Taming a Sea Horse s-13

by Robert B. Parker

  "I think that's a myth," I said.

  "Oysters?" She widened her eyes and glanced at me from a slightly oblique angle. Enticing.

  "Yeah, I don't think they do anything for potency."

  She smiled, still looking slightly sideways at me. "Oh, that's too bad. Do you need any help with your potency?"

  "Not as long as I take my powdered rhino horn," I said.

  Her seductive sideways look shifted a bit to the hint of puzzlement, but she caught it, got it back in place, and smiled knowingly.

  "Well, I hope you keep taking it," she said. "What's your name?"

  "Chris Marlowe," I said.

  "I'm Suki," she said. "Can I make you up a plate from the buffet?"

  "I think that might be out of step with current feminist attitudes," I said.

  "Oh, pooh," Suki said. "Oriental women are trained to please men"-she smiled cutely -"in every way," she said. "It is our pleasure."

  "Heavens," I said, "what would Eleanor Smeal say?"

  Suki shook her head. "I don't know Eleanor, but I know you, Chris, and I want to give you whatever you want."

  "I can dig it," I said. "Just make me up a light assortment. I'll take the grapes with the skins."

  Suki looked confused again for a moment, but she smiled right on through it and went to get me a plate. I had a second rum punch while I was waiting. The band began to play. Their first selection was a slightly overarranged version of Ricky Nelson's song "Garden Party." There was a good crowd around now. A lot of the people at the buffet table were women making up plates for men. Serving men was apparently not an exclusively oriental tradition.

  Suki came back with my plate. She had quite carefully arranged a little of almost everything.

  "Let's go to the veranda," she said, "and you can enjoy your meal."

  "Sure," I said, and followed her as she carried the dinner plate ahead of me up onto the porch.

  We sat together on a wicker love seat with a low table in front of us. The band had started to play "Sleepy Lagoon." Clearly they were working thematically. Suki offered me an oyster on a small fork. I ate it.

  I said, "A bit more sauce on the next one, my dear."

  "Certainly, kind master," she said, and smiled and put a little more cocktail sauce on the next oyster. "I'm sorry we don't have any powdered horn."

  "It's okay," I said. "I'll make do with oysters."

  "Oh, Chris," she said. "So, are you married?"

  I winked at her. "Of course not," I said. She smiled at me and put a shrimp in my mouth.

  "I believe you," she said. "Which bungalow you in?"

  "Over there," I said. "Why do you ask?"

  "Oh, I don't know," Suki said. "In case I needed you later on, or"-she looked up at me as she put a piece of Jarlsberg cheese on a cracker-"you needed me."

  "You been working here long?" I said. Suki slid the cracker and cheese between my lips as I asked her. I bit down on it and held it between my teeth and then lipped it in and chewed.

  "I wouldn't call it work, Chris."

  "Well, have you been playing here long?"

  "Five years," Suki said. "Last May. Yearround. The weather is . : . well, you can't beat the weather."

  "Sure can't," I said. "Is there wine?"

  "Oh, Chris, I'm sorry," she said. "I'll get it. Red or white?"

  "You choose, I want you to drink some too."

  "Don't move," she said. "I'll be right back." She ran away toward the buffet table, smoothing her long black hair back from her forehead with both hands. All around me on the veranda were men being fed by women. Maybe the wine bottle would have a nipple on it. The trio began to play "In the Cool Cool Cool of the Evening."

  Suki came back with a carafe of white wine and two glasses. She poured one for me and then herself. She handed me mine and raised her glass at me.

  "To love," she said.

  "And lust," I said. We clinked glasses and drank. Suki smiled at me, her eyes widened. "There's a difference?" she said.

  "Not here," I said.

  We both drank some wine. It was jug wine, served very cold.

  "Ginger Buckey still around?" I said.

  "You know Ginger?" Suki said.

  "Sure," I said. "Who doesn't?"

  "She never really worked here," Suki said. "She used to come down with Warren."

  Suki had tucked her legs up under her on the love seat and was leaning against me, her head on my shoulder, looking up at my face as she talked. She drank her wine.

  "I don't think she's been down since spring," she said.

