Dead Game

by Michael Avallone

  “That’s right.” I grinned. “I’d say one of those three birds was your man, Mike. Unless somebody propelled that awl from the stands by way of jet propulsion.”

  He laughed, a short, hard bark.

  “It’s complicated enough. Without the comic-book stuff.”

  If he only knew. I wasn’t telling him anything about Mr. Arongio’s strange behavior with furniture or Lake’s mystery item that he wanted so badly.

  Monks coughed.

  “Well, Ed. Sorry about this slapdown. You know how the Department is.”

  “I do indeed.”

  “Look, Ed. Why not chuck all this? You could get a detective spot on the force just like that.” He snapped a thumb so that you would have thought a gun had gone off. “You’ve got brains and moxie, boy. And luck. I always said so. Why with a recommendation from me …”

  “No thanks, Captain. I can’t take orders any more. The Army made me that way. Thanks, but no thanks.”

  He shrugged mammothly and went to the door. He turned, one big hand hiding the knob.

  “Stay out of trouble, Ed. I’m on your side but don’t mix in this any more.”

  I nodded vigorously. I was tired now, the bump on my noggin was acting up, and I’d been on the go all day. And I had things to do tomorrow. Lots of things. But I had to get some sleep first.

  Monks grunted again and left. I shut the door behind him and snapped the lock. I went to the desk and found a pencil. I dug an index card out of the mess on the desk and wrote down the names he had given me. BANJO BRICE, shortstop—ART BALLEN, pitcher—MEL TRILLY, catcher. I also transcribed Mimi Tango’s phone number off my shirt cuff. Then I erased it with a wet, sticky finger.

  Opening the flat center drawer, I picked up the .32-caliber shells one by one and inserted them carefully in Miss Tango’s shiny black pistol. Now I was glad I had confiscated it. A private operator without a gun is like a lawyer without a brief case.

  I clicked off the office lights and curled up on the leather couch below the big window. I put the .32 within easy reach on a small end table.

  Somewhere between cigarettes, I fell asleep. I was gently lullabyed by the flickering of the faulty neon sign of the chop suey joint across the street.

  TEN

  I jolted awake the next morning, immediately disgusted by the fact that I’d fallen asleep in my clothes again. It wasn’t an unusual thing for me to do when I was working on a case. Not scotch—business. But you get to hate that morning-after feeling of wrinkled clothes, sticky underwear, and a mouth that feels like a storage place for dry dirty cotton.

  I did something about it in a hurry. There’s a tiny closet in the mouse auditorium that holds the complete personal wardrobe of one Ed Noon. This includes one more suit, about a dozen white shirts, and any number of shorts, socks, and undershirts. Ties I’m not crazy about but I’ve got about six of them suitable for either of my two suits. That’s not much I’ll admit but compared to some of my friends that makes me Lucius Beebe.

  I redressed completely. At the baby-size sink in the corner, I washed, shaved, and toothbrushed my mouth back to normal. I don’t know about other people but the shave and toothbrush routine always makes me feel reborn. Like a new man.

  Mimi Tango’s .32 helped too. I slipped it into the roomy holster under my armpit.

  I locked the office door. No morning mail had been shoved under it. My wrist watch, fresh from the hock shop, pointed to twelve o’clock, which is the time of my daily start. I keep such godawful hours that I usually hit the road at noon or thereabouts. They didn’t name me Ed Noon for nothing.

  I skipped the elevator and walked down to the street. My legs stiffen up a little overnight so the exercise does them some good.

  Benny’s soft drink emporium across the street was still closed, so I walked the half-block extra down to the corner where a combination luncheonette and drugstore kept round-the-clock hours.

  An early rain had cleaned the dirty streets. The world was bright and shining under an enormous sun. Spring was in the air. Until I bought a morning paper. Then everything tipped over into a cocked hat. My troubles came banging back. The Lake baseball murder was headline stuff and the Daily Mirror had played it up big.

