His face was white as it could get. He hunched forward to get his drink and almost spilled that one too. “... Once she said she worked a house....” He finished the highball and muttered the address as he wiped his mouth.
I didn’t bother to thank him; it was favor enough to throw my drink down silently, pick up my change and walk out of there. When I reached the street I crossed over and stood in the recess of a hallway for a few minutes. I stuck a butt between my lips and had just cupped my hands around a match when Cobbie came out, looked up and down the street, jammed his hands in his pockets and started walking north. When he rounded the corner I got in the car and sat there a few minutes, trying to figure just what the hell was going on.
One redheaded prostitute down on her luck. She was killed, her room was searched, and her ring was missing.
One trigger-happy greaseball who searched her room because she stole his blackmail setup. He said.
One ex-con who ran a hash house the redhead used for a hangout. He was scared.
One pimp who knew she was hot but couldn’t say why. Maybe he could, but he was scared, too.
It was a mess no matter how you looked at it, and it was getting messier all the time. That’s why I was so sure. Death is like a bad tooth ... no matter what’s wrong with it, you pull it out and it’s all over. That’s the way death usually is; after that people can talk all they want, they even do things for dead joes that they wouldn’t do for the living. Death is nice and clean and antiseptic. It ends all trouble. Someone gathers up your belongings; says a word of praise, and that’s it. But the redhead’s was a messy death. There was something unclean about it, like a wound that has healed over on top, concealing an ugly, festering sore brewing a deadly poison that will kill again.
When the butt burned down to my fingers I started the car and shoved off, threading my way across town to the address Cobbie had given me. New York had its sinkholes, too, and the number of this one placed it smack in the middle of the slime. It was a one-way street of rats’ nests with the river at one end and a saloon on each corner, peopled with men and women that had the flat, vacant look of defeat stamped on their faces.
I checked the numbers and found the one I wanted, but all it was was a number, because the house was gone. Unless you can call a frame-gutted skeleton of masonry a house. The doorway yawned open like a leper’s mouth and each window had its scar tissue of peeling paint.
The end of the trail. I swore and kicked at the curb.
A kid about ten looked at me and said, “Some jerk t’rew a match out the winder inta the garbage coupla weeks ago. Most of the dames got killed.”
These kids knew too much for their age nowadays. I needed a drink bad this time. The joint on the left was closer, so I went in and stood at the bar making tight fists with my hands until the nails cut into my palms. Now this, I kept thinking, now this! Did every corner to this have a blank wall I couldn’t hurdle? The bartender didn’t ask ... he shoved a glass and a bottle under my nose and drew a chaser from the beer tap, then made change from my buck. When I had the second he put all the change in the register, then came back and waited.
“One more?”
I shook my head. “Just beer this time. Where’s your phone?”
“Over in the corner.” He jerked his head toward the end of the bar while he pulled the beer. I went down to the booth and dropped a nickel in, then dialed Pat at his home.
This time I had a little luck because he answered. I said, “This is Mike, chum. Need a favor done. There was a fire in one of the bawdy-houses down the street here and I want to know if there has been an investigation made. Can you check it?”
“Guess so, Mike. What’s the number?” I gave it to him and grunted when he checked it back to me. “Hang up while I call and I’ll buzz you back. Give me your number there.”
He got that, too, and I hung up. I went down and got my beer, then went back to the seat in the phone booth and sat there sipping the stuff slowly. The minute it rang I snatched it off the hook.
“Mike?”
“Yeah.”
“The fire happened twelve days ago. A complete investigation was made because the place had been condemned for occupancy a month before and nothing had been done about it. The fire started accidentally and the guy who flipped the lit match out the window is still in the hospital recovering. Apparently, he was the only one who got out alive. The flames blocked the front door and the rear was littered with junk so as to be impassable.
“Three girls perished on the roof, two in the rooms and two jumped to their deaths before the firemen could get the nets up. Destruction was complete because the floors caved in completely.”
Pat didn’t give me a chance to thank him. Before I could say a word his voice thinned out and had an edge to it. “Give me what you know, Mike. You aren’t there out of curiosity and if you’re still thinking in terms of murder I want a trade. And right now, too.”
“Okay, sharp guy,” I laughed. “I’m still trying to find out who the redhead was. I met a guy who knew where she had worked before she free-lanced and I wound up here.”
This time Pat was the one who laughed. “Is that all? I could have told you that if you’d called me.” I froze on the phone. “Her name was Sanford, Nancy Sanford. She used several first names, but seemed to stick to Nancy most of the time, so we picked it as her own.”
My teeth grinding together made more sound than my voice. “Who said so?”
“We have a lot of men on the force, Pat. A couple of the patrolmen got on to her.”
