Death of a Dastard (Prologue Books)

by Kane, Henry

  “Do I seem to be nervous, Mr. Chambers?” she said.

  “Nervous? You don’t seem to be nervous at all.” I fell into a chair.

  “Well, I am, and I probably will be until I get everything off my chest.”

  How can you resist the punch line? “What else is there to get off?”

  She giggled. “Mr. Chambers, I’m working on a job. I didn’t want to keep you waiting outside like some kind of silly door-hanging jerk. Amy — she’s my dresser — Amy’ll be here any second.”

  As though on cue, a door at the rear of the room opened, and a chubby little woman, face perspiring and hair frowzy, marched in with arms out as though in supplication. Lying across her outstretched arms was a coruscating black-sequinned dress. The woman looked at me and smiled as genially as though all her life she herself received her gentleman callers in the raw.

  “Oh, honey, baby, Edwina-doll,” she said. “This is a creation, but a creation, oh baby. Mister Gene, God bless his fairy heart, he really did himself up brown. Oh, girlie, what a dress! I flipped when I lamped it, but flipped. And when they told me it was for you, I practically tore it out of their hands. Baby, you were born for this, born, born. Bend easy now — I got to slip it over your goddamn gorgeous head.”

  I kept my trap closed, my eyes open, and my libido in hand. Edwina bent and my libido almost slipped its clutch. She was not my type but how much provocation can one libido take before it pops? Amy circled the dress over Edwina’s head, Edwina rose, the dress dropped about her, and libido sagged. “Amy,” said the clothed Edwina properly, “this is Mr. Chambers. Mr. Chambers, meet Amy.”

  “Glad to know you,” said Amy beginning to drape the dress about the tall lithe body. “Don’t she look like a doll already, Mr. Chambers? A goddamn living doll?”

  “A living doll,” I said.

  “There’s another piece to be added, like a flare skirt, which I’ll bring in, after I get this draped away right. Then like it serves two functions, you know? Functional. Cocktail dress and evening gown. Boy, that Mister Gene really outdone himself, bless his fruity heart. Functional. Functional. Two dresses for the price of one. Maybe you ought to grab up a sample yourself, Mr. Chambers, seeing as you are here. Wholesale. You got a wife?”

  “No.”

  “That’s nice,” said Edwina.

  “I’ll get the skirt now. Don’t go away, Edwina-baby.”

  “I’ll stay right here, Amy-doll.”

  “When you model it, baby, you’re going to have to clip the skirt off and on to show them. You’ll practice when I bring in the skirt.” Amy smiled at me, poked fingers at her disheveled hair, and waddled out the rear door.

  Edwina posed before a mirror. “Do you like it?” she said.

  “It’s you, you, you. You were born for it, or it was born for you, or perhaps Amy was born for both of you.”

  “Isn’t she the craziest, that Amy?” She had a tumbled way of speaking — quick, frank, open, tomboyish — but the green eyes were still rock-hard, watchful.

  “What about your own clothes?” I said.

  “Pardon?”

  “I mean where …”

  She pointed at the rear door. “We have our own private little dressing rooms back there.” She went to another of the pier glasses, examining herself. She moved about in that smooth special occupational strut that models have (as strippers have an occupational strut). She turned to me. “What time is it, Mr. Chambers?”

  I checked my wrist. “A quarter to three.”

  “Gosh, there’s so much we’ve got to talk about, so much I’ve got to say; advice that I need badly.”

  “What time do you figure to be through?”

  “This is my last showing. I’d say about a half hour.” She licked her tongue about her lips. “I’m dying for a drink. A good solid shot. We’re not allowed to drink on the job.”

  I pushed up out of my leather throne. “Do you know where the Chez Rio is?”

  “Somewhere on Fifty-fourth Street, isn’t it? I’ve never been there although I know the owner, Johnny Rio.”

  “You know Rio?”

  She smiled and for once the green eyes smiled with her. “I’m trying to be a big shot, Mr. Chambers, and I apologize. I met the guy once in my life. As a matter of fact, through Karen Touraine.”

