Lepski found her not looking her best and struggling with the contents of a pot of cream that had overturned and had made a big puddle on the floor. It was a hot evening, the kitchen was hot and Carroll was hot and fussed.
So when he broke the news that he was taking her out to dinner and ‘For God’s sake, honey, get cleaned up. We’re going to a swank joint,’ she was in two minds whether to carry on with the goulash or to say to hell with the mess and try to be happy. It was so rare that Lepski had time to take her anywhere that the unexpected invitation turned her sour when it should have made her glad.
‘Why couldn’t you have told me this morning?’ she demanded pushing back a strand of dark hair that was falling over her left eye ‘We’re having goulash for dinner.’
Lepski pranced from one foot to the other in his impatience.
‘Never mind the goulash. We’re going out, and for Pete’s sake, don’t start an argument.’
This was a fatal remark which Lepski realised as soon as he had made it. Carroll stiffened and drew herself up.
‘Are you saying it is me who starts the arguments?’ she demanded.
Realising that he was now out on thin ice, Lepski gave her a false smile.
‘I said nothing of the sort. Start an argument? Now, listen, honey. . .’
‘You said, Don’t start an argument.’
Lepski tried to look amazed.
‘I said that? Forget it. It was a joke. Now, tonight . . .’
‘Your idea of a joke and mine are very different.’
Lepski ran his fingers through his hair. He took two quick steps to his left, then two to his right, then feeling relieved, he said, ‘Okay . . . no joke. Forget it, darling. We’re going to the Dominico restaurant which is the third best restaurant in this City. Marvellous food . . . sea . . . beach . . . soft music . . . soft lights . . . the works!’
Carroll’s eyes turned suspicious.
‘Why are we going?’ she demanded. ‘Have you done something you shouldn’t? Is this a softening-up process?’
Lepski inserted his finger in his collar and dragged at it.
‘We’ve been invited,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘The owner of the goddamn restaurant likes me. He said for me to bring my god . . . my wife . . . so we’re going. It’s all free.’
‘Do you have to swear like that, Lepski?’
Lepski remained very still. He was a little alarmed at the way his pulse was beating Finally, he said, ‘Forget it, honey. We’re invited . . . so let’s go.’
Carroll regarded him.
‘This man has invited us?’
Lepski nodded dumbly.
‘What’s he done then?’
Lepski walked around the kitchen. A soft humming sound came from him like a bee that has lost its hive.
‘He’s done nothing. He just happens to like me,’ he said when he could speak.
‘Why?’
‘How the hell do I know? He’s invited us for God’s sake! Do we have to get on a couch together to find out why?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t shout, Lepski,’ Carroll said severely. ‘I’m sure he is a crook and wants something out of you.’
‘Fine . . . okay . . . so he’s a crook and wants something out of me! Who cares? We get a free dinner!’ Lepski waved his hand violently. His hand came into contact with the lid of a saucepan, burning him. His language was so lurid Carroll put her hands over her ears.
‘Lepski! Sometimes I’m really ashamed of you!’
Lepski sucked his fingers.
‘So will you get ready?’ he snarled. ‘Have I any clean shirts?’
She stared at him.
‘How many shirts are you going to wear tonight then?’
Lepski closed his eyes for a brief moment.
‘I mean is there one goddamn clean shirt I can put on?’
‘Of course there is. Why don’t you look? What shall I wear?’
This question always drove Lepski crazy. Carroll always asked him and invariably it ended in an argument that went on for hours.
‘Anything . . . you know just look your lovely self. Shouldn’t you turn off the stove or something?’
An hour later, Lepski was sitting on the small patio, a cigarette burning between his fingers, containing his impatience with an effort that raised his blood pressure alarmingly.
Although married for three years, he still couldn’t get used to his wife’s method of dressing for an evening out. First she would go to her closet and take out her entire collection of clothes which she laid on the bed. Then she held a post mortem on each garment, telling Lepski, who was trapped in the room, that she was ashamed to be seen in any of them and he should be ashamed of being 2nd Grade Detective when he could easily be a Sergeant and draw Sergeant’s pay.
