Pattern of Behavior

by Paul Bishop

  “No.”

  I turned, and we just looked at each other for a minute.

  “What do I do?”

  “Go home. The police will be calling you.”

  “Don’t tell anyone. I feel so ashamed.”

  “It’ll be all over the news soon enough.” Harry shook his head in disbelief. “Go on, get your butt out of here.”

  After talking with the police, I booked a flight into St. Louis.

  Delia was in shock when I told her. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she repeated. “He really did it. Oh, God.”

  “Will you meet me at the St. Louis airport at ten-thirty tonight?” Springfield was only a few hours away, and I knew the distraction would be good for her.

  “I guess. But why St. Louis?”

  I didn’t want to scare her, to tell her that soon reporters and television crews would be camped out on her front lawn. “We need to be together now,” I said.

  When my flight finally landed, I spotted Delia standing by a fat man in a blue sweat suit. I could tell she’d been crying. I smiled hello.

  We walked silently to the baggage claim, then she said, “I almost forgot. Your office called. Ken somebody. He wants you to call him tonight. Here’s his number.”

  After we registered and fought over who got which bed, I called Ken from the hotel.

  “You lose our bet.”

  “What bet? What are you talking about?”

  “Computers versus brains,” He sounded so sad.

  “That was months ago,” I said. “The Tanner case.”

  “Now it’s the Stanton case.”

  “I’m tired and…”

  “I was playing around with the computer today and punched in your name. It showed all your credit card charges for the past year.”

  “And?”

  “There was this code number that looked familiar. When I cross-referenced with the police computer, we came up with Freedom, Inc. They offer a very unique personal service. Geez, you can buy anything with a Visa card. It’s really disgusting.”

  Click. Click. Click.

  “We plugged into the airline computer, so we know you’re in St. Louis. Even the phone number you’re calling from is being recorded. Why’d you do it, Robbie? Your own father?”

  “Kenny.” I know he loves it when I talk in my little girl voice. Daddy always did. “I had to protect all of us. Delia and I don’t want Daddy to bully us anymore. This way, he won’t be alone. Maybe the doctors can help him now.”

  It’s those gentle insanities that bring such clear insight. The huge problems only come once in a while. They’re easy to fix. But the small, every day, constant, infuriating irritations drop you over the edge.

  Click. Click. Click.

  So Beautiful, So Dead

  Robert J. Randisi

  Robert Randisi and I have been friends for more years than I’m going to share in public, but I have long admired Bob as a legendarily prolific wordsmith, an icon in the mystery and western genres, and the keystone to the longevity and popularity of the private eye novel. He’s also an all-around nice guy and a mentor to many beginning writers. This anthology would not have been complete without his presence...

  So Beautiful, So Dead

  Val O’Farrell looked down at the dead girl with gut-wrenching sadness. So beautiful, so dead.

  “What a body, huh? Why would anyone want to cancel the ticket of a babe like her? And pluggin’ her in the head, too. Jeez, how you gonna figure that?”

  O’Farrell turned to look at Detective Sam McKeever.

  “What?” McKeever asked. “She’s a babe. Hey, she’s lyin’ there naked under a sheet. What am I supposed to do, not look?”

  “No,” O’Farrell said, “she’s used to bein’ looked at.”

  “Like most beautiful young dames, huh?”

  “This one more than some,” O’Farrell said. “She’s supposed to be one of the contestants at that new beauty pageant out in Jersey.”

  “Yeah? No kiddin’?” McKeever said. “I heard they was gonna let them wear these new skin-tight bathing suit things.”

  “Tight and skimpy.”

  “You seen ’em?”

  “Not yet.”

  The previous year during the beauty pageant in Washington, D.C., the contestants had worn long stockings and tunic bathing suits. However, Atlantic City’s first contest was going to be something really different and special because the censors had seen fit to lift their bans on bare knees and skin-tight suits. It remained to be seen if the idea would fly.

