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Full Contact Page 5

by Robert J. Randisi


  “Well, you have to realize how much Alan loved women,” Griese said. “You know that Burt Reynolds movie that’s out now, about the guy who can’t resist women? That was Al Cross.”

  “You’re telling me that he couldn’t resist women, even if they were someone else’s?”

  Griese grinned and shrugged, showing me his palms.

  “Was there any special type of woman he liked?”

  “Yeah,” Griese said, widening his eyes, “young.”

  “How young?”

  “Oh, I’m not saying he robbed the cradle, or was a child molester, or anything like that, but I’m sure there was a girl or two who missed her senior prom because of him.”

  “How’d you feel about that?”

  “Me? Hey, whatever the traffic allows is all right with me, friend,” Griese said. Suddenly he looked sad—or contrived to look sad—and said, “I’m gonna miss old Al. We had some good times.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Hey, look,” he said suddenly, jabbing me with his elbow. I turned to see what he was talking about and saw a shapely blond girl walking down the hall away from us. She was wearing skintight jeans and her behind looked as if it had a mind of its own.

  “She could tell you a few things about Al Cross.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Her name’s Phyllis something or other,” he said. “She works in the mail room.”

  “And she had a relationship with Cross?”

  “No girl had a ‘relationship’ with Al Cross. He was the original pussyhound, you know? But according to Al, he got her one afternoon during lunch—right in the mail room! Anybody could have walked in on them! What a guy!” he said, shaking his head with admiration.

  “Yeah,” I said, “what a guy.”

  I watched the girl walk the length of the hallway—no great hardship on my part—and then walk through a door at the end. Was this the truth, I wondered, or simply one cocksman trying to one-up another?

  “She was just his type, too,” Griese said, breaking into my reverie.

  “Empty head and big chest?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, and the dreamy look crept back onto his face again.

  I decided to let the girl in the mail room slide for a while. A fast fuck on the Pitney-Bowes did not make her an authority on Alan Cross and besides, it was getting near three o’clock and I wanted to check out Cross’s apartment before going up to the institute.

  Cross had lived in an apartment building in the East Fifties. While I was getting past the doorman with a story about being sent by Detective Hocus to pick up something from the dead man’s apartment—well, I didn’t actually say I was a cop—I wondered just how much Cross had been getting paid by Paul Bishop Associates. An apartment in a building like that cost a fortune. He must have been damn good at what he did.

  The doorman was kind enough to give me the key the “other” policemen had returned to him when they left. I promised to bring it back before I left.

  When I’d let myself into Cross’s apartment, I decided that he must have been very damn good at what he did to be able to afford furnishings like the ones he had in that place. It didn’t look like any bachelor pad I’d ever had, or been in.

  First of all, it was neat and clean—probably the work of a cleaning woman—and the furniture was straight from Bloomingdale’s. Against one wall, shelves held an expensive-looking stereo set, a large TV, and a top-of-the-line video recorder, which was surrounded by tapes. There was a fine coat of powder in some places, left over from the cops.

  It certainly was not the type of place I’d expect a bachelor who was a gambler to live in—no, sir.

  Eddie Waters had often told me that an “investigation” was looking for something when you didn’t know what you were looking for, but knowing it when you found it. That’s what I was doing in Alan Cross’s apartment, looking for I-didn’t-know-what, and the chances were pretty good that whatever it was, the cops had already found it. Still, it wasn’t unheard of for the police to leave a clue or two behind, especially when they thought they already had their killer.

  The rest of the apartment was furnished as expensively as the living room, and I started to get a bad feeling about that.

  Where had the money come from? A fast score? If that were the case, Tiger Lee could probably find out for me.

  The bedroom was not as neat as the living room; the signs of struggle and of the police search were still there. There was a bureau and a chest of drawers, and I carefully went through both looking for anything the cops might have missed. Cross’s taste in clothes was as expensive as his taste in furniture, but aside from monogrammed shorts and silk shirts, there wasn’t much to be found in the drawers.

  Under the drawers, however, was a different matter.

  Another of Eddie’s sayings was that movies often dictated where people hid their valuables. I wondered what movie had taught people to tape things to the undersides of dresser drawers.

  What Alan Cross had taped to the underside of his bottom drawer was a small phone and address book. It was one of those little, soft-cover books you can fit in the palm of your hand, and each page had been filled with a small, cramped handwriting. It could simply have been Alan Cross’s “little black book,” but I pocketed it anyway. As it turned out, it was the only thing I took out of the apartment, and I still didn’t know what I had been looking for.

  Nine

  I stopped at Bogie’s long enough to shower and collect my gi and gear, and then left for the institute. I still hadn’t had time to look through Cross’s address book.

  During the subway ride uptown I shifted gears in my mind, adjusting to work on the Saberhagen case instead of Wood’s. It was an adjustment I was hoping not to have to make for very much longer.

