It was at this time, of course, that Danny was listening to my message greeting.
“Hello, this is Morty of Martinez House Cleaning. Please leave a message after the beep and I will return your call as soon as humanly possible.”
He was just trying to decide whether to leave a message on my phone when there was a loud blurping sound in the corner. It startled him, but he quickly realized it was Dexter’s bloodstained phone in the corner, on the floor.
He did not like the ring and so went over to make it stop. When he picked it up, he looked at the number. It was the one he had dialed on his phone. It was the number of the house cleaner he had been calling.
What did this mean? Dexter and the house cleaner were talking to each other . . . did this house cleaner know Dexter was on his way to the bump and thump?
He glanced over at Dexter’s pulpy red face, or what was left of it. The Gazette’s star reporter was still crumpled next to the bed, twitching. Danny resolved to move him into the bathtub, out of sight. It was disgusting.
Danny wanted to answer the phone, but the brand was different from his own. He did not know that it folded and needed to be opened to answer the call. So he pushed a button on the side and it stopped ringing. My call went into Dexter’s message box.
I left a message asking Dexter to call me and then checked to see what the drunken Russians had to say.
Very curious. Nobody spoke, but I heard a phone ringing, and it got louder, and then someone whispered, “Sorry.” That was it.
Of course, Danny’s phone was leaving a message in my box when Dexter’s phone rang, and the message I was listening to was a recording of Danny picking up Dexter’s phone and not being able to make it work.
I did not know this at the time, though, and thought that the message was very odd. Stranger than drunk Russians, even. I looked at the number again. I was sure I did not recognize it. I was half expecting a call from Pete the Prick to give me hell about his boys getting a little batting practice last night, but I double-checked, and it was not his number. My phone did not recognize it as anybody in my contact list. It could also have been the police tracking me down to ask questions about Mary’s murder. That was a call I did not want to answer, but would have to eventually or they would come find me.
Had I listened to the sound of someone calling me when another phone went off in the room, and the person got distracted, forgetting to leave me a message? Well, whoever it was, if it was important, they would call back.
That is when my phone lit up again, this time with Dexter’s number. So I answered.
Danny was trying to dial Dexter’s message box, to retrieve my message to Dexter, but had inadvertently dialed my number instead.
“Dexter?”
There was a pause on the other end, and I heard nothing. Danny thought he was listening to a message, not a live person.
“Hello?” Still I heard nothing, so I hung up. I figured that Dexter must have lost the signal. Or my idiotic phone did. I looked at my signal indicator and had full bars. He would call back. I set the phone down and went into the bedroom to molest Fanny.
Meanwhile, Danny stared at Dexter’s complicated phone, which told him the call was over. Not much of a message. Or had he maybe called my number by accident? He was unsure. These phones were frustrating him. If there was one thing about the outside world that made him feel more alien than anything else, it was these phones. So he put them both on the dresser next to the pillow on top of Mary’s petty cash, grabbed Dexter’s mismatched feet, dragged him to the bathroom, and rolled him into the tub.
Danny surveyed the motel room. There was no hiding what had happened there. The bed, the floor, the streak of blood across the carpet and into the bathroom . . . he would have to rent the room until he had the millions and could get out of town. If he could just figure out how the phones worked, he could track down this house cleaner.
He filled his pockets with his belongings and both cell phones, put the DO NOT DISTURB placard on the outside door handle, and went down to the desk. It was time for a change of clothes and a car. If he did not have the money in two days, he would just leave town—there were too many bodies, and the police would eventually find him if he kept bouncing around the neighborhood in the same clothes day after day.
Almost out the door, he glanced in the mirror. There was a splotch of blood on his forehead. He spit on the corner of the bedspread, wiped it off, and went downstairs to the front desk.
“Checking out?” The night clerk was just getting ready to leave, had his college textbooks in his backpack, but the day girl was late—again. It was the same clerk Danny had seen his first night out.
“I need the room for two more nights, please—here.” Danny slapped two hundred-dollar bills on the counter. “Keep the change.”
“Hey, thanks.” People often tipped him thinking it bought extra discretion. What it really bought was textbooks, not to mention beer.
As the night clerk watched Danny leave by the motel’s back exit, he glanced down at the light for the phone in 404. It was still blinking. And that other guy, the one with the giant black shoe, had come in and gone up there. Maybe he snuck out.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
CHARLIE BINDER HAD NOT GIVEN up. In fact, he had spent the night following the reporter.
That’s why he was in the parking lot at the Luna Motel early that same morning, waiting for Dexter to come out.
He got tired of waiting.
He approached the night clerk, who was just stuffing forty bucks into his wallet.
“Can I help you, sir?” The clerk glanced at the wall clock—where the hell was Cheryl?
A twenty landed on the counter. “Guy with the white Panama. Which room?”
The clerk was raking it in, all last minute. Cheryl’s tough luck. “Four oh four.”
