“Here’s looking at you, kid,” he said. “I had an idea, and I want you to hear me out. The captain, the inspector, the rest of them at SLATS, what they said to you, what they think about us, it’s stupid and ass-backwards. No two ways about it. But think about it, from their point of view. They were high society, they were the fanciest joint in the city—the Stork Club, or 21. And then somebody downtown gets a bright idea, decides overnight that they’re the YMCA.”
“I get it,” Marie said, “I just—”
“Hear me out,” he went on. “All over the city, they’re knocking things down. Nice old things, that just worked just fine. Did you hear how they want to bulldoze through Greenwich Village to make an expressway? I don’t know how they come up with this stuff. A place like SLATS, it took a long time to build. The detectives there are as good as any in the world. They’re like the Yankees. Good men, too—the only money in their wallets is their own. I’ve been around longer than you, Marie, and I can tell you, a great detective and a good man, they’re not the same. There are men on this Job, honest as the day is long, who couldn’t catch a ground ball. Baseball, I’m still talking baseball. Some of the best players in the game, from Ty Cobb to Mickey Mantle, they were no choirboys. You follow me?”
“I follow, I get it. We’re a bunch of rubes with the Alabama Mud Hens, who showed up at Yankee Stadium.”
“Well, with you and Al, definitely. Me, it’s a little different. Anyway, maybe it’s better, you think of the place as the Mayo Clinic, and—”
“Stop! Yes, it’s the best! Carnegie Hall! West Point! Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs! Super-duper, we have to prove ourselves, and so we’ll work our little heinies off, and one day the captain who hates women, and the inspector who hates Italians, they’ll wake up and want enough Italian broads to make a Fellini movie!”
“A what?”
Marie shook her head and covered her eyes. She felt a headache coming on. She wondered if they were having a fight, and then she wondered why. She was still a little dazed from the Oliver visitation. And she was aggravated by the lectures. Was he defending the bosses to her? Ed wasn’t waiting for a teletype that would send him to the dark side of the moon. She took pains not to raise her voice. “What is it then? What should we do?”
“Do I have to spell it out?”
Now, she was angry, but she kept her mouth shut. Ed had a solemn look when he reached across the table and took her hand. “I think you should shoot them, Marie. The captain, first, and then the inspector. Not because I want them dead, but people who you shoot seem to like you, later on.”
Marie took hold of one of Ed’s fingers and began to bend it back. He smiled and said nothing, even as his old digits felt the well-deserved pain. She glared at him and then let him go before she might really hurt him. “Fine. Can I shoot Macken, too?”
“Absolutely,” he said, shaking his fingers. “But that’s a different job. With the other bosses, I just want you to wing them, so they have a change of heart after they convalesce. With Macken, you can aim straight between the eyes.”
Marie shook her head and smiled. If this was to be their last day together, it was a fine way to say goodbye. She expected Al to return from the pay phone with bad news, but his expression told of something else altogether.
“Marie, you’re on a new case tomorrow, with a couple of the old boy crew from SLATS. Some kind of hotel caper. Dress fancy.”
Marie thought he was joking, at first, but it wasn’t the kind of joke that Al made. He was smiling. Marie didn’t want to look at Ed, just yet. They’d been struggling with the idea that she’d be the one left behind. Ed was speechless for a second, and then ten. He snatched the fedora from Marie’s head and dropped it on his own. “I think I’ll hold on to your lucky hat until we’re back together again. Somehow, I think we’ll need it more than you.”
“I’ll be back before you know it,” she said, forcing a grin. She drank her tea. “Don’t worry, boys, I’ll wrap this one up quick, and we’ll be together again in a jiff.” Just to be safe, she touched the brim of her hat before they left.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Marie met the two detectives she’d work with on the case. She couldn’t call them partners. It seemed adulterous to even think of them that way, while Ed and Al were wearing black armbands until her return. Vince Murtagh and Casper Duggan, as they introduced themselves. As Casper did, strictly speaking; Murtagh offered a polite handshake, but he said nothing. He could have been a G-man on TV, tall and imposing, with grim, square features and straight white teeth. Casper was slighter and fairer, jokey, almost dandyish. His camel-hair sport coat and bow tie would have been frowned on had he worn it to the office. Ed had found out that both were first-grade detectives, and favorites of the captain. Casper explained that they had arranged for a suite on the sixth floor of the St. Moritz, across the hall from where the people they were after would be staying. He and Marie would park themselves in the lobby until they arrived, while Murtagh took up his position inside the room.
