The Flower-Covered Corpse

by Michael Avallone

  There was no place to hide.

  Chapter Twelve

  DEATH IS HIP

  □ I went for the fallen .45.

  There was nothing wrong with my left hand. Or my brains. I wasn't a smart young buck so wrapped up in my own skill with a bull whip that I thought I had the opposition buffaloed. Truth Ruth and Tod Crown stayed out of it. Well back from the fight. They too might have thought that Joe Violets had me by the short hairs.

  The snapping whip picked up the right tail of my suit jacket and shredded it into two long flaps of material. By that time I had hit the floor, found the .45 and rolled like a barrel across the rug. Joe Violets had to come further into the room to find me. When he did, his face was bright with excitement and nuttiness. His eyes were two sparks of animal ferocity and he was breathing funny. Short, heavy rasps of intakes of air.

  He didn't change expression when he saw the .45. The whip snaked out again. I ducked. The long lash now shot over my head and picked up something on the mantle-piece of the brick fireplace. I heard something shatter. It must have been one of the line of Toby jars that had been there last time I looked.

  I pointed the .45 at him. Guns didn't mean a thing to him. The whip coiled in his hand, danced and flicked out again. It snapped like a pistol shot in the air to the right of me as I skipped out of its way.

  "Put that down," I said, "or I'll very much blow you out of your scuffed scandals."

  He glared at me, gathering the whip along the floor by jerking his arm. It clattered across the rug, over the top of the lounge and lay waiting for his next cast. He hadn't changed one inch since our meeting on the sidewalk outside the Temple. He was long-haired like a young girl, gawky and far too young to ever understand why he was a renegade to his youth. All he'd done was change uniform.

  "You kicked me in the crotch," he said. "I'm going to dig your eyes out for that."

  "I've got you covered, Joe. This is a .45. Boom-boom. Now put that thing down or you're going to get hurt."

  "No! Make me! You won't shoot. Not with witnesses. I know about creeps like you. A great humanitarian. You want this whip—come and get it."

  I didn't take my eyes off him. The whip was gathering slack. I didn't want to hurt him and you can't do any trick shooting with a .45, no matter what you've heard. Also, I didn't want to get my skin cut to ribbons.

  "Crown. Ruth. Talk to him. Or I'll blast him as sure as he's silly."

  "What for?" Ruth shrilled. "There's a generation gap here, isn't there? Cross it, fuzz. Make Joe give you the whip."

  "Joseph," Tod Crown said sternly. "Put that thing down. Brother Noon is leaving."

  They were all making monkey talk and Joe Violets wasn't listening. He couldn't take his eyes off me. I circled away from him, warily. I didn't take my eyes off him either.

  "You belong to that club too, eh, Joe? Whips and spikes and nails? You're a beauty, you are. Soft and pretty as any girl. Tell me, Joseph—are you one of those too? You know—how do you get your kicks in the sack? With little girls or little boys?"

  I had hit him where he lived. His face flamed, his breathing choked and he snapped his arm so hard he could have broken it in half. The thick, cross-haired leather lash flew out again. This time I was ready for it. As it cut the air going by, finding the wall and rebounding, leaving a dark ugly smear on the pale puce paint, I jumped on it with both feet, pinning the last few feet of the thing to the floor. Joe Violets had run up on his cast, closing in. Before he could retract his line, I took the long lash in my left hand and pulled. Hard. The sudden tug pulled him off balance and he stumbled a little. Just enough for me to add some muscle and give a good yank. He didn't let go his end of the whip but he wound up on the floor, writhing.

  Truth Ruth must have giggled because from his position on the rug, Joe Violets flung her a shocked look. The blood flushed his face and he cursed as he scrambled to bis feet. Tod Crown had stepped out of his lethargy, coming forward with hands out to steady the young tornado.

  I wasn't waiting for serenades or encores or apologies. My right hand still felt like a million needles were sewing up every inch of my fingers.

  As Joe came up from the floor, I hit him. Just once. Not with the gun or a fist, either. I let him have a closed-palm slice of my free hand just across the bridge of the nose. Not enough to kill or break anything. Just enough to make him howl, fall back and blubber like a baby, wondering if I'd altered his handsome profile any. A shot like that waters the eyes plenty too.