  I nodded and leaned forward and took a green grape from the plate and tucked it into her mouth.

  "Now Chris is gonna feed Suki," she said. She had dropped her voice an octave and given it a slight purr. She took the grape in her mouth and sucked on it a little and rolled it around in her mouth. I think she was being seductive.

  She chewed the grape and swallowed it. "What else you gonna feed me, Chris?" She had her wineglass in her left hand. I raised it, hand and all, to her lips and tilted it. She drank.

  "She was working in Boston," I said, "when she came down with Warren?"

  "Uh huh. She's a nice kid. Got to know her a little in training, you know? All us girls go through training together, one month a year, off to school. Mr. Lehrnan makes sure of everything."

  "Really," I said.

  "Can Suki have another grape, Chris?"

  I slipped one in her mouth. She ate it sensuously. The old suck-the-grape come-on.

  "That's how I know her," I said. "I'm from Boston, but I'm trying to place Warren-tall, slim black guy, light skin?"

  Suki laughed. "God, no," she said. "Warren's white, about sixty, he's like a banker or something." She dropped her voice. "Very important." She laughed again. "Ginger said he was kind of kinky but I used to wonder if he could get it up."

  "Oh, that guy, yeah, I think I've seen him around the club in Boston, what the hell is his name. Beatty? No, Burger?"

  Suki said, "I never knew his last name."

  "Wonder why they broke up," I said.

  "I think they had a fight when they were down here. One day I noticed Warren went home without her."

  "And she stayed?"

  "No, she was gone too. I heard she took off with one of the musicians. Why? She know some tricks you think I don't know?"

  "Naw, just asking. She was a good kid, and then I hadn't seen her in a while. I thought she'd moved down here."

  "This isn't a move, Chris. Down here is a promotion."

  "Upward and onward," I said.

  25

  Suki and I danced a little on the broad veranda. It had verged into evening and the moon was out. On cue the band played "Blue Moon," "Moonglow," "Moonlight Becomes You," and were halfway into "Old Devil Moon" when Suki excused herself.

  "Suki has to find the little girls' sandbox, Chris," she said.

  "Hurry back," I said, cocking my head the way I was pretty sure Cary Grant did.

  She disappeared into the Princedom. I had a thought. I walked over to the band and stood near them as they finished up "Old Devil Moon" with a big keyboard flourish.

  "Before you guys break into "Moonlight Sonata," I said, "do you know Robert Rambeaux?"

  "No, but hum a few bars and we'll fake it," the keyboard man said. He was a skinny black guy with a thin mustache. He liked his joke enough for a cool inward chuckle. The drummer did a soft rim shot.

  "Everywhere I go," I said, "Henny Youngman. Didn't Rambeaux used to play down here?"

  "Sure, man. Worked a lot of places on the island. Reed man."

  "How come he left?"

  "Woman trouble," the keyboard player said.

  "Someone got pregnant?"

  "Man, nobody gives a shit about that anymore," he said. "Got tied up with one of the hostesses, went off with her. Left the client with his dick in his hand, you know."

  "That's old Robert," I said. "Always playing the wrong instrument. Was it Ginger?"

  "That
he run off with?" The keyboard player shrugged. "Got me, man, we gotta blow. Ain't time yet for a break."

  I nodded. "What's next? `How High the Moon'?"

  The keyboard player grinned, nodded at the bassist, and launched into "Moon over Miami." I looked around. Suki was still busy in the little girls' sandbox. Seemed like a good time to boogie on out of the Crown Prince Club. So I did.

  Driving back toward Frenchman's Reef I thought about Suki's feelings of rejection. Late in the evening without a client for the night. Probably too late to find another one, no tip tonight. She probably wouldn't have respected me in the morning anyway.

  The roads on St. Thomas are narrow and they wind. The terrain is hilly and driving at night is slow. I got back to the hotel near midnight and went into the room. Susan was sitting up in bed reading Common Ground by J. Anthony Lukas.

  I made a V sign at her with the first two fingers of my right hand.

  "Being trained in people skills, I perceive that you feel triumphant," Susan said.