  I arrived at the institute early, changed quickly, and went out onto the floor to warm up. I had originally started studying with Billy Palmer simply as a way to get back in shape, but the longer I studied, the more interested I became in actually becoming as good at it as I could. It wasn’t quite like being back in the ring, but at least I was feeling like an athlete again.

  While warming up I kept my eyes open for any of the group who might show up that night as well as Tuesday night. I knew Greg Foster wouldn’t show, but maybe one of the others would—preferably one of the girls. I hoped at least one would, just to keep me from revealing myself to the director as a fraud. Once I did that, I might as well forget about returning to the institute. I’d miss working out there.

  It wasn’t until after the “killer class” was over that I conceded defeat. There had been no sign of any of the workout group. I showered, changed, stuffed all of my gear into my tote bag, and went to the office of the director.

  “Mr. Bayard?”

  His bullet-shaped head moved as he looked up from his desk and he said, “Yes?”

  “I’d like to talk to you if I may,” I said, “in private?”

  His expression didn’t change, except for a slight frown, and he said, “Come in and close the door.”

  I did so and he said, “What is this about?”

  “It’s about my real reason for coming to the institute.”

  “Which is?”

  I hesitated a moment. I hadn’t realized how important karate had become to me.

  “Would you like me to tell you?” Bayard asked.

  “What?” I said in surprise.

  “I said, would you like me to tell you the real reason you are here?”

  “You know?”

  “Of course I know,” he said, staring at me. “Sensei Olden is a close friend of mine.”

  “He told you?”

  He nodded.

  “And I agreed to allow you to conduct your investigation—although I do wish you had confided in me.”

  “I didn’t know you—”

  “Understandable,” he said, holding up one calloused hand. “Tell me, why have you chosen to confide in me now?”

  “I don’t have as
much time as I thought I had to conduct this investigation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of another case.”

  “More important than this missing girl?”

  “A man’s life.”

  He nodded, and suddenly he seemed less distant to me, and more . . . human.

  “How can I help?”

  “I need some addresses on some of your students,” I said. “I had hoped to be able to talk to them just as another student, on the off chance that they might know something about the girl I’m looking for.”

  “Melanie Saberhagen.”

  “Yes.” He really was well informed.

  “Which students?”

  “I’m not sure of their last names,” I said. “I met a couple of girls named Ginger and Fallon.”

  “Ah, Greg Foster’s friends.”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe I can supply you with their addresses,” he said. “Just the girls, or the whole group?”

  “If it’s no problem, I guess I could use the addresses on the entire group.”

  “Give me a few moments.”

  I waited while he went to a file cabinet, extracted their files, and wrote down five addresses for me.

  “Thank you,” I said, accepting them from him.

  “Is there any other way I can help?” he asked, seating himself behind his desk again.

  “Well, if you remembered Melanie Saberhagen it might be a big help for me to get your impressions of her.”

  He thought a moment, his shining bare skull furrowing.

  “We have so many students,” he said. “Do you have a photograph?”

  “Yes, I do.” I took out the smaller one and handed it to him, watching his face as he studied it.

  “Her skill must not have been extraordinary, or I would surely remember her.”

  “Wouldn’t she have had to be extraordinary to some degree to be enrolled here?”

  “Of course,” he said, “but still, it is the very special ones who attract my attention. The other instructors handle the rest.”

  “I see,” I said, and I couldn’t help wondering at what level I fit in. No, that was silly . . . I’d gotten in because strings had been pulled, favors repaid. Don’t get carried away with yourself, Jacoby.

  “May I hold on to this and show it to some of the others instructors? Someone might remember her.”

  “Of course, hold on to it. . . and take one of my cards,” I said, handing one across to him. I had supplied the phone number at Bogie’s when I enrolled in the institute, but now he’d have my office number as well. “Call me if any of them remember anything.”

  “I will.”

  Standing up, I said, “Mr. Bayard, I’m sorry about trying to enroll under false pretenses.”

  “I understand that deception is sometimes a tool of your profession, Mr. Jacoby.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  I thanked him again for the addresses and started for the door.

  “Mr. Jacoby.”

  “Yes?”

  “When all of this is over and you have the time, come back.”

  “To the institute? As a student?”

  He shook his head.

  “No. Come and see me . . . personally.”

  I left his office on a cloud and rode it to the nearest phone booth. If there was even a ghost of a chance that he might want me as a student, I’d leap at it!

  Fallon’s last name was DeWitt, and Ginger was Ginger McKay. They shared the same address and phone number; apparently neither was home, because the phone went unanswered. I debated calling one of the men, but decided against it. I wanted to approach the girls first. There really wasn’t much of a chance of my charming even an ounce of information out of one of the guys.

  I decided to go back to Bogie’s, have some dinner, and make an early night of it. At least one of the girls must have a job to pay the rent, and that meant going home in the morning to change for work. I wanted to be able to get up nice and early and buy them breakfast.

  Ten

  The next morning at 7:00 a.m. I was on the girls’ doorstep with a bag of doughnuts and three coffees.

  Ginger was the one who opened the door and peered out, blinking one sleepy, bleary eye at me.

