying, damn right I’m flying, I ain’t denying that. Fact, I could use another fix right now, but I’m saving it for when I get out of here.”

  I cocked my head. “You’re getting out of here?”

  “Damn right I am.” He pointed a thumb toward the bedroom. “All my things is already packed in a bag. I was all set to get, when I heard you poking that key in the door.” And then, petulantly, he added, “So you want to hear about the self-defense, or no?”

  Pleasantly I said, “I’m just dying to hear, ole-pal ole-pal.”

  “The auditors come in and I cut out. There’s time before they shake down the figures, and I wander around, hit a couple of bars, knock in a couple of fixes. I’m off the nut a little bit, I got a nice glow, and I’m tapping out angles in my mind about how I can work it out with Vinnie.”

  I tested for veracity. “And so you came here?”

  “No, I wish I did in the first place.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  He actually looked shamefaced. “I went to visit that little gal—you know, the one you told me to lay off. I had a real burn, all of a sudden; what you call an urge. Remember, I was flying then, but way out.” Some of the heroin was dissipating; he was still flying but he was no longer way out, and he was making sense. “I get there and she’s all dolled up, and I grab her and go to work on her, and the bell rings, and it knocks me off the pitch, and I blow out of there because I got Vinnie back on my mind.”

  “Did you see who rang the bell?”

  “It looked like Sally Avalon, but I wouldn’t swear.”

  “So?”

  He took a kerchief from a pocket and wiped his face. Despite everything, despite the wild eyes, he stood tall, dark, straight, strong, and handsome. “I rambled around a little,” he said, “and then I come here.”

  “Why?”

  “Figured this was where I’d hole up. I’d call Astrid—”