  I pushed into the luncheonette, had my pick of a long line of circular leather-topped stools, and took one close to the juke box. I like music with my meals. It’s the one luxury I allow myself. The young counterman shuffled over, took my order of toast and coffee, and shuffled away. He’s too young to shuffle, I told myself for no damn good reason.

  I glanced briefly at a kid of about high school age who was feeding nickels into the huge shiny monster of a juke box. Then I lit up a Camel and settled down. I had some reading to do. Let the truant officer worry about him.

  The Daily News always seems to be sold out late in the morning. But you can always get the Mirror. The coverage isn’t as good because the Mirror is one paper that never embroiders the news. Which was just as well. The facts were all I was interested in this time.

  They were all there in big black bannerlines:

  MURDER AT THE POLO GROUNDS!

  Raven Player Is Killed at Third in

  Giants-Ravens Exhibition Tilt

  Ken Smith had done it up brown for once. He had to. This was a ball game of front-page caliber. Death in a box score was something new even for sensation-stuffed little old New York.

  “… yesterday before a thrill-hungry baseball crowd, Death came to the Polo Grounds, scene of many a historic sporting event, on the wings of a Monte Irvin inside-the-park-home run….”

  It went on in that vein until the facts started popping up right and left. By the time my toast and coffee came, Monks’ news had all been corroborated.

  1.The Giants had entrained West after the game following a brief interview at Headquarters.

  2.The Ravens had been rung into the exhibition schedule at the last moment.

  3.Lake had not been very popular with his teammates.

  4.The police were holding the team in New York pending the usual “complete investigation.”

  There was no mention of Patrolman Walsh’s untimely end and my involvement, which made me feel a helluva lot better. Bad publicity I don’t need. The police always play those things pretty close to the vest anyway. But I guessed Monks had plenty to do with the shutdown on that particular bit of news.

  I chewed some toast and washed it down with coffee. Thoughts buzzed furiously in my skull. Arongio was going around and around, turning rooms inside out, looking for something. Leaving dead people and beaten people behind him. Looking for—what?

  I finished my coffee slowly, ignoring the rest of the toast for another cigarette. I smoke too much sometimes, but it’s another one of those things you can’t help. It’s occupational. Like being a private detective.

  I thought about Mimi Tango. Skinny girl with big lips and big everything else. If she’d level with me, she’d be a big help. I didn’t know about Mrs. Arongio. She may have flown the coop altogether but I doubted it. Whatever Arongio was looking for might keep her in town, too. She wasn’t pretty any more and just might stay put for a while to lick her wounds. But I couldn’t count on it. The bottle memento still throbbed a little under my hat.

  Mimi Tango and Mrs. Arongio. Mimi was all for him and his love of fine old things. Mrs. Arongio had been dead set against it. So one loved him and the other left him. That’s life.

  I left some change on the counter and walked to the phone booths up front. The juke box had given way to sexy “Anna” and it reminded me of something but I just couldn’t place it for a moment.

  It hit me when I had the booth door half closed. Sure. Two things. Two little things that made the world go round. Two big things that had everything to do with shaving, getting up in the morning, going and coming, back and forth in this world-wide rat race. Love and money.

  That’s why Lake had died. For either of those things. Or maybe both of them. I made a mental note to hang onto th
at thought.

  I dialed the number Mimi Tango had given me on the cuff. I had to check on her to see if she’d played it straight. If the number was a phony, I’d forget about her and concentrate on Lake’s teammates. The answer to his murder had to be in the Ravens line-up.

  It seemed like hours before I made a connection.

  A sexy feminine voice said, “Hello?”

  It was her all right. She wasn’t much on weight and it was no wonder. All the vitamins were in her throat.

  “This is Ed Noon, Miss Tango.”

  “Oh.” The pause was uncalled for. “I’m sorry. You have the wrong number. This is the Plato. Not the Apollo.”

  “Quit clowning, Slim. I want to make an appointment.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Try the operator again.”

  I was starting to sputter when she hung up on me. Something stopped me, and my indignation dropped like the other shoe.