“Maybe you know who killed her, too.”
“Sure. The kid did. The lab finally found traces of fender paint on her clothes, and strands of fibers from her dress on the car. It was as simple as that.”
“Was it?”
“Uh-huh. Besides, we have a witness. At least a witness who saw her just a few minutes before she was killed. A janitor was putting out the ashes and saw her staggering up the street, dead drunk. She fell, got up again and staggered some more. Later she was discovered a half block away in the gutter where she was hit.”
“Did you trace her parents ... anybody at all who knew her?”
“No, we couldn’t get that far. She did a good job of wiping out all traces of her past.”
“So now she gets the usual treatment ... pine box and all.”
“What else, Mike? The case is closed except for the kid’s trial.”
I snarled into that mouthpiece, “So help me, Pat, if you lower her coffin before I’m ready, I’ll beat the hell out of you, cop or no cop!”
Pat said quietly, “We’re not in a hurry, Mike. Take your time, take your time.”
I set the receiver back in its cradle gently and stood up, saying her name over and over again. I must have said it too loud, because the willowy brunette at the corner table looked up at me with a quizzical expression in eyes that had seen through too many bottles of liquor. She was a beaut, all right, not part of this section of town at all. She had on a black satin dress with a neckline that plunged down to her belt buckle, and she sat there with her legs crossed, unconscious of what she was giving away for free.
The heavily rouged lips parted in a smile and she said, “Nancy ... always Nancy. Everybody’s looking for Nancy. Why don’t they pay a little attention to pretty Lola?”
“Who was looking for Nancy?”
“Oh, just everybody.” She tried to lean her chin on her hand but her elbow kept slipping off the table. “I think they found her, too, because Nancy isn’t around any more. Nancy’s dead. Did you know Nancy was dead? I liked Nancy fine but now she’s dead. Won’t pretty Lola do, mister ? Lola’s nice and alive. You’ll like Lola lots when you get to know her.”
Hell, I liked Lola already.
CHAPTER 4
When I sat down beside the brunette the bartender watched me so hard the three drunks at the rail turned around too. The drunks didn’t matter, they couldn’t see that far, so I turned on my best nasty look and the
bartender went about his business. Just the same he stayed down at the end where he could hear things if they were said too loud.
Lola uncrossed her long, lovely legs and leaned toward me. The big, floppy hat she was wearing wobbled an inch away from my eyes. “You’re a nice guy, mister. What’s your name?”
“Mike.”
“Just Mike?”
“It’s enough. How would you like to go for a ride and sober up a little?”
“Ummm. You got a nice shiny convertible for Lola to ride in? I love men with convertibles.”
“I only have one thing that’s convertible. It’s not a car.”
“Oh, you’re talking dirty, Mike.”
“How about that ride?”
“All right.”
She stood up and I held her arm to keep her straight. Nice, very nice. Deep-dish apple pie in a black satin dress. I steered her toward the door, hardly taking my eyes off her. Tall, and as long as you didn’t look too close, as pretty as they come. But close looks were what counted. She had that look around the eyes and a set of the mouth that spelled just one thing. She was for sale cheap.
My heap wasn’t what she expected, but it was comfortable and she leaned back against the cushions and let the breeze blow across her face and fluff out her hair. Her eyes closed and I thought she was asleep until she reached up and tugged off the floppy hat. Then she did go to sleep.
I wasn’t going anywhere ... just driving, taking it easy along the main stem, following anybody that was ahead of me. Somehow we got to the approach of the Manhattan Bridge and it was easier to go across than to cut out of traffic. This time I was behind a truck that led the way down Flatbush Avenue at a leisurely pace. Evidently he was in no hurry, because he didn’t bother going through light changes and never jumped the reds. He set such a nice pace that when he parked at Beverly Road for ten minutes I sat behind him and waited until he came back and followed him some more. The first thing I knew we had the lights of the city behind us and were skirting Floyd Bennett Field, and the air was carrying the salty tang of the ocean with it. We crossed the bridge then and he turned left, but I didn’t follow. The winding macadam on the right led in the direction of the breezes and I took it to a gate and on into Rockaway Point.
We had been parked for an hour before Lola woke up. The radio was turned low, making music that mingled with the air and the stars and if murder hadn’t led me here it could have been pretty nice.
She looked at me sleepily and said, “Hello, you.”
“Hi, kid.”
“Where is Lola this time?”
“At the beach.”
“And who with?”
“A guy called Mike ... that’s me. I found you back in the city under a rock. Remember?”
“No, but I’m glad you’re here with me.” She twisted on her hip and slouched back, looking at me. No remorse, no bewilderment. Just curiosity.
“What time is it?”
I said, “After midnight. Want to go home?”
