Kiss Me Once

by Thomas Gifford

  The lobby was dim and quiet, resting. Wrought-iron sconces on the swirled stucco walls held electric bulbs that flickered like torches. Heavy beams overhead made you want to stoop when you didn’t have to. Moorish designs winked like harem girls from the designs on the walls. Long mirrors shot through with veins of gold looked like a bad accident at Tiffany’s. In just a minute the Sheik of Araby was going to flounce out from behind a potted palm and start having a go with his assegai. There were some chest-high pots at the end of the hallway by the elevator cages. Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves maybe? Terry dropped his cigar into one of the pots. Cassidy waited for the scream but the elevator came first.

  Markie Cookson had enjoyed his money. Aside from the fact that he probably had to be greased down to get in and out of the elevator, he had his own elegant little fiefdom looking down on the East River. The rooms weren’t big but there were a lot of them. And a balcony with the tugs and harbor patrol boats cruising along like toys far below. Queens and Brooklyn and the bridges were speckled with only a handful of lights. They’d never been so dark before. There was a war on.

  Terry put on gloves. He went to a desk that would have just fit in Delaware and began going through the drawers. Cassidy watched, wondering what he was looking for. He was beginning to prefer it that way. He wasn’t sure how many laws they’d broken already but he figured they were nowhere near done.

  The main room was fitted out with chairs like thrones, heavy beams with wrought-iron chandeliers at just the right height to bean you if you weren’t paying attention. Real candles. There was a pair of very large paintings devoted to devils and goblins crawling out of people’s heads and mouths, like the crab emerging from the hole in the middle of Markie’s dead face. Gilt frames. The fireplace could have housed a family of four. A big black statue of an Egyptian cat goddess. Cassidy recognized her from a Boris Karloff movie.

  While Terry rummaged through Markie’s papers, Cassidy headed down the dark hallway and switched on a light in the bedroom. Immediately he wished he hadn’t. A huge round bed encircled by a heavy beaded curtain squatted in the center of the room. The requisite round mirror hung from heavy chains over the bed. What it had seen didn’t bear much contemplation. An immense photograph of the bullet-domed master of the occult, Aleister Crowley, dominated one wall. There was a kind of altar in front of it. Goblets, candelabra, a variety of doodads, all looking sort of tacky and sad. An old-fashioned movie camera on a tripod was trained on the bed. Cassidy prayed he’d never have to sit through that double feature.

  There were some African tribal statues with very large dicks. Markie had puckishly draped several Sulka ties over the mammoth erections. Also a pair of handcuffs among the silks. The lighting was all blue and dim and indirect. There were fat jars of Vaseline and various other lubricants and unguents on a nightstand. On one shelf someone had left a plate with the crusted remains of a liverwurst sandwich, some gherkins, a crumpled napkin, used toothpicks. Whatever you did, you had to eat.

  Painted on the floor, with the circular bed at its center, with the points stretching away into the corners of the room, was a huge pentangle.

  Cassidy was backing out of the room when he saw something else. He felt the hair on his arms sitting up and yelling for help.

  There was something funny smeared all over one wall. He went closer. There were pieces of stuff stuck to the wall. And it was sort of hairy. It had dripped down the wall in a few places.

  He went back down the hallway. He smelled something sweetish and sickening. Maybe it was old incense clinging to the walls. Markie was just the type.

  Then he smelled dope.

  Terry was sitting behind the desk dragging on a reefer. He pushed a cigarette box with a top of inlaid pearl dragons cavorting in a devil-may-care fashion at Cassidy. “Markie’s private supply. Not bad stuff.”

  “Let’s get on with this—”

  “Keep your shirt on. You look funny—”

  “I think I just found the rest of Markie’s head.”

  Terry sat straight up. “What?”

  “It’s stuck to the bedroom wall.”

  “For chrissakes!” He got out from behind the desk and went down the hall. Cassidy picked out a throne and sat. In a while Terry came back, nodding. “That’s what you found all right, amigo. They killed him here. But dumped him way the hell and gone out there.” He looked at the trees on the balcony swaying in the wind. “I think maybe Markie wasn’t supposed to be found at all. Same message gets sent but there’s no body, no evidence, no slugs. Except for this one.” He flipped Cassidy a mangled nub of lead. “Dug it out of the wall.”

