Flashpoint d-4

by Dan J. Marlowe

  I put out the light again, cracked open the door, and aimed the rifle-barrel of the microphone directiy at where I'd seen the lighted cigarettes. Then I eased back to the tape recorder and turned it on, increasing the monitor level gradually.

  Ted's voice came through the monitor suddenly. "- great legs, Marcia. Just great. Now roll over and let me play with your ass. That's what really turns me on."

  "Nothing fancy, now," Marcia's voice said. The microphone was so sensitive I could hear the rustle of clothing and the sound of hand-pats on bare flesh. "I don't go for-hey, that's not in the contract-what are you DOING? Ohhhh!"

  "Dee-licious!" Ted's voice said huskily. "You taste just like clam chowder. Stop squirming."

  "Cut it-OUT!" Marcia exclaimed breathlessly. "I said nothing-FANCY! Ooooh! STOP-it!"

  There was the prolonged slithering, fleshy sounds of bodies in semi-combat. "You know you love it," Ted's voice said after an interval. "Okay. Spread your wings."

  The voices stopped, but not the sounds. In increasing degree the microphone picked up hoarse breathing, sibilant sighs, muffled squeals, and inelegant grunts. The slap-slapping sound of bare bodies became metronomic. I was standing there, picturing the reaction of whoever was called upon to transcribe this particular tape when the buzzer sounded indicating that Erikson wanted me in his office.

  I lingered beside the monitor while the tape recorded sounds reached a frantic climax. "Okay, baby," Ted's voice said after an interval in which heavy breathing gradually lessened. "You're better'n a short arm inspection."

  Marcia's sniff was plainly audible. "Thanks for nothing. Listen, I've got to use your bathroom. I'm not on the pill."

  "Hell, I thought all you broads were on the pill from kindergarten. But go ahead."

  The buzzer sounded again.

  I switched off the recorder, retrieved the microphone, closed and bolted the door again, and went into Erikson's office. "I thought you'd fallen asleep in there," he greeted me.

  "Not quite. What's the good word?"

  Erikson vacated the chair behind his desk. Piled in its center was a stack of file folders, some thick, some thin. "Sit down here. These contain photos and identity information on the UN guides. If the girl from the Alhambra really works at the UN, you should find her here."

  I opened the top folder. There were head and shoulder shots, profile views, and full length photos of a creamy-skinned girl in street clothes, in a flowing robe, and in a bathing suit. The other folders contained more of the same. It was like looking over the candidates for a Miss International Beauty Contest. They were all young and attractive.

  A printed sheet of paper slipped out of the folder which held photographs of a beautiful Eurasian girl. Across the top of the sheet, in bold red letters, was the word CONFIDENTIAL. There were only two paragraphs on the page, but both were specific about aspects of the girl's after-business-hours activities. It was documented evidence that she engaged in frequent sexual moonlighting.

  Erikson removed the paper from my hand and replaced it in the folder. "Is being a UN guide just a sideline?" I asked.

  "Living in New York is expensive for nationals whose countries suffer from a poor exchange rate," Erikson explained. "Some girls tutor in foreign languages, some model, some work in nightclubs."

  "And some peddle it instead of sitting on it. Does UN stand for Uninhibited Nymphs?"

  "Using a young woman to charm information from a diplomat isn't restricted to the CIA or to Embassy Row in Washington, Earl. Many of these girls aren't averse to using sex for their countries."

  "Patriotic pussy, hmm?"

  "You're wasting time," Erikson pointed out.

  I returned to the folders. I found three more CONFIDENTIAL slips, but Erikson wouldn't give me time to read them. When I finished the stack of folders, I had two set aside for a second look. Erikson placed the photos side by side. Both girls had dark hair, beautiful high-cheekboned faces with liquid-looking dark eyes, and inviting mouths with promising full hps. Seeing them together, I couldn't be mistaken. "That's the girl," I said, tapping the glossy print on the left.

  Erikson leaned down for a closer look. "You're sure?"

  "Positive." I cupped my hands around the face, concealing part of the shoulder-length hair. "She's wearing her hair shorter now, but that's the girl."

  "Did you hear her speak?"