“No.”
“Want to take a walk then?”
“Yes. Can I take off my shoes and walk in the sand?”
“Take off everything if you want to.”
“Maybe I will when we get down on the beach, Mike.”
“Don’t do anything of the kind. I’m too damn susceptible.”
It was pretty good strolling down that narrow lane, jumping the cracks in the sidewalk and making faces at the moon. Lola slipped her hand into mine and it was warm and soft, but holding tight as though I was something worth holding on to. I was remembering what Red said, about guys like me never having to pay and I wondered how true it was.
She took off her shoes like she wanted to and walked in the sand, kicking at mounds with her toes. When we reached the bulkhead we jumped down and walked to the water, and I took off my shoes too. It was cold, but it was nice, too nice to spoil by talking yet, and we waded up the beach, stepping up the wooden jetties and jumping to the other side, until there was nothing left but straight sandy beach, and even the houses were in the background.
“I like it here, Mike,” she said. She let go my hand and picked up a clamshell, looking at it as if it were a rare specimen. I put my arm around her and we stepped out of the water that licked at our feet and walked to the rolling hillocks of the dunes. After we sat down I handed her a cigarette, and in the light of the flame I saw that her face had changed and was at peace with itself.
“Cold?” I asked.
“A little chilly. I haven’t much on under the dress.”
I didn’t question it; I just gave her my coat, then leaned back on my elbows while she hugged her knees, staring out at the ocean.
When she took a long last drag on the cigarette she turned around and said, “Why did you bring me out here, Mike?”
“To talk. I need somebody to talk to.”
She leaned back on the sand. “My mind’s unfogging, Mike,” she said. “Was it about Nancy?”
I nodded.
“She’s dead, Mike. I liked her, too.”
“Who killed her?”
There was a long moment of silence while Lola searched my face. “You’re a cop, aren’t you?”
“A private dick. And I’m not hired by anybody, either.”
“And you think she was murdered instead of being killed by a hit-run driver.”
“Lola, I don’t know what to think. Everything’s going around in circles right now. Let’s say I didn’t like the way she died.”
“Mike ... what if I said I thought she was murdered, too?”
I jumped at that. “What makes you think so?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Lots of things, maybe. If she wasn’t murdered, she was killed accidentally before she could be murdered. Let’s say that, Mike.”
I turned on my side and my hand covered hers. The moonlight on the white V of the plunging neckline made it hard to concentrate. Her skin was white and smooth, in sharp contrast to the black satin. The only thing I could think of was the kind of a bra she could be wearing under a dress like that. It would have to be an engineering marvel.
“How did you get to know her, Lola?”
Her answer was simple enough. “We worked together.”
“You?” It didn’t seem right.
“Don’t I look the type?”
“Maybe ... if a guy had dough and a convertible and was looking for an interesting side line in life. But not down in that section. What were you doing there?”
“I worked in a house up the street.”
“I thought all the girls were killed in the fire.”
“They were, but I wasn’t there at the time. I was ... in a hospital. I had been there quite a while. I left today.”
She looked at the sand and traced two letters in it. V.D.
“That’s why I was in the hospital. That’s why I was working down there instead of playing for guys with dough and convertibles. I had that once and I lost it. I’m not very smart, am I, Mike?”
“No,” I told her, “you’re not. Anybody can do what you’re doing and make a living at it. You never had to go in for that, neither did Nancy. There’s no excuse for it. No matter what happens, there’s only one way you wind up. No, Lola, there’s no excuse for it.”
“Sometimes there is.”
She ran her fingers through my hair, then dropped her hand to cover mine. “Maybe that’s why Nancy and I were so close ... because there was some excuse for it. I was in love, Mike ... terribly in love with a guy who was no damn good. I could have had anybody I wanted, but no, I had to fall for a guy who was no damn good at all. We were going to get married when he ran away with a two-bit bum who hung around all the saloons in town. I was pretty disgusted, I guess. If that was all men wanted I figured on playing the game. I played it pretty good, too. After that I had everything, but I never fell for anybody.
“At first I was bitter about it, but living became too easy. I had something men wanted, and they were willing to supply the overhead charges. I
t got so good that it wasn’t worth while playing one sucker at a time. Then one day I met a smart girl who introduced me to the right people, and after that the dates were supplied and I made plenty of money, and I had a lot of time to spend it in, too.
“I had a name and a phone number, and if they had the dough all they had to do was call. That’s why they called us call girls. The suckers paid plenty, but they got what they wanted and were safe. Then one day I got drunk and slipped up. After that I wasn’t safe to be with any more and the suckers complained, and they took away my name and my phone number, so all I had left was to go on the town.
The Mike Hammer Collection Volume 1 Page 25