  “Somebody had a sandwich while they worked him over,” Cassidy said. “Jesus. Did you find what you’re after?”

  “No such luck. But he had something I need. Got to get it, amigo.”

  He went through the rest of the apartment. Cassidy sat in the living room leafing through Markie’s prized copy of the Necronomicon. The sweetish smell wouldn’t go away. It wasn’t the reefer. It was something else. He paced the room looking at the renderings of devils and goblins. The only sound was the tapping of his cane.

  Who killed Markie?

  What did Markie have that Terry needed?

  And what was that goddamned smell?

  “Okay, Lew, let’s get out of here. Only one other place to look. Come on.”

  “What is it, Terry? What are you looking for?”

  Terry just smiled.

  The hand-lettered sign said Pendragon: Rare Books, First Editions, & Incunabula. The shop nestled between a couple of very tony art galleries on East 57th in a sliver of freshly tuck-pointed red brick four stories high. It was Marquardt Cookson’s place of business. Terry used a key to get in. Closing the door behind him he said, “The money’s in the incunabula, if you know what I mean.”

  The light from the street filtered through the rain-streaked windows, cast jittery shadows. Tables were neatly arranged with piles of books. Gilt edges, morocco bindings. The walls were lined with dark wooden shelves and there were Tiffany lamps on low tables. A bronze bust of Dante was catching some shut-eye on a fluted pedestal. There was a gold-tooled escritoire at the back for the rude business of commerce. Framed Aubrey Beardsley prints. Bright clouds of flowers in large vases and copper pots.

  Terry pulled the chain on one of the Tiffany lamps, sat down at the escritoire, began shuffling through the contents of the drawers. There wasn’t much. A petty-cash drawer, bundles of receipts, book orders, bills, catalogs. He looked up, frowning. “Upstairs. He keeps all the serious stuff on the second floor. For his special clients and friends.”

  He turned off the lamp and they went up the narrow dark wooden stairway, found themselves in the second of the two rooms over the main shop. The larger room overlooking the street was shadowy and dim and the rain beat on the mullioned windows. The smaller room contained another desk, this one a plain schoolteacher’s number for use not show, two filing cabinets, a drinks table, a couple of cracked-leather armchairs. One of them was dribbling horsehair stuffing.

  It didn’t take long. What he wanted was in the lower drawer. The first item was a leather-bound volume with the words Cash Ledger stamped on its cover. The other was a desk diary. He leafed through the diary nodding to himself, whistling occasionally under his breath. He put it aside and opened the cash book, ran his fingers down a few pages while he moved his lips. Cassidy picked up a book from the stack on the floor at his feet. Photographs of men having sex with adolescent boys, girls, and the odd collie. One picture was much like another. On the whole, Markie may have gotten more or less what he deserved. He put it down and wanted to get the hell out of there.

  The old floorboards were creaking, the kind of sound you don’t pay much attention to in such buildings. Terry closed the books. “Well, it’s all here, Lew. Meticulous record keeper, our Markie.” He spoke affectionately.

  Cassidy knew what was in the ledger and diary by then. A record of the payoffs. Markie Cookson with a
cop on his team. Terry’s manner of living was a mystery no more. When you had Max Bauman and Markie Cookson donating to the cause, you were the only Park Avenue homicide dick in town.

  There was the sound of a footfall in the darkened front room, and in the instant, Cassidy put it together—what he’d noticed at the Sutton Place residence.

  A sweet, sickish smell. A plate full of gnawed toothpicks.

  Harry Madrid’s cherry-scented tobacco and …

  Bert Reagan was standing in the doorway with a toothpick in the corner of his flat miser’s mouth and a Smith & Wesson Police Positive in his hand. His wet trench coat looked like he’d picked it out of a trash can and he was dripping, standing in a puddle. His wet Dobbs snap-brim was straight on his bony forehead and he needed a shave. His brown wing tips still bore caked sand, a souvenir of the Jersey Shore.

  “Where’s your keeper, Bert?” Cassidy said. “Lost in a good book?”

