Beigler knew Paradise City far better than Terrell did and Terrell knew it.
He had only to ask Beigler any question about the City and Beigler never failed to come up with an accurate answer.
“The Fifty Club? Super snob.., handpicked members. The entrance fee is around $15,000 and the sub twice that. If you get elected, you can consider yourself one of the top snobs of the City, but you have to play bridge at professional standards.”
“McCuen, Riddle and Mrs. Browler were members . . . could mean something . . . could mean nothing. We’ll have to talk to someone at the club. The motive could just possibly be there. Another thing that interests me is the killer is familiar with the way the victims lived. He knew Mrs. Browler left her hotel at 9.45. He knew McCuen always left his house at three minutes after nine and he knew Lisa Mendoza would be at the bungalow on a Friday night. This makes a pattern. This man is local.”
Beigler nodded.
“So we start looking for a man who has this inside information. Maybe a servant at the Club. I’ll get men onto these people who Riddle mentioned before he knocked himself off.”
Terrell reached for his pipe.
“Do you think he could be coloured, Joe?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but Anders seemed to think so.”
The telephone bell rang. Terrell scooped up the receiver, listened, grunted, said, “Okay . . . thanks . . . yes, get the report over to me,” and he hung up. “That was Melville. They’ve checked out the rifle. It killed McCuen and Mrs. Browler, but of course there are no prints. Danvaz has identified it. That doesn’t get us far.”
“Except this bastard now hasn’t a rifle,” Beigler pointed out. “That won’t stop him stealing another, will it?” Terrell said and set fire to his pipe.
***
If there was one thing Lepski hated among a lot of things he hated it was interviewing people and writing reports. He thought anyone who offered themselves voluntarily to be questioned should be in a home for the mental retarded. But he accepted the fact that this was police work. When he could avoid it, he avoided it, but when he was stuck with it as he was now stuck with it, he handled the situation and somehow managed to restrain his temper. He was now looking with despair at the ever lengthening line of people, eagerly waiting to be questioned.
Max Jacoby was at the next desk. He had just got through coping with a voluble old man who had seen Mrs. Dunc Browler die. All the old man could talk about was the artificial fruit on her hat. He was trying to convince Jacoby that the killer had been hostile to the fruit on her hat. Jacoby finally got rid of him as Lepski finally got rid of an old lady who was explaining to him that Mrs. Dune Browler’s lovely dog had seen the killer and shouldn’t the police do something about it?
The two men looked at each other.
“How’s life?” Jacoby asked with a tired grin.
Very aware he was Jacoby’s senior, Lepski glowered at him. “This is police work,” he said. “You have to dig deep to find water.”
Jacoby shook his head in mock wonderment.
“Is that what we’re looking for?”
A fat, elderly, shabbily dressed man sat down with a thud before Jacoby’s desk and with a suppressed groan Jacoby reached for another pad of paper.
“Yes, sir? Your name and address?”
Morons! Lepski thought. Three goddamn hours and nothing! Stupid hunk-heads having the afternoon off! He spiked his last report and as he reached for a cigarette, a cloud of perfume drifted over him. Looking up, he found a girl had slid into the chair opposite his desk and was looking at him, wide eyed and concerned.
“You look hot and tired, you poor dear,” she said.
Lepski’s loins quivered. This was the kind of doll you saw only in the pages of Playboy. A dolly bird who could resurrect a male corpse: a gorgeously built blonde with large violet coloured eyes and eyelashes that would shame a cow. Her mammary equipment made Lepski’s breath hiss between his teeth. He became aware that Jacoby, the fat, elderly man, four detectives, borrowed from Miami police headquarters and three patrolmen who were keeping the line of waiting witnesses in order, were all gaping at the girl.
Lepski glared around the room and the rest of his colleagues reluctantly got back to work.
“Yes?” he barked in his cop voice. It was a voice that usually had a devastating impact on most people but it made no impression on this girl.
She lifted one heavy breast to settle it more comfortably in its bra cradle, touched a straying curl in her silky blonde hair and repeated, “You look hot and tired.”
Lepski made a small noise like a fly trapped in an envelope.
The fat, elderly man who had a face like a Dutch cheese leaned forward and breathed garlic fumes into Lepski’s face. “Excuse me, mister,” he said, beaming, “the little lady’s right . . . that’s what you look . . . hot and tired.”
Lepski crumpled a sheet of paper.
“Will you take care of your witness?” he snarled at Jacoby. The venom in his voice made the fat, elderly man wilt. Then Lepski turned his attention to the girl.
“You want to say something?”
The girl was regarding him with admiring eyes.
“Gee! I heard tales about the cops here, but I didn’t know they could be anything like you . . . honest.”
Lepski put his tie straight.
“Look, miss, we’re busy here,” he said in a softer tone. Her genuine admiration had made an impact. “Just what is it?”
“The girls told me I should come.”
Lepski sighed and reached for a fresh sheet of paper.
“Name and address, please?”
“I’m Mandy Lucas. I work and live at the club.”
“What club?”
“You know . . . the Pelota Club.”
“You live there?”
She wrinkled her pretty nose.
“I have a room there . . . you can’t call it living.”
