Pattern of Behavior

by Paul Bishop

  “After this, we could go to the bedroom and fuck our brains out,” she offered. “Or we could take the drinks with us and go now.”

  “Somehow,” O’Farrell said, “I don’t think that’s what your boyfriend had in mind when he said he wanted us to get better acquainted.”

  “You don’t think so?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “Why else do you think he sent us up here alone? Come on, I saw the way you were lookin’ at me in the restaurant.”

  “We’re supposed to talk about Friday night,” he said. “About the beauty pageant.”

  “Beauty pageant,” she said. She held her glass tightly and let her other arm swing loosely about. He didn’t remember how many drinks she’d had at dinner, but she certainly seemed drunk now. “What a crock! What a stupid idea. Marching around in bathing suits while a bunch of lecherous old men decides who the winner will be.”

  “I wasn’t aware the contest would be judged by a panel of old men?”

  “It’s not, but you know what I mean.” She finished her drink and poured herself another.

  “You don’t think you can win?”

  She turned around quickly, sloshing some bourbon onto her wrist. She took a moment to lick it off. It was a move O’Farrell found particularly erotic, especially since she kept those violet eyes on him the whole time. He shifted his legs, rearranging his position in his chair, but it didn’t help.

  “Of course I can win,” she said. “I’ve got the looks, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I just don’t have the voice,” she said candidly. “I’m no dummy, I just sound like one. I know that when the contestants start to speak—to answer questions—my voice is going to be a liability.”

  O’Farrell was impressed. The girl had no illusions about herself or, apparently, her situation.

  “And Vincent doesn’t love me,” she said. She wiggled the fingers of one hand at him, the light playing off the sparks. “He owns me, like one of these diamonds. It sounds odd. He just wants to have me on his arm to show me off, but then he never takes me out. I can’t explain it. All I know is he’s not here tonight, and I really want it. Whattaya say?”

  “Look, Georgie—”

  She did something with the top of her dress, and it fell to her waist. Her breasts were beautiful round orbs with tight pink nipples. She would not have made a good Ziegfeld girl, after all. Too big. She stared at him with those big violet eyes and poured the rest of her bourbon over her bare chest. One ice cube fell to the floor while another disappeared into her dress.

  Why not? he thought, coming to his feet. When would he ever get a chance like this again? He had to find out where that second ice cube had gone.

  They spent the next morning getting acquainted over breakfast because they really didn’t do much talking during the night. When O’Farrell asked her about the doorman, she told him not to worry. The doorman liked her and wouldn’t say a word to Balducci about O’Farrell staying the entire night.

  “So, who would want to hurt you?” he asked her over steak and eggs at a diner around the corner. He was wearing his linen suit again but had left the silk tie off this morning, stowing it in his jacket pocket. Georgie was wearing an angora sweater with a pin in the shape of the letter G and a skirt with a fashionable six-inch hem. The sweater molded itself to her breasts. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wasn’t wearing as much makeup as the night before and looked much younger. But those eyes… Made up or not, they popped.

  “That’s another one of Vincent’s fantasies,” she said. “Nobody wants to hurt me. I don’t need a bodyguard—although I certainly needed you last night, didn’t I?” She ran her toe up his leg.

  “Just answer the question and stop playing footsie, young lady.”

  “Ooh, Daddy,” she purred, “scold me some more.”

  Somehow, after spending the night with her, her voice didn’t seem quite as whiney or annoying. She certainly had more than enough other qualities to make up for it—although some of those qualities certainly would not be seen by the judges.

  “Georgie,” O’Farrell said, moving his leg, “be serious.”

  “I am serious,” she said. “Nobody wants to hurt me. Vincent thinks everyone wants what he’s got. Well, if no one knows he’s got me, what’s the problem?”

  “Someone must know,” O’Farrell said. “Somebody who works for him and knows when to make excuses for him.”

  “Sure, they know he’s got someone,” she said, “but not who.”

