So Nude, So Dead

by Ed McBain

  And finally, he was hanging limply over the bowl, sweat mingled with the tears on his face. He pushed himself upright, his hand fumbling for the flush handle. The sound of the water roared in his ears as he staggered toward the small sink. He turned on the cold water, doused his face. He felt a little better. He stood upright, straightened his tie, let out an exhausted sigh. His eyes met their own reflection in the mirror. He stared at them, oblivious to the rest of his features. They were bright, almost feverish, a deep gray against the pallor of his face. Addict’s eyes. Ray Stone, hophead.

  Shut up, he screamed mentally, shut up, shut up! He was still breathing heavily. He swallowed deeply, trying to compose himself before he went out to meet the sober brown eyes of the storekeeper. At last he felt calm enough, and he stepped out of the tiny room, closing the door gently behind him. He walked to the counter, climbed up on a stool. He looked up at the storekeeper, wondering if he knew an addict was sitting on one of his stools.

  “A glass of seltzer,” he said. His eye caught the newspapers stacked on the counter. Quickly, he snatched one from the top of the pile, looked at his picture, and hastily turned to page three for the story.

  The storekeeper set the glass of seltzer in front of Ray, a wet smear trailing behind it.

  “Big head, eh?” he asked.

  “Huh? Oh. Oh yes.”

  “I always stay away from it myself during the day.” Ray nodded. There was a picture of Eileen Chalmers on the third page, a picture taken when she was still alive. She was smiling happily, standing next to a thin man who grinned self-consciously at the photographers. The text under the picture read: Eileen Chalmers, lovely victim of West Side hotel slaying, about to embark on honeymoon with her bandleader husband, Dale Kramer, just after their marriage last April.

  “You young fellows,” the storekeeper said. “Cast-iron stomachs, that’s what you’ve got. It catches up with you, though. Got to be careful.”

  Ray nodded again, his eyes scanning the story. Police are hunting the city for Raymond Stone, believed to be a drug addict…last seen with the dead girl…Hotel Stockmere…clerk described Stone as being tall, well-built, with blond hair…believed by police that Stone will be apprehended shortly…need for drug will lead him to seek contacts for securing…

  “Hey, you ain’t touched your seltzer,” the storekeeper said.

  “What?” He looked up into the inquiring brown eyes. “The seltzer, yes, thank you.” He lifted the glass, sipped a little of it, his eyes running down to where he’d left off on the page.

  …contacts for securing…They had it sewed up tight! Albert Stone, father of the suspect, expressed the desire that his son be captured…help him, he believed…cure him…

  Futility flooded over Ray, a hopeless wash of futility that left him weak. He felt tears behind his eyes, quickly ducked his head to read the rest of the story.

  Dale Kramer, currently appearing at the Trade Winds, made no comment on the brutal shooting of his wife…Miss Chalmers was twenty-two years old, a singer with—

  Rapidly, he closed the newspaper, stared at his picture on the front page. He realized the man behind the counter was staring at the picture, too. He folded the paper, tucked it under his arm.

  “How much?”

  The storekeeper eyed him quizzically, his eyes narrowing. “Two cents for the seltzer, five for the paper.” He grinned. “Should really charge you for use of the can.”

  Ray didn’t smile back. Stacked on the counter, facing the storekeeper, was the pile of newspapers. Quickly, Ray dug into his pocket, put down a nickel and two pennies. He was beginning to tremble again. At first he thought it was fear, the fear of having his picture splashed across the front page, and the fear of those little brown eyes across the counter studying his face. But he recognized it for what it really was almost instantly.

  He still needed a shot.

  He started walking out of the candy store, and the storekeeper walked down to the end of the counter, standing just in front of the stacked newspapers now.

  Run! something screamed inside Ray’s head. Run, run!

  He reached the sidewalk, afraid to look back, afraid to show his face to those scrutinizing eyes behind their magnifying lenses again. He turned to his left, started walking to the corner.

  “Hey!” the storekeeper’s voice came to him. “Hey! Hey, you, stop!”

  The voice exploded inside his head, sending skyrockets of warning to every nerve in his body. He started running instantly, dropping the newspaper, turning at the corner and barreling up the street. Behind him he heard the storekeeper shouting, “Stop that man! That’s the addict!”

  Addict, addict, addict. His feet pounded against the pavement, his eyes searching the street for a cab. Addict. They’d labeled him, tagged him, tied him up with a pretty yellow ribbon. They’d tagged him, all right, every single one of them.

  They’d all be looking for the dope fiend, the man who put two slugs into a pretty blonde’s belly. Except he wasn’t that man. And except one other thing. It wasn’t they who had tagged him; he’d tagged himself. He’d tagged himself the moment he hopped on the merry-go-round.