  “Hey,” McKeever said. “You better get out of here before the boss shows up. You ain’t a cop no more, you know.”

  “I know.”

  O’Farrell had retired from the force two years earlier in 1919 and had opened his own detective agency. He’d been on the inside so often while on the job that he catered to a pretty high-class clientele these days. He’d gone from being the best-dressed cop in town to the best-dressed shamus.

  “How’d you know to come up here, anyway?” McKeever asked.

  “I was supposed to pick her up and take her out to Jersey.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe you better tell me about it, Val,” McKeever said, folding his arms.

  O’Farrell laid it out for the detective just as it had happened.

  Vincent Balducci had come to his office two days before with flash and confidence bordering on arrogance. Most of the flash came from the sparks he was wearing in a couple of rings.

  “I’ve got a job for you, Mr. O’Farrell,” he’d said, after introducing himself. He’d pronounced his name like O’Farrell was supposed to know who he was. O’Farrell did, but he didn’t tip his hand.

  “How did you get my name, Mr. Balducci?”

  “You were referred to me by a mutual acquaintance,” Balducci said. “His name is not important. He said you used to be a cop, an honest cop—or as honest as they get around here. He said you were thorough, and you wouldn’t gouge me on your fee just because I’m rich.” Balducci looked around O’Farrell’s well-furnished office. “I’m thinkin’ the last part is probably right.”

  “All the parts are right, Mr. Balducci,” O’Farrell said. “Why don’t we get to the point of the visit?” O’Farrell motioned his visitor to a chair.

  “All right.” Vincent Balducci sat down. He laid his coat over his lap. It had a velvet collar. He laid a matching hat atop it. His hair was dark—too dark to be natural—and shiny, combed straight back. “Yes, why don’t we. Do you know who I am?”

  “I read the newspaper,” O’Farrell said. The New York Times regularly carried stories about Vincent Balducci, a millionaire philanthropist. What that generally meant to O’Farrell was the man had a lot of money and didn’t know what to do with it.

  “That will save time, then,” Balducci said.

  Balducci then told O’Farrell about Georgie Taylor. Balducci was married but said it was a loveless, sexless marriage entered into for convenience. Naturally, he needed a friend outside his marriage. When he met Georgie, he knew she was the one.

  “She’s younger, right?” O’Farrell asked.

  “Quite a bit younger,” Balducci said. “I’m sixty-five and she’s, uh, twenty-five.”

  “You look good,” O’Farrell said. “I had you pegged for fifty-five.”

  “Thank you,” Balducci said, “I try to keep in shape.”

  And he did a fine job. Except for his obviously dyed hair and some lines on his face, he did look younger than he was. He was tall, fit, and moved like a younger man. O’Farrell sneaked a look at his own growing paunch. He was more than fifteen years younger than the millionaire, but they probably looked the same age. He decided not to think about it.

  “Lots of married men have dames on the side, Mr. Balducci,” he said. “Where do I come in?”

  “Have you heard about this beauty pageant in Atlantic City this weekend?”

  “I heard something about it,” O’F
arrell said. “Is that the one with the new bathing suits?”

  “Yes,” Balducci said. “One of the major sponsors is the Atlantic City Businessman’s League, of which I am a member.”

  O’Farrell was starting to get the drift, but he let the man go on.

  “I’ve entered Georgie in the pageant.”

  “You didn’t guarantee she’d win, did you?” O’Farrell asked. “You’re not going to tell me the fix is in, are you?”

  “No,” Balducci said. “That part is not your concern.”

  So maybe the fix was in. But okay, the client is always right. That wasn’t his concern.

  “Fine.”

  “Georgie is very beautiful and talented. She has a big career ahead of her.”

  O’Farrell almost asked, “As what?” but bit his tongue.

  “But I think she might be in danger.”

  “From who?”

  “An old boyfriend, other contestants, even my wife.”

  “Does your wife know about Georgie?”

  “Not exactly. She knows I have friends on the side, but she doesn’t know about Georgie specifically.”