  “Look,” O’Farrell said, “Balducci is paying me to protect you, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “And more, I think,” she said.

  After breakfast, O’Farrell walked Georgie back to her building then said he had to go home to change.

  “Aren’t you afraid someone’s gonna attack me?”

  “I think what Vincent wants is for me to escort you to the beauty pageant, and protect you,” O’Farrell said. “Starting with the party at the Yacht Club. So, I’ll pick you up here. What time is the party?”

  “The festivities start at three,” she said. “I’m supposed to be there at noon, though.”

  “Noon?”

  “I’m part of the show, after all,” she said.

  “How many contestants are there?”

  “There were supposed to be a lot, but we ended up with just twelve. Some folks—sponsors—are really upset about it.”

  “Twelve beautiful girls, huh?” O’Farrell said. “All right, then I’ll pick you up here at ten. I assume Balducci will supply transportation?”

  “He’ll have an automobile here to take us over to New Jersey. Probably a Rolls.”

  O’Farrell made a face. He still preferred horses, but it was a long way to Atlantic City.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”

  “What about tomorrow?” she asked. “Don’t you want to see me tomorrow?”

  “I don’t think—”

  She came closer to him.

  “After everything we did to each other last night, you can wait two days to see me?”

  “Hey, Georgie,” O’Farrell said, “you’re the one who said what we did last night was just sex.”

  “Well, yes,” she said, touching his lapel. “But it was good sex, wasn’t it?”

  “It was great,” he said. “Fabulous. You’re a wonderful gal, but you belong to my client.”

  “That didn’t seem to bother you last night.”

  “Last night, I gave in to bourbon and a pair of gorgeous...eyes.”

  She smiled. “You think my...eyes are gorgeous?” she asked.

  “You know they are.” Behind Georgie, O’Farrell could see the doorman watching him. A different one than the night before, but another young man, this one eyeing Georgie appreciatively—not that O’Farrell could blame him.

  “You sure this doorman is not on Balducci’s payroll?”

  “I’m this sure,” she said. She slid her hands around his neck and gave him a kiss that could have melted the soles of his shoes. Her tongue fluttered in his mouth and she bit his bottom lip lightly before stepping back and smiling at him.

  She wiggled her fingers at him, smiling mischievously. “See you the day after tomorrow, lover.”

  But Friday, when he went to pick her up, there was no answer at the door. He went down to ask the doorman if he’d seen Georgie Taylor that morning. This was the same doorman who had watched her kiss him goodbye the other day.

  “No, sir,” the man said. “I haven’t seen her today at all.”

  O’Farrell studied the man for a moment, then took a ten out of his wallet.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Henry, sir.” Henry was a young man in his late twenties. He was eyeing the ten in O’Farrell’s hand hungrily.

  “Tell me, Henry, has Miss Taylor had any visitors since I was here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Not Mr. Balducci?”

  “Well, yes, sir,” Hen
ry said. “He came by last night. I didn’t know you meant him.”

  “Did he stay the night?”

  “No, sir,” Henry said, “He left after a few hours.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No, sir,” the doorman said. “She hasn’t had anyone else upstairs since you left the other morning except for Mr. Balducci.”

  “Did she go out at all?”

  “Yes, sir,” Henry said. “I saw her go out yesterday. She did some shopping and came home with a few bags. She stayed in after that—at least, as long as I was on duty.”

  “How many doormen are there, Henry?”

  “Three, sir, but only one other—Leslie,” he said the name with a wry grin, “has been on duty since you were here. He worked yesterday afternoon and evening, as well as the evening you arrived.”

  “I’d like to find out what he knows, Henry,” O’Farrell said.

  “I could ask him when I see him.”

  “No,” O’Farrell said, “I’d like to find out as soon as possible. Could you call him? There’d be ten in it for him, and a second ten for you.”

  The promise of twenty bucks sent Henry to the phone to call Leslie. He asked the second doorman the same questions O’Farrell had asked him and hung up shaking his head.