Lepski had been inflicted with this routine so often he let it go in one ear and out the other, but although he was dead to the monologue, he was aware that time was passing. Finally, having cunningly suggested she should wear a smart black dress, saying she would look a knockout in it and being told (as he knew he would be told) that he must be crazy to imagine she would go to a beach restaurant in a black dress, she selected a white and red number which he had wanted her to wear anyway, but knew if he had suggested it, it would cause yet another argument.
He had finally escaped from the bedroom, made himself a double whisky and soda and was now waiting while she completed her dressing.
A little after 19.15 she appeared on the terrace and Lepski regarded her. She looked so nice, so immaculate and so pretty that he started to his feet with that well-known gleam in his eyes that wives quickly recognise.
‘Don’t be disgusting!’ she said sharply. ‘Lepski! Don’t you dare touch me!’
Lepski realised this wasn’t the time so he leered at her.
‘Mrs. Lepski, we have a date when we get home,’ he said. ‘The poet who said something stirred in the forest must have been thinking of you.’
Carroll stifled a giggle, then looked severe.
‘Don’t be so coarse. Well . . . do I look all right?’
‘Marvellous, gorgeous, scrumptious! Let’s go!’
As he started towards the car, Carroll said, ‘Wait a moment!’
Lepski paused and began humming under his breath. He regarded her, forced a smile, then asked with heavy sarcasm, What is it now? A ladder in your stocking? Have you bust a strap? Forgotten your handbag? No handkerchief? Got your girdle twisted? What is it this time?’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous. I’m looking at you. You’re not going out with me looking like that!’
Lepski gaped at her.
‘Me? What’s the matter with me? Clean shirt . . . pants pressed . . . beautifully shaved. Let me tell you, Mrs. Lepski, there’s not a girl in this City who wouldn’t be proud to be seen with me.’
‘If you imagine I’m going out with you when you are carrying a gun, you’re mistaken! Anyone who isn’t blind can see that awful holster through your coat. Do you imagine I want to be mistaken for a cop’s wife?’
Lepski ran his hand over his face. ‘But aren’t you a cop’s wife?’ he asked, his voice a little shrill.
‘There’s no need to advertise the fact. Lepski, park that gun!’
Lepski loosened his tie, made a noise like a bee in a bottle, longed to put his foot through the TV screen, and only with a tremendous effort, restrained himself from tearing at his hair.
‘Listen, honey, it’s regulations,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I have to wear a gun. Pretend to be blind! Even pretend I’m a cop! Let’s go!’
‘I’m not going to a high-class restaurant with you if you are wearing that gun!’
He recognised from the tone of her voice that this was final.
He knew the argument could last for the next two hours and still get him nowhere. He was hungry for a good, free meal, so he took off the holster and threw the gun and the holster with some violence on the settee.
‘There’s no need to show off,’ Carroll said qui
etly. ‘I don’t mind a little temper . . . that is manly, but please don’t be childish.’
Lepski made a noise like a distracted goat.
‘Do we go or don’t we?’ he snarled.
Carroll regarded him with astonishment.
‘I’m ready and waiting. I’m not holding us up, it’s you.’
With the veins in his neck like steel cables taking a strain, Lepski stamped towards his car.
* * *
On Saturday night, a big crowd always descended on the Dominico restaurant, and this night was no exception. The staff was at full stretch. Solo had asked Harry to help in the bar. Nina had dropped her usual role of circulating and charming the businessmen. She too was ferrying drinks and taking orders.
Manuel moved quickly around the restaurant, conducting people, settling them, leaving them with menus, before darting back to the entrance where other people were waiting impatiently to be taken to their tables. As he arrived at the entrance for the fifteenth time, he pulled up short as if he had walked into a brick wall.