  “Huh?” she said.

  “Ginger,” I said. “I’d recognize that beautiful blue eye anywhere.”

  “Yuh—” she said, then stopped, cleared her throat and tried again. “What—”

  “Miles Jacoby, remember?” I said. “From the institute?”

  “Oh,” she said, “yeah, sure. Whataya want?”

  “What do I want? I want to buy you breakfast,” I said. Holding up the bag I said, “See. Coffee and doughnuts.”

  “Gee,” she said, blinking her eye again, “okay. Wait a sec.”

  She closed the door, slid the safety chain off, and then opened it wide. “Come on in.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s kind of early,” she said, patting her tousled hair. All she was wearing was a New York Knicks T-shirt, and her chunky breasts and thighs were very much in evidence.

  “You did say doughnuts, didn’t you?”

  “Right here,” I said, holding the bag up so she could see it.

  “Jelly?”

  Glad that I had guessed right I said, “There may be a couple in here.” Actually, there were two jellies, two custards, and two plain. Ginger had struck me as a jelly type.

  There was a small kitchenette off the equally small living room, and I suspected that the only other rooms in the apartment were the bedroom and bath.

  “Is Fallon around?”

  “She had to go to work early,” Ginger said. “Something about doing an inventory.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “In a small department store called Meyers. She’s a management trainee.” The way Ginger said it, I knew you’d never catch her being something as distasteful as a “management trainee.” In fact, I doubted that you’d find Ginger doing something as distasteful as “working” for a living.

  “Let’s sit,” she said, eyeing the bag in my hand.

  We sat across from each other at the small, Formica-top table and I took out the doughnuts and coffee.

  “How do you take your coffee?” I asked her.

  “Light and sweet.”

  “Right here,” I said, putting one of the containers in front of her.

  “How did you know?”

  “I watched you the other night,” I lied. Actually, I hadn’t noticed; but she did look like the light and sweet type. I had gotten lucky, and she was simple enough to be impressed.

  She took a big bite out of a doughnut, leaving a smear of jelly at the corner of her mouth, and frowned at me.

  “Say, how did you know where I live?” she asked. “I didn’t mention that the other night.”

  “I asked.”

  “Who?”

  I was hoping she wouldn’t ask that.

  “The director.”

  “Bayard? He gave you our address?” Her face mirrored the disbelief she was feeling. “That’s hard to believe.”

  “It was kind of a special case.”

  “Why?”

  She flicked her tongue out to capture the smear of jelly, and then took another healthy bite. It was easy to see where most of the meat on her healthy frame came from.

  “What made it so special?” she pressed, when I didn’t immediately answer her first question.

  I decided to tell the truth while still holding back a little, and see what happened.

  “I told Bayard that I was looking for someone, and he agreed to help me. I hope you’ll do the same.”

  She polished off the first doughnut and reached for the second. “Help you with what?” She was still exhibiting more curiosity than suspicion, and I hoped I could sustain that situation. Now that I was alone with her, the fact that she was not very bright was manifesting itself, and I wasn’t above trying to use that to my advantage.


  “I’m trying to find someone.”

  “Who?”

  “My cousin,” I said. “She ran away from home and I’m worried about her. I came to New York to make sure she’s all right.”

  “Your cousin? What’s her name?”

  “Melanie,” I said, “Melanie Saberhagen. She was a student at the institute for a while, but she stopped going there and dropped out of sight. Her family—we lost contact with her, so I came to try and find her.”

  “Melanie?” Ginger asked, frowning while she chewed the last piece of doughnut.

  “Yes. Did you know her, Ginger?”

  She slurped some coffee and then said, “Sure, I knew Mel. She was a sweet kid. Funny, she was friendly enough in class, but nobody could really get to know her outside of the institute. A couple of the guys even offered to pick her up at home and drive her, but no dice.”

  “Did you know the guys?”

  “You know one of them,” she said. “Greg Foster.”

  “Who was the other one?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “Maybe it wasn’t a couple of guys. Maybe it was just Greg.”

  That was a start, anyway. Greg knew Melanie, and now all I had to do was get Greg to talk to me the way Ginger had.

  She finished her coffee and then stood up, smiling at me.

  “I’ve got to get dressed now. Fallon expects me to do the shopping while she’s at work. She’ll be sorry she missed you, Miles.”

  “I’m sorry I missed her,” I said, “but your company more than made up for it.”

  “Really?” she asked, pulling down on the bottom of her T-shirt. The move flattened her large breasts and made the large nipples look like puppy dogs’ noses pushing against it. “That’s sweet.” She stepped forward and kissed me on the cheek, pressing her breasts against my chest. I could feel the heat of her body right through the thin shirt.

  “I told Fallon you were a doll.”

  “Really? Fallon didn’t agree?”

  She laughed and said, “Fallon’s taste in men is . . . strange.” She didn’t elaborate.

  “Did Fallon know Melanie, too?”

  “Yeah, but they didn’t get along.”

 

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