Stone Cold Blonde

by Lawrence Lariar

  “Yesterday.”

  “Take that ring off,” I said. “Or would you rather hand it to Sam Doughty?”

  “What for?”

  “Evidence, lady.” I reached down and slipped it off her finger. She made a feeble stab at grabbing it from me, but changed her mind and shrugged and sat there, showing me her befuddlement.

  “I never liked it anyhow,” she said.

  She lied like hell. The ring was a large diamond, set in a masterfully designed cup, the work of the type of craftsman who labors for the upper-bracket jewelry customers. I lifted it and studied the band, turning it up to the light so that I could read the delicate italics on the inner side. The initials G.M. were engraved there, and when I saw them I sucked air and stared at the ring as though it would take off and fly out of my hand. For a quick and jittery instant Patty Price was lost to me. The sight of the diamond registered against the background of the last eight hours, talking to me, telling me things that I had wanted to know a long time. I was lost in a miasma of speculation, when Patty broke through to me.

  “You look like you just saw a ghost,” she was saying.

  “I saw one, all right. Put your clothes on. You’re coming with me.”

  “Downtown?”

  “You guessed it.”

  “Oh, please,” she said, adjusting her voice to suit her posture. “Must you be so tough?”

  She slid in closer to me. She was breathing heavily, her eyes closed, her face against mine, close enough so that I could see her moistened lips and the whiteness of her predatory teeth. She began to pull my head down, awaiting my lips impatiently.

  I pulled away. I said, “Get dressed, sister. I’m taking you back to your apartment, but not for mattress exercises. You’re going to call your boy friend, Vincetti. You’re going to set up a date with him. Now.”

  She got up, pouting.

  She went behind a screen in the corner of the room and started to dress. She was pulling a pair of stockings from the dresser drawer when I heard the noise. Somewhere through the walls, a door had slammed shut. Patty heard the sound when I did and she froze, her hands still holding the nylons, her head turned toward the door, listening. There was a hint of a smile on the edges of her sharp little mouth, the suggestion that she knew who was coming. I reached for her hands again and she dropped the stockings and tore out at me. I slapped her across the face, hard, so that she staggered back and showed me the fear in her eyes.

  I said, “Keep quiet, or I’ll break every bone in your head.”

  There were footsteps outside, in the big dressing room a heavy tread, a hard-heeled stride. Then the knock came, too gentle and controlled for the man who owned the fist. I had Patty by the mouth, behind the door. He would come in slowly. He would take two steps forward, toward the dressing table.

  He came in, operating as I imagined he would. His eyes were wide open, puzzled by the empty seat at the dressing table. Then I was behind him, my gun in his back.

  I said, “Over to the wall. You, too, Patty.”

  His arms went up and he backed into the wall. He grinned at me, as tolerant as a parent observing an eight-year-old Hopalong Cassidy.

  He said, “Jesus! A big man with a gun.”

  I was in no mood for dialogue. I slapped him across the jaw with the butt of the automatic. Hard. Hard enough to bring him to his knees, muttering hoarse oaths at the floor. He began to lift his head, and when I saw the movement, I kicked him in the groin, doubling him up, folding him in a bundle on the dirty rug.

  I waited for him to unbend and he came back to a seated position slowly, his animal eyes fogged and hurt by my sudden assault, but still alive with a burning cunning that might do me damage. I grabbed him by his oily hair and shook his head back against the wall.

  “Why did you kill Abe Feldman?” I asked.

  “Crazy,” he said. “You’re nuts, brother.”

  “You killed him,” I said. “Admit it.”

  His head wobbled and bobbled as I cracked it against the wall. I continued to slam it into the plaster. He fell forward heavily when I released him, shaking his head at my shoes. I kicked up at him, aiming my toe at the pit of his stomach and making contact with his gut at a point just below the navel. He sagged and went down, flat on his face. I kicked out at him again, high on the head this time, near the ear. Patty Price leaped at me from behind, kicking and screaming as she came. I caught her before she kicked me the second time. I spun her around and hit her again, on the nose. She grabbed for it as though I had blown it off her face. She sat down alongside Hands Vincetti, blubbering and drooling as the blood streaked down her cheek. He was getting up again, on one elbow, moving with the slow reflexes of a wounded beast. It hurt me to see him still squirming around. I found myself kicking out at him again, all the heat of my anger released in one final effort. I caught his chin with my toe and he sagged, his filthy hands clutching her legs. But Patty Price was in no position to brush them off. She had fainted a few minutes ago.

  I said, “She’s all yours, Vincetti.”

  Nobody answered. Nobody would answer anybody in this room for a long time.

  I got out of there. I never did enjoy talking to myself.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Maisonette was a gloomy pile, asleep in the early morning mist. The lobby was deserted, save for the old bird at the desk who slept now, his head cradled in his arms, snoring lightly. I stood at the door, looking in, hidden by a sheltering abutment in the hall. It would be easy to enter the place, but I wasn’t ready for it yet. I held my position in the darkness, so that I could see into the street, up toward Central Park. I was waiting for the cab that followed me. I was anxious to see whether this was the man in the gray hat, the same tail who had followed me when I moved after Lisa Simoneck. But no cab made the swing into the side street. No footsteps sounded outside. Yet, whoever he was, he could be standing up at the corner, under the trees across the street, or sitting in the cab, waiting for me to come out. I moved toward the street door, aroused by a fresh rash of curiosity. Then I muttered a quick curse and gave up the idea. To hell with him.

