by Ed McBain
"Come in!" a woman's voice called.
He opened the door onto a small reception room with a desk and chair in it, no one in the chair, no one behind the desk. This was one o'clock in the afternoon, he assumed the receptionist was out to lunch.
"I'm in here!"
He followed the voice into a larger office with a larger desk in it. An attractive, dark-haired woman sat behind the desk. She was, he guessed, in her late thirties, early forties, a pleasant smile on her face, her brown eyes studying him from behind tortoiseshell glasses. Behind her was a rental calendar with large blocks of in-season time marked with different colored strips of tape.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"I'm Matthew Hope," he said.
"Anne Langner," she said. "Please sit down, won't you?"
"Thank you," he said, and took a seat opposite her desk. "Miss Langner," he said, "I wonder if you remember… on the sixth of June… that would have been two weeks ago this coming Friday… a man named Otto Samalson…"
"Oh, yes," she said at once.
"You do remember him?"
"Well, of course. With all the stories about him on television and in the papers? Yes, certainly. He was here asking about a beautiful young woman, I forget her name just now."
"Well, I'm sure he asked about several names," Matthew said.
"Yes, now that you mention it, he did. I'm sorry but I didn't recognize the girl in the picture he showed me. She isn't one of our owners, and she isn't renting an apartment here, either."
"Would you have recognized her?"
"Oh, yes."
"Even if she was living here with someone else?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, not an owner, not a renter, but living with someone who is an owner or a renter."
"Oh. Well… I don't know. There are sixty units here, twenty-four of them as yet unsold, the others either owner-occupied or in our rental program. It would be difficult to-"
"How many are owner-occupied?" Matthew asked.
"Nineteen."
"Year-round residents?"
"Not all of them. Seven are owners who only use the apartment two or three months out of the year but prefer not to rent it when they're away."
"That leaves twelve year-round residents."
"Yes."
"Of the seven absentee owners, are any of them here now?"
"I really couldn't say. This isn't a full-service condo, you see, we don't check on the comings and goings of anyone whose apartment isn't in our rental program."
"How many apartments are rented right now?"
"All of the seasonal renters are already gone, they usually disappear just after Easter, the beginning of May at the very latest. We have three summer rentals, but they're unusual. The rest are renting by the year, people who come down here with a job, expect to buy a house, rent a condo while they're settling in and looking."
"So," Matthew said, "right now how many apartments are occupied?"
"Twelve owner-occupied. Three summer rentals. Six annuals."
"Twenty-one in all."
He was thinking Otto had already covered seventeen of those twenty-one. But which seventeen?
"Plus any absentee owner who may be in residence just now," Anne said. "They come and go."
Better yet, Matthew thought.
"Would you mind if I knocked on some doors?" he asked.
"It's a free country," she said, and arched one eyebrow. "Will you need any help?"
Matthew knew an arched eyebrow when he saw one.
"Maybe," he said, and smiled. "I'll let you know."
When Matthew was a boy in Chicago, the one thing he'd hated more than anything else in the world was going around with his kid sister Gloria when she was selling Girl Scout cookies. His mother had said she didn't want little Gloria knocking on doors all by herself, you never knew who or what might be behind one of those doors.
So Matthew had gone along with a scowling and embarrassed Gloria-her goddamn big brother leading around a Girl Scout who could make fires by rubbing two sticks together and everything-and he'd knocked on doors and listened to his sister giving her spiel, "Morning, ma'am, would you like to buy some delicious Girl Scout cookies?" and he'd felt like a horse's ass. Especially since no one at all tried to rape or kill Gloria.
By three o'clock that afternoon, Matthew had knocked on twelve apartment doors.
At two of those apartments, he'd got no answer at all.
At four of them, he was told that they'd already answered questions about the girl with the long blonde hair. One man asked if this was a contest or something, and if so, what was the prize?
At five of them-after describing the girl known variously as Angela West, Jody Carmody, Melissa Blair, Mary Jane Hopkins, and Jenny Santoro-he was told that maybe the girl sounded familiar, but didn't he have a picture?
And at the last apartment, the door was slammed in his face before he could even open his mouth.
Sighing, he knocked on the door to apartment 2C.
He could hear rock music coming from inside the apartment.
"Who is it?" a voice called.
"My name is Matthew Hope," he said, "I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time."
"Who?"
"Matthew Hope."
"What do you want, Matthew Hope?"
This from just inside the door.
"I'm trying to locate someone, I wonder if-"
"Try the manager's office."
"I've just been there. Miss, if you look through your peep-hole you'll see I'm not an ax-murderer or anything."
A giggle on the other side of the door.
Then:
"Just a sec, okay?" He waited. Night chain coming off. Tumblers felling. Door opening.
The girl standing there was wearing cutoff jeans and a green tank top shirt. She was barefoot. Matthew guessed she was five feet eight or nine inches tall, somewhere in there. Her russet-colored hair was cut in a short wedge with bangs falling almost to the tops of her overlarge sunglasses. There was a faint smile on her mouth. No lipstick. She stood in the doorway with one hand on the jamb, sort of leaning onto the hand. It was difficult to tell her age. She looked like a teenager. He felt like asking her if her mother was home.