  "You're lucky I don't break your neck," I said. "So sit there and bawl and think it over." Truth Ruth growled at me, showing her talons. Tod Crown stared down at the rug as if he was embarrassed. There was no more laughter in him.

  "Big brave fuzz. A regular Bogart." Truth Ruth reached down and put her arms around the moaning Joe Violets. "Don't worry, baby. The big nasty old man is leaving. If he knows what's good for him, he won't holler copper and mind his own business. Won't you, fuzz?"

  "That's your worry, isn't it?" I backed out of the room, into the foyer and found the door. I could hear Joe Violets muttering fiercely. "Leave me alone! I'm okay—" Brother Tod Crown's husky mumble was hard to decipher. Truth Ruth clattered into the foyer, appearing like something out of your wildest nightmares. She wasn't gaunt, she was emaciated.

  "Before you go—" She was whispering but it was a screech of sound.

  "What now, Sister?"

  "Think over our proposition. You don't like the arithmetic, we can always dump Toddy." She tried to come closer but I jabbed the .45 at her and she halted. "Think big, Ed. This is a sweet set-up. Real kicky. Try it and see."

  "And so is a snake pit." I backed out of the door and slammed it in her face. She giggled hollowly behind the panel. The Judas window stayed closed though. I pushed the elevator button and waited, eyes on the door. The gun was ready for anything. I felt foul, there was a bad taste in my mouth and my right hand was starting to go numb. I shook it a couple of times but it didn't improve anything. There was a circular angry furrow around my wrist that was going to take a long time to heal. Joe Violets had marked me up good.

  He'd given me a bracelet memento. Something to remember him by.

  I didn't holster the Colt until I was safe inside the elevator car, alone, and it was going down. My mind was a riot of ideas; a string of twisted truths that wouldn't come out even. Louis La Rosa had balked at a narcotics operation, his partners had not. La Rosa was dead and ten pounds of horse had trotted off into the night. Where was it? I wanted to know almost as badly as Mr. Augie French did. Because if I did know where it was, I might also know who got Louis.

  The crazy question was on my mind all the way back to the office. It was my week for cabs.

  I took another one back to the mouse auditorium. The weather was still cold and crisp. But I was hot and I felt very, very stale.

  There wasn't a generation gap between myself and Joe Violets. Or Truth Ruth for that matter. There was something that nothing could fill. Not love, not a bullet, not anything.

  They were Martians as far as the human race is concerned. A breed apart. And the Temple was five short blocks from the butcher shop.

  Maybe Louis La Rosa had been different. He must have believed in something. He must have fought. I knew he had. The man who walked out on an Augie French drug racket had had something on the ball.

  I thought about that too as the cab rushed, dodged and spurted towards West Forty Sixth Street.

  "Thanks loads," Melissa Mercer said icily from the depths of her typewriter as I marched into the office. "Ten minutes more I would have called Mike Monks. Morgan already told me you left there almost two hours ago."

  "I ran into a couple of old friends." I sailed my hat for the clothing tree and my aim was bad. I winced because I had forgotten my bad wrist.

  "Ed, it's not funny. How do I know when you're in trouble and when you're not?"

  "You don't." I perched on the corner of her desk and smiled down at her. "And you are beautiful in your
wrath."

  She sat back and folded her arms. The mockery of Truth Ruth exploded into a million smithereens. Femininity and Melissa Mercer are blood sisters.

  "You look beat," she murmured.

  "I am. Anything happen while the Boss was out?"

  She shook her head. "One wrong number and a market research outfit asking about what magazines we take. I've been able to catch up on my file work. Tell me what happened since you called me from downtown."

  I did. In short quick sentences. When I was finished, she was shaking her head again. "Doesn't seem to be worth it sometimes, Ed. All this fuss, the money you get for it. And—why you haven't even got a client on this one."

  "Except myself," I reminded her. "It was my card they found on La Rosa. Not Mike Hammer's."

  "Don't joke." Her eyes searched my face. "If this gangster is so mixed up in this and all that heroin is missing, shouldn't you tell Monks?"