  "Only when she said hello and how are you to a few people while she was walking through the UN lobby. She has quite a voice, though. Foreign-sounding. Memorable."

  Erikson opened the file folder to the back cover. He extracted a folded, narrow strip of paper from a small brown envelope stapled to the cover, and stretched it into a long ribbon. One side was blank, the other printed with a small grid similar to cross-section drawing paper. Across the grid ran an uninterrupted, squiggly line.

  "An electocardiogram?" I asked. "I didn't get to feel her heartbeat."

  "This is a voice print." Erikson threaded one end of the strip of paper into a slot in the side of a boxlike machine on a shelf behind his desk. It looked something like an automatic telephone-answering device. "Listen to this," Erikson said as he flipped a switch.

  At first I heard only scratchy noises until he adjusted a control knob. Then a voice came through clearly. The deep, throaty sound and slight, husky accent were unmistakable. "Check and doublecheck," I confirmed. "That's our bird."

  "Talia Rhazmet," Erikson read from the folder. "Born in Ismir, Turkey, December 29, 1942. That makes her twenty-eight. Five foot seven and one hundred and thirty-three pounds. A girlish armful, obviously. Speaks Turkish, Greek, Arabic, and English fluently. Been in this country four months. I'll go to another source to get a more complete dossier on her."

  "Let's have another look," I said, taking the folder from him. The bathing-suit photo of Talia Rhazmet was a beauty. She stood on a sandy beach in a micro-bikini with drops of water dotting her smooth, olive skin. A tiny pool trapped in her navel reflected sunlight like a many-faceted diamond. The white bikini was almost transparent when wet, and it showed plainly her erect nipples and the dark triangle of her pubic hair.

  "Very nice," I understated the case. "Even an old crock like me wouldn't mind combining business and pleasure in this instance."

  "Businesswise, she may be a complete dead end," Erikson answered. "I'll know better when I pull the report. Meantime you go back to the Alhambra and see if Hawk shows again. I'm-"

  "Seeing him the first time reminded me of something," I interrupted him. I tapped my left shoulder. "My gun is buried in the sand near the airstrip where the gambling plane came down, and if I'm going to see Hawk again I want another."

  "That's not unreasonable," Erikson agreed. "Just a minute." He went into the equipment room, came out with a Smith & Wesson.38 that could have been a duplicate of my own, and handed it to me after taking down the registration number. "It's already been sighted in," he said.

  "Not like I'll sight it in when I get a chance," I said, slipping it into the chamois-lined shoulder holster without which I'd have felt undressed.

  Jock McLaren waved to me cheerily as I passed through the outer office. He still had the earphones on.

  I wondered what his reaction would be if it fell to him to transcribe the segment of tape I'd made of the magazine-studio seduction scene.

  * * *

  It was the cocktail hour when I reached the Alhambra.

  The place was a blizzard of bright colors as a hundred people, two-thirds of them in native costume, engaged in high-pitched, alcohol-heightened conversations in half a dozen languages.

  All the booths were occupied, and men were standing three-deep at the bar. I eased in at one end. I was in no hurry to be served, since I was going to be there for awhile. There was no sign of Hawk in the swirling smoke eddies in the room, and I resigned myself to waiting it out.

  When I was finally served, I nursed my drink for an hour. The crowd began to thin out. I moved to a vacated booth in a corner of the room where I could
see the front entrance. I settled myself with as much patience as I could muster.

  Only scattered customers remained on the bar stools. One was a woman seated directly in front of my booth. Inside of three minutes I knew she was watching me in the back-bar mirror. After years on the run a man develops a sensitivity about such things.

  The woman was an artificial platinum blonde, about thirty, with thin, plucked eyebrows and a lot of makeup. I couldn't remember ever having seen her before. She had on a white blouse and a black skirt of some shiny material. The skirt was so tight it tucked in under her buttocks, delineating each fleshy crease.

  I hadn't looked directly at her, but she picked up her drink and carried it to my table. With no invitation from me she plopped herself down in the booth opposite me. She crossed her legs deliberately, far enough out in the aisle to afford me a look at her thigh-high sliding skirt. She smiled at me, disclosing bad teeth. At close range the heavy facial makeup was intended to hide blemishes. She was braless under the blouse, and she might just as well have had HOOKER branded in the center of her forehead.