  Mimi Tango had had a visitor when I called. “This is the Plato. Not the Apollo.” I drummed nervous fingers on the phone box.

  Plato. Apollo. Plato. Apollo. Plato …

  It came home in a hurry. Those were the names of two hotels and Miss Tango had very cleverly given me her address. Maybe in front of a gun. Maybe not. But certainly in front of an unwelcome visitor or visitors. Arongio got my vote hands down.

  She hadn’t completely trusted me the night before, but she did now. That could mean only one thing to my suspicious nature. She was in trouble. And she needed a private detective in a hurry.

  I got out of the luncheonette and scooted across the street where a brand-new Buick convertible relaxed powerfully in the sunshine. I’d spent enough jack on cabs. Now that I was mechanized again, I ought to start using my new jalopy.

  Only this was no jalopy. It was eight cylinders of sweet, humming automobile. It was high time for its first official road test. In high gear, too.

  And its first destination was the Plato Hotel off Columbus Avenue in the Seventies.

  ELEVEN

  The Buick was a smooth-rolling jalopy. The rubber on the tires took to the asphalt and concrete like a perfect love affair. Normally, I couldn’t afford such a heap but my last client, the beautiful million-heiress, April Wexler, had given it to me for saving her life. I had taken it as a consolation prize for losing her. I’m a funny guy. I couldn’t take her because she was worth two million bucks. But I did take the car because I needed it and maybe because I’m not completely daffy yet.

  Pride, hell. I got uptown in less than twenty minutes.

  The chrome clock on the dashboard was flirting with two o’clock as I stopped across the street from the Plato. The joint wasn’t exactly new to me. Fourteen stories high, one elevator, one man on the desk right near the entrance. One colored elevator operator. I felt mean enough to handle anything today.

  I walked right into the place ready for action and sort of like I already had a room there. Managers in hotels like the Plato are on the spot when it comes to knowing their present guests. Usually two men split the twenty-four hour shift between them and if you checked in the night before, the guy on duty would never know who you are at two o’clock the next day. I had that in my favor. Plus the fact that guests take their room keys with them.

  The colored boy in the elevator smiled broadly as I stepped past him. A bald head huddled over a newspaper at the desk, gleamed briefly in my direction, and then lowered again. I was home free.

  The Plato was a Transients and Permanents hotel and since I’d gotten a direct line when I had buzzed Mimi Tango, it added up to only one thing. Mimi Tango had been registered at the Plato long enough to get a private phone. The operator ought to know her pretty well unless he was a new hand.

  The elevator door closed and the cage hummed slowly upward. I let it go about three floors until the elevator boy turned and stared at me. Only he was no boy. A wise old smile split his coal-black face in two sections and his teeth invited a counting. They were that big and that white.

  “Fourteen’s the limit, man,” he chuckled in a low rumble. “You got your choice from here to there.”

  I showed him the good side of a five-dollar bill. President Lincoln looking right at him. Now I could see his eyes, too.

  “This is yours if you tell me what room Mimi Tango’s in.”

  He shook his head, laughing quietly, as if I had pulled his leg.

  “Man, you kill me,” he said. He made no move to stop his car. That was a good sign.

  “I kill myself sometimes, but how about it, Lionel? A cat like you ought to find some use for a nickel note.”

  That made him laugh. His collar worked and a small roll of fat puffed out at me with his mirth.

  “ ’Deed I can.” Then he sobered. “What for you want her? Cops?”

  I shook my head.

  “No cops, boy. Friends. Honest Injun. Real friends. You know what I mean?”

  He laughed again. “ ’Deed I do.” He peered at me. “Hell, you too nice alookin’ man to be the law. Cops got funny eyes. You eyes okay.” The five-dollar bill was out of my hand before I could see him reach for it. “Thirteen-oh-five. End of the hall. Left.”

  I blew out my relief.

  “Thanks, boy. Cooperation is a wonderful thing.”

  “Ain’t it, though? Lord, yes.” He was one happy character. Laughter had found a home in his face.