  “He’s supposed to be sweet on her.”

  “He sure acted that way — and vice versa.”

  “When was this?”

  “Couple of months ago.” She looked longingly at one of the chairs. “I wish I could sit down but in this damned dress I’m afraid. Where was I?”

  “Karen Touraine and Johnny Rio, a couple of months ago, and they were acting like they were sweet on each other.”

  “Yeah. It was on a Monday night a couple of months ago on Staten Island. I’ve got a spinster aunt out there, and I was visiting, and she fixed me up with a date. The date was a guy with ideas. He took me to a smoky little night club which was part of a motel. He figured if I went along with his ideas we wouldn’t have to go far to make out. I didn’t go along with his ideas. Anyway, I’m on my way to the powder room when there in a corner is Karen and a guy, both kind of looped, and smooching it up like there’s no tomorrow. Naturally, I would have ducked but I was right there on top of them and Karen looked up at me with a grin like she was sick. She bumbled and fumbled and stammered out an introduction — Johnny Rio. Christ, I was just as embarrassed as they were. Who needs it to fall in on a couple of lovers copping a sneak way out by a motel on Staten Island? I skipped the powder room, collected my date, and blew the joint.”

  The rear door opened and Amy trundled in with the black flared skirt. “Now just lemme show you how you work this, Eddie-doll …”

  “Chez Rio,” I said. “It’s on Fifty-fourth near Park. I’ll wait for you there. In the cocktail lounge.”

  “On one condition.”

  “You name it.”

  “That there’s a double bourbon and soda waiting right there alongside of you. For me.”

  “You’ve got a deal, Miss Strange.”

  “And you’ve got a date, Mr. Chambers.”

  Outside Chez Rio there was a canopy from curb to entrance which was up three stone steps and through a wide glass door. When I pushed through the wide glass door into the dim cool recess there was no one, appropriately, in the lounge except the bartender behind the bar. The middle of the afternoon was zero hour for a lounge with prices as steep as those at Chez Rio.

  Now the bartender looked up from his busy glass-polishing and said, “Christ, as I live and breathe! If it ain’t Mr. Chambers, in the flesh. Welcome home. Long time no CPA.”

  “Hi, Bernie.” I swung my legs around a stool that had me facing the wide glass door so that I could see the street.

  “What’s kept you away so long, Mr. Chambers?”

  “I hate to be the innocent bystander that catches the bullet when the boss and the boss’s bosses start arguing.”

  “Oh, you’re a smart apple, Mr. C. One of the smartest. Yeah, one of these days the sprinkler system is going off.” He crossed himself. “When it happens I hope none of them slugs is got my number on it.”

  “You’re indestructible, Bernie.”

  “What’ll it be, Mr. Chambers?”

  “Scotch and water, one cube of ice.”

  “Same old drink.”

  “I like the same old hangovers. I’m a conservative.”

  Bernie Pearl was tubby with short legs, small feet, a large stomach, a small head, and frost-white hair; he was built on the general lines of a perpendicular watermelon.

  He poured my drink and said, “First one’s on the house. Drink hearty, Mr. Chambers.”

  I gulped it raw and said, “Mix the next one. Not on the house.”

  “Always the gentleman.” He poured, measured water, and mixed the ball.

  “Where’s the boss?” I said.

  “Ain’t due in till three-thirty, four.”

  “I hear he’s in love.�
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  “That’s a real pretty babe, the singer. You ever see her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And smart too. Real bright. And class. Just between you and me, Mr. C. — I can’t figure her for Mr. R.”

  “How do you think Mr. R. figures her?”

  “He’s kept her on like for four months now. Like that you smooth out any rough going.”

  “The going may be even smoother now. I take it you’ve heard what happened to Jason Touraine.”

  “Yeah. Geez. Something. No?”

  “I heard about it from Harvey McCormick. Touraine worked for him, you know.”

  “Yeah. Good old Harv. Ain’t been around for a couple of days.”