  "I should. And I will. I just want to do a little mental sorting out before I do."

  "Such as?"

  I got off the desk. "I'm going into the tank. To sit down and think. I'd admire you greatly if you called downstairs and got me a container and a danish."

  She was dialling and still shaking her head as I collapsed behind the big desk I had bought from Macy's the very same week I had hired her. That was about six years and a million memories ago. Both Melissa and the mahogany desk had worn well. They were both solid, reliable and unchangeable. There's a lot to be said for that.

  The inner office isn't too elaborate. The desk, two good chairs, a four-drawer file and a big window facing the tall buildings across the street. I don't have any pictures on the wall except a big photo blow-up from De Mille's great 1937 Western The Plainsman. It shows Gary Cooper hanging from a cross-bar suspended over a flaming pit surrounded by a horde of De Mille extras masquerading as Cheyenne Indians. Paul Harvey and Victor Varconi are in the foreground in front of Gary, arguing about what to do with him. Apart from loving the picture, it's good for a lot of laughs. It proves explicitly that the Indians killed Jesus Christ. Tod Crown didn't know who he was going up against making movie bets with me. I was born in the first balcony of the RKO Chester.

  My bitter mood was triggered by recall of Louis La Rosa's weird biography. What was the myth and which was the truth? Was Vietnam on the level? The Black Muslim chase? And those medals for heroism.

  Easy enough to check. I decided to let Melissa have that chore while I wolfed the Danish and enjoyed the container of steaming coffee. It had been a lousy day for eating properly.

  Meanwhile, I thumbed through my address book, found Richard Watts Jr.'s home phone number and called him.

  He was in. Gruff, fast-minded, and as friendly as ever. Even though he is one of the greatest play critics in the world.

  "Ed! Well, well. Haven't heard from you in a long time."

  "How's the gentle intellect?"

  He growled at that. A hard man to compliment.

  "Seeing too many plays. And they're not all good either. How about yourself?"

  "Business as usual. A case. I want to ask you something." He laughed at that. "Sure," he said.

  "There's an off-Broadway play. Name of Over The Rooftops And Through The TV Antennae—"

  "Yes, yes. Awful bore. Too much posturing and preaching. Shows you my power. I panned it and it's still running. Well but—what about it?"

  "I want to check on someone in the cast. I didn't expect to find her name in the ads. Olan Wing? That ring a bell?"

  He chuckled. "Yes, yes. Awfully pretty little thing. And she can act. Really act. Oh, yes. She's one of the few good things about the show. Oh, it has some interesting lines and bits of business but it's put together like a revue and if they'd been honest about that and said so—an audience would be better prepared—" He laughed again, self-consciously. "There I go again. Rattling on about plays. Well, when are we going to have lunch together? I miss our old sessions at the Hickory House."

  "Haven't you heard? They tore it down. Listen, on my word. I'll buzz you in a couple of weeks. Honest Injun. Meantime my best. To you and Theresa."

  "Make sure now. Theresa will be so glad you called. She says the best thing about working for an old bachelor like me is that I have such interesting friends. She means you, of course."

  "She's a doll. Kiss her for me."

  "And have her gentleman friend punch me in the nose? No thank you. Kiss her yourself. I'm out of condition for defending myself."

  "Thanks a million, Dick. See you."

  "Take care of yourself, Ed."

  Well, that checked out Miss Olan Wing. She hadn't been lying about that. Trouble was I still got an itchy feeling thinking about her and Memo Morgan. It just wouldn't add up.

  A container of coffee and a Danish later, Melissa poked into the office.

  "Don't look now but it's five o'clock."

  "So soon?" I stirred and yawned. My wrist felt a little better but not much better. "Damn. I should have called Jean Martha. Too early and too late now. Maybe I'll ring her tonight."

  Melissa eyed me softly.

  "What are you going to do tonight?"

  "I don't know. I really don't. I'm kind of high and dry and in the deep blue sea. I feel like a man out on a limb."

  "You are. So why not take me to dinner? You could relax, I'll do all the talking and then—who knows? We could play it by ear all the way."