  "I'm Teresa, the original whore with the heart of gold," she said. "I saw you with the kid last night. The skinny little blonde. Chryssie."

  "So?"

  "So the kid sat here in a booth all afternoon, cryin' about bein' stood up. She had no bread for Mary Jane or anything else. Rex-" she nodded at the bartender "- was gonna throw her out, but I talked him out of it. Awhile ago a pimp sat down in her booth, an' the two of them went out together."

  "Your pimp, Teresa?"

  "Correct."

  "Would he take her to his place?"

  "To hers. If you decide to do anything about it, it would help to keep my skin together if he thought you walked in on them accidentally."

  She picked up her drink and went back to the bar.

  I was supposed to stay in the Alhambra and watch for Hawk. But there was the thought of Chryssie sitting in a booth, crying because I'd stood her up. I'd known she was broke or next door to it. I wasn't her guardian angel by any means, but I didn't care for the idea that I'd turned a pimp loose on her.

  It would only take a few minutes. I left the Alhambra and walked rapidly to Fiftieth Street. I didn't have a key to Chryssie's apartment, but that wouldn't be a problem. When I reached her landing, I saw a line of light under her apartment door. It was locked when I tried it. I took a thin strip of stiff plastic from my wallet and eased it into the door jamb. I turned my wrist slightly and the lock moved back with a snicking sound.

  I moved inside quietly. The sickly-sweet odor of marijuana was overpowering. Only the light in the bedroom was on, and I moved toward it stealthily. Chryssie was on the bed, naked, face down and sobbing. There were dark blotches on her alabaster behind. Across the foot of the bed was a scruffy-bearded, lanky, hairy type, also naked. He was sleeping.

  Male clothing was draped over a nearby chair. I went through it and found an eight-inch, bone-handled knife in a sleeve holster. I dropped holster and knife into my pocket and went back to the bed. I drew the.38 from my shoulder holster, took hold of the bearded character's ankle, and jerked him off the bed.

  He landed on the floor with a crash that sat Chryssie bolt upright in the bed, whimpering fearfully. The man on the floor scrambled on his belly toward the chair holding his clothes as unerringly as though he was fitted with radar although bis eyes were still closed. He went slack only when he couldn't find bis knife.

  "Get your ass out of here before I fill it full of slugs," I told him when he opened his eyes. I showed him the.38. He stayed a respectful distance from it while he dressed hurriedly although his eyes stayed mean. Chryssie stared at the tableau with panic-stricken gaze.

  "How about my knife?" the bearded character asked from the doorway.

  "Come and get it," I invited him. "If you're feeling lucky."

  He glared at me, then went out. I had moved to the bedroom doorway to make sure he went. When I returned to the bed, Chryssie was crying again.

  "What happened to your tail?" I asked her.

  "H-he kept kicking m-me to make me do th-things," she sobbed.

  "What the hell do you expect if you keep on acting like a victim?" I growled. Her air of helplessness really irritated me. I went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. There must have been twenty-five different bottles of pills inside. I stuffed bottles into all my pockets until I'd made a clean sweep. "Take a shower and get into bed and stay there till you hear me at the door," I told Chryssie when I was back in the bedroom. "Understand?"

  She nodded, still wide eyed.

  I took her key, locked her into the apartment, and went back to the Alhambra.

  6

  When I left the Alhambra that night, I stopped at an all-night restaurant and carried an order of scrambled eggs and a large coffee back to Chryssie's place.

  She started a screaming tantrum at my entrance over the loss of her amphetamines which I'd dumped in a convenient garbage can. I straightened her out with a slap in the face and another on the tail, then pushed the scrambled eggs into her a spoonful at a time. She sat there sulkily afterward, sipping at the hot coffee. "God knows you're probably not worth this attempted salvage job," I told her, "but I'm curious about what's underneath that skinful of poppers."

  "Don't do me any favors," she answered me, but she didn't sound as flippant as usual.

