by Chris Wiltz
We were passing through Greenwich Village, rapidly approaching SoHo where Carter Fleming's Broome Street address was located. The building facades had begun to change. We made a turn and there were rows of iron-fronted ex-warehouses that had either been fixed up into loft apartments or still looked uninhabited.
I got out of the cab and looked up at the building. It was one of the ones that seemed to have barely made it through the last war. The only signs of life were some stricken plant specimens peeking out from the third floor windows. I clacked up the iron steps to the door. There were no bells and only one locked mailbox with no name on it. I banged on the iron door knowing that I wouldn't get an answer and I didn't. I stepped back and cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled Fleming's name. That didn't get me anywhere either. I sat down on the platform to wait. I waited for about twenty minutes, periodically getting up to waste lung power on Fleming's name, and finally I heard the inside bolt sliding. A paint-spattered girl opened the door. I told her I was looking for Carter Fleming and asked her if she knew where he lived in the building. She told me he lived on the fourth floor. I thanked her and started to climb.
After a few deep breaths at the top I rapped on the rickety wooden door. From the other side I heard what sounded like somebody blustering around moving furniture. I had to knock again before I was heard above the racket. The door opened.
“I don't know you.” The smell of beer and the voice came from behind a mass of dark hair that obscured what might have been an okay face if I could have seen it. He turned and pushed the door shut in one movement. I caught it but he didn't take notice of that. He kept going across the wide expanse of the loft to the refrigerator and took out another beer. I knew he didn't know me but I didn't know how he knew unless he was using a periscope.
I glanced around while he drained off half the beer. Wood debris and pieces of twisted metal were stacked in the back across from the kitchen area which consisted of the refrigerator, a stove, a sink and drainboard miraculously clinging to the wall, and a table with four chairs. The entire middle area of the loft was occupied by a mattress shoved up against the wall, with painted canvas hanging and leaning on the rest of the available space. While my apparently unwilling host stood in front of the opened refrigerator finishing his beer and opening yet another, I walked to the front where an easel was turned to the light trying to come in through the grimy windows. A small sofa and two chairs spilling their stuffing were arranged around a white plastic cube, creating a most unusual living area that Mrs. Fleming probably wouldn't want to know about. A ladder led up to a bed loft. A couple of bookcases crammed with books and papers stood around. A few lamps with hand painted shades completed the picture. I walked around the easel to view the canvas standing on it. Swirls of color were piled on into weird shapes with, I supposed, hidden meanings. I backed up to the window to see if I was missing something and was still trying to decide if it was very good or very bad when my host joined me. We appraised the canvas in silence for a few moments.
“Terrible, isn't it?” he asked more as a statement of fact. I shrugged and grunted noncommittally, my interest having been transferred to the tattoo, as amorphous as the painting, exposed by his shirt which was unbuttoned to the navel. “Well, go on,” he growled, “say it's terrible if you think it is.”
“Okay,” I said, “it's terrible.”
A laugh disturbed a few hairs. “Sold one almost just like it for a hundred bucks the other day. Wait a minute.” He went through a door under the bed loft. I heard water running. When he came back his shirt was buttoned and his hair was wet and combed back. The face was okay, but if he was Carter Fleming III he must have aged almost ten years since he arrived in New York.
He looked me over with surprise. “I don't know you, do I?”
“I thought we'd gone through that. The name's Neal Rafferty. I'm looking for Carter Fleming.”
“Friend of his?”
“By proxy.”
“Hm. Sounds like his old man's snooping again. Look, maybe we'd better have a chat. Why don't you sit down?”
That sounded okay to me so I moved over to the chair with the least amount of inner springs showing. Like Engels, he watched with concern as I sat down. I was beginning to wonder if I had a particularly catchy way of sitting down. Once I was in the cushion he smiled and gave a little snort of pleasure, like he'd really liked the way I'd done it.
“Shall I do it again?” I asked jumping up.
A few wrinkles of perplexity gathered on his forehead. “What?”
“Sit down.” I flashed it up a bit this time by crossing my right leg over my left knee after descending. This was a mistake. I was so busy being cute that I temporarily forgot that a spring could be hidden by some of the escaping stuffing and, of course, thudded down right on top of one, painfully. Maybe his concern had been sincere after all. I managed to get through the ordeal with some dignity and once I was situated more comfortably I smiled up at him.
A half-laugh displaced the perplexity and he asked, “How about a beer?” I raised my hand to decline. He scowled. “What's the matter, man, is it too early for you or do you need something more expensive?”
I got the drift. “A beer will be fine.”
He made the trip down to the refrigerator and came back popping open the can. When he hit the sofa he groaned loudly and arranged himself more carefully.
After a long gulp he sat forward and began to speak earnestly. “I'll tell you, man, this is a hard life. Frankly, I'm overdue for a change. You see, I can't paint worth a damn so I have to work at keeping up the image, which I can tell you is harder than hacking with the paints.” He shook his head and pointed with a finger. “This is not so for Carter and his girl. Because they're good. Real good. And they take it seriously which means it's a lot rougher for them. All I do is hack out a painting and take it up to Washington Square and play mad artist trying to make it to Tahiti or someplace. I put on a real show, swilling booze from a jug on the shoulder, getting drunk and proclaiming to the world that I'm too talented to cope with city life. The tourists eat it up and buy the junk. The locals know I'm full of shit but they bring their kids to watch. The kids think I'm better than a Punch and Judy show. People will believe anything you tell them if you're convincing enough. I try to impress that upon Carter and Lise but they're artists, not salesmen, and I guess the price they happen to be paying for the talent is poverty. It's okay, though. I manage to sell enough to keep us going. They'll make it if they stick with it ‘cause they're that good. You tell his old man that and you tell him Chase Manhattan Jones said so. If that isn't good enough tell him to check my Dun and Bradstreet rating. It's still good—God knows how. Maybe that will impress him.” He sat back looking depressed.
“You've got it wrong. Fleming didn't send me here to check up on his son. In fact, nobody sent me. I want to talk to Carter. Where is he?”
“No dice,” he said. “Look, uh, what did you say your name was? Neal? Look, Neal, I like all the cards laid out. I'm not going to tell you where Carter is until you tell me who you are and why you're here. Give.”
“I'm a private investigator from New Orleans. I want to talk to Carter before the police get interested in him. It might save him some trouble.”
“Balls. It might get him some. Who sent you?”
“I just told you—nobody sent me.”
“Balls again. Somebody sent you.”
“Okay, okay. So United Artists sent me. They're interested in getting Carter to play a part in the new Paul Gauguin movie. Maybe you'd like the lead.”
He laughed and rubbed his hands together “Oh, this is choice. A private detective who cracks wise. You fit the bill alright. You're even good looking in a rakish sort of way. Choice, really choice.” He stopped to do some more chortling. “Say, there, looks to me like you need some more hooch.”
“Looks to me like you need it more than I do. It isn't necessary for my image,” I said pointedly.
“No need to ge
t hurt, now,” he said as he shuffled back to the refrigerator.
“Did the old man hire you?” he asked handing me a beer.
“Yeah. But don't get the wrong impression. He thinks I'm in New Orleans. Is Carter with Lise André?”
“I need more before I start talking,” he said sitting on the same spring. “Damn this life of poverty,” he muttered. “Is the old man going to put the police on them?”
I shook my head. “He's mad as hell at the kid but I don't think he's that mad. And I take it Lise is here pretty much with Mr. André's blessing.”
“Check. That's what you guys say, isn't it?”
I gestured impatiently. “You've got all the words down pat. Now all you need is a case.”
“Looks like I got one—figuring you out. Let's start with why the old man hired you.”
“What's with you, anyway? You in the protection racket or something?”
“Hey, this is my case. I ask the questions.”
“Will an explanation get me the dope on where they are or will I just be shooting the breeze?”
“You get the dope if the explanation's good enough and if you mean what you say about saving them trouble.”
I bolstered up with some beer. “Fleming hired me to find a missing set of books he bought at an auction. Somehow the kid figures into it. Maybe Lise, too. I won't know until I talk to them exactly how the whole thing stacks up. How I know all this I keep quiet, but if the police find out the same thing I did, they'll be after young Fleming pronto because a man has been murdered in New Orleans and the books being on the scene at the same time make the coincidence hard to swallow.” I held up a hand to silence his protests. “None of this means Carter the Third or Lise had anything to do with the murder. If they didn't then chances are they won't even know it happened. But better me than the cops to find out first. That way maybe I can lend some protection, since Fleming is my client. Is that convincing enough?”
“Some stuff, alright.” He stared at the floor for a minute then his head jerked up. “You better tell me how you know they're involved.”
“Nope. That's not part of the deal.”
“Then maybe I'd better talk to them first. Do you think Carter has the books?”
“Maybe you know the answer to that one and you aren't telling. What I think is writing in the sky. Are you going to tell me or not? . . .”
“No, man, you've got it all wrong. I don't know if he has those books.”
“As I was saying before I got interrupted,” I said, “are you going to tell me where Carter and Lise are?”
He sucked his lips in and shook his head. “I better talk to them first.”
I stood up. “Sorry, Chase, but I don't like that idea. You see, I don't have a whole lot of time left and whether you believe me or not, I am interested in saving Fleming and his son some trouble. One way or another I'm going to talk to the kid today. And you're going to tell me where he is so I can.”
He joined me in an upright position. “What if I won't tell you where he is?”
I took in some air. “There is an alternative to your not telling me, but if you're Carter and Lise's friend, you won't like it anymore than I do. The alternative is I call the police in. But I wasn't hired to turn my job over to them. That means you're going to tell me what I want to know. I don't mind getting nasty about it either.”
He screwed his mouth into a sarcastic grin. “Does that mean you'd pull a gun on me?”
“There's that,” I replied. “Now, let's have it. Where are they?”
“Hell, I don't know.” He started pacing behind the sofa.
“I oughta punch you in the mouth,” I said.
He slowed down and peered at me. “Look. How do I know if you're really a private detective?”
“Want to see my identification card?” I asked politely.
“Shoot, those things are easy to fake. How do I know if anything you've told me is true?”
“I guess you'll have to take my word for it. I'm not fooling around any longer. Come on, you know where they are. Let's have it.”
He put his palms up. “Really, I don't know.”
I sighed. “That's a bad choice for a lot of people.” I started reaching in the general direction of my gun. “Let's go.”
He came around the sofa making conciliatory movements. “Cool it, man, just cool it. I don't know where they are, but I can find out. I know they're somewhere outside of New Haven. The deal was that when Carter came back from New Orleans he was jumpy as hell. I couldn't get it out of either one of them what the trouble was and I finally got sick of the little idiot pulling his nerves on me so I told him about a friend of mine who has a farmhouse up there and told him to go take a rest. He made the arrangements but the guy lives here in the city most of the time so I can find out exactly where it is. If you'll wait a minute, I'll go change my clothes and go with you. After all, I can't go around looking like a bum with a high-class detective like yourself.”
I poked through the canvases while Chase scrambled around for what he called his business clothes. He went back through the door under the bed while I continued my survey. Lise André was very good and had a very distinctive style. Fleming's paintings were more abstract, a little like Chase's, but since I don't know much about it all I took Chase's word that he was pretty good, too.
I was finished looking but Chase still hadn't come out of the bathroom. I walked over in that direction. “Chase, let's move it. I'd like to be back in New Orleans tonight, not next week,” I yelled through the shuttered door.
“Just a minute,” he called over the running water.
I turned around to look the room over again. From what Chase had said, Fleming must periodically send someone around to check up on his son. It was no wonder that he didn't pass on the results of these findings to his wife. Her Victorian blood pressure probably couldn't take it. If any of Fleming's courtiers had stuck around long enough, Chase would have been glad to tell them it was a happy threesome; I wondered if Fleming knew about Lise and if it was the reason for his preoccupation the night before. Surely his thumb wasn't that interesting. It might have bothered me some more if I hadn't given up getting peeved over clients’ lack of trust long ago.
I was still musing when something hard was shoved against a vertabra in my lower back. My body stiffened. I started twisting my neck to get a view.
“Don't move.” The command was enunciated very carefully. Water was still running in the bathroom. “Very slowly, and I mean very slowly, lift your arms away from your body.”
I lifted them to flying position and a hand came around and relieved me of the weight of my gun. As soon as he had it he moved back.
“Now,” he continued, “you may turn around, but move very slowly.”
I turned. Chase stood there dressed every bit like a Chase Manhattan Jones should be dressed—in a dark suit, white shirt, and a conservatively striped tie. He pointed my gun at me.
“Shit. That was easy. Just used the old knuckle in the back routine and look what it got me.” He jiggled the gun up and down. “You aren't so tough.”
I didn't feel so tough. “Watch it. That gun's loaded.”
He opened his eyes wide. “I should hope so.” We stared at each other. “Now we play by my rules. I want to talk to Carter before you do.”
I shrugged. “As you say, it's your game now. What's next? Are you going to tie me up?”
He nodded and smiled. “Good idea. Thanks.” He stepped further away from me and sent quick glances around the room. “I don't think I have any rope. Got any ideas about what I can use?”
“Any nylon stockings around?”
He smiled some more. “My goodness, you're cooperative when you're looking down a gun barrel. That is a good idea.” He opened the door to the bathroom very wide and backed through it. I was already standing opposite. He kept his eyes on me while he felt around and grabbed the knob on a small chest of drawers. He fumbled in the drawer and pulled out a wadded up pair of ho
se.
“I'm sorry to have to do this Neal,” he apologized, coming out of the bathroom, “but I wouldn't be much of a friend if I let you at ‘em without talking to them first.”
“Think nothing of it. It's just the embarrassment that's hard to take.”
He chuckled as he flipped the hose trying to get them to unroll. They wouldn't. His eyes flicked down to see what was holding them and stayed there just long enough. I grabbed his wrist and began to twist painfully. He made a few gurgling sounds and the gun fell to the floor. I let go and his other hand took the place of mine and felt for damage.
“Hey, goddammit.” he yelled, “that's my painting hand.”
I scooped the gun from the floor. “Well, it's my gun.”
We stood there snarling and glaring at each other like a couple of kids vying for possession of a football. I couldn't stand it anymore. I started laughing and laughed like I was seeing W.C. Fields playing Ping-Pong for the first time. I collapsed on the sofa and naturally hit the same spring Chase had been having trouble with all morning. It hurt, but for some reason it struck me as hilarious and I started guffawing all over again.
Chase had fallen into the opposite chair in the same condition. He sobered up first and went off to the refrigerator for beer. He threw one to me and fell back into the chair. When I opened it, it sprayed all over my face. I looked up at him, beer running down to the front of my suit. He tried to swallow before he got helpless again, but he choked before it all got down and we both sat there with beer-soaked ties.