  “He’s been out of town. As a matter of fact, I’ve been with him. We talked about you, Bernie. The guy thinks the world of you.”

  “And I think the world of him. Known him for years. Used to be a customer of mine down by the old Green Emerald.”

  “I spent three full days with him, working on a job, and I couldn’t get through one inch. Tight-mouth type. What kind of a guy is he, Bern?”

  “The best. Smart. Smart like you. Very smart. Used to be a killer-diller in the old days, used to run them chicks fast and loose.”

  “But he stayed single for a hell of a long time.”

  “Smart, that’s why. When he had enough juice in him, he’d talk to me. You know how it is — a bartender is the poor man’s shrinker. Always said he wouldn’t marry until there was something in it for him. Well, he did all right, didn’t he?”

  “Millions.”

  “So, like I said, smart, huh?”

  “But the wife has got ten years on him.”

  “So what? What’s age? When it’s millions — what’s ten years?”

  I sipped my ball. I said, “You think he still runs, Bern?”

  The little eyes creased in a grin. “Can the zebra change his stripes? But this is a smart man, Mr. C. This ain’t no hot-pants bird with an open fly. If he runs, he runs careful.” One eye closed in an elaborate wink. “He’s out of town a lot. On business.”

  “Bernie, you’re smarter than me and McCormick rolled together. Let me ask you a question.”

  “Maybe older than both of you rolled together.”

  “When a guy runs he’s vulnerable. What would happen if he fell in love?”

  “Love?” He stroked a stubby finger along his blue-red nose. “Don’t talk to me about love. I’m an old rooster and an old rooster knows more about love than a young cock. Love, I hate it. Love, it’s trouble. Don’t talk to me about love.”

  “Okay, let’s talk about Jason Touraine.”

  “What can we talk?”

  “Did he have any trouble here?”

  “You mean if one of our hard-boys pumped him?”

  “I mean.”

  “I would say no. Around here he’s been like an angel with his halo in his hand.”

  I squinted. “So how come this angel got knocked on his ass this Saturday night?”

  The corners of his mouth turned down in an expression of admiration. “Boy, news travels quick.”

  “I’m in the business, Bern.”

  “So he got knocked. It wasn’t nothing serious.”

  “Who knocked him, Bern?”

  The little blue eyes blinked disapproval. The mouth pursed as though he were going to whistle.

  I said, “I know who knocked him, Bern.”

  “So why are you asking, pray?”

  “Because I like it when I have your confidence, Bernie. I like a little proof when a friend is supposed to be a friend. Part of my business is asking questions. I expect answers from a friend who’s a friend because it helps me in my business. Dig? I don’t like people who beat their gums with everybody — but a friend is a friend, Bernie-friend.”

  “So who knocked the angel on his ass, friend?”

  “Mr. Gilbert Wade knocked him on his ass, friend.”

  A grin showed jagged tobacco-yellow teeth. “I ought to know better than to tussle with my friend, Mr. C. Especially my friend Mr. C. who is one hell of a good tipper.”

  I can take a hint, even a subtle hint — subtle as a train wreck. I brought out a twenty, folded it, delivered it, said, “Put it away.”

  He put it away.

  “Why was the handsome boy knocked on his ass?”

  “He was out with a lady he was not supposed to be out with.”

  “A lady friend of Mr. Wade?”

  “Better than that.”

  “What’s better than that?”

  “The wife of Mr. Wade.”

  That knocked me on my ass!

  There is a cardinal rule for the richard. Be imperturbable. I looked at my watch. “Double bourbon and soda,” I said.

  Jowls shook in a turgid double take. “I thought you stick to the same hangovers?”

  “Double bourbon and soda, and double Scotch and water, served at a table.”

  “Are you all right, Mr. Chambers?”

  “I’m expecting a date.”

  “You’re all right, Mr. Chambers.” He made a megaphone of his hands and yelled toward the rear, “Chico!”

  He put out a tray, set glasses on the tray, and poured.

