Strip For Violence

by Ed Lacy

  It was a little after two-thirty when I returned to the office. I couldn't make Will and his wife, they didn't look the type to be mixed up in anything shady. Anita was reading a true detective magazine. She asked if I'd read about this gal working behind a soda counter who recognized Public Enemy No. 3 by this wart he had on his pinky? Got a reward of two thousand—”

  “Forget it,” I said, giving her the sliver. “Knock off for the day and snoop around Will Johnson's place. Some open lots around there, see if any of the rocks look like this sample. Ask around if anybody else got their windows busted. Check with the weather bureau as to what kind of a day it was a month ago... unless it was real sunny he wouldn't have the blinds down in the middle of the afternoon.”

  “This assignment is jazzy as all get-out!”

  “Look Humphrey, or are you Robert Ryan this afternoon? The guy is paying us, we give him a day's work at least. I'm going to hunt for this Lodge babe, will stop back here before I go home. Call me at six. And grow up—life isn't all cream puffs and excitement.”

  She screwed up her cute face at me, pointed to my cheek. “You shouldn't walk around with lipstick there.”

  “Where?”

  “Here.” She kissed me hard on the cheek, pulled away and laughed. She dropped the rock in her bag and walked out—her hips waving goodbye.

  9

  I washed up, stopped for coffee and a sandwich, then drove to the last known address of Marion Lodge, a fairly clean rooming house on West 22nd Street. The owner vaguely remembered her, thought she had moved to some place on West 67th Street. There, I had to show her picture to a dozen candy store and newsstand people before one of them remembered Marion lived in a house down the block. This was a real flea-hive, stinking of insecticide and the blowsy old bag who ran it stunk from a lot of other things. It was a small apartment house that had been made into rooms and she said she had seen too many people come and go to recall any. A couple of bucks acted as a refresher course: Marion had fallen behind in her rent, been locked out. A month later Marion had sent the back rent and a truck called for her two suitcases. “Don't know why she bothered, nothing in them but cheap rags and... What? Aw, how do you expect me to remember the name of the trucking company? Some big truck all painted a baby blue...”

  At a bar I got a handful of dimes and started calling the various moving companies in the phone directory, asking what color their vans were painted. A buck-twenty later I struck pay dirt. The rest was easy—the company kept records and I found Marion had moved up in the world—to a high-priced brownstone on East 71st Street. This had been converted into small, ritzy, furnished apartments—the kind you pay two hundred a month for. The janitor lived in the basement of another house down the block. A quiet, middle-aged man who liked to talk, he studied the picture, told me, “Tell you, mister, I've only been on the job less than a year and I never saw her. But people don't move around much, far as I know, we've only had one vacancy in last two years, apartment 3F, and I sure remember the last tenant there, Miss Margrita de Mayo!”

  My face showed the name didn't register and he added, “Margrita, the TV sensation!” A silly note of pride crept into his voice, the way nobodys talk about a celebrity.

  “Sure, girl with the fine, fine legs,” I said. “Still live there?”

  “No, sir, moved to a big suite in some hotel. But when I first came she was a struggling young actress and...”

  “Got any old rent records here?”

  “No, sir. But when she got her big break, it made me feel right good that a nice, quiet, young woman like her...”

  I left and called my buddy in the electric company, dialed him back ten minutes later. “No record of any Marion Lodge in 3F, Hal,” he said. “Bills were sent in the name of a Mary Long. After four months it was changed to Margrita de Mayo, with a letter from Miss Long requesting her deposit be applied to Miss de Mayo's account.”

  “What's all that mean?”

  “Probably sharing the apartment and then this Spanish one took it over, often happens when people who share a place split up. You know: the Long girl took the table radio, or something, instead of the deposit, or... Say, isn't that Margrita the...?”

  “Yeah, the owner of the world's best legs. Thanks. See you.”

  Mary Long and Marion Lodge—same initials, and when a person takes on a phony name they usually keep the same initials. The next step was to see Margrita—which would be a pleasure. But it was nearly six and I was pooped. Going to the office, I read the evening paper as I kept the edges of my hands hard by hitting them against a rubber pad. The ads said Margrita was singing at the Emerald Club, a swank spot, and I decided to drop in on her later.