  The next day I spent fifteen hours at the Alhambra, bored to tears. There was no sign of Hawk. I ate food I didn't want in order to counteract booze I didn't want, and my tailbone ached from just sitting on it.

  I kept Chryssie under house arrest at her place. The only time I left the Alhambra was to bring her meals. She didn't want to eat, but I forced her. My association with her hadn't gone unnoticed at the Alhambra. Rex, the bartender, stopped by my booth in the afternoon to ask me how she was. He sounded sympathetic. There was something about Chryssie's little-girlness that evidently got through even to Broadway types.

  Erikson called me at her place that night. "Talia Rhazmet got her job at the UN through the Turkish

  Foreign Office," he told me. "And she spends more money than she makes working as a guide. I'd like to put a man on her, but I'm shorthanded right now, so we've put a tap on her apartment phone instead. So far there's been nothing interesting. What about Hawk?"

  "Not a trace."

  "There's always the chance the Rhazmet girl will lead us to him. Meantime you hang on at the Alhambra. Call me in the morning with the number of the pay phone there in case I need to reach you in a hurry."

  "I don't like being paged in a public place," I complained.

  "I'll ask for Tom Dawson, not Earl Drake."

  "Listen, how long is this going to last? When I let you talk me into coming here from Tucson, I didn't contract to sit in a bar definitely and blot up Jim Beam. The bartender is even trying to get friendly."

  "Just hang on until we can find out if there's a definite connection between the girl and Hawk. Or until he shows up." Erikson was making his tone soothing. "Then you can back out and my men will take over."

  "It had better be quick, Karl."

  "Okay. Just sit tight for another day or two."

  He hung up on me before I could give him further argument.

  * * *

  In the morning, Chryssie was still pouting and complaining, but she looked and sounded better. The deep, dark shadows under her eyes had lessened, and her jittery skittishness had calmed somewhat. She had a habit of parading the apartment in the nude. "I might as well be here with my father," she said resentfully after flaunting herself in front of me once. "I think you're on cocaine or heroin yourself the way you don't turn on to me."

  "I'm saving you for an orgy, Chryssie," I told her.

  But I was beginning to wonder if this girl could ever sound like a seventeen-year-old with a seventeen-year-old's problems.

  She had improved enough physically for me to take her to the Alhambra. I watched her every time she went to the
ladies' room, and sure enough, in the middle of the afternoon her eyes began to get the familiar glazed expression. She'd evidently begged a reefer from someone in the John. I took her back to her place and locked her in again. By that time she was floating so high she didn't even know where she was. I went back to the Alhambra and the monotonous vigil.

  The next day she was as low as she'd been high previously. I wasn't going to make the same mistake again, so I left her after force-feeding some cereal into her. She was sleeping when I left her place. I had toyed with the idea of calling her father to come and get her, but in the back of my mind was the thought that he'd probably already done it, perhaps several times. A salvage job becomes less attractive as renewed effort is required.

  I settled in at the Alhambra again after walking there in a light rain. The waitress brought me my Jim Beam on the rocks without my even ordering. I wondered how long I had to keep it up before I developed cirrhosis. Years, probably. I'd never make it. I was tired already of my mouth tasting like a boiled boot every morning. I was thinking less kindly of Erikson's operation every hour.

  And then at 4:10 P.M. Tom Dawson received a phone call at the Alhambra. I almost blew it. I'd been feeling so sorry for myself I'd almost forgotten Erikson's little ploy. "The Rhazmet girl just telephoned someone she called Hawk to meet her uptown in the Picadilly Bar at One-twenty-five West Fifty-seventh," Erikson rapped at me when I got to the phone booth. "Get up there and make sure it's the right guy. Hustle, will you?"

  I hustled.

  I'd have hustled anywhere to bring an end to what was rapidly becoming one of the least rewarding experiences of my life. I don't have the patience to sit in bars and watch the faces in the booths and the faces coming through the front entrance.

  A cab deposited me within a few feet of a marquee with the single word PICADILLY on it. It was an English-style pub with a fake coat-of-arms plaque inside the door. The clientele had some of the chi-chi look that went with the art galleries in the neighborhood. Velvet jackets and wide-flowing ties predominated at the half-filled bar.