  We rode up the rest of the way with me thinking about the effects of Lincoln’s face on a five-dollar bill and the whole damn Civil War easing a private cop over the hurdles.

  The car slowed down and the operator semiarced the handle. The door slid noiselessly to one side.

  Before I got out, I had one more notion.

  “I still got credit on that fiver, boy?”

  He grinned. “Depends. I’se a poor man.”

  “It won’t cost you a thing. Miss Tango have any other real good friends in the past hour or so?”

  “Your credit’s good, man. Yassuh.”

  “How many?”

  “Jest one. Great big friend. I’se never seen a bigger one.”

  “Thanks.”

  I waited in the hall till his door closed and the indicator over the cage arced back down.

  It looked like Mr. Arongio again. I fingered the .32 into the palm of my hand, checked it by throwing a round into the chamber. Arongio was a tough guy to interview quietly.

  The door nearest me was 1304. I turned toward it and bore left down a fairly long, narrow corridor. It was dark up here, dark and gloomy. At the far end of the line, a shaft of electric light spilled out from under a doorway.

  I edged up to it, found the number, and let some air out of my lungs. 1305. A low, indistinguishable blur of voices muted out from behind the door.

  Suddenly a slapping sound shot up like thunder. A short, low, feminine shriek climbed over it.

  I bit my lip. It looked like Mr. Arongio was up to one of his two favorite pastimes. I couldn’t figure out which one he liked better. Turning rooms upside down or slapping around women young enough to be his daughters.

  I was going to ask him as soon as I got the chance. And I was making the chance now.

  I curled a hand around the knob of the door, felt the lock give, and followed through. I took the panel with my shoulder and burst into the room, poking the .32 well out in front.

  Talk about the Marines and the Cavalry. I pick my spots better than they do.

  Mr. Arongio, it was him all right, big black mustache and all, had Mimi Tango spread across the one bed in the joint in what the blue-noses like to call a “compromising position.” Her dress was well beyond her beautiful bony kneecaps and Arongio was spread across her like an animated bear rug. A big cuddly bear rug. Only he wasn’t cuddling her.

  One big hand, as wide as an ironing board, was raised to the ceiling and it was in the process of coming down and doing something that wouldn’t have done Mimi Tango’s provocative profile much good.

  The door’s crashing in transfixed Arongio so that his b
ig awesome head swiveled in my direction and stayed that way. Mimi Tango’s head turned the same way. For a split second I was Radioactivity and they were the needles on a Geiger counter. They were incapable of motion so that the crazy tableau on the bed held.

  “Oh, for a Brownie Reflex,” I sighed, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. “Mr. Arongio, you are one nasty man. Get off her quick before I lose control of my silly forefinger. Get up, Mimi. Have a glass of water—relax. And don’t move, Mr. Arongio. Because you’ll be late if you do. Very, very late.”

  TWELVE

  Mr. Arongio climbed off Mimi Tango with an effort. He stood above her, swaying like a guy with a load of trouble on. He stared at me, the red in his heavy face leaving by degrees. His huge hands which would have nicely filled two quart pails showed me what they would have liked to do to my throat.

  I closed the door behind me and circled warily into the room. Mimi Tango watched me from a half-sitting position on the bed. Her dress was still more off than on, but the rise and fall of her neat round breasts told me she was first getting over a pretty bad scare. I couldn’t exactly blame her. Mr. Arongio could have frightened Jack Dempsey in his prime.

  “Well,” I said. “Now we’re all decent and polite again. So, Mr. Arongio, let me hear you conjugate some verbs.”

  He stared at me dumbly. I could see his big mouth working for speech in spite of the Buffalo Bill mustache.

  “Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

  “You …” His voice was thick, slurred, foreign. Like I had expected. “All day yesterday—today—you. Why do you bother me … my affairs?”

  “Two can play that game, matey. Yesterday you nearly tore my arm off in the Polo Grounds; you bounced me off the wall of a hotel like you were playing handball; you mopped up at my office without even being asked. Okay. Why?”