  A thin blond waiter slouched into the lounge through the arched doorless doorway of the night club proper.

  “Table Number One,” said Bernie, indicating the laden tray.

  Table Number One was in a corner in an alcove. The waiter took up the tray, brought it to the table, and went back through the archway.

  “He’s sore because I disturbed him,” said Bernie. “He’s smoking his last stick of weed in the toilet before the action starts.”

  “So’s not to disturb him again, I’ll pay now together with his tip.” I did that and then I said, “What’s the name of Wade’s wife?”

  “Mrs. Wade. What else?”

  “Do you know her first name?”

  “Yeah, I do. I heard it. Christ, it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

  “Bite it,” I said. “What’s the name?”

  “Geez. It’s on the tip of my dumb tongue.”

  Through the wide glass door, I saw a cab roll up. Through the wide glass door, I saw the long slender legs of Edwina Strange. I got up off my stool.

  “What name?” I said.

  “Yeah. It’s coming. I got it.”

  Edwina Strange pranced up the three stone steps.

  Edwina Strange opened the wide glass door.

  “What name?” I said.

  “Harriet,” he said.

  Chapter Twelve

  I GREETED her at the door

  She looked about. “Lovely,” she said, “but don’t you think it’s too crowded?”

  “You’ve had a busy day. You need quiet and rest. For you, I bought up the hall.”

  “Hall’s balls, I always say. Did you also manage to buy me some bourbon?”

  “Sitting and waiting, as per request.” I gestured toward table Number One.

  “As Amy would say, you’re a doll.”

  I led her to the alcove. She was tall, but shorter, because now she was wearing flats. As so many others in the glamour professions, she affected a plainness as though in compensation. She was simply dressed in a green suit (but not so simply that it did not match her eyes), a white blouse, and green sandals, and she carried a small matching green bag. Her black hair was braided in a crown on her head. She wore no make-up except pink lipstick.

  She sat and I sat alongside her. She mixed her bourbon and stirred it with a long finger. I mixed my Scotch and stirred it with her long finger. She sipped, said, “Hah,” sipped again, said, “Where do we begin?”

  I was closer to her than I had been in her dressing room and, although here the lights were dim, there she had been wearing make-up. Now I could see the tiny bags beneath the strange green eyes and the faint meshwork of worry-wrinkles. The eyes showed a hell of a lot of strain.

  She sipped. She said, “Are you, like me, a drunk?”
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  “Everybody who drinks is a drunk. It’s become fashionable to call oneself a drunk.”

  “Are you fashionable?”

  “Old-fashionable.”

  “In everything?” The green eyes glinted.

  I let it ride. I said, “Let’s begin with Jason Touraine.”

  “Like how?”

  “Like a quick analysis.”

  “That’s easy. Four words. Son of a bitch. No. Correction. Six words. King of the sons of bitches.”

  “Nice start,” I said. “You want to expand on that?”

  “Tell me this, Mr. Chambers. I mean, just for openers. How much do you know about the guy?”

  “I met him once, for three minutes, at a party last Friday night. I also met his wife at that party, and we spent about one minute together. Today I talked with Mrs. Touraine, somewhat more lengthily. She sort of sketched him in for me.”

  “Once over lightly, eh?”

  “Do I detect a note of sarcasm?”

  “If I know that trollop, it was once over and very lightly.”

  “I thought she’s a friend of yours.”

  “I pick my friends.”

  “Miss Strange, are you always this pleasant about people?”

  “Mr. Chambers, I’m pleasant about people I think I ought to be pleasant about. I’m not pleasant about Mr. Touraine or Mrs. Touraine. He was the sonofest son of a bitch I ever knew — ”

  “So you talk of the dead?”

  “I’m glad he’s dead. As for her — she’s a hoity-toity little hypocrite and I hate hypocrites even when they’re not hoity-toity.”

  “Wow,” I said. “All this on one bourbon?”

  “One bourbon? My date was with a double bourbon.”

  “It is a double bourbon.”

  “Was,” she said and finished it.