  At six-ten Anita called and when I asked what was new, she said, “I got a date for supper. Some joint at 60th Street and 1st Avenue.”

  “Well, eat well.”

  “You never ask me out for supper...”

  “I do better—I pay your salary.”

  “And that's nothing to brag about. One of these days I'll stuff an apple in your puss and eat you.” She sounded excited.

  “I'd be tough chewing. See you in the morning, early and belching,” I said, hanging up.

  Before closing the office, I made the usual check of the safe and one of my three guns was missing—a .38 special, I was so mad I nearly busted the glass slamming the door.

  I drove over to the construction job Bobo was guarding. Although he had a permit to carry a rod I never let him —his face was all the protection he needed. No sense packing a rod unless you intend to use it.

  Bobo was sitting in a chair propped against the shack that was the contractor's field office. He had his nightstick across his lap, an old cigar in his mouth—the picture of a guy with a snap job. When I started bawling him out, he asked, “What gun, Hal? I wouldn't take a rod without telling you.” And his rough, tan face showed real surprise.

  When I mentioned that only he and Anita knew the safe combination, Bobo said, “Cheez, Hal, I wouldn't pull a dumb trick like that. Maybe Anita took it, she's wacky enough.”

  If Bobo said he didn't have it, that was that And Anita would most likely be in the movies—she went every night —I could stop at her house before I turned in.

  I drove to the yacht basin and Pete, who was just coming on duty as night man, called out, “Hal, looking for you. Be there in a minute.”

  He finished gassing up a small cruiser, then came down to the floating barge that was the landing dock, pointed to my dinghy. The seat was busted. “One of those fat-assed drunks off the big sloop out there was horsing around, fell into your dinghy. Have it fixed by morning. He gave me a ten spot to do it. Sorry but...”

  “Forget it,” I said, as we both stepped into the 16-foot inboard launch, and Pete gave her the gun, telling me, “Yell when you want to go ashore.”

  “Yeah. Right now I'm going upstream after some shad.” Pete licked his thin lips. “I go for a juicy broiled shad.”

  “Catch you one,” I said, leaping aboard my boat. I opened the hatch, waited for a moment till the stuffy cabin air went out. I changed to bathing trunks, put on my running lights, and started the old Packard. The tide was coming in fast and when I untied the boat, I had to race like a rabbit back to the cockpit, throw the clutch in, give her a sharp rudder to avoid the craft anchored upstream from me.

  In the spring, shad come up the Hudson from the Atlantic to spawn. The silverbacks run in deep water, in the center of the river, and while I might have battled the six-mile current while trying to fish, instead I ran up to a point just below the George Washington Bridge. There, on the New Jersey side, there's a neat cottage that is a fishing club. Due to an irregularity in the bed of the river, the water is deep right up to the shore line, and shad can be caught from the bank. A few old duffers knew of this spot, fenced it in, and set up this fishing club.

  In the darkness of early evening, I saw the lights of a couple pipes and cigarettes on the porch of the club as I put the anchor over, waited
to see if it caught, then shut off my engine. I hooked a sleek blue and silver two-pounder within a matter of minutes. The fish put up a good battle, but like the guy said, “I ain't here to fight 'em but to eat 'em.” Then it took me nearly a half hour and two eels before I got the second one—a big three-pounder.

  I cleaned the fish and on the way back to the mooring at 80th Street, I put the smaller one on the stove with some corn. After I tied up, I ate, sat around and listened to the radio over a couple of highballs, then showered, dressed, and yelled for Pete. I gave him the shad and he thanked me for cleaning it. Leaving him at the dock, I got my car out of the parking lot. It was almost ten as I drove east toward the Emerald Club.

  10

  THIS WAS a low-ceilinged room with the walls done in a violent lobster red, covered with nude women painted a bold purple. The ceiling was supposed to be one great green emerald and a lot of indirect lighting gave it a cut-stone effect. It looked like hell to me, but then I'm no art critic. A lot of upper-bracket jokers gave the joint a big play, and it was crowded. I stood at the bar and had a Tom Collins which looked like a fruit salad with all the sliced melons, oranges, and cherries floating around the top of the frosted glass. It must have been expensive fruit—they charged two-fifty a drink.