  "I'll say. I was hand-fed my supper by an adoring Eurasian cutie," I said, "who then titillated me by suggestively eating a grape."

  Susan put her book facedown, open, on her lap.

  "Well," she said, "no wonder you feel triumphant."

  "Also I found out that Ginger came down here with a banker-type sixtyish white guy from Boston and left him here and took off with Robert Rambeaux."

  "Ah ha," Susan said.

  "You remember my mention of Rambeaux?"

  "The New York pimp."

  "You do listen," I said.

  "It's my training," she said.

  "As a shrink?"

  "No, as a woman," Susan said. "Hard to overcome early habits."

  "Should we order up room service?" I said. "You could feed me something."

  I sat on the bed beside her. She had on a lacy-topped copper-colored nightgown.

  "I feed your ego nearly every day," she said. "That's enough." She took my hand. "How'd you find all this stuff out?"

  "I asked," I said. "And of course the virile power of my masculine self was enough to entrance Suki. She'd have told me anything I asked."

  "Suki?" Susan said.

  "Un huh. And asking the band about Rambeaux was just sort of an inspiration."

  "Unconscious integration," Susan said.

  "That too," I said. "Besides, Suki told me that Ginger took off with one of the musicians."

  "So now what," Susan said.

  "We'll go to New York and discuss this further with Rambeaux."

  "We will? When will we?" Susan said. She had moved my hand between her breasts and held it there.

  "Well, not right away," I said. "Probably have to rest up a little first."

  "Good thought," Susan said. "Perhaps you'd care to lie down on a comfortable psychologist?"

  "Are you sure it will be restful?" I said.

  "I hope not," she said.

  "Need to figure out who Warren is," I said, I had slid down on the bed beside her. I put my free arm around her. "I don't know if Warren fits, but he's a loose piece and I can't ignore him."

  "Maybe you could ignore him for just a little while," Susan said.

  "How little?" I said.

  "It's up to you, big fella," Susan murmured.

  "Then we'll ignore him for a large while," l said.

  And we did.

  26

  We got back from St. Thomas on a Monday. Susan had patients on Tuesday, so I went to New York without her. Someone told me that the Parker Meridien had a health club, so this time I stayed there. Besides, it was but a few strides from the Russian Tea Room. It was my intention to keep going to the Russian Tea Room for lunch until someone recognized me. Or mistook me for someone. Or gave me a table downstairs.

  To recover from the shuttle ride down, I went immediately to the health club in the hotel and did three sets of everything on the Nautilus machines. Then I rode one of the Exercycles for a half hour at a ten setting and limped back up to my room and took a shower. I bet I could bench press more than the maitre d' at the Russian Tea Room. If he came to the health club, I wouldn't seat him either.

  I went down into the high flossy lobby and had two bottles of Heineken beer in the lobby bar and felt sufficiently reinvigorated to try a walk uptown.

  It was about four in the afternoon when I turned down 77th Street from Fifth Avenue and about ten past four when I arrived in front of Robert Rambeaux's apartment. He didn't answer the bell. I rang some other bells but no one buzzed me in. I leaned against one wall of the entry and waited. At about fourforty a tall young man wearing a T-shirt that said JACOB's PILLOW on it came out and I went in before the door closed behind him. He glanced at me as I went in and then moved on. The slow narrow elevator took me to Rambeaux's floor. I knocked on his door with no result. I wished I could open a door with a credit card like they did on TV, but all I ever did was screw up the card. I could kick it down.

  I pressed my ear against the door to hear what was in there. If Robert was still scared and in there with a gun, kicking the door down would get me a faceful of .32 ammunition.

  I didn't hear anything. But I smelled something. I knew what it was and I knew it had been a while if I smelled it through a closed door. I went back down in the elevator and out onto the street and found a pay phone. I dialed 911.

  "I'd like to report a dead body," I said, "at 330 East 77th Street."

  I met the patrol officers at the apartment and we went up with the super. I let them go in first. Old corpses aren't fun. The stench was strong when the super opened the door, and there was a buzz of flies.

  The super left the key in the door and turned and went as fast as he could without running back down the stairs.