Casper was affable, but he said little more than his partner had about the case. Marie didn’t know who they were looking for, or why. She didn’t know if they’d asked for her, or if someone in SLATS knew something about her. Dress up, they told her. Shut up, she’d told herself, though she didn’t regret mouthing off to the bosses the day before. She was in a ladies-who-lunch outfit, a flowered silk dress and straw hat, white gloves, pearls. She’d stowed her suitcase with other wardrobe options upstairs in the suite.
At five in the afternoon, an hour after they’d settled in the lobby, Casper tapped her on the hand. Marie saw an elegant trio approach the front desk, a man with a woman on each arm, and a train of luggage in tow. Three porters with carts bore what must have been ten pieces altogether, including two steamer trunks. Whoever they were, they weren’t taking pains to avoid attention. Casper rose and Marie followed, linking arms as they strolled past them. When she saw them up close, she wanted to whistle—one was prettier than the next.
“Yes, Mr. Borrato, we have you down for a suite on the sixth floor,” said the clerk, scanning the ledger. “Room 600.”
Mr. Borrato was in his midtwenties, tall and slim, with a loose suit of cream-colored linen, and a deep blue silk shirt, unbuttoned at the top. To his left was a swan of a blonde, her hair swept up in a bouffant, in a tight pink top and black toreador pants. On his right was a lanky brunette in a low-cut peasant blouse. All wore sunglasses, and all smoked cigarettes in silver holders. They could have been models or movie stars. Just passing them made Marie want to fix her makeup.
In the elevator, Casper released Marie’s arm and shook his head. “If I saw this guy when I was eighteen, I think I’d’a given the life of crime some very serious consideration. And all that luggage! I think we might be here for the long haul.”
Marie smiled but said nothing. She’d remain in good-girl mode, seen and not heard. As they arrived at their room on the sixth floor, she saw they had a problem. Why hadn’t she noticed when she’d dropped off her suitcase? They were across the hall from Borrato & Co., but not directly—one door was five feet down from the other, and if the detectives looked through their peephole, they’d only have a view of the wallpaper. Marie was about to break her vow of silence when she saw the new hole in the door, freshly drilled from the inside, at an angle. There were still wood shavings around the perimeter. Casper brushed them off and stuck a lens into the peephole. “They’re right behind us,” said Casper, as Murtagh opened the door. “Did management make a fuss about your drilling?”
Murtagh grunted and walked away. Marie was impressed. Murtagh had an attaché case open on the coffee table with a few carpenter’s tools beside it. He wouldn’t be doing any tails, Marie guessed. He could be in polka-dotted pajamas and still look as stiff and official as an admiral of the fleet. Casper had a valise, and he took out a dark suit and two ties—one red, one blue—to hang in a closet. Marie had a much larger suitcase, and the men stared as she unpacked a dowdy blue gown, as
if she were the mother of the groom; a dark suit, proper and professional; and a black dress and spangled jacket she might wear if she were going out cocktailing. There were two wigs, two hats, three purses, and a makeup kit with sufficient powders and paints to cover a chorus line. Now, the men were impressed. Casper asked, “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question, Marie?”
“Not at all.”
“Does it take you a while, to get ready in the morning?”
“It all depends on what I’m getting ready for.”
Casper nodded, and Murtagh took up his post by the peephole. There were two bedrooms in the suite, on either side of the sitting room, and Casper told Marie to take one. She hoped this wouldn’t be an overnight job, but she’d warned Katie to prepare for the possibility. When she returned to the sitting room, she saw Casper with a deck of cards, setting up for a game of solitaire. Murtagh returned briefly from the door to give Casper the thumbs-up before resuming his position. Casper nodded, walked over to the house phone, and gave instructions to the hotel manager: “Let me know if they order room service or whatever. Don’t let their dinner come at the same time as ours. Check their calls, too, ingoing and outgoing, every hour.”