  A yellow cab loomed large alongside the curb. He yanked open the door, piled into the back seat. “Uptown,” he said, still panting. “Just drive.” The cabbie flicked down his flag, threw the vehicle into gear and stepped on the gas. Ray lurched back against the leather seat, his thoughts running wildly through his mind.

  First he needed a shot. He had to get that shot first, then everything else would take care of itself. But how? Good God, how was he going to get a shot? The police knew he was an addict. They’d be watching all the pushers, Louie included. Maybe he could sneak past them, get to Louie somehow.

  The eleven dollars in his pocket seemed to grow, expand, seemed ready to burst out of his trousers. Eleven bucks, and no way to get a fix. Eleven bucks, his mind tormented him, two decks’ worth, two sweet beautiful decks of horse, eleven dollars sweating in his pocket, and the monkey scratching away at his back, getting heavier now, getting real heavy, getting too heavy for a man to carry. How much could he take? How long would it be before he was sick again?

  The buildings outside flashed by in gray-brown blurs, and he thought of the city, of the immensity of it, of a fourteen-year-old kid fumbling with the intricate fingering of “Rhapsody in Blue,” a kid named Ray Stone.

  “Doesn’t Raymond play beautifully?” his mother used to say. He could still remember her, a tall blonde woman, regal in her stature. Her friends spoke quietly and distinctly and balanced teacups and cake plates on their knees.

  And in contrast, he could remember the simple comforts his father desired, the uncomplicated structure of a family life without the pomp and ceremony of countless friends at countless afternoon teas or cocktail parties or late-morning brunches.

  His mother liked people, liked to be surrounded with them. His father did not. It was as simple as all that and, conversely, as complicated as all that. It added up to what the marriage counselors called incompatibility. He supposed the eventual breakup was evident even when he was younger than fourteen. He did not become fully aware of the constant friction until then, though, and he marveled that the marriage actually lasted another two years.

  They separated when Ray was sixteen. His mother went to Reno for the divorce, the way other people in her circle of friends had done. Ray spent six months out of every year with his mother and six months with his father. He fully understood what had happened, but understanding in no way lessened the burden of grief he carried.

  He attacked the piano with a new determination. He would really play, would really learn to play. And when his mother said, “Doesn’t Raymond play beautifully?” it irritated the hell out of him because he wasn’t playing to satisfy her but to satisfy a new need within him. And when his father said, “Your piano’s really coming along, son,” it irritated him as much because he knew he was coming along well, but he felt he wasn’t coming along fast enough. The ci
ty in those days became a warm romantic place to him. Somehow, he had been denied love in a loveless marriage, and he sought it everywhere around him, and found it hidden in the corners of the city. He had spun the city’s melody on his keyboard, felt its bigness in his fingers and his heart.

  And then people began noticing when Ray Stone played, just like the corny bits in Hollywood musical comedies, where the janitor stops sweeping to listen when the new star performs, just like that, except that the men who were listening weren’t sweepers. They were musicians, and good musicians, and they recognized promise in Ray’s talent—not achievement, because achievement was not yet there. He had been booked for jobs from the time he was eighteen. He had played every conceivable job offered. He had scooped them all up like a squirrel busily gathering nuts against the coming winter. He wanted his talent to grow, and he wanted experience, and so he accepted them all—the Irish weddings and the Italian weddings and the Jewish weddings, the club dates where there were big dance floors, or little dance floors, or no dance floors, the bar dates where he played piano for drunks, and the jobs outdoors on park malls; and once he borrowed an accordion and played in a marching band, anything and everything to keep his talent growing. He had met Jeannie on a job, and he had also met narcotics on a job, and that was when the promise had withered and died.

  He had once loved the city because the city was warm, and the city had helped him nurture his talent. But now the city was a place in which to hide, a place in which to plot, a place in which to seek out a pusher. Twelve years, that was all. So much had happened to the kid with the dreaming fingers. He was twenty-six now, and his talent, his promise, what had happened to—

  “Any place in particular, Mac?” the cabbie asked.

  Ray looked up and glanced through the window, trying to get his bearings. “On the corner,” he said. “That’ll be fine.”

  The cab ground to a stop and Ray opened the door. He gave the cabbie a dollar, told him to keep the change, leaving himself ten dollars and a little more, just enough for the two decks.

  Yes, he would have to get past the police, find Louie somehow. Another call should do the trick. What was Louie’s number again? He probed his memory. If only he could think straight, if only everything weren’t jumping up and down inside him. He started to think of the syringe, of the sting of the needle in his arm, the spreading warmth, the numbing sensation. He began to sweat. Yes, yes, he’d have to get that shot soon or go crazy, go babbling down the street like a madman.