  Reagan didn’t take his eyes off Terry when he spoke. “Stay the fuck out of this, cowboy. You’re not part of this. But you,” he said, shaking the gun barrel at Terry like a teacher’s admonishing finger, “you’re something else again.”

  “Shop’s not open, Bert,” Terry said, leaning back in the squeaky swivel chair. “Come back tomorrow.” He smiled. “Hell, Markie’ll give you credit. You don’t need the heater.”

  “Funny,” Reagan said. He wasn’t laughing and he didn’t look happy. “What are you doin’ here? How did you know …” He caught himself and the toothpick hotfooted it from one side of his mouth to the other.

  “How did I know what? That you and Harry iced Markie Cookson over on Sutton Place yesterday?”

  The color drained away leaving two pink spots on Reagan’s face, as if he’d scraped his cheekbones. The toothpick made it halfway back and his Adam’s apple bobbed like something going down for the third time.

  Terry began to laugh. “Honest to God, you and Harry, the Keystone Kops. You oughtta be in pitchas!” He wiped his eyes. “What are you doing here, Bert, old pal?”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about Cookson. Fat hophead, whatever happened to him wouldn’t surprise me—”

  “A fine moral tone,” Cassidy said. He was beginning to worry about Reagan growing too talkative. About Tom Dewey and Lucky Luciano and Lew Cassidy looking like a snitch. The atmosphere in the tight little office didn’t seem to be right for explanations.

  “I’m warning you, Cassidy—”

  “Bert, give it a rest. You sound like a George Raft movie. Where’s Harry?”

  “Harry asked me to come by, check a coupla things—”

  “Like these?” Terry nodded at the two volumes on the desk.

  “Wouldn’t be surprised,” Reagan said sourly.

  “I hear you and Harry been out to the shore, Bert. Shooting up some of Rocco’s boys. Was that smart?”

  Reagan scowled. He was a man who didn’t know his lines, not any of them. He was on one page, the whole damn team on another.

  “Bert doesn’t have much to say, amigo. Maybe you should shove off, whattaya say, Bert?”

  “I think I better take you guys to see Harry. Yeah, let’s all shove off. This is Harry’s game. You shouldn’t of been here, you guys …”

  “Where is Harry?”

  “Oh, he’s in his—what’s he call it—his operations room, that’s it. He’s playing with the big boys now. Hotel room, down at the Danbury in Times Square there—”

  “Operations room? Beautiful—he’s got a little game on his own. Everybody’s got an angle—”

  “He’s gonna nail you, Leary!” Reagan’s temper snapped. He bit through the toothpick. “He’s gonna have your balls. You can kiss it all goody-bye, Park Avenue, the broads, he’s gonna bury you—”

  “Bert, you’re nothing but a dumb errand boy. Fuck you. You’re too goddamn pitiful to deal with.” Terry stood up. “I oughtta make you use your piece … would you like that? Think you’ve got the guts? Are you fast enough to squeeze one off ’fore I got you?”

  Reagan decided not to wait.

  The gun cracked like a bullwhip and the slug burrowed into the desktop an inch or two from Terry’s hand. Terry didn’t move. Splinters sprayed across his sleeve. While the sound died away Terry worked at producing a smile. Cassidy contemplated hitting Reagan from the side, wondered how fast the cop’s reactions might be. Thought better of it.

  “Real jumpy, Bert,” Terry said.

  “You get under my skin, Terry, smart-mouthing me like that.”

  “Well, you’ve had a long day. Killing Markie, staying up all night, probably getting seasick, hauling those bodies around in the dark, an amphibious landing in the fog, shooting up all those gunsels … you look like you could use forty winks.”

  “After we go see Harry,” Reagan said.

  “One-track mind,” Cassidy said.

  “Harry’s not going to like this, Bert. I’ll have to tell him you spilled the beans about Markie—”

  “You son of a bitch, I didn’t spill nothin’.”

  “Well, maybe Harry’s feeling forgiving—don’t worry about it.”

  “I ain’t the one who’s worried. Now up, both of you, we’ll go see Harry. Right now! Gimme your piece, Terry, or so help me God I’ll drill you where you stand.”

  Terry handed the books to Cassidy, then slowly took his revolver from his shoulder holster, gave it butt-first to Reagan.

