[Rat Pack 11] - I Only Have Lies for You

by Robert J. Randisi

  It had been hot in Miami Beach, but for some reason, it felt even hotter in Orlando.

  The house was very like the one on the right and left of it. In fact, like most of them on the block. It was a bit past noon, kids were in school, people at their jobs. Nobody was in the yard or on the street. On the other hand, we didn’t see any cars, either. The neighborhood seemed to be deserted.

  We walked through the gate without knocking it off its remaining hinge, and up the cracked, slate walk to the front door. There was no porch, just concrete steps going up.

  In the absence of a doorbell, we knocked on the flimsy front door. Nobody answered.

  Jerry moved along the front of the house, looking in the windows.

  “Looks deserted, Mr. G.,” Jerry said. “I think we been had.”

  “Us?” I said. “Or the Miami Beach police?”

  “All of us,” Jerry said. “Wait, I’ll look around back.”

  I waited by the front door and Jerry came back in what seemed like seconds.

  “Nothin’ in the back windows, either, Mr. G..”

  I looked both ways, and across the street.

  “You think all the houses are like this?”

  “I saw a tricycle and wagon in the backyard of the house on the right. A barbecue in the yard on the left.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be anyone around now, though, does there?”

  “Nope,” he said. “Do we wanna go in?”

  “Can you open the door?”

  He put his hand on the front door and pressed. It popped open.

  “I think so,” he said.

  FIFTY SIX

  We stepped inside.

  It looked even more deserted standing in it than it had looking through the windows.

  “Nobody lives here,” Jerry said.

  “Check the bedroom.”

  Jerry went through a doorway, came back after a few minutes. I was in the kitchen.

  “Only one bedroom and nothin’ there, Mr. G.. The dresser drawers are empty. There are hangers in the closet, but nothin’ on ‘em.”

  “If the house is deserted, why would there be hangers?” I asked.

  Jerry shrugged. “Whoever used to live here left ‘em there.”

  “Are they old hangers?”

  “How do I know—wait, some are plastic, some are wire.”

  “The kitchen’s empty, too, but there’s a canister set on the countertop. One of them has tea bags in it. And they’re not very old.”

  “So what are you sayin’?”

  “Maybe after Rossi was killed, somebody came in here and cleaned it out.”

  Jerry bent down and ran his finger along the top of a cheap Formica coffee table.

  “Dust,” he said.

  “Yeah, somebody cleaned it out, and nobody’s been here since.”

  “We could talk to the neighbors,” Jerry said, “if there are any.”

  “We don’t have time,” I said. “Let’s try the house on either side and then get going to Cassadaga.”

  We each took a house.

  I went to the one with the tricycle and wagon in the back. A woman who had been sexy a few years ago, before she had kids, answered the door. She was a dishwater blonde wearing a tube top to accentuate bulging breasts and insistent nipples. Maybe she was hoping the big boobs would keep men from looking at the spare tire around her waist. In the background I could hear two kids, one talking, one crying.

  “Well,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb. “what’re you sellin’ handsome? I’ll take two if you’ll come inside and let me sample it, first.” Then she turned her head. “Shaddup in there!”

  “Ma’am,” I said, “I was just lookin’ for your neighbor, a man named Rossi?”

  “Him?” she said. “Whataya want with him? Jeez, what a borin’ guy. I stopped in one day to borrow a cup of sugar or somethin’, and he wasn’t interested at all. Can you believe that?”

  “Uh, no, I can’t,” I said.

  “Naw,” she said, “I can see by the way yer lookin’ at my tits, yer interested.”

  “I am,” I lied, “but I’m also in a hurry. Besides, what if your husband gets home.”

  She cocked her hips even more and said, “He’ll just hafta wait outside until we’re through. Of course, it’ll cost ya twenty.”

  So that was it. She was turning tricks from home while hubby was off at work. Or doing whatever it was he did for money.

  “I’ll have to take a rain check,” I said. “Have you seen your neighbor?”

  “Not since the paper said he was dead.”

  “And before that?”

  “Sure, I saw him before that. Jeez, he lived next door.”

  “I mean, when did you see him last?” I asked.

  “Jeez, I dunno,” she said, “but I did see somebody after he got hisself killed.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “Fella and a broad came by, went into Rossi’s house and cleaned it out.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Hell, no,” she said, “why would I want the cops around here?” She turned her head. “Shut the hell up, will ya?”

  “You say they cleaned the place out. Of what? They didn’t take any furniture.”

  “They came out carrying suitcases, and some plastic bags. Tossed them all in the trunk and then drove off.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “Green.”

  “Do you know the model?”

  “All I know is, it wasn’t a convertible. What do I know from cars?”

  “Would you recognize them again if you saw them?”

  Suddenly, a crafty look came into her eyes. She folded her arms over her breasts and straightened up. “Seems to me this info might be worth somethin’ to ya.”

  Since she offered me sex for $20.00, I took a $20 out and gave it to her.