The sight of Tom Lepski with a tall, dark girl Manuel recognized as Lepski’s wife came as a shock and an unpleasant surprise.
‘Mr. Lepski!’ He showed his teeth in a wide, false smile. ‘This is indeed my pleasure!’
‘Solo said for us to come . . . so here we are,’ Lepski said, a little nonplussed to find so many people arriving.
‘Of course.’ Manuel always kept three tables in reserve for just such an emergency. ‘Delighted . . . this way, please.’ He escorted them to a corner table, settled them, snapped his fingers at his assistant, showed his teeth and raced back to the entrance.
As soon as the crowd began to slacken, Manuel rushed to the kitchen to warn Solo that Lepski had arrived. Working under pressure, Solo grimaced, then waved Manuel away.
‘Let him have everything the best all on the house.’
As Manuel returned to the restaurant he saw Harry coming from the bar, carrying a tray of drinks.
‘Number four table, in the corner,’ Manuel said. ‘Get their drink order . . . it’s on the house.’
It wasn’t until Harry reached the table that he realised who he was about to serve.
‘Hello, Mitchell,’ Lepski said, giving Harry his cop stare. ‘Remember me?’
‘Mr. Lepski,’ Harry said, his face wooden.
‘That’s right. How are you making out here?’
Harry stared at him for a brief moment, then turned to Carroll.
‘What would you like to drink?’
Carroll felt a slight stirring of her blood. She thought this tall, powerfully built man was just the sexiest looking male she had ever seen.
‘Could I have a Tom Collins, please?’ she asked with a smile Lepski hadn’t seen since they were married.
‘I’ll have a double Scotch on the rocks,’ he snapped, glaring at Carroll.
‘Isn’t that excessive, Tom?’ Carroll asked, aware that she had prodded alive a jealousy she had thought long since dead. ‘After all, you were drinking before we left home.’ She looked up at Harry. ‘Please bring my husband a small Scotch with plenty of Whiterock.’
Harry went away.
‘Look, honey, I know my goddamn capacity,’ Lepski said heatedly. ‘Would you please . . .’
‘I just don’t want you to get drunk.’
Lepski made a hissing noise that would have frightened a snake.
‘You stay sober if you want to, I’m going to please myself!’
While they were arguing, Harry, in the bar, told Randy that Lepski was in the restaurant. Randy nearly dropped the cocktail shaker he was manipulating.
‘What’s he doing here?’ he asked breathlessly.
‘Getting a free meal and probably taking a look around. Relax, Randy. A Tom Collins: double gin, and a double Scotch on the rocks.’
Randy made the drinks.
‘He saw you with Baldy’s suitcase, Harry,’ he said as he placed the drinks on Harry’s tray. ‘Do you think . . .?’
‘Take it easy. He can’t prove anything. He has no witnesses.’
Harry picked up the tray. ‘Give yourself a drink.’ He left the bar.
As he reached Lepski’s table, Manuel was taking the order.
Harry placed the drinks. Seeing what he had been given, Lepski looked up at Harry and winked.
Manuel was being expansive.
‘Solo would like you to try his speciality, Mrs. Lepski,’ he said, leaning over Carroll and showing her his teeth. ‘Casserole of duck with green peppers. I suggest fried oysters on shrimp toast to begin. How does that sound?’
Carroll was entranced.
‘Don’t tell me . . . just bring it to me,’ she said.
Manuel looked at Lepski.
‘Would that be okay for you too, Mr. Lepski?’
‘I’ll have a steak.’
Carroll gave an exasperated sigh.
‘Oh, Tom, for goodness sake! Can’t you eat anything but steaks? This casserole . . .’
‘I’ll have a steak,’ Lepski said firmly. ‘Can’t a man eat what he wants for God’s sake?’
‘Well, if you want a steak . . . have a steak!’