  Her ideas triggered what was left of my fading inspiration. There was only one place to finally go. Back to where it had all really begun. The Temple Kreshna-Rukka. Whatever answer there was to the legend of lost Louis La Rosa had to be there. Somewhere on those premises, somewhere in that incense-filled labyrinth of lunacy.

  "Tell you what, Melissa. I will take you to dinner. And then we're going to run down to the Temple Kreshna-Rukka. In the Village. I want to look into that dump. I don't know why. But it's burning a hole in my brain. Okay?"

  "Okay. One condition though."

  "What's that?"

  She smiled her Melissa smile, reached down to the desk, picked up the phone receiver and handed it to me.

  "You call up Captain Mike right now and tell him all about that missing heroin. You don't want to be caught in the middle, Ed. Before it's too late."

  I felt like a horse's north end. I'd been so busy playing detective I hadn't acted like a real one. I took the phone and blew her a kiss.

  "How did you know I hadn't already?"

  "I know you," she said simply. Without frills or further comment.

  "I guess maybe you really do. Go powder your nose. This will only take a minute."

  The short murderous distance between the Temple Kreshna-Rukka and the butcher shop where Louis La Rosa had been hung was bugging me.

  But good.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE ACID-HEADS

  □ It was still topcoat weather outside. There was now a light frost clinging to the window panes. The sun had gone down early and feeble pale light lay over the rooftops. It would be dark before you could get to the street outside. Monks wasn't in when I called so I left the message with his desk Sergeant. It was terse and not sweet but he would understand it. 10 pounds of horse is on the hoof. La Rosa had it. Augie French wants it. Call you later. Noon. At least, it would alert Mike and his Narcotics Squad. Something might be cooking at their end anyway. Monks doesn't tell me everything either. He can't afford to.

  There was a phone call just before Melissa and I locked up for the day. A call I didn't expect and one that dumped the whole case right into my lap.

  "I want to talk to Ed Noon," a firm, hard voice barked in my ear. "You him?"

  "Speaking. What's on your mind?" I couldn't recognize the voice but there was something in the voice that said I should.

  "This is French, Noon. Augie French. Know the name?"

  "Yes, I know it."

  "Good. Saves us time all around. Look, I want to see you. Tonight. I got just enough time to wash my hands of a little dirty
business I don't like. I think you know what I'm talking about."

  "Go on."

  "A couple of my boys who aren't thinking straight have lost their minds altogether. Certain shipment you know something about. Listen. I'm clean on this. They were working without authority. Understand? I'm not going to give you my life story over the telephone but I'm engaged in too many fairly legitimate enterprises to mess around with dirty narcotics. You don't have to believe that but I hope you do. You got pull down at Headquarters, that Captain pal of yours and I also know you do jobs for Uncle Sam now and then. You following all this, Noon, or do you want me to slow down a little? You're a busy man and so am I."

  "Keep talking, Mr. French."

  "Call me Augie. From you, I'll take it. Here's the story. I want you to come to my place tonight. No rough stuff. It's on Riverside Drive. The whole damn building is mine so don't figure I'll play dirty on my own porch. I could wait for lawyers and all that legal crap but I don't like to do my laundry in public. Anyhow, I don't want my name mixed up in this mess. Anyhow, you come. I'll give you an hour to get here. You don't show then I'll kick this thing wide open on my own. But I understand you're involved in it somehow and I could use a good noddle. I also can pay your price."

  "Don't con me at my age, Augie. You've made a buck with every racket there is. Including dope. You got religion or something?"

  His bark rose on a high hanging curve. "That's done. Finished. I'm levelling with you, Noon. You better come anyway. All your pals will be here. Those nuts from the Temple whatchamacallit. I also hear you maybe are a material witness in this La Rosa kill. Well? You come on down and maybe Augie French will bail you out. I'm done talking, Noon. That's it. One hour. Four hundred Riverside Drive."

  He hung up.

  Melissa was standing in the doorway, her coat wrapped around her trim figure. I didn't need a crystal ball to know she had listened in from the outer office. Her eyes were bright and steady.

  "I'm going with you," she said. "No arguments."

  "All right," I said. "Why not? When he starts pumping holes in me, you can take notes. That's a switch, isn't it? Augie French calling me up and making like an injured party. I wonder what he wants?"