  “I wouldn’t know them again if I saw them,” she said, “but the woman was in her forties, lotsa black hair all over the place, with some grey in it. She wore a bandana kinda thing on her head and big hoop earrings. You know, like a gypsy.”

  Or, I thought, a fortune teller.

  She looked past me. I sneaked a glance, saw Jerry waiting on the sidewalk.

  “Think your friend would be interested?” she asked, fanning herself with the $20 bill I gave her. “He’s a big one. I’d do you both for twenty-five.”

  “I’m sure he would,” I said, “but like I said, we’re in a hurry.”

  “Well, come on back,” she said, “both of ya. I’ll do a two-for-one deal if ya know what I mean.”

  I knew. It wasn’t a pretty picture.

  I turned and went down the walk to Jerry.

  “Anythin?” He asked.

  “Some info,” I said, “and a two-for-one offer.”

  “For what?”

  I looked back at the woman, who was still posing in the doorway. Shorts and legs that used to be shapely but were now kind of fleshy topped off the picture.

  “Take a guess.”

  We got back in the car. Esteban started the engine and was pulling away from the curb when Jerry suddenly got it, and said, “Ohhhh.”

  FIFTY SEVEN

  There was an older woman on Jerry’s side who offered him cookies rather than sex. But that was it. No info.

  “You mean she wasn’t the kind of old lady who spends her day looking out the window?”

  “She’s too busy makin’ cookies, I guess.”

  “Any good?”

  He made a face, took a cookie from his pocket. It had one small bite in it.

  “No flavor,” he said, putting it back.

  “Where to, Mr. G.?” Esteban asked.

  “Cassadaga,” I said, leaning forward. “You know where it is?”

  “I got an idea. We can take the new I-four.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “How long?”

  “Maybe half an hour.”

  I sat back.

  “So,” Jerry said, “now we’re gonna look for this Madam
e Melinda?”

  “Merlina.”

  “Right,” Jerry said. “Either way, not her real name.”

  “Right. But we might have a description.” I told him what the mama/whore had told me about the woman with all the hair and hoop earrings. “Oh, and a bandana.”

  “Sounds like a gypsy.”

  “I know.”

  “So where are we gonna start?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Why don’t we wait til we get there and see what we’ve got.”

  “And when are we gonna eat?”

  “Same answer.”

  ***

  Cassadaga was a collection of private homes, most of them with signs in front advertising psychics, palm readers, tarot card readers and such inside.

  “I don’t see a restaurant,” Jerry said, as we drove the streets.

  “We passed a couple on the way in,” Esteban reminded him. “Might have to go back.”

  “We can stop on the way back,” I said. I reached over the seat and gave Esteban a slip of paper. “Let’s find this address.”

  “Right!”

  We drove around, saw people walking the streets, coming in and out of the houses. Some looked happy at what they’d been told, others looked sad. But what they all had in common was spending money.

  We had gotten Madame Merlina’s address from June Taylor, who had gotten it from Marilyn, who copied it from Jackie Gleason’s phone book.

  “I think this is it.”

  I looked out the window at a large, two-story building with a wraparound front porch.

  “It’s a hotel,” I said.

  “Yep,” Esteban said, “sure is.”

  “A hotel,” Jerry repeated. “Maybe they’ll have a forwarding address.”

  “Sure they will,” I said.

  Jerry and I got out of the car. Esteban started to get out.

  “Just stay there and wait,” I told him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  When we entered the lobby we realized they not only rented rooms but also had rooms with psychics in them.

  “Merlina probably had a room here to do business,” I said. “Jackie must have come here.”

  “So if she left, and we find the manager, maybe he’ll know where she went.”

  “It’s worth a shot,” I said. “That’s why we’re here.”

  We entered the lobby.

  “Gentlemen, nice of you to join us,” a man said, approaching us. “Are you here for the seminar?”

  “Seminar?” I asked.

  He smiled and pointed to a sign that announced a psychic seminar taking place in the hotel today.

  “Are you the manager?” I asked.

  “I am,” he said. “My name is Simeon Westfield.”

  “Simeon,” I repeated. “You wouldn’t happen to be a psychic, would you?”

  The man laughed. “As a matter of fact, I am, but I am not hosting the seminar. Today I’m simply the manager of the hotel.”

  “Well,” I said, “today we’re here to talk to someone about a lady named Madame Merlina.”

  “Merlina.” The smile faded from the man’s face. “I’m afraid Madame no longer has a room here.”

  “She lived here?” I asked.

  “No,” Westfield said, “she had a room where she conducted her, uh, business.”

  People were walking through the lobby, apparently there to attend the seminar.

  “Look, Mr. Westfield, can we go somewhere and talk?”

  “Well, I am rather busy today, what with the seminar and all, but... very well. This way to my office.”

  Jerry and I followed him across the lobby and down a hall to a small but well-appointed office. After we entered Jerry closed the door, and Westfield sat behind his desk.

  “Please, gentlemen, have a seat. Then tell me what I can do for you.”