  I had more important business upstairs, with Grace Masterson.

  Nobody stopped me in the hall. I crossed before the sleeping desk man and entered the elevator and rode it to the seventh floor.

  She must have been asleep, because it took a few minutes for her to respond to my hand on the bell. And when she opened the door, she was yawning and rubbing her eyes at me. She still looked good to me, even without the make-up. Too good. I pushed past her before she could greet me. I sat down on the little couch and watched her walk in, as graceful in slippers as she was in high heels. She stretched as she came, favoring me with the smile I had enjoyed last night.

  “Do you always wake your clients so early in the morning, Steve?” she asked, a make-believe petulance in her voice.

  “When it’s important.”

  “You don’t mean to tell me you’re here on business?”

  “That’s exactly it. I’ve found your husband.”

  It broke her up. It brushed the sleep out of her eyes and opened them wide with shock and disbelief. She came over to me on the couch, all a-twitter again, the way I had first seen her in Alice V.’s office.

  “But that’s miraculous! I thought you said it would take lots of time? I was prepared to wait for weeks and weeks. And now you’ve done it in less than a day.”

  “It was an easy locate.”

  “Easy? How on earth did you do it?”

  “Your husband isn’t as clever as he thinks. I caught him on the first lead.”

  “But where? Where did you find him?”

  I let the silence grow around her question. She was uncomfortable in the gap of quiet, unable to keep her face in order. It was a pleasant scene for me, watching her squirm, playing to her anxiety in the clutch. She couldn’t hold her pose
for long. She reached for the cigarette box on the table and fumbled one out of it and lit it with a great effort, a gesture that betrayed the inner upheaval that was shaking her. Her hands trembled and she could do nothing to hide her nervousness from me. Something was happening to upset her and I knew what it was. And I relished watching it.

  I said, “I know where I can put my finger on him. And he won’t move until I get there.”

  “Is he far away?”

  “Far enough.”

  “You mean we can get there—now?”

  “In less than an hour,” I said.

  “Then we must go at once.” She was glad of the chance to stand and move around again. She had been sitting on the edge of the couch as jittery as a Communist in the State Department. But the bounce to her feet was a sudden gesture, stiff and phony. “Right away, Steve. I’ll get dressed in a jiffy and then we can go to him.”

  “You’ll get dressed, maybe. But we won’t go to him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We’re not seeing him yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Money,” I said. “I want my money. Now.”

  She smiled at me nervously. “But that’s silly. What’s happened to you? I’ll pay you tomorrow, as soon as I can get the money. Or you can get it from Alice V. I don’t think I have enough here in the apartment now, or I’d—”

  “I know you haven’t got enough.” I waited for her to register more shock and surprise as she sat down again. “You haven’t got enough because I just raised my rates.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “It’s too early in the morning for Smart patter. My rates have gone up. Period.”

  “But why? Why?”

  “I’m temperamental.”

  “Please, Steve.”

  “I’ll give it to you in easy stages. I found your husband. You want me to tell you where he is. I’ll lead you to him for a price. Times are tough all over. Inflation. I’ve raised my rates. You get him for ten thousand bucks.”

  “You’re being unreasonable.”

  “You’d better take it at ten grand,” I said. “I’m getting moody. It always upsets me to haggle over money. Too much smart talk will raise it to fifteen thousand.”

  She took a step away from me suddenly, as though small pox had just broken out on my rosy cheeks. I was reaching her now. She was having trouble with her lip, working her tongue over it, and then nibbling it nervously.

  “You can’t do this to me,” she pleaded. “You made a promise to Alice V. You can’t change your fee now.”

  “I’m changing it.”

  “It will ruin you if this gets out. It will ruin your business.”

  “Don’t fret about my business,” I said. “Just concentrate on the ten grand. It isn’t much, not too much for a cute little husband.”

  “Where can I possibly get that kind of money?”

  “Ask me the easy questions.”

  “I don’t understand what’s happened to you,” she said. She was coming my way now, trying the routine I expected, adjusting herself so that I could enjoy her fruity figure, sitting close to me and softening her eyes so that I would remember last night. She moved in closer to me, giving me enough of the close-up to convert me to a change of plans. She was all a-quiver, breathing hard. I let her have her fun, feeling her cold hand on mine, not iced, but sweaty-cold, out of the nervousness that propelled her my way.

  “What’s happened, Steve?” she whispered. “We were so right for each other, such a little while ago. And now you act as though I’m your personal poison.”

  “No games. Either you get me the ten grand or I forget all about little Frankie. It’s as simple as that.”

  “I believe you really mean it.”

  “We’re making progress.”

  “Ten thousand dollars,” she said to the wall, striking a dramatic pose, not professional but with undertones of a suburban type of talent, like a schoolteacher on the opening night of a village play. “How on earth can I get it? You’re asking the impossible, the impossible.”

  I said, “Louder and funnier.”

  “You’re cruel,” she told me. “I should have known better than to trust you. You’re taking advantage of me because I’m helpless. I’m going to tell Alice V.”

  “A good idea. Maybe she’ll give you the dough.”

  “I couldn’t ask her.”

  “Squeeze a little. She’ll come through for you.”

  “I can’t impose on her friendship. Not for that kind of money.”

  “She’s loaded with loot. It won’t mean a thing to her.”

  “Are you crazy?” she asked, not looking at me anymore. She stood at the window and clutched the drapes, her fingers hard on the folds, her knuckles white. “How on earth can I go to a good friend and bother her with this sort of a request? Put yourself in my place, Steve. For heaven’s sake, try to be a bit more sympathetic, will you?”

  “You’re breaking my heart,” I said. I got up and reached for my hat and started for the door, watching her react to the new action in our little playlet. She ran across the room and stopped me before I made the hall. She held me tight.

  “Wait, Steve. You’re not giving me a chance.”

  “I’ll wait. I’ll wait for exactly five hours, plenty of time for you to raise the wad for me. If you don’t have it in my office by breakfast time, you can forget all about your little husband. Because he’s going to fly the coop in a day or so—maybe sooner.”

  “Oh, he mustn’t, Steve.”

  “He’s a jittery boy. The last time I saw him he was in no mood for sitting around and knitting doilies. He’s going to leave his present hideaway and run for cover again, quick like a bunny. People who hide don’t stay in one hole unless they’re damned sure they’re in a permanent hiding place, away from all prying eyes. They get smarter as they run, some of them, so that it becomes more and more difficult to track them down. They learn new tricks, cute gimmicks to confuse and confound the jerks who play hide and seek with them. Your husband is of the clever breed. He’s smart enough to fool the best missing persons experts, if he’s given a reasonable head- start. If I were you, I’d raise that money. And fast.”

  I left her to munch on my last sentence. I saw her as I walked away, her face alive with surprise and the beginnings of decision. She was worried and desperate, exactly the way I knew she would wind up after our session together. She remained at the doorway until I reached the elevator. I was aware of her presence behind me, staring at me as I walked down the hall, riveting me with her frustrated eyes as I pressed the button. Then I heard the door slam shut. And I began to laugh, unable to control the merriment that welled up in me, the slow, bitter laughter of relief after a sweaty victory. She had played the scene as I expected she would, with just the right amount of corn. It was as though I had written the play myself, testing the dramatic impact with an actress who would pay off in the right emotional spots. It was an ad lib horse opera, created out of the purpose that drove me now, the last desperate push to the wire, the end, the climax that would finish the drama, with all the important players on stage.

  I had lit the fire under Grace Masterson. From here on out she would be moving quickly.

  I stood on a plant across the street from The Maisonette. Standing on a plant does not mean treading a vegetable. It means planting your feet in one spot for a spell of watching and waiting. You move your chessman and wait for the first reaction from the opponent at the other side of the board. You use strategy, subterfuge and skill, screening your play to the best of your ability. You drop back into the shadows and wait for the puppet to react to the pull of the string, to operate out of the reflexes of his own devising, the mechanics of his part of the plot, the deal, the scheme, the well-laid plan. You smoke a cigarette and stare up at the building across the street, imagining the walls
made of cellophane, so that you can jump, by way of your speculation, through the barrier of brick, and into the small room where your quarry stirs about. She would be dressing quickly now. She would be making up her pretty face in a hurry, rushing to get into a dress, to get out of there. She would be running. She would come sailing out of the lobby and into the street and up to the corner, where two cabs were parked close to the end of The Maisonette. It would happen soon.

  In ten minutes.

  In five minutes.

  In one minute.

  Now!

  Grace Masterson came out, hugging a sport coat around her. Her face was pale in the faded light under the canopy. She had left without prettying up, a symptom of her purpose, the pressure of the emergency I had created for her. She ran to the corner, her high heels setting up a faint echo in the canyoned street. I gave her enough time to slip into the first taxi.

  But I was in the second cab before her driver had turned the corner.

  She headed downtown, through Broadway, strangely alive with skittering taxicabs because of a dying affair at an uptown hotel. We entered a sea of cabs, but she was easy to follow because of her lunatic driver. She must have told him to drive fast. He sailed out into the left side of the street, cutting around the swarms of slow-moving cabs around the hotel, his tires screaming. My man accepted the challenge and took up the pursuit, neatly screened by three other mad cabbies who had entered the marathon. The five cars plummeted down Broadway, and there were others behind us when we slipped past Times Square and stalled because of the arresting traffic lights. I looked behind me. Two cabs now hung back, a block in the rear, impatient to continue the fevered run through the early morning emptiness of New York. I wondered vaguely whether the man in the gray hat sat in one of those cabs, whether my imagined tail still followed me. The quick frustration I had experienced before rose once again to annoy me. I would have enjoyed stopping my cab, suddenly, to watch what might happen back there. Would his cab stop? Or was I fogbound by the force of a hallucination that I could not kill?