  "Jesus Christ," one of the cops said, and pulled out a handkerchief and covered his mouth and nose and went in. His partner did the same and followed him in. I didn't.

  An hour and a half later I was leaning on the front right fender of a patrol car, talking with Detective Second Grade Corsetti.

  "No way to tell if it's Rambeaux," Corsetti was saying. "Have to wait for the ME to tell us."

  "You didn't examine him closely?"

  Corsetti wrinkled his nose. "Time I got here they'd hauled him off, I'm just telling you what the bodybaggers told me. You were, you get a close look?"

  "I didn't want to be in the way," I said.

  Corsetti nodded. "I know," he said. "I seen maybe eight, ten stiffs been dead like that, still can't stand it. Makes me sick every time."

  "We fat all things to fat ourselves," I said.

  "Your worm is your emperor of diet," Corsetti said.

  I looked at him. He grinned. "Shakespeare's a hobby," he said. "Lotta oddballs on the New York cops."

  I nodded. "Assume it was Rambeaux," I said. "It's nearly a week since I talked with Perry Lehman at the Crown Prince Club. How long you figure Rambeaux's been dead?"

  "'Bout a week," Corsetti said. "Depends on how warm it was in there, but it's been a while."

  "And it's sort of a coincidence that a hooker gets killed and then her pimp gets killed."

  "And both of them have talked with a private cop from Boston first," Corsetti said.

  "Be logical to have him as a suspect," I said.

  "Would in fact," Corsetti said.

  "All I'm trying to do is find a kid named April Kyle," I said.

  "So you keep telling me," Corsetti said. "Now I've got two stiffs and no suspect except you."

  "You don't think I did it," I said.

  Corsetti shook his head. "No," he said. "Boston says you're clean, though annoying. I believe it. You got no reason to ace Rambeaux and then come back a week later and discover the body and call 911." A young woman in a ponytail wearing white shorts and blue running shoes went by. Corsetti looked after her. Her shorts were so high that the cheeks of her buttocks showed. Corsetti shook his head.

  "So where are we?" he said.

  "I don't know," I said. "Perry Lehman's got to
be in this thing, and he's got mob connections in Boston. And he or they or somebody is killing people I talk to about April."

  "Maybe," Corsetti said, "or maybe there's a whole other thing going on that you got nothing to do with."

  "Assuming that doesn't leave me anything to do," I said.

  "Readiness is all," Corsetti said.

  "Not enough," I said.

  "Might have to be," Corsetti said.

  "No," I said. "Doesn't help me find April Kyle."

  "For crissake," Corsetti said. "You were a cop. Hookers get clipped. So do pimps. Most of the time you don't know why and most people don't care why. How much time you think the city of New York wants me to spend on this thing?"

  "Less than this," I said.

  "That's right."

  "But I work for a client who does want me to spend time," I said. "It's the luxury of the private sector."

  "Most of the private sector is doing divorce tails and store security," Corsetti said.

  I shrugged.

  "You come across anything that might be useful to me, give me a call," Corsetti said. He handed me a card.

  "You going to spend more time on this thing?" I said.

  "You're going to spend time on it," Corsetti said, "I'm going to be ready."

  "Okay," I said.

  27

  I had followed the string as far back as I could and it stopped dead at Perry Lehman. It didn't mean Lehman had done anything I cared about. It didn't mean that he could help me find April Kyle. It just meant that I didn't have anywhere else to look. So I decided to look at him some more.

  It was full summer in Boston and the heat sat on the city like a possessive parent. I parked half up on the sidewalk near the corner of the alley that led to the Crown Prince Club, and got out and leaned on the fender with my arms folded. I had on a summer silk tweed jacket and a black polo shirt and jeans and running shoes. The jacket was to cover my gun. Summer weight or no, it was too hot for comfort; one of the drawbacks to being armed and dangerous in summer. I thought about getting back in the car and using the AC. But I wanted to be conspicuous. Sitting in the car would make me less so.

  Nothing happened. After a half hour I took off my jacket. The gun made me even more conspicuous. But I had a permit and if it bothered people that wasn't my problem. It was nine-thirty in the morning.