"So okay, Matthew Hope," she said.
Very young voice.
"I'm sorry to bother you," he said.
"No bother."
"I'm an attorney…"
"Uh-oh," she said.
But not alarmed, just jokingly. Smile still on her mouth. Eyes inscrutable behind the dark glasses.
"I'm trying to locate someone for one of my clients."
A lie.
She kept watching him, smile still on her mouth.
"I'm sorry I don't have a photograph," he said, "but she's a girl of about twenty-two or three-long blonde hair, blue eyes, very attractive-and she may be living here at Camelot Towers. Would you happen to know her?"
"Not offhand." A pause. "What's her name?"
"Well, she uses several different names?"
"Oh? Is she wanted by the police or something?"
"No, no."
"That's right, you said you were trying to locate her for a client." Another pause. "What are these names she uses?"
"Jenny Santoro…"
Shaking her head.
"Melissa Blair…"
Still shaking her head.
"Jody Carmody… Angela West… Mary Jane Hopkins…"
"Lots of names."
"Any of them ring a bell?"
"Sorry."
"And you haven't seen anyone of that description?"
"No, I'm sorry."
"Going in or out of the building…"
"No."
"… or in the elevator?"
"No place." Shaking her head again. "Sorry."
"Do you live here?" he asked.
"I'm visiting a friend," she said.
"Is she home?"
"He. No, I'm sorry, he's out just now."
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"I was wondering, you see-"
"Yes?"
"-if he might have seen this person I'm looking for."
"I really don't know. I'll ask him, how's that?"
"Would you? Here's my card," he said, reaching for his wallet, searching for a card, never a damn card when you needed one, "he can call me here," handing her the card, "if he thinks he knows her."
She took the card, looked at it.
"I'll tell him," she said.
"Thank you."
"Not at all," she said, and closed the door.
The name plate on it read: HOLLISTER.
14
She did not reach Martin Klement until six o'clock that night. She had called him earlier at his restaurant-Springtime, what a name for a restaurant, it sounded like a place selling plants-and she'd been told that he wouldn't be in till the dinner hour. She asked what time that would be. For different people the dinner hour was at different times. The snippy little bitch who answered the phone said they began serving at six-thirty.
Jenny figured she'd try at six, nothing ventured nothing gained.
When Klement came on the line, she said, "Hello, this is Sandy Jennings, I was talking to a friend of mine this afternoon, a girl named Merilee James, she had some interesting things to say about two Hispanic gentlemen."
"Oh?"
Caution in that single word. British caution, but caution nonetheless.
"I think I might be able to accommodate them," Jenny said.
"I'll have to call you back," Klement said.
"No, I'll call you back. What do you want to do? Check with Merilee?"
"If you don't mind."
"I'll call you back in half an hour," Jenny said, and hung up.
There was no way she was going to give this telephone number to anybody. Not this one, nor the one at the hotel, either. She didn't want Klement or his two spic friends-or anybody, for that matter-barging in looking for coke.
She wondered when Vincent would be home.
When she'd spoken to him on the phone this morning, he'd told her his last appointment was at two-thirty, and he'd be back at the condo by three, three-thirty. She'd come here right after talking to Merilee, hoping he'd be home already, knocked and knocked and finally let herself in with her key. Tried him at Unicom, they told her he'd already left. So where the fuck was he? Six o'clock already. She desperately needed to tell him what she'd heard from Merilee, first damn good news since they'd come to Calusa.
Sitting on four fucking keys of cocaine, you think there'd be buyers coming out of the woodwork like cockroaches.
Well, you can't take an ad in the paper, can you?
FOR SALE
FOUR KILOS COCAINE
NINETY-PERCENT PURE
CALL OWNER AT…
No way.
You kept your ears open, you listened, you didn't trust anybody with the secret. In the state of Florida, you could find yourself on the bottom of the ocean if somebody thought you had four keys of coke. So you had to play your cards very close to your chest. Meanwhile sitting there with what you knew was worth seventy, seventy-five a key. All that shit and no way to translate it to cash.
Until now.
So where the fuck was Vincent?
Thought it might be him when the lawyer knocked on the door.
How the hell did a lawyer get into this?
If he really was a lawyer.
Man, this was weird.
Well, he'd given her a card, she guessed he was a real lawyer.
Summerville and Hope.
On impulse, she dialed the number-
"Good evening, Summerville and Hope."
-and immediately hung up.
So who hired the lawyer?
Larkin again? It sure as hell wasn't Fat Louie in Miami. You steal a man's cocaine, he doesn't go to any kind of law. No, it had to be Larkin again. Guy coming around with a picture of her. Knocking on the door here at the condo, you know this girl? Vincent later described the picture. Polaroid color shot of her in the ice-blue gown she'd worn first for Amaros in Miami and later here at the Jacaranda Ball. Went there with a girl she'd met at the Sheraton. She hadn't told Vincent about that night with Larkin. Hadn't told him she'd stolen the Rolex. Didn't want to risk his shrill faggoty rage. Didn't want to piss old Vincent off, fags could get meaner than pit vipers.