“You have information, Miss Lucas?”
“Well, the girls said I should come, but I don’t know . . . it’s a bit smelly in here, isn’t it? All these people . . . but meeting you! Gee! When I tell the girls about you, they’ll have off their pants!”
Lepski’s eyes bulged. He glanced at Jacoby who was listening, his eyes also bulging and then at the fat, elderly man who was goggling.
Recalling that he was 1st Grade now, Lepski leaned forward and screwed his face into his cop scowl.
“Look, Miss Lucas, what have you to tell me?”
The girl, arranged her other breast more comfortably as she said, “Call me Mandy . . . none of my real friends ever call me Miss Lucas.”
“Okay, Mandy . . .” Lepski crossed his leg, shifted a ball pen from right to left with some violence and from somewhere inside him came a noise like a fall of stones. “Now tell me why you’re here.”
“You really want to know? I told the girls I’d be just wasting your time . . .honest.” Her long eyelashes fluttered. “I know how you boys here must be working like stinko. But the girls . . . well, they said . . .”
“Yeah.” Lepski was getting concerned about his blood pressure. “It’s my job. Never mind about wasting my goddamn . . . I mean my time . . . just tell me.”
“Gee! It’s hot in here!” She stood up, wriggled, lifted her mini skirt slightly away from her body, then sat down. “Are you a married man, Mr. Detective?”
“I’m married,” Lepski said in a resigned voice.
She leaned forward and whispered confidentially, “Then you’ll understand. These goddamn disposable panties are hell.”
Lepski’s eyes nearly fell out of their sockets.
“Does your wife ever complain?” the girl asked.
In a strangled voice, Lepski said, “Mandy! Will you tell me why you’re here!”
“Oh, gee! I’m sorry. You mustn’t mind me. I’m scatty. You really want to know . . . no kidding?”
“Just go right ahead,” Lepski said in a voice that would have su
rprised a Mina bird.
“Well, I saw this guy. He really was a sexy thing.” She leaned forward and the front of her dress sagged so Lepski caught a glimpse of her nipples. “I don’t dig for darkies. I don’t want you to imagine I have anything against non-whites. You understand? But usually I don’t dig for them. But there are times . . . I mean a man is a man and this man was a real doll!”
Lepski made a noise like a disturbed beehive.
“Just when did you see this man, Mandy?”
“Right after this horrible shooting. It woke me up . . . the shooting, I mean. I heard all this yelling.” She hitched up her bra strap. “When I wake up, I’m practically dead. Do you wake up like that? You know . . . dead . . . eyes gummy . . . head reeling?”
Lepski’s fingers turned into hooks.
“You saw this man in the parking lot?”
“Well, there were people jumping around . . . you know something?”
“Keep going.”
“Well, these people reminded me of those Mexican beans, you know . . .the things that jump around . . . kids like them.”
Lepski made a noise like a circular saw hitting a knot of wood.
Mandy stared at him.
“When you make a noise like that, my mother told me you should say ‘pardon’.”
Lepski looked down at his blotter, held onto himself then after a pause, he said, “So okay, the people were jumping around like Mexican beans. What happened then?”
“This poor cop . . . I mean police officer . . . lying there. It turned me right over. Imagine! My eyes nearly fell out! Then I saw this doll get out of the car!”
Lepski leaned back in his chair. He hummed a few bars of the National Anthem under his breath to try to calm himself. “You saw a man get out of a parked car in the parking lot?”
Her eyes opened wide.
“I said that, didn’t I? Or did I say something else? Honest, I sometimes don’t know what I do say.” She lifted herself off her chair, made adjusting movements to her skirt, watched with interest by everyone in the room, and sat down again. “I don’t suppose you ever get that way. I mean saying something and forgetting right after what you’ve said. You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing like that, would you?”
Lepski loosened his tie.
“No.”
“Well, I do. It makes my life miserable.”
“You were saying: you saw a man get out of a car parked in the parking lot. Is this what you have to tell me?”
“That’s what the girls told me I must tell you.” She suppressed a nervous giggle. “Honest, I’m sorry. I just knew I would be wasting your time, but the girls . . .”
“No one wastes my time. I’m here to receive information,” Lepski said. He wrote fast on a sheet of paper, then shoved the paper over to the girl. “This says you saw a coloured man get out of a car in the parking lot where Police Officer McNeil was shot. Right?”
She peered shortsightedly at what he had written, then she nodded.
“I guess that’s right, but shouldn’t you say that it’s my car and the battery’s flat and I haven’t used it in weeks?”
Sweat broke out on Lepski’s face. He realised because he was so bored with the people who were offering him worthless information he had been on the verge of missing an important clue.
“Would you say that again?”
Mandy repeated what she had said.
“That’s why the girls told me to come down here, but I said you’d think I was crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Lepski said. “Just tell me exactly what you saw.”
Her eyes opened wide.
“But I’ve already told you.”
“I want to hear it all over again.”
“My goodness! Do you think it’s important?”
“It could be,” Lepski said, mopping his face with his handkerchief. “It could be.”
***
Two hours later, Chief of Police Terrell arrived at Mayor Hedley’s office.