Half an hour later, the phone rang again. “I see,” said Casper. “What did they order?” Hanging up, he called to Murtagh, “They’re eating in, Vince. Lobster Thermidor for three, a bottle of champagne, a pot of coffee. Getting ready for a long night. So should we, don’t you think? What’ll it be, Vince, the usual? Three steak sandwiches, extra well-done, six baked potatoes, and ten bottles of Coca-Cola?”
“Fine,” said Murtagh, walking over to collapse on the sofa. He didn’t seem tired; it was as if he were shutting his body down to conserve energy. Casper picked up the room service menu and perused it before handing it over to Marie.
“No thanks,” she said. She had a ten-dollar bill in her wallet and a few singles. “I brought a tuna sandwich from home. If you get a pot of coffee, though, I’m in.”
Murtagh seemed to rise slightly from his seat, and Casper pressed the menu into her hands. “Don’t worry, it’s ‘on the arm.’”
On the arm. Marie didn’t know where the term came from, but it meant that the police weren’t paying. There were cops who wouldn’t have noticed if their uniforms didn’t have pockets, for all the times they reached into them to pay for lunch. During her last hotel detail, room service was complimentary. The hotels were desperate to have the cops there, and they fell all over themselves to keep the men happy. As they weren’t free to leave their rooms, Marie didn’t feel bad about not paying, and she’d have a bowl of soup or a sandwich when her team put in an order. She always made sure the bellboy got a tip. Still, there were a few who made regular pigs of themselves, eating as if it were their last meal before the electric chair. Over the years, Marie had heard more than a few sneering jokes about freeloading cops. She wouldn’t be one of them. Three sandwiches seemed a little excessive, even for a man the size of Murtagh.
“Well,” said Casper, looking briefly over at his partner, “Unless you have a Thanksgiving turkey in that suitcase of yours—and it wouldn’t surprise me—you should have more than a tuna sandwich. We’ll only get food sent up once, and we may be here through tomorrow. I’m getting a hamburger now, and a roast chicken I can eat later.”
Marie nodded. “I’ll get the same. Medium rare, for the burger.”
“Good. That’s the way I like it,” said Casper. He looked at Murtagh and shook his head. “Extra well-done! That should be against the Geneva Convention, burning a steak like that.”
Marie ventured a smile, but Murtagh remained stone-faced as he rose and walked back to the door. Casper called in the order. “I don’t know how long it takes to make Lobster Thermidor,” he said, after he hung up. “I don’t even know what it is. But I bet it takes more time than it does to burn a steak.”
When dinner arrived, Casper directed Marie to one of the bedrooms. There was too much food arriving for three people; maybe it would look like Murtagh was setting up a card game. They ate quickly, without talking. Murtagh waited for Casper to eat before leaving the door, and Casper watched while Murtagh ate. Marie went back to her bedroom and tried on a black sweater over her flowered dress. The two girls with Borrato were too stylish not to notice what other women were wearing. Better to change, she thought. She checked her watch—just after seven—and decided on the dark suit.
When she came back out, she saw Casper had changed his tie, but he still wore the camel-hair jacket. Too distinctive, she thought, especially if they were a pair again, but she decided to keep her complaints to herself. They sat in silence for an hour, eyes half-closed, until Murtagh came back from the peephole. “He’s out with the blonde.”
“Did he go left or right?” Marie asked. The elevator banks were to the right, the fire stairs to the left.
“Left. My left. Left from where I stood,” replied Murtagh.
Marie had guessed what the job was, but now she knew. “Whaddaya say we give them a minute to get where they’re going. They went to the stairs, not the elevator, so they’re not working the place from the top down. Let me go alone, at first; they won’t make me. I’ll cover a couple of floors, above and below, see if we can see what they’re checking out.”
Casper nodded and turned to Murtagh. “Works for me. We still have the second girl inside the room. I can tail her if she goes someplace.”
Murtagh noted the time in a pad and returned his attention to the peephole. Marie darted back to her bathroom for a final check in the mirror. Murtagh opened the door for her to leave and quietly shut it behind her. Marie descended to the fifth floor and waited by the fire door, listening. When she heard nothing, she stepped out into the hall. Rounding the corner, she saw the blonde knock on a door. As Marie walked past, it opened on a man in late middle age, highball in hand, his tie loosened.
“Yes, Miss?”
“Oh, my God,” the blonde cried. “I’m sorry! I’m here to meet my . . . uncle. Is this room 627?”
“No, honey,” came the reply. “It’s 527, but if you’d like to make yourself comfortable, I’d be happy to call your uncle. I’d be happy to be your uncle!”
“Oh, you!” she cooed, walking away. As Marie turned another corner, she saw Borrato leaning down to tie his shoe, a massive suitcase on the floor beside him. She went to the elevator and took it back up to six. Murtagh opened the door before she could knock. He followed to the sitting room, where Casper was untying his tie.
“That was quick,” he said.
“They are, too,” Marie said. “And they’ve got a good scheme. I saw blondie start on the fifth floor. Whoever answers the door, they’re not sorry to see a beautiful girl. And if nobody’s home, Borrato goes in and fills his suitcase. Most everybody’s out now—at dinner, the theater, whatever. I bet they’re on the go until eleven, switching up the blonde and the brunette, floor by floor. Maybe they sleep in the morning, do another round, when the ‘Maid, please clean room’ signs are up.”
Murtagh almost smiled, and Casper laughed. “Good stuff, Marie. Great. I heard great things about you, and now I know why. I didn’t bring the wardrobe you did, so I don’t think I should move around that much. Maybe you can put on the dowager duchess dress, at ten or so, and cover a couple of floors. At midnight, I can splash some scotch in my face and stagger around with you in the little black number. That way, we got a better chance of running into ’em when they’re hitting rooms. With all that luggage, they could walk away with half the hotel, down to the spoons and the doorknobs.”
Marie nodded. It wasn’t the worst idea. With her wigs, makeup, and costumes, she could make herself into someone ready to accept an Academy Award or a welfare check. She could pass by Borrato and his girls three or four times without being made. Still, there was a risk, and there was no reason to take it. Every time they opened their door, they could bump into one of their neighbors from across the hall. “Casper, that’s a helluva plan,” she replied, ca
utiously. “Pardon my French, but it is. And I know I’m the new kid here, but you know what’s better than doing something?”
“What?”
“Nothing. Let them clean the place out. They’re going to go room to room. We don’t have to catch them in the act. We just can’t let them leave the hotel. I can’t believe they’ll stick around tomorrow, once everybody starts noticing what’s missing. All their swag, it’s gonna be in the suitcases and steamer trunks. As long as we don’t lose the lovebirds and the luggage, the less we do, the better. They parked a car here, in the garage?”
Murtagh answered, “1964 Cadillac El Dorado, gold with white interior, Florida plate number—”
“Glad to hear it,” Marie said. “Whaddaya say, we wait until the nice people across the hall are finished for the night, and then one of you goes down to the garage and borrows the spark plugs from the El Dorado. Come the morning, I’ll cover the lobby again, just to be safe.”
When she saw Casper smile, Marie indulged herself in a moment of vanity. She’d just showed up a pair of first-grade detectives. “So, boys, what do you think?”
Murtagh picked up his second steak sandwich and returned without comment to the door. The high-handedness felt cold as a slap to Marie. Casper shook his head and scooped up his deck of cards. “How long you been on the Job, Marie?”
“Eight years.”
“Really?”
“Going on eight. Just after seven.”
“I find that hard to believe. And how long have you been a detective?”
“I’m still not.”
“Really? I can’t believe that, either. Don’t mind Vince. What he just told to you was ‘Great idea! That’s the plan!’ He’s just got a funny way of saying it. Sweet dreams, Marie. I’ll arrange for a wake-up call at five.”
The Policewomen's Bureau Page 41