  When I finally got past the fruit, the drink wasn't weak, and the music from a five-piece band was blue and moody. The barkeep said Margrita came on at ten-forty-five. I watched the playboys and dolls milling around, wondering how many millions they'd add up to if their bankbooks were put end to end. A big, strapping character who looked like he was born to a tux came in, followed by a stocky ex-pug who had bodyguard written all over his rough face. The pug looked familiar, but I couldn't call his name. Without even glancing at the head waiter, the big character sat at a table, and without asking a waiter rushed over with a soda and Scotch. The bodyguard had a beer.

  The character was Big Ed “The Cat” Franklin, the star of one of those Congressional investigation committees television shows. Franklin's smooth voice, his good looks, made the citizens roar with laughter as he made a monkey out of the investigator, made the audience ferget Franklin's criminal record, that he was called “The Cat” because of the number of times he'd been gunned and lived. At the tail end of prohibition he'd started as a strong-arm goon, pushed his way up. I asked the barkeep, “'Cat' Franklin own a piece of this club?”

  “I believe Mr. Franklin owns the entire club,” he said coldly, but like he was sure the sun rose and set in Franklin's behind.

  About this time the lights dimmed and Margrita came on. She was a tall blonde with a full figure, and a passable voice. She wore a transparent skirt that clouded up near her waist. As she moved about, you saw two shapely legs, and if you were lucky, the solid curve of her hips and... well, I guess she wore a G-string or something.

  Some ten months before, Margrita had been merely another singer, with a bit role in a TV musical, one of those heavy-costume jobs. She'd be still playing bit parts if she hadn't tripped over a power cable, landing flat on her back —exposing a pair of lovely legs in close-up to thousands of living-rooms and bars. You remember the hassle this caused, the TV program apologizing all over the screen, then the flood of letters and calls, demanding to see more, saying there was no need to apologize for legs like those. Overnight the big blonde guest-starred on several programs, packed them in at a Broadway theatre, was in every column. She had a smart publicity agent, was exploited to the hilt—I remember one front-page picture of her in a museum, raising her skirts to compare her gams with a famous statue. Within two months she had her own TV show, was said to be raking in the folding money.

  Her legs were something: not the thin stems most show girls have, rather they were heavy and strong, her thighs a lush curve of real muscle. I was embarrassed, for watching her sent a warm wave of excitement crawling over me. I was staring at her open-mouthed, like a fresh kid. Considering the energy I'd spent with Louise that morning, nothing should make me get up steam for days.

  When she finished her act, I gulped my drink, asked where I'd find the manager. The barkeep's eyes got a little troubled till I said, “Want to see him about some insurance business.”

  Via the head waiter and a lantern-jawed bouncer who had a neck thicker than Margrita's thigh, I finally made the manager's office. Flashing my tin, I told him about the estate, that I wanted to see Margrita about locating a former roommate of hers.

  He was a sharp-faced guy with tired, suspicious eyes. Calling her on the house phone he said, “Miss de Mayo, there's a private dick claims he wants to see you about an estate. Expecting any process servers?... Certainly.” He looked up at me. “She's too busy to see you and...”

  “Tell her it's about Marion Lodge,” I shouted at the receiver.

  He was about to hang up but we all heard her say, “Wait—I want to see him.”

  A waiter took me to her dressing-room. We walked through a cramped kitchen and sweating cooks and pearl divers—all in sharp contrast to the lush atmosphere of the club.

  Although she was a big-name star, Margrita's room had barely enough space for a dressing-table, a closet, and a single chair. She was seated at the table, combing her long honey-blonde hair. “Make it fast, I have to change for my next number,” she said, looking me over in the mirror.