  “All right,” O’Farrell said, “go on.”

  “The contest kicks off with a gala event at the Atlantic City Yacht Club on Friday. Among others, my wife will be there. I want you to escort Georgie.”

  “Be her date?”

  “As it were, yes—and protect her.”

  “We’ve never met—”

  “I will take you to her apartment on Beekman Place for an introduction,” Balducci said. “After that, it will be up to the two of you to plan your Friday evening.”

  “Mr. Balducci,” O’Farrell said, “today is already Wednesday, and I haven’t got a thing to wear.”

  “On top of a thousand dollar fee,” Balducci said, taking the comment completely serious, “I will buy you a new wardrobe and pay all other expenses for the night. I would send you to my tailor, but there’s no time, so you can simply shop in the best men’s stores available.”

  O’Farrell was a man who enjoyed good clothes. He knew where to shop. Even while still in the employ of the New York City Police Department, he dressed better than any other detective—regardless of rank—leading to speculation he was on the take. It was only the fact that everyone knew how scrupulously honest he was that undercut the speculation.

  “All right,” O’Farrell said. “When and where do I meet the young lady?”

  “Tonight, if you’re free,” Balducci said. He leaned forward and placed a slip of paper on the desk. “Come to that address at eight pm. I’ll make the introductions.”

  O’Farrell picked up the paper, glanced at it, then put it in his shirt pocket.

  “I’ll need an advance.”

  “Of course,” Balducci said. He took a wad of cash out of his pocket. No checks, no paper trail.

  “Five hundred now? And a hundred for clothes?”

  “Better make it two for clothes,” O’Farrell said.

  Balducci didn’t hesitate. He peeled off seven hundred-dollar bills and placed them on O’Farrell’s desk.

  “Will that do?”

  “That’s fine.” O’Farrell left the cash where it was.

  “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

  “I have some more questions.”

  Balducci stood up. He shot his cuffs and looked at his watch. “I’ll answer the rest of your questions tonight. Right now, I have another appointment.”

  O’Farrell walked his new client to the door.

  “Eight o’clock,” Balducci said and left.

  After Balducci was gone O’Farrell picked up the hundred-dollar bills and rubbed them together. He turned and looked out his second-floor window down to Fifth Avenue, where a chauffeur was holding the back door of a Rolls Royce open for Vincent Balducci. He probably should have asked for more money. A guy who rides in a Rolls and is dizzy for a young dame probably wouldn’t have squawked about it.

  O’Farrell presented himself at the Beekman Place address at 7:55. He paused out front to look up at the building. It was only five stories, but Beekman Place was not an inexpensive address. Each apartment was occupied by money—or, as in this case, paid for by someone with money.

  He was wearing one of the new suits he’d bought that afternoon. It was September and the weather was still mild, so he’d bought one brown linen and one blue pin-striped. He was wearing the linen. The pin-striped was for the night at the Yacht Club.

  The young doorman announced him, and he was allowed up to the third floor. When he rang the bell, the door was opened by Balducci himself. O’Farrell had expected a butler or a maid.

  “Come in,” the man said. “Georgie is still getting dressed.”

  O’Farrell entered and closed the door behind him. He followed Balducci down a short hall until they entered a plushly furnished living room.

  “I’ve made a pitcher of martinis,” his host said. “Would you like one?”

  “Sure.”

  “Olive or onion?”

  “Olive, please.”

  Balducci poured out two martinis, put olives in both, and handed one to O’Farrell.

  “I was expecting a servant to answer the door,” the detective said. “Maid’s night off?”

  “No servants,” Balducci said. “It’s bad enough the doorman knows me and sees me coming here.”

  O’Farrell understood.

  “Ah,” Balducci said, looking past him. “Here’s Georgie now.”

  O’Farrell turned. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but Georgie took his breath away. She was tall and slender with a proud thrust of breasts. Her dark hair was piled high atop her head. Her powder-blue gown was high-necked but left her pale shoulders bare. Since 1919, hems had been rising. Currently, it was not unheard of for them to be six inches from the floor—affording a nice view of ankle—but Georgie’s gown was full length. It was her eyes that really got O’Farrell. They were violet, the most amazing color he’d ever seen, and they were great-big-eyes. When she blinked, he thought he could feel it inside.

  She was pretty enough to be a Ziegfeld girl. O’Farrell wondered why Balducci didn’t use his pull to get her that job rather than put her in some silly pageant?

  “Georgie, this is Val O’Farrell, the private detective I hired to protect you.”

  “To hide me, you mean,” she said tightly. She was smoking a cigarette, took a moment to remove a bit of tobacco from her tongue with her thumb and pinky while appraising O’Farrell. Flashes of light on her fingers attested to the fact Balducci didn’t mind sharing his love of diamonds. “Well, he’s big enough for me to hide behind.”

  “I just want him to protect you, darling,” Balducci said.

  O’Farrell suddenly realized how dressed up the two of them were and what it meant. Balducci’s suit easily cost five times what his own new suit had cost.

  “Are you folks going out to dinner?” he asked.

  “We all are,” Balducci said. “I thought it would be a good opportunity for us to get acquainted.”

  “Don’t let him fool you, Mr. Detective,” Georgie said. “He just wants to use you as a beard. That way if anyone sees us together, he can say I was your date. He’s become an expert at hiding me.”

  “Georgie…”

  “All right,” she said, “I’ll be a nice girl. Mr. O’Farrell, would you care to join us for dinner?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Please,” she said. “Vincent will be paying the bill.”

  “Well,” O’Farrell agreed, “when you put it that way…”

  The only chink in Georgie Taylor’s beautiful armor was her voice. It was high-pitched, almost a whine, and marred what was otherwise a perfect picture. O’Farrell knew nothing about how this beauty pageant was supposed to be run. He wondered if it called for the girls to actually speak.

  Dinner was a tense affair at a nearby restaurant that O’Farrell suspected was below Balducci’s usual dining standards. Even Georgie had lifte
d one side of her lips and sniffed when they entered. For his part, O’Farrell found his steak delicious.

  For a dinner where he and Georgie were supposed to be getting acquainted, Vincent Balducci did most of the talking. O’Farrell spent more time looking at Georgie than listening to his client.

  Later, when they returned to the apartment house on Beekman Place, Balducci stopped in the lobby and said, “I’m not coming up.”

  “Why not?” Georgie asked.

  “Because you two need to talk,” Balducci said. “I want you to spend some time together and really talk, this time.” He turned to face O’Farrell. “Georgie has all the details about the party at the Yacht Club Friday night. I won’t see you again until then. I’ll have my wife with me, so if we come face to face, we will just be meeting. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “My dear,” Balducci said. He leaned over to kiss Georgie, but she presented him with nothing but a cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “Yes,” she said, quietly. Then she looked at O’Farrell. “Come on, then.”

  The building had an elevator, but Georgie preferred to walk, which O’Farrell had discovered on their way down. He, in fact, had a distrust of elevators and had walked up when he first arrived.

  This was something he had shared with his friend, the great Bat Masterson. Masterson, a legend of the Old West, lived in New York, and not only had a column in the Morning Telegraph but was a vice president of the newspaper. In his mid-sixties, the old lawman still had more faith in a horse than an elevator, and almost never used a telephone if he didn’t have to. O’Farrell liked to think of himself as someone who had been born too late. He should have been with Bat on the streets of Dodge City, with a gun on his hip.

  Georgie opened her door with her key and marched right to the sideboard. She was dragging her mink stole behind her and let it drop to the floor. O’Farrell bent, picked it up, and deposited it on a chair.

  “I need a drink,” she said. “Join me?”

  “Why not, but if you don’t mind, I’ll have bourbon.”

  “A man after my own heart,” she said. She poured bourbon over some ice cubes in two glasses and handed him one. She sipped hers, clunked the glass against her teeth and eyed him over the rim.