  His picture in the paper. He’d have to do something about that. Blond hair was a dead giveaway—thank you, Mother, for your powerful genes. His eye caught a big shoe swinging in the breeze over a shop. Across the side of the shoe, in red letters, was the word “Repairs.” He walked to the glass-paneled door and opened it. A heavy man with a handlebar mustache looked up as Ray closed the door behind him.

  “I want some black shoe polish,” Ray said. “The liquid stuff. In a bottle, you know.”

  The shoemaker got him what he wanted without a word. Ray paid him and left.

  * * *

  On West Sixty-third Street he found a small hotel, registered under the name of Ralph Surrey, and then went to work on his hair. He thought fleetingly of the two bucks the room was costing him, two bucks that took a sizable chunk out of the second deck he’d planned for. Maybe one deck would hold him until tomorrow, though. Then he could hock his links and maybe even his jacket. As always, when he thought of the drug, an excitement shivered up his spine. He tried to hold his hands steady as he stood over the sink in the bathroom and poured the black liquid into the bowl. As the liquid rose against the white porcelain, he reached down for the stopper, making sure it was in tight. He dipped both hands into the thick polish then and began, working it into his hair.

  It was sloppy going, but he was getting results. He looked at the strange face in the mirror, marveling at what a change the color of hair can make. Carefully, with all the patience of a beautician, he dug down deep, close to his scalp, making sure each blond strand was now black.

  Finally, he surveyed himself in the mirror, pleased with his handiwork, convinced that he looked different. He pulled out the stopper and let the remainder of the polish flow down the drain. Then he rinsed out the sink and washed his hands. He wet the end of a towel and carefully rubbed at the few streaks of black that had dripped down onto his forehead and cheekbones. He noticed his eyebrows, naked blond against the phony of his hair, and a new panic seized him.

  He wanted to cry. He felt the way he had when he was a kid and he’d spent hours building a sand castle only to have a bigger kid knock it down. He stared at the eyebrows, and a complete hopelessness flooded his mind. For several moments, the problem seemed insurmountable. His eyes looked down at the sparkling whiteness of the sink. He swallowed heavily, looked at his own sad reflection in the mirror.

  The need for immediate action sparked suddenly within him. He ran his fingers through his drying hair, pulled them away black. Quickly, he daubed at his eyebrows, spreading the smears of polish into the sparse hair. Again, his fingers went to his hair and back to his eyebrows, away, back, away, back. And at last he breathed deeply, his brows as black as the hair on his head. He wet the edge of the towel and wiped the excess polish off his forehead. He wondered what the clerk would think when he walked out.

  Was he going to walk out? What was the next move?

  An unreasoning anger took hold of him, and his mouth set in outraged righteousness. What the hell! He hadn’t shot the girl. He hadn’t killed her. But he was an addict, that was it. Give the police a juicy addict to play with and they’d blame him for every nickel ever stolen from a blind man’s cup. Well this was one goddam addict they weren’t going to decorate with the Purple Shaft. Some lousy bastard had put two slugs in Eileen Chalmers’s stomach, and that same lousy bastard was keeping him away from Louie and the H he needed so desperately.

  The answer seemed logical and simple to him: find that bastard. Find him, and the pressure would be off. The cops would have a new sucker to toy with. And then Ray Stone could contact Louie or any other damned pusher in the city.

  He rolled down his sleeves, fastened his cuff links.

  All right, he’d find the murderer.

  He almost laughed out loud at this. Sherlock Stone Holmes, hophead. How does a hophead go about finding a murderer in a city like New York? In fact, how does anybody find anybody in New York? He grinned at his own predicament, realizing it wasn’t at all funny.

  And the old thought came back, the bittersweet thought, the thought that quickened his blood and tightened his muscles: how could he get another shot? And soon?

  He put this out of his mind, convinced he could get all the heroin he needed if he could clear himself. He had to shake the monkey, and to do that he had to shake the cops. He remembered the newspaper clipping and the picture of Eileen with her husband. Dale Kramer, a name familiar to Ray. Kramer had once fronted a society outfit, sweet music with a boop-boop-be-doop beat. Strictly crow material, with muted horns and groaning saxes. He’d traded this in for a new combo when bop came into fashion, and had managed to keep up with the better bands, pulling in the kids all over the country on his personal-appearance tours.

  If Ray had some questions to ask, Dale Kramer would be a good place to start.

  Ray put on his jacket, locked his room, and buzzed for the elevator. When the car stopped at his floor, the elevator boy didn’t seem to notice the changed color of his hair. The elevator stopped, and Ray walked across the lobby, avoiding the desk and heading straight for a phone booth.

  He looked up the number of the Trade Winds, then rapidly dialed it. It was too early for Kramