Death of a Hooker

by Kane, Henry

  “Wow,” I said, “that perfume!”

  “Don’t you just adore it, dear?” said Sally. “A new fragrance. And we’re both wearing it.”

  “I’m overcome,” I said.

  “Want a dab on you?” said Sally.

  “I pass,” I said.

  “How was your day?” said Marilyn.

  “Uneventful,” I said.

  “And what about Bokino?” said Sally.

  “Forget about Bokino,” I said. “Bokino will never bother either of you again—ever again.”

  She came to me and took my hand in both of hers and the violet-lidded eyes were wild. “You didn’t do anything bad … you promised you wouldn’t … you promised … you promised….” Her chest was heaving like a dinghy in a storm but I bypassed gory details for the nonce: there was a long night ahead in which to stoke her furnace.

  “Not now,” I said. “Please. I’ve had a busy day; uneventful, maybe, but busy. Now it’s relaxing-time. Let us relax, my sexy-smelling brethren.”

  “Time to eat,” said Sally. “I’m hungry.”

  “Sweetie,” I said, “are you going to be my co-date again?”

  He flounced, despondently. “Don’t be brutal, Peter dear. I’m having a bite with you and then I’m off. I have other, and better, fish to fry, believe you me. So there.”

  “Sally,” I said placatingly, “I love you. I merely inquired if you were going to be my co-date. I wasn’t being brutal.”

  “Not much you weren’t. It is my earnest wish that this dear little bitch is utterly frigid, an unconscious deviate.” He struck a pose. “Now how do you like them apples?”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Marilyn, “please don’t be vulgar.”

  We had supper at Mon Plaisir, and then we did the drinkie-bit at The Harwyn, and then Sally finally cut out, and then Marilyn and I listened to the violins and rubbed knees in the romantic atmosphere of Chez Vito. I was getting high and she was ready to be launched on champagne cocktails and at three o’clock we set the compass for home and outside her door she snuggled close and shivered in exquisite anticipation as she whispered, “Now. Now you’ll tell me all about what happened with that dreadful man … now … now … now you’ll tell me … oh, now, honey, now….”

  My right arm was around her pliant waist and my left arm was, of all places, around her neck, and I was all ready with succulent preliminaries prior to entrance into her apartment, when I saw my wrist watch and suddenly remembered my appointment with Olaf Kalmar.

  “Not now, not yet,” I said. “I’ve got to run.”

  “You’re mad,” she said.

  “You bet,” I said.

  She snuggled again and I fought like hell.

  A date is a date and you don’t break a date.

  Everybody has ethics and mine are distinctly peculiar.

  “Honey,” she whispered, “you’re crazy, so crazy, I love you, you’re a crazy guy, mad, but the craziest, aren’t you?”

  “You bet,” I said.

  The cab dropped me at Olaf’s stand at 3:15 and Olaf said, “I’m all closed up and waiting. I thought you were going to disappoint me.”

  “I wish I did,” I said.

  “What?” he said.

  “Skip,” I said. “Coffee at Riker’s before you display the masterpiece?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Drop dead.”

  “You’re in a strange mood.”

  “That’s all I hear lately. Maybe I ought to be an artist or something.”

  “But you are in a strange mood.”

  “It’s because I have a compulsion for keeping appointments.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Skip,” I said. “I’m not well. I’m frustrated. Let’s go have coffee.”

  We had coffee in Riker’s with toasted buttered corn muffins and I said, “Did Kiki call you?”

  “Kiki?” he said.

  “Kiki,” I said. “Remember Kiki? The innocent little daughter upon whom you dote?”

  “Please, Peter,” he said.

  “Did she call you? Or see you?”

  “Why should she call me or see me? She’s grown. She has a perfect right to a life of her own.”

  “Yeah, yeah, life of her own,” I said. “But was she in touch?”

  “Now why the heck should she be?”

  “Because I went to her, and told her about the thing the other night, and asked her to be in touch with you to persuade you to go to the cops with it. Did you hear from her?”

  “No, and I don’t blame her. Everybody’s not as fussy as you about all sorts of little nonsense matters. As I said, she has a life of her own, and a busy life….”

  We finished our coffee and muffins at Riker’s and we strolled to 57th and trudged up to the first floor of his walkup and he stuck the key in the hole and turned the lock and opened the door and there from the dark apartment the gunshots came—three shots—and Olaf fell and the man dove through and fled down the stairs and I did not follow because Olaf was bleeding. There was no need to follow, aside from Olaf’s bleeding. The apartment was dark and the hallway was lighted: to the intruder in the apartment we were two unrecognizable silhouettes, but to us—to me—with the light falling upon him, he was visible and recognizable, and I recognized him as he dove through and fled.

  I pulled Olaf into the apartment, put on the lights, and examined him. There was a good deal of blood but the wound was minor. Two bullets had gone astray and one had clipped him where the earlobe meets the cheek: much blood, no danger. Close call, but next case. I found antiseptic in the medicine chest, and cotton. I daubed and then pressed and held until there was coagulation and then I said, “Now are we going to call cops?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  We called cops and we waited.

  He wanted to show me his painting but I told him that right then I was not interested, I could not do it justice. He saw my point and I saw a glimmer of anger in his eyes.

  “You sore at me?” I said.

  “No, I’m sore at the son of a bitch who’s looking to get me, and I’m plenty sore.”

  That made me happy. The Swedes are slow to anger but when they get angry, look out. Olaf was finally angry and that was all to the good, and then the cops came, two detectives, one young, one old, each with a cynical wiseguy face. Olaf had drawn a lemon, a couple of lemons. The older cop’s name was Bill, the younger cop’s name was Lennie. Bill asked the questions, Lennie made the notes. Bill was big and beefy and about forty-five; Lennie was big and slender, about thirty. Olaf was all ready to go into his song and dance, but Bill held him up, first taking name, address, data, the whole works.

  Then he permitted Olaf to tell his story, two stories: the mug-attack the night before and the shooting tonight.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Bill. “I remember that Boligula-bit too. That time you had police protection because you were a witness. You don’t think you’re going to get police protection this trip too, do you, Mr. Kalmar?”

  “I don’t know,” said Olaf. “I don’t particularly want it.”

  “And you ain’t particularly going to get it. Just because some goof ball mentions the name Veneto, don’t mean Veneto sent him. You realize that?”

  “I do,” said Olaf.

  “In any case, we can’t lay out police protection for every bird that gets the business put to him. Otherwise the whole police force would be out protecting individuals, instead of protecting the public. You realize that?”

  “I do,” said Olaf.

  “But wouldn’t you consider this a particular case, officer?” I inquired.

  “Who’s your fancy friend?” asked Bill of Olaf.

  “A friend,” said Olaf.

  “What’s your name?” said Bill to me.

  “Peter Chambers.”

  “You work for a living?”

  “What the hell business is that of yours?”

  That brought Bill right up close to me. “I asked you a civil question,” he sai
d.

  “And I gave you a civil answer. You want to interrogate Mr. Kalmar, fine. Me? I’m only here for the ride. My business is none of your business.”

  He shoved three strong stubby fingers into my collar and pulled.

  “If you don’t let go,” I said, “I’m going to kick you where it hurts, pal.”

  Lennie got between and broke us up. Granite-faced Bill was livid. “Who’s your smart alec friend?” he said to Olaf.

  “Peter Chambers, a private detective,” said Olaf.

  “Oh-ho, that explains it,” said Bill to me he said, “Look mister, if there’s one thing I hate it’s snotty private operators. You guys watch too much TV. You step out of line for just one second and I’ll crack a couple of ribs for you, that I promise you.”

  “Fat face,” I said, “I’ll give you a promise in return. A big mouth like you may impress a normal citizen like my friend Mr. Kalmar here, but not me. Is that clear? There’s always manure like you to stink up a good police department. There’s always a wiseacre who’s too small for a big badge. Mr. Kalmar drew you and that’s his misfortune. I didn’t draw you, pal, but I’m willing to meet you if you volunteer. So step up and try to crack some of my ribs. I’ll break you into more pieces than your friends can put together, if you’ve got any friends.”

  Bill started coming and I was delighted. A bad cop is an obscenity and it was late and my patience was at drag end and I had persuaded Olaf to ask for police protection and I was ashamed at what he had drawn. A cop like Bill happens, every now and then, to all of us, only I was in the business, and most of all of us are not. Bill started coming but Lennie hung on to him, practically fought him to a standstill.

  “Let him go,” I said. “He’ll either crack my ribs or I’ll splice him into separate parts. These old-time bully boys are all big mouth and lard, period.”

  “Oh, man,” said Bill. “Would I like to have you in the station house.”

  “You sure would, you sadistic bastard. With my hands cuffed behind me and my ankles manacled. You’d sure bust me up, wouldn’t you? Well, try it right here, not in the station house, man to man, you fat-faced phoney. I’m ready, willing, and able.”

  Lennie hung on, Bill struggled, and I began to come to my senses. A rough day, a belt on the back of the head, too much whiskey, an unrequitted yen for Marilyn, and my disappointment in the fact that this was the kind of protection that I had produced for Olaf—it all added up. On the other hand, the guy was a cop, the guy had a gun, and pushed too far, he could use it. A dead complainant has very little to say by way of accusation and I had no intention of becoming a dead complainant. So I used the oldest gambit in the book. “Let him loose,” I said to Lennie. “Either way it goes, tomorrow I put in a complaint to my friend the Commissioner and we’ll have a hearing and we’ll see how it goes.”

  The Commissioner was not my friend. I did not know the Commissioner. But I knew the likes of the bully boys like Bill. A cop is no more than a guy working on a job and he can get booted out on his fat behind if he’s out of order, and misfits like Bill, abusing their own authority, were the first to slobber to higher authority. Lennie’s struggles were over. Bill avoided me and continued curt colloquy with Olaf. Olaf went away and came back with a big .45. “I can protect myself,” he said.

  Bill asked, “You got a license for that sidearm, mister?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Olaf.

  “Show me, mister.”

  Olaf showed him. Bill’s blubber assuaged. A license is issued by Authority, and Authority had deemed Olaf Kalmar of sufficient character to be issued a license. “Okay,” said Bill, tone somewhat modified. “Keep that thing handy, Mr. Kalmar. We’ll do what we can, of course. We’ll keep an eye out here on this house and we’ll have the cop on the beat keep checking on the newsstand. Any further activity along the line, don’t forget to report it. This may be something personal, of course. Anyway, you keep in touch with us. Also, the guy was in here when you came, so he must have picked your lock, unless he had a key made or something. Either way, I advise you to have that lock changed pronto. Okay. Sure, wear that gun as long as you have a license for it, and keep a sharp eye. We won’t be too far away, don’t worry.” He motioned to Lennie and they walked to the door; at the door, he turned for one last riposte. “And if I was you, Mr. Kalmar,” he said, hooking a thumb toward me, “I’d be more particular in the kind of company I keep.”

  And then we were alone and Olaf said, “Now would you like to look at the picture?”

  “Now I would love to look at the picture.”

  I looked at the picture but of course my mind was not on it. We had a bit of Drambuie and then Olaf said, “Somehow you don’t seem to be as worried about me as you were.”

  “Frankly,” I said, “I’m not.”

  “There’s a reason?”

  “I’ve a hunch I’ll be able to go right to the nub and nip this thing in the bud.”

  “And where did this hunch grow from, my friend?”

  “Just leave it to me for a while, Olaf. Don’t press me. Let me enjoy the voodoo of my mysterioso. In the meantime, that bad cop’s advice was good. Wear the gun, change your lock, don’t answer your door without a peep through the peephole, and keep a sharp eye to the wind. Good night now, because I’m tired. And fret not—Pappy is working for you.”

  I walked home, less concerned about Olaf. Unless Vinnie Veneto was out of his mind, this operation was out of his ken. As to whose operation it was, I had no idea, but the deal was easier now because I knew who the operator was. I had been no more than a vague silhouette to him because the light was behind me, but the light behind me had hit him fullface, and I had recognized him—Danny Danzig. Funny? Of all people, The Dancer!

  NINETEEN

  One of the imponderables is motivation. Why do we do what we do when we do it? What prompts us? What prods us? What strange fuse, of which we have no idea, is spluttering within us? Without the propulsion of the events as they occurred, would I have brought $6,000 to Beverly Crystal? Would I, out of the goodness of my heart, have brought $6,000 to a hooker in distress? In all honesty, I do not know. Pragmatically, of course, the investment would be absurdly unsound, but the tendering of any such sum would not have been an investment. It would have been a charitable donation to save the face, literally, of a rather good-natured prostitute. Would I have made that donation? Depends. We all like to play God, and that goes double for the constant donors of huge sums. Unselfishness, it has been said, is no more than extreme selfishness, the gorging of the ego with the lotus-food of virtue. Would I have donated six thousand berries to the cause of one Beverly Crystal? I do not know. A good deal would have been dependent upon the state of my exchequer. It is easy to be charitable when the gift is meaningless (such as when you are a big earner and can write it off taxes). As you inquire into motivation, the convolutions, if you stay honest with yourself, can grow grotesque. But I had no need to inquire. I came bearing gold but it was not my gold. It was Vinnie Veneto’s gold and there was nothing recondite about my motives.

  First off, naturally, I was glad to be of help. Next, it was not my loot, it was Vinnie’s, and I had taken it from him, not to do his bidding, but for this express purpose. Next, if Beverly could turn the six into thirty, she was clear of Mickey. Next, Mickey would have to call for it and I could lay my hands on him. I, myself, then, could deliver the thirty to Vinnie, and save Mickey’s life; but I would also have Mickey, and I would turn him over to the cops, because one good turn deserves another, and Mickey had turned me over to the cops. That would pay off Mickey for the attempted attack on Marilyn, and I would be keeping a promise to Parker. Mickey would stand trial and if it was, as he had asserted, self-defense, that would be that. But most of all I was eager to further my acquaintance with Danny Danzig and Danny Danzig was staying with Beverly Crystal, and when you come as a good samaritan you figure to be in the good graces of all.

  So, at 11:00 o’clock I was at 18 West 58th, pushing at Beverly
’s button, and The Dancer himself opened the door. “Well, I don’t believe it,” he said.

  “Believe what?” I said.

  “Don’t tell me you brought the sugar, man.”

  “You know everything, don’t you?” I said as I entered the apartment.

  “Why not? I’m a curious fella.”

  “In more ways than one.”

  “Look, don’t start up with the cracks, huh, pal. Let’s make it peaceful today; that is, if you brought the sugar. Did you?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Well, to me you’re a phoney,” he said, “and I told her you’d never deliver. So if you’re loaded with the gelt, I’m a bad judge of character.”

  “You’re a bad judge of character. Where’s Bev?”

  “In the john. Want a drink?”

  “I’m on the wagon.”

  Lithe, tall, dark, pale, and handsome, he went to the bar and made a drink. He was beautiful to behold. He was wearing a tan high-styled gabardine, pink shirt, black knit tie, black hose, and black pointy shoes.

  “Boy, you must kill the chicks,” I said.

  “Never miss,” he said and licked on the highball. “Did you really bring the bread?”

  “Yes.”

  “Funny bit. Here’s a sure thing going, and nobody around here can raise enough yeast to lift a cake. Me? I ain’t got a quarter although I got plenty coming soon. That lousy jock, that Earl Dunbar, he won’t part with a sou. And with all them rich Johns that Bev has got in her book, she ain’t been able to click two dimes together. And there’s a sure thing going today, but a real goddamned sure sure thing.”

  “She let you in on it?”

  “I told you I was a curious fella.”

  “She wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Well, if you’ve brought the gold, fink, old pal—ask. If you’ve brought the gold, she’ll tell you—why shouldn’t she?”

  “Not me,” I said. “I won’t even ask.”

  “You proud?”

  “Baby-boy, I’ve lost more loot on sure sure things than you’ve walked out on chicks.”