The look on his face.
"Amaros," he said.
She knew it wasn't Amaros, she knew it was Larkin.
Larkin trying to find her for what she'd given him.
Directly traceable to Amaros.
Nice little present from Amaros, the shit.
She didn't say anything.
She figured four keys of coke was worth getting herpes.
Maybe.
"When did he take your picture?" Vincent said.
"I don't remember."
"Well, damn it, remember! Can't you see he's traced us here?"
Voice high and strident. Very nervous now. Started pacing back and forth. This was like Friday a couple of weeks ago, the fourth, the fifth, somewhere in there. Biting his lip while he paced. Nervous as a cat. Eyes flashing.
"I don't remember," she said again.
Damned if she was going to tell him about Larkin and the Rolex, have to listen to his fuckin' faggoty screams.
Which was why she was a little nervous about talking to Klement now, before she'd had a chance to discuss this. She didn't want Vincent taking another fit. A fag throwing a fit was something to behold. But shit, if there were some real buyers out there…
Was the lawyer from Larkin?
Knew names she'd used since she was for Christ's sake sixteen years old!
She looked at her watch. She hoped he'd get home before she had to call Klement again.
When he wasn't there by six-thirty, she started getting a little worried. Had he had an automobile accident or something? Last client at two-thirty, so it was now six-thirty, so where was he?
She dialed the number at the Springtime restaurant.
"Mr. Klement, please," she said.
"Whom shall I say is calling?"
Same bitch from this afternoon. Whom. My ass, whom, that's whom.
"Sandy Jennings."
Jenny Santoro sort of ass-backwards, she thought.
"Hello?"
Klement's voice.
"Did you check with Merilee?" she said. "Am I real?"
"When can we meet?" Klement asked.
"We can't," Jenny said. "You tell me what your end is, and then you give me a number to call. That's how it works."
Cover your ass. She'd learned all about covering her ass in Los Angeles. It was even more important to cover it here. Four keys of high-grade? Shit, man.
"Sorry," he said, "I don't do business that way."
"You're not the one holding," she said.
"True."
"Do we talk or not?"
"My end is ten percent," he said.
"Five or forget it"
"I hate haggling like a fishmonger."
"So do I."
"Seven and a half then."
"Fine. How do I reach your people?"
"Have we got a deal?"
"Yes. Payment on delivery."
"No. I don't want to be there."
"Then get your end in advance."
"I beg your pardon?"
"From your people. As soon as we set a price."
"Most professionals don't do this sort of business on the telephone."
"Lucky I'm an amateur," Jenny said. "Let me have the number."
Klement gave her the number.
***
Only once before had Vincent been tempted by a male client, and that was when he was working for Vidal Sassoon in New York. The man's name was Melvyn-with a y, no less- and he was as queer as a turnip, but oh so gorgeous. Great blond locks and cornflower blue eyes and muscles he doubtlessly flexed every weekend at Cherry Grove-oh, what Vincent wouldn't have given for a tumble with young Melvyn.
At the time, Vincent was spending his weekends with two good friends of his who owned a house in Pound Ridge, near Emily Shaw's Inn. He made the mistake one Wednesday afternoon, while Melvyn-with-a-Y was in having his golden fleece shorn, to suggest that he might enjoy coming up one weekend, meet some of the boys, party a bit, did Melvyn think he might enjoy that? Melvyn lowered his baby blues and put one hand on Vincent's arm, and said, "Oh dear, that's so kind of you, but I'm involved just now."
The person he was involved with, as it turned out, marched in that very afternoon to make certain his sweet little boy was having his hair properly trimmed. The grandest old drag queen who ever lived, wearing a black cape and high-heeled boots and blood-red lipstick that made him look like Dracula.
Vincent swore off that very minute.
Never again would he come on with a client.
Cut the hair, make the chitchat, and let it go.
But at 6:47 that night, while Jenny was on the phone asking for cabin number three at the Suncrest Motel, Vincent was in a room at Pirate's Cove, making love with a man named George Anders, who'd been his two-thirty client.
Anders was a married orthodontist.
Giggling, Vincent told him he had a very bad overbite.
At exactly that moment, Susan Hope walked onto the deck of the restaurant at Stone Crab Shores and spotted Matthew sitting at a table overlooking the water.
A wide smile broke on her face.
Swiftly, she walked to him.
***
With twenty-five cents and the accent of the man on the other end of the line, you could start a banana plantation in Cuba.
"Sondy Hennings?" he said.
"Yes," she said. "Martin Klement asked me to call you."
"Ah, si," he said.
"Is this Ernesto?"
"Si."
No last name. Martin hadn't given her one, and she didn't ask for one. She didn't care how many names of hers he had, first, last, it didn't matter, the Sandy was a phony and so was the Jennings.
"I understand you're looking to buy some fine china," she said.
This was what Martin had told her to say on the phone. Fine china. What bullshit, she thought. Ernesto was thinking the same thing. Domingo was sprawled out on the bed, looking through the July issue of Penthouse.