  “Leslie says he never saw anyone go up to Miss Taylor’s apartment, and he never saw her leave.”

  O’Farrell went over it in his head. So she’d only been out once all day Thursday, didn’t go out Wednesday after he left her, or any time Friday morning until now. Balducci was the only person seen going up.

  “Is there a back door, Henry?”

  “Yes, sir,” the doorman said. “It’s kept locked. Tenants don’t use it and don’t have a key. It’s access to an alley where we throw out the trash, or sometimes take deliveries.”

  “You have a key, in case of deliveries?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any deliveries since I left here Wednesday morning?” O’Farrell asked.

  “No, sir.”

  O’Farrell gave Henry the twenty dollars and then took out another twenty.

  “Henry, have you got a key to Miss Taylor’s apartment?”

  “Yes, sir. Do you think something’s happened to her?”

  “Let’s just say I have a bad feeling.”

  Henry waved away the second twenty and got the key.

  “We found her like this,” he told McKeever.

  “You’ve got each other to vouch for that,” the detective said. “Is there anything you haven’t told me?”

  There was. He’d left out the part about having sex with his client’s girl and spending the night. He only hoped Henry had left that part out, too.

  “No, that’s it.”

  “That pretty much jibes with what the doorman told us. You better scram, Val. The lieutenant is gonna show up soon and he ain’t gonna like it if—”

  “Too late,” the police officer on the door said.

  O’Farrell and McKeever both turned to see Lieutenant Mike Turico enter the room.

  “Well, well,” Turico said when he saw O’Farrell. “Guess you musta forgot you ain’t a cop no more, O’Farrell.”

  “Hello, Mike.”

  Turico approached O’Farrell and felt the texture of the wide lapel of the private detective’s blue pin-striped suit.

  “Turnin’ private musta really paid off for you, Val,” he said. He looked down at the matching fedora O’Farrell was holding.

  “I’m doin’ okay, Mike,” O’Farrell said. “Thanks for askin’.”

  “Bet the swells really like you in this outfit.” He touched O’Farrell’s red silk tie, straightening it. Without looking at McKeever, he asked, “Who let him in here?”

  “He just walked in, boss,” the detective said. “You know how Val is.”

  “I do,” Turico said. He stepped back from O’Farrell, jerked his thumb at the door and said, “Blow.”

  “Nice to see you again, too, Mike,” O’Farrell said. The two had not got along when they were both police detectives, and it was no different now. Turico had always resented how O’Farrell got the high profile cases, but O’Farrell had a reputation for getting results, and Turico didn’t. Turico had risen to the rank of lieutenant since rank had more to do with who you knew than results.

  Turico moved to inspect the body. McKeever followed O’Farrell to the door.

  “Sorry to bust in on you like this, Sam.”

  McKeever waved his apology off.

  “Forget it. If the boss is gonna chew me out it’s gonna be over this or somethin’ else. But just between you and me, Val, you got a personal interest in this?”

  “My client pays the bills for this place,” O’Farrell said. “I met the girl. I liked her.”

  “Ah,” McKeever said, “the sugar daddy. You got an idea where I can find him?”

  “You can get his address from the manager of the building,” O’Farrell said. “I don’t have it on me. And he’s got an office downtown somewhere. If the manager can’t help you, let me know.”

  “McKeever,” Lieutenant Turico yelled, “get your ass over here.”

  “Gotta go, Val. You gonna look into this?”

  “I’m not sure, Sam.”

  “Well, let me know, huh?” McKeever said. “Turico might be here, but this is my case.”

  “I’ll stay in touch.” As he went out past the uniformed policeman, he patted his arm and said, “See you, Ed.”

  Did he have a personal interest? Goddamn right, he did.

  O’Farrell was still dressed for the Yacht Club party when he approached Bat Masterson at his desk at the Morning Telegraph. The old lawman turned newspaperman made a show of covering his eyes.

  “I’m blind! I’m blind!” he cried, then dropped his hands. “Damned if you ain’t the prettiest man I ever did see, O’Farrell.”

  “Cut it, Bat,” O’Farrell said. “You’re not the only one who can get all duded up.”

  “’All duded up?’” Bat asked. “I don’t think I’ve heard anyone say that since Wyatt Earp back in ninety-nine.”

  O’Farrell rushed on, afraid his friend would start telling one of his stories, which would end with him taking a replica of his old gun out of his desk drawer. O’Farrell usually enjoyed Bat’s stories, but he had no time for them today.

  “Bat,” O’Farrell said, sitting down across from his friend, “what’s the skinny on the beauty pageant out in Atlantic City?”

  Bat sat back and smiled broadly. Approaching his late sixties, both his waist and his face had filled out, but when he smiled, it took years off him.

  “I know I’m one of the judges,” he said.

  “How’d you get that job?”

  “Hell, they just up and asked me,” the old gunman said. “Who am I to say no to judging a bevy of beauties?”

  “Who asked you?”

  “Some fella from the—what’s it called—Atlantic City something—”

  “—Businessman’s League?”

  “That’s it. Said they needed artists to judge and I qualified ’cause I’m a writer. You believe that? I’ve never been called an artist before.”

  “Or a writer.”

  “You want me to shoot you?”

  “Sorry.”

  “What’s your interest?”

  “I’ll tell you,” O’Farrell said. “But you’ve got to keep it under your hat for a while.”

  “That’s a hard thing to ask a newspaperman to do, Val, but okay. For you, I’ll do it.”

  O’Farrell fed him the whole story, and Bat listened in complete silence.

  “What do you want me to do?” Bat asked when O’Farrell finished.

  “I want to find out what you know about Balducci, and about the pageant.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like are they on the up and up, both of them?”

  “As far as I know, the pageant is,” Bat said.

  “Does that mean Balducci isn’t?”

  “There’s been t
alk that Balducci is in bed with a certain criminal element.”

  “Like what?”

  “Some of the crime reporters have been wondering if he’s in with this new Mafia,” Bat said. “They wonder if he’s not involved with the giggle juice trade and other illegal activities.”

  “You sound like you’re being real careful with your language. Why would a rich man like him want to run liquor with the mob?”

  “Well,” Bat said, “this new breed of—what do they call ’em—gangsters is a lot different from the bad guys of my day. You can’t tell by white hats and black hats anymore, Val. And who knows why rich men do what rich men do?”

  “So Balducci might be in bed with the Mafia,” O’Farrell said. “But the pageant is on the level?”

  “As far as I can tell,” Bat said. “I wouldn’t have agreed to be a judge if I thought different.”

  “How are you getting out there?”

  “They’re sending a car for me.”

  “What time?”

  “Around five, I think. Do you want to ride with me?” Bat asked.

  “Yes, I would,” O’Farrell said. “I think if I walk in with you, I’ll be able to get around easier.”

  “Fine,” Bat said. “Meet me here around quarter to five and we’ll go look at some girls. What will you be doing until then?”

  O’Farrell stood up. “Trying to find my client before the police do.”

  O’Farrell knew more about the Mafia and Johnny Torrio—which were natural offshoots of Paul Kelly and his Five Points Gang—than he wanted to let on to Bat Masterson. Friend or no friend, it wasn’t wise to let a newspaperman know all that you knew. However, he’d met Vincent Balducci and didn’t see him as a gangster. It was more likely he had some connections—crooked and lucrative—to Tammany Hall.

  O’Farrell was unable to locate Balducci that morning and into the afternoon. He wondered if the police were having the same problem. At least he knew the man was supposed to be at the Yacht Club in Jersey that evening.

  He decided to make one more stop before meeting Bat Masterson to go to New Jersey. There were still things he needed to know, and his buddy Sam McKeever would have the answers.