He watched the ginger-haired man in sailing togs disappear around the corner, and then glanced at that red diode for the 404 phone again. Cheryl could have trouble in 404. Two men? Fine. Three? Trouble. A lot of going in and out? Drugs.
Upstairs, Charlie reached the door and unholstered his .38 but held it inside the pocket of his windbreaker. He knocked. Then again, listening. Nothing.
A cleaning cart lady was at the end of the hall, and he paid her twenty to swipe her pass key on 404. She scurried away.
Gently, he pushed the door open, then spent about thirty seconds scanning the room.
“Holy Mother . . .” He spotted the blood, the shattered phone, and the drag line to the bathroom. There was the sound of movement, from the bathroom. Charlie crept into the room, his gun now drawn. Carefully, he circled across the carpet, stepping over the drag line. The bathroom door was only open a crack. He stood to one side. Another sound, like a gasp. With his foot he pushed the door, but it would not open all the way. He stopped and listened for a full minute. No sound. He pushed again on the door with his toe. Wouldn’t budge. He poked his head around the corner into the dark bathroom while his other hand grasped the light switch.
He flicked it on.
It was only moments later that the night clerk was in the parking lot, unlocking his Chevy Impala, when he saw the guy in sailing togs walk rapidly out the front of the building, climb into a black SUV, and roar off down the road.
Something was up—this he was sure of. The drug thing? It did not bother him. What he did not like was a bunch of men and one woman. That usually turned ugly. One night the cops had to come and rescue some poor girl in 310. She had been in there for days, chained to the bed. The bastards had put a lot of things up inside her. Sick.
Cheryl had finally showed up. This was her problem.
The clerk was about a half mile up the boulevard in his Chevy Impala when he pulled a U-turn.
“HMM-4556, HMM-4556, HMM-4556 . . .” The clerk was repeating Charlie’s license number.
Fifteen minutes later, the Luna Motel security guard and the night clerk showed up at room 404. They banged on the
door, then they keyed it.
The door swung open and they were dialing 911 a second later.
Dexter was in the middle of the room, on his side.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
I WAS BLISSFULLY UNAWARE OF all this. I was coupled with Fanny. We lay spent on the bed, me on my back, she draped across me.
“Morty?”
“Yes, querida?”
“Did you really find a bunch of money?”
When it comes to women, a man has a number of alarms that sound when certain topics come up. The most obvious is their weight, the “do I look fat in this dress” question. A man only has to answer that wrong once to learn that certain topics are too dangerous to address. There are numerous others, of course.
One of them is money. I once mentioned to a girlfriend that I had come into a couple thousand dollars, and she was of the immediate notion that I should spend it all on her. I had only myself to blame with Fanny because I had offered the information when I came stumbling in last night. I needed to explain to her how difficult my day had been, and there is no explaining the story without the money part.
But there are not only dangerous questions but dangerous circumstances. This was a doubly dangerous circumstance: the post-lovemaking question. A woman senses a man’s defenses are lowered at this point. It is the perfect time for her to ask, for example, “How much do you love me?” Or: “Are we ever going to get married?”
So I was doubly cautious: She was both asking a dangerous question and asking it under dangerous circumstances.
I have found the best way to answer a question you do not want to answer is to redefine words, rephrase the question.
“Find? My pet, I do not find money. I make it. The house I cleaned? I did not charge. Why? Because I thought I would find money in the house. Why? Because I have a sense about these things. Sometimes I am wrong, and lose money on a house cleaning. Sometimes I am right, and make money. It evens out. This is my business.”
Fanny played with my nipple, deep in thought. That is, Fanny was deep in thought. My nipple was just pensive.
“Where did you put it?”
“In a safe place.”
“A bank?”
“You cannot walk into a bank with”—I caught myself—“that much money and deposit it. They will ask questions, the police come, and it is likely you will never see that money again. They will think it is drug money, illegal money.”
“So what’s a safe place for money if not a bank?”
“Some people think under the sofa is safe.”
“Who?”
“Some of the houses I clean. I find money hidden under the couch. Often in peanut tins. They call these—”
“That’s too obvious.” She punched my nipple playfully. “So where did you put it?”
I answered the question as carefully as I did quickly. Just knowing that it was in a storage locker would not give her any critical information about the exact whereabouts of the eight hundred grand.
“I have a storage locker.”
“That’s a good place.”
“Yes, I think so.”
It was then that my phone rang. Under the circumstances—with a naked girl in my bed—I would not normally answer the phone, but better to answer the phone than any more questions about the money from Fanny.
“Morty?”
“Frog?”
“What the hell is with that freak ringing my bell at four in the morning?”
“Hmm?”
“The guy with the foot, in the hat . . . the white hat. He came here and woke me at four this morning, asking me questions. Morty, I appreciate you have a problem, but don’t drag me into this thing.”
“Frog, I did not send Dexter to you. I just mentioned your name in passing as another feeler. Had I known—”
“Well, what did you tell him about me?”