  FIFTY EIGHT

  “My name is Eddie Gianelli,” I said, “this is Jerry Epstein. We’re here from Miami Beach, by way of Vegas.”

  “Las Vegas,” Westfield said. “I’ve never been there.” He was tall, fair-haired, pale-skinned, probably in his late thirties. He also had pale blue eyes, which probably helped him with his psychic thing.

  “What’s your interest in Madame Merlina?”

  “Well,” I said, “a man named Rossi was killed in Miami Beach. Apparently, he knew or worked for Madame Merlina.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Someone who came here to see her, professionally.”

  “Professionally!” he almost spat.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Merlina’s real name is Rachel Foster. She’s a phony.”

  “She’s a phony?” Jerry said.

  Westfield looked at him.

  “I think what Jerry means is, aren’t all psychics phonies?” I said.

  He turned his head and looked at me with those creepy, pale blue eyes.

  “If that’s what you think, why are you here?” he demanded.

  “Hey,” I said, “we didn’t mean any offense—“

  “What if I said everybody who worked in Vegas was a gangster? Or a thief?”

  “Okay,” I said, putting my hands out, “I get it, I’m sorry.”

  He looked at Jerry, but the big buy didn’t apologize. He just stared. Then he said, “Actually, I am a gangster.”

  “Well,” Westfield said, not intimidated. “I’m a psychic. Most of the people who live here are connected to the supernatural in some way or another. Others, like Merlina, come here to rip people off.”

  “And you let them stay?”

  “As long as they pay their rent.”

  “That seems very... understanding.”

  “We don’t judge how people live their lives, here,” Westfield said. “People come to Cassadaga looking for answers. Sometimes they find the answers they want in the wrong place. If it helps them, who’s to judge?”

  “Okay,” I said, “we’re not here to judge anyone, either. Is Merlina — Rachel Foster — still living in town?”

  “No.”

  “But she did live here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me where?”

  Westfield looked at his watch. “I can do better than that. I can take you there.”

  ***

  When we stepped outside I said to Jerry, “You feel that?”

  “What, Mr. G.?”

  “It’s cooler here, for some reason,” I said. It was not only cool but overcast. I found it odd that the sun seemed to be shining everywhere but on that little town.

  Rachel Foster’s house was walking distance from the hotel. Like most of the houses in town, it was small and well-cared for.

  “People here are not allowed to let their homes get run down,” Westfield explained. “When visitors come and walk around, they have to feel at home.”

  “I get it,” I said. Jerry rolled his eyes behind Westfield’s back.

  “When did she leave?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “It was some time after the murder in Miami Beach made the news. And it happened overnight.”

  “So she just... disappeared?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about Phil Rossi?” I asked. “Did you know him?”

  “Probably.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She had more than one man around her,” Westfield said. “I don’t know who worked for her, or who was fucking her. To tell you the truth, I don’t know which one was Rossi. But somebody in town might.”

  “Am I understanding this right? You were the landlord here?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I collected her rent, but I didn’t associate with her.”

  We walked up to the front door.

  “Can we get inside?”

  “Go ahead,” Westfield said. “I have to get back.”

  “Wait,” I said, “is there police, or a sheriff, in town that we could get into trouble with?”

  “We don’t have a police department,�
� he said. “When we need to, we call the state police. I think you’re pretty safe. That’s actually part of the reason the phonies come here.”

  “And because they don’t get judged,” Jerry added.

  Westfield looked at him and said, “You have such negative energy.”

  He didn’t wait for Jerry to answer him, he just turned and headed back to the hotel.

  “Jesus, Mr. G.,” Jerry said, “we’re surrounded by crackpots.”

  “Maybe so,” I said, “but we’re not here to make friends. Let’s go inside and see what we can find.”

  I turned the doorknob and the door opened.

  It was a small, one-bedroom set-up. The main room was both a sitting room and a dining room.

  “You take the kitchen, I’ll take the bedroom,” I suggested. “Those are probably the only places we might find something personal.”

  FIFTY NINE

  The bedroom had the usual furniture in it—a dresser, a chest, what looked like a double bed. It didn’t have a bathroom. That was down the hall.

  I opened all the drawers, looked under the bed, then walked down the hall to the kitchen. What I was looking for I didn’t know. I just hoped I’d know it when I found it.

  I heard Jerry in the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing, pots and pans, he even ran the water in the sink for some reason.

  When we met up in the living room we both said the same word.

  “Nothing.”

  “If she had more than one man coming around,” I said, “And a man helped her clean out Rossi’s house in Altamonte Springs, then the other man has to be the killer.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “So we need to find somebody who knows who he is,” I said.

  “Somebody in the neighborhood?”

  “Somebody in town,” I said. “I think we’re gonna need to get a room.”

  His eyes went wide.

  “At that hotel?”

  ***

  We walked back to the hotel, where the seminar had started up. There were people in a large room, sitting in rows of chairs, listening to several people sitting at a table in front of them.

  Westfield was standing in the doorway at the back of the room; he saw us when we were crossing the lobby, and came over.