An hour and twenty minutes later, the meal finished, Lepski felt a twinge of conscience. While they were waiting for their coffee he decided it was time he went to work, but he knew it would be fatal to tell Carroll they were here on police business.
‘Honey, I’m taking a pee,’ he said, pushing back his chair.
‘Lepski! Must you be so coarse? Can’t you say you are going to the toilet?’ Carroll demanded, outraged.
Lepski looked wonderingly at her.
‘That’s where I said I was going. You sit still. Anything you want, ask the spic.’ He got to his feet, and before Carroll realised there was more to this than a visit to the Men’s Room, he made his way quickly from the restaurant and out onto the cement path that led to the kitchen.
Seeing him go, Manuel pressed a button which started a buzzer in the kitchen, warning Solo there could be trouble. Solo was in the middle of serving four specials and he cursed.
As Lepski moved into the night air and walked past the kitchen, he looked through the window, seeing that Solo was busy at the cooking range. He heard a car arrive and looking towards the car park, saw a white Mercedes pull up under one of the tall standard lights.
The car attracted Lepski’s attention. He paused to watch a woman get out of the car. He recognised her as Mrs. Carlos, the wife of one of the richest men in Paradise City. But he scarcely looked at her. His attention became riveted on the squat, heavily built man who held the car door open for her as she got out.
Lepski worked on hunches. As soon as he saw this man, he became positive from his build that he was the man who had killed Mai Langley. He slid his hand inside his jacket for his gun, then remembered, because of Carroll’s snobbery, his gun was lying on the settee in his living room. Sweat started out under his arms. This man who was now leaning his fat body against the car and lighting a cigarette, could be a killer. Lepski had two choices: either to telephone headquarters and ask for help: in which case he would have to admit he was unarmed and why, or he could take a chance and tackle this possible gunman and hope there would be no gunplay.
He shifted from one foot to the other in an agony of indecision.
He was sure if he balled up this situation, his promotion would go down the drain. It didn’t occur to him that all he had to do was to return to the restaurant, sit down with Carroll and continue to enjoy his evening. Lepski had come up from a patrolman and during the years, he had absorbed into his system the police code. He hesitated for only a few seconds, then he walked out of the shadows, crossed the car park and arrived by the Mercedes.
The squat man looked at him and stiffened. His right hand went casually to the middle button of his tight fitting coat and released the button so the jacket swung open. That told Lepski the man was carrying a gun.
Lepski regarded the man, imagining how he would lo
ok with a handkerchief masking his face, and became even more convinced he was the killer.
‘Police,’ he said in his cop voice. ‘Who are you?’
Under the glaring light, Lepski saw the man’s eyes shift and glitter.
‘I don’t understand,’ the man said. ‘I am Mrs. Carlos’s chauffeur.’
‘What’s your name?’ Lepski asked and he moved forward slightly. If he could slam a punch at this spic, he thought, he could get his gun, but the man edged away.
‘I don’t understand,’ he repeated. ‘I am Fernando Cortez. I work for Mrs. Carlos.’
‘Okay, Cortez,’ Lepski said, aware his heart was thumping. ‘Get your hands up! Come on . . . up!’
That bluff, he thought sadly, wouldn’t convince a child. It certainly didn’t convince Cortez. He remained still, staring at Lepski.
‘I don’t understand. I am Mrs. Carlos’s chauffeur.’
‘I heard you the first time. I want your gun!’
Cortez hesitated.
‘I carry a gun for Mrs. Carlos’s protection.’
‘I want it.’ Lepski held out his hand which was steady, but he was sweating hard.
Cortez hesitated again, then stepped back.
‘Okay, copper, so you can have it!’ he snarled. The gun jumped into his hand and aimed directly at Lepski. In the brief second that Lepski stared at the gun, he recognized it as a Walther 7.65: the same type of gun that had killed Mai Langley.
He was bracing himself for gunfire when a vivid white light exploded inside his skull as a vicious blow slammed down on his head.
1970 - There's a Hippie on the Highway Page 15