“I am not sure I remember. Again, I only mentioned you in passing.” What I did remember was Dexter’s message:
It’s Dexter. I had a very interesting conversation with your friend Frog. Meet me at the house on Vanderhoosen at noon.
“Frog, I apologize, I had no idea he would even contact you, much less wake you. What did he ask you about?”
“Ooo. Gotta go, Morty—call you back.”
He hung up.
So I guessed I would find out at noon from Dexter.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
DANNY NEEDED NEW CLOTHES. HIS were beginning to smell, and he needed a new look to stay under the cops’ radar.
He knew where a mall used to be, and after a long walk he found it was still there. Things had changed, no more Chess King, but he remembered the Gap. It was there that he sought out his new wardrobe: a brown plaid long-sleeved shirt, chinos, white Converse All Star low-tops, socks, white briefs, a reversible belt, and a lightweight brown zippered jacket. After his purchase, he went to the mall bathroom to change and dispose of his old clothes.
At Sears he found two more ice picks and boot laces. As was his practice in prison, he always discarded a shiv once he used it. That was a big factor in not getting caught in prison. Even if you were present when someone got killed it did not necessarily implicate you. In prison, you are almost never alone with just one other person, so killings always happen with people nearby. Prisoners who witnessed a killing would never divulge this to the authorities. Those that did usually ended up dead no matter how the guards tried to protect them.
Even as Danny was back in the mall bathroom rigging up the two ice picks in his sleeves, he told himself that he would have to cut back on the stabbings. A witness who was not a prisoner would be sure to tell the authorities.
Killing Rude Man was unnecessary. He knew it was reactionary on his part, like a reflex left over from prison.
He did not want to kill Mary, but she refused to tell him who cleaned the house and picked up the phone to call the police when Danny got angry. It was just as well, though, because the contents of her strongbox were useful. First, the check for the cleaner, Martinez, with his phone number. Second, there was a thousand dollars in mixed bills, which was in the same envelope with the check. The cash was useful on its own, but it was interesting that all of it was old bills—more than fifteen years old. Was this part of the five million? Since it was in the same envelope with the check, it could have been from the cleaner.
Dexter was asking for it, and had it coming. Did he really think that much of himself, that he could talk Danny into turning himself in?
Danny knew if he continued to ice pick people, the chances of getting caught sooner rather than later would increase. He was renting room 404 two more days, and he reasoned that as long as nobody went in he had at least that much time before the reporter’s body was found and he should get out of town. Forty-eight hours to find the cleaner—me—or whoever took the money, and get the five million. He hoped that I had his money. When I moved the couch to clean, Danny figured, one of the floorboards popped up and I discovered it. Otherwise, it got complicated, and he might not find the five million at all.
Danny walked from the mall and found a small park where he could study his and Dexter’s phones to try to make sense of what happened earlier when he tried to use them.
He had my phone number—but not a way to find me. Until he managed to check Dexter’s messages, and heard the one I had left.
“Dexter, Morty returning your call. I’ll see you at the Vanderhoosen house at noon.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
IT WAS THE UPS DELIVERYMAN who detected something was wrong at 901 East 109th Street. He knocked on the screen door with one hand, his other hand holding the plain brown package containing pornography. He heard something inside, he did not know what, and put his hands and face up against the screen to see inside.
“Hello?”
He heard the sound again, a squealing or squeaking sound. The deliveryman grew up in a rough section of the Bronx, and the sound was familiar.
Rats fighting? Then he saw a rat scuttle across the hallway.
“Hello?” The screen door was locked. He detected the faint smell of decay, and he looked at the houses to either side. An older woman in a flower-print housedress next door was watering her flowerpots on her stoop.
“Excuse me . . .”
She squinted at the deliveryman.
“Do you know the man who lives here? Have you seen him recently?”
She smiled. “He’s an asshole. The less I see of him the better. Enjoy your day.” She went inside.
The deliveryman was undecided about what he should do. Rats don’t necessarily mean anything is wrong. The guy could have a rat problem and left his screen door open when he went out of the house to get the paper. No wonder he had a rat problem: You could smell the garbage was spoiling.
He posted one of those annoying yellow delivery stickers to the screen door and walked slowly down to his brown van. Calling 911 seemed overkill. He would have to come back the next day with the package. If the situation were the same, then he would call the police.
Twenty minutes later he was at a light on the boulevard two blocks away when a cop car pulled up next to him.
“Excuse me, officer?”
Ten minutes later two police officers forced open the screen door at 901 East 109th Street and found a pile of rats feasting on Rude Man’s chest cavity. One officer barfed on the spot; the other made it outside before he puked.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
THE FORENSIC PEOPLE AT THE Luna Motel, room 404, were as overwhelmed as they were at Upscale Realty. When they turned out the lights and turned on the black lights, there were thousands of semen stains covering virtually all the surfaces of the room. All were tagged, and then they turned on the lights and began tediously sampling and documenting each one.
Detectives Ruez and Pool were there, wearing their shoe covers and staring thoughtfully down at the blood drag across the carpet into the bathroom.
Feelers Page 15