  “Okay, gents,” Reagan said, “let’s go.”

  Cassidy went down the stairs first, leaning on his stick. Terry followed, then Bert. Cassidy had to negotiate the descent in the dark with painstaking care.

  “Move it, Lew,” Reagan said. “We ain’t got all night.”

  Terry said, “Be nice, Bert.”

  “Shut up!”

  Halfway down the stairs where it was darkest, where you couldn’t see anything, Cassidy leaned to one side, steadied himself. “My leg,” he said. “It’s still weak …” He couldn’t see Terry but sensed him inches away.

  “Come on, come on!” Reagan was all impatience.

  Cassidy sucked in a deep breath and pitched the two books of Markie’s records back at Reagan. He couldn’t tell where they hit him but he heard a cry of surprise, heard Reagan lose his footing. There was a hell of a noise and a muzzle flash and plaster falling from above. Terry made a move. Reagan grunted again in the dark. Somebody moaned in pain. Both of them came crashing against Cassidy, one hurtled past, the other grabbed at the railing and it came out of the wall in his hand.

  Cassidy sat down hard, bouncing on the edge of the steps. Pain exploded in his leg. Gritting his teeth he tried to straighten it out with both hands. The stick had rolled away.

  Someone at the bottom of the steps was struggling to get up. There was a lot of heavy breathing going on.

  There was another muzzle flash from above.

  The shape jerked backward. There were three more shots. Cassidy squeezed his hands against his ears. The shape was driven to its knees, then hammered into the floor like a spike with each shot.

  The noise kept blasting in Cassidy’s head. The smell of gunpowder filled the tight stairway. He was choking on it.

  He tried to get down the stairs, had to get to him.

  “Terry! For Christ’s sake, Terry!”

  When he reached the body, he got his hands sticky with warm blood.

  He looked back up the stairway where slow footsteps were coming toward him. He was yelling and he couldn’t see a damn thing. He was trying to stand up and the leg wouldn’t hold.

  “You’d better kill me, too, you bastard!”

  The footsteps stopped near the bottom of the steps.

  Cassidy looked up at the void and waited for the slug.

  “Now, why the hell would I do that, amigo?”

  It was Terry.

  Chapter Eight

  THE PLASTER HAND WITH THE scarlet nails hovered above the playing cards, the head with its thick black hair in braids rocked back and forth with indecision, then h
and and head stopped, the yellow light bulb snapped off, and a small blue card dropped from the slot. The plaster eyelids clicked shut.

  Life may seem humdrum at the moment but cheer up! The future holds many interesting moments. You have a romantic disposition which may have gotten you in trouble in the past, but you are about to find a new love who will be your TRUE love! A friend wields a great deal of influence in your life. Changes coming soon. You have fine taste in clothing, causing many people to envy you. Drop another nickel in the slot and I will tell more.

  Cassidy read the card. How much more could there be, anyway? He dropped it in his pocket, finished the hot dog, wiped a mustard stain from the clothes everybody envied so much, and looked back at the traffic and sunshine on 42nd Street. Half the men were wearing uniforms. He felt suspect without one, like a secret Section Eight who had long conversations with lampposts and the angel Gabriel. The pinball machines clanged and rang and banged all around him. The arcade was full of sailors, a day’s shore leave. Kids. Killing time, waiting. He stood on the sidewalk, watching the Danbury Hotel across the street. It wasn’t the Waldorf. There were full-time residents, who made book out of the lobby, and the room-by-the-hour crowd who liked to gum up the sheets and give the springs a workout.

  And then—he saw him moving like a tollbooth through the sunlit, blinking crowd—there was Harry Madrid in a double-breasted gray suit and a Panama hat which had seen a lot of first summery days since coming north. He passed the pawnshop, turned into the lobby of the Danbury, and went to the elevator cage unwrapping a King Edward. The tiles on the floor were chipped and the dust on the potted palms was thick enough to autograph.

  Cassidy crossed to the desk and paid the counterman five dollars for the double-breasted gray suit’s room number. He went upstairs knowing too late he’d have gotten the number for a buck. But he was new to this and had to go by what he’d seen tough guys do in the movies.