  I dislike all six-footers on sight, but she was six feet of lovely stuff that I could sure go for. The tiny room was hot and she was sweating a little, a warm sultry smell. I told her about Marion Lodge, and still talking into the mirror she said, “Yeah, I remember her. Dizzy kid, bitten by the stage bug. You know, yokel girl coming to storm Broadway. Last I heard of her she was marrying some rich old character out West.”

  “Know his name, the city?”

  She was brushing her hair—her hands up—and she shrugged and it was simply unbelievable she was that well stacked—that it was all real. “No. That was nearly a year ago.”

  “Remember who you heard this from? Anybody else know her?”

  “I just heard it—someplace. And we only shared that flat for a short time—didn't know her well. You say this uncle left her a farm?”

  “Not much of a farm. Tell me, I've traced her through several cheap rooming houses, then she suddenly blossoms out in this expensive set-up. She suddenly lands a good job?”

  Margrita said, “Sure, dumb country kids always land a 'good' job! She had a second-hand mink, several high-priced gowns, and no visible means of support What does that make in your book?”

  “Call girl? That when she became Mary Long?”

  Margrita shrugged again and all she was wearing was this thin blouse and that transparent skirt, and she was so big, had so much of everything, it was overpowering. I told her, “Please, cut it out.”

  She finally turned, stared directly at me. “Cut what out?”

  “Honey, I'll be the first to admit you pack a lot of high-powered sex. Now stop teasing me into making a pass so you can have me thrown out on...”

  “You louse!” she snapped, jumping to her feet, standing like a monument to desire. “You little miserable bastard of a man!”

  I didn't stand up—I would have looked ridiculous, not even reaching her shoulders. I said softly, “Relax, Miss de Mayo. Wouldn't mind tangling with you, but at the moment I'm only trying to locate Marion Lodge, help her get some dough. So the poor kid went all the way down the road, selling herself for...”

  “Save your tears, you'd stand in line too. Oh, sure she was a sucker! Broadway seemed something clean and high, beautiful and exciting... only she found it was raw and filthy, heartless, and so... so... terribly lonely!”

  I clapped my hands lightly. “When you get too old for the stage, you can always write a sob column.”

  Margrita's full lips sneered at me, “Mac, when I get old I'll have this racket licked, spend all my time reading the most interesting book in the world—my bankbook!”

  “Let's get back to Marion Lodge. Does she ever write you? She must have menti
oned the city she was moving to? Must have...?”

  “Told you I haven't heard from her in a year. Besides, she was doing okay, this two-bit farm wouldn't mean a thing to her.”

  I got up. Even standing on my toes I wouldn't be level with her eyes. “Okay, Miss de Mayo, sorry to have bothered you. Have to report Marion Lodge's last-known occupation—whoring, end of the trail. Or would you say, Another innocent little moth was burnt by the Great White Way, seduced by the greatest whore of them all—ambition?”

  Her lips quivered for a moment, then she said harshly, “Wise little pimp, aren't you. Say what you like. I have to change now.” She fiddled with some buttons on the back of her blouse and her “dress” suddenly dropped to her feet. I was wrong, she wasn't wearing a G-string, she was stark naked.

  She turned, picked up some cold cream from the dressing-table, began to rub her face—as though I wasn't there, but watching me in the mirror. There wasn't any point in my saying a word—everything I wanted to say she could see too plainly in my eyes. One crack from me and the jar of cold cream would be bouncing off my face.

  I walked out There was something screwy about her, and dangerous, that I didn't try to understand. Or maybe it was all in my mind, angry at her height, at her teasing me. I stood in the narrow hallway outside her door for a moment. I thought I heard her crying.

  “What you doing, short-ass?”

  The voice was deep and suave; I looked up to see “Cat” Franklin standing in the kitchen a few feet from me.

  “I'm listening at the keyhole, what the hell did you think I was doing?” I snapped, walking past him, ready to knee him if he tried to stop me.

  He merely stepped aside, smiling down at me.

  11

  The two-block walk to my car cooled me off somewhat. And driving back to the boat I tried to figure out exactly what I was angry about. I'd talked less than ten minutes to Margrita, it was the only time I'd ever spoken to her, yet I felt as steamed as if I was an old boyfriend she was handing the brush. It didn't make sense.