Hedley looking white and strained had just come off the telephone. For the past three hours he had been coping with nonstop and hysterical demands from his rich friends for police protection. Their selfish insistence for personal protection had infuriated him and when he saw Terrell he drew in a breath of relief.
“Goddamn it! Do you realise a lot of people are actually leaving the City . . . like refugees!”
“Should we care about them?” Terrell asked as he sat down. “This is a hell of a thing! What do you mean . . . of course we’ve got to care!”
“We’ve got our first break.”
Hedley stared at him, then leaned forward eagerly.
“Break? What break?”
“We now have a description of the killer. I told you sooner or later if we kept digging something would turn up, but I didn’t expect we’d get this break so fast.”
“Well, for God’s sake! Tell me!”
“The Pelota Club employs six girls as hostesses,” Terrell said, settling himself more comfortably in his chair. “They have rooms on the top floor of the club: rooms that overlook the car park where McNeil was gunned down. One of these girls . . . Mandy Lucas . . . owns a Ford car which she hasn’t used in weeks and it’s left in this parking lot. The noise of the shooting woke her. Looking out of her window she saw the crowd milling around McNeil’s body, then she claims to have seen a man getting out of her car and join the crowd. We now have the car in the police yard. Under the rear seat we’ve found the gun that killed McNeil. This man, Mandy saw, must have hidden in the car to avoid Anders, then when Anders went on and a crowd began to swarm around McNeil’s body, this man hid his gun under the rear seat, left the car and mingled with the crowd. He’s a man with a lot of nerve, but what he didn’t allow for was someone like Mandy Lucas being at a window to see him.”
“Well, for God’s sake!” Hedley sat back. “This woman give you a description?”
“Yes. She’s pretty dumb but she claims she would know him anywhere. A claim like that is always doubtful. Too often we’ve had witnesses who swear they can pick out a man but fail when we set up a parade. But she says the man is an Indian and that jells with Anders’ impression. According to her, he is around twenty-five years of age, thick black hair, well-built and an Indian. She stresses this . . . he isn’t a negro, but an Indian and he was wearing a yellow and white flowered pattern shirt and dark blue hipsters.”
Hedley slapped his hand down on his desk.
“This is really something at last! Did you get his prints from the gun?”
“No. He knows what he is doing. He doesn’t leave prints.”
“Have you given the description to the press?”
“No.” Terrell regarded Hedley. “We’ll have to, of course, but I thought I’d better talk to you first. I don’t have to remind you we have over a hundred Seminole Indians working in various jobs in this City. The bulk of them are young: most of them wear flowered pattern shirts and hipsters . . . it’s a uniform. To most people an Indian looks like any other Indian. This description helps us, but it could cause trouble.”
“Yes.” Hedley thought, frowning. “I see what you’re getting at, but we have no alternative, Frank. You and this office are being criticised for not coming up with anything. I’ll call a press conference right away. This is news we can’t sit on.”
Terrell nodded.
“My men are out already, concentrating on the Indian district. This man is local. I’m sure of that.” He got to his feet. “I wish the girl had said he was a white man.”
Well, at least we have something,” Hedley said and reached for his telephone.
As Terrell left, he heard Hedley calling for his Press officer.
***
Meg lay on the bed and watched the blue-bottle fly walk across the ceiling. Her watch told her it was around midday. It could be later. Her watch usually lost ten minutes in the hour and if she didn’t remember to push it on, after a while, its hands didn’t make sense, but sh
e didn’t care.
She was not only bored, but worried.
Chuck had gone out while she had been sleeping and now there was still no sign of him. She couldn’t be bothered to get off the bed to get herself a cup of coffee. She wanted a cup of coffee, but the effort involved was too much for her. It was so much easier to lie there watching the fly than to do anything else.
After a while, the fly flew away and she envied it. That’s what she would like to be able to do: fly away. It must be marvellous, she thought, just to take off, to have no thoughts, to drop on a bit of meat for food, then to fly away again . . . lucky fly!
She shut her eyes and slid into a doze. That was one thing she could do without effort. That was the only thing she was any good at, she thought.
She woke to find the fly back on the ceiling. She felt uncomfortably hot and sticky. Languidly, she looked at her watch. The time according to the watch was 14.35. It couldn’t be as late as that, she thought, watching the fly as it walked around the ceiling. Marvellous to be able to do that, she thought. I’d like to do it . . . just walk around on the ceiling, upside down.
Then sudden cold fear gripped her. Where was Chuck? She sat up and threw off the sheet. He had been gone for hours! Had he walked out on her?
With a flurry, she was off the bed and to the window and opened it. She peered out, looking across at the hut that served as the Motel’s office. She caught sight of Mrs. Bertha Harris moving about. There were no cars in the parking lot. Where was Chuck? Again she looked at her watch. It couldn’t be so late! She held the watch to her ear. The damn thing had stopped! It could be even later! In panic, she scrambled into her stretch pants, dragged a dirty sweater over her head, thrust her feet into sandals and started for the door.
As she passed the small wall mirror, she caught sight of herself and she paused.
God! She looked a mess!
1971 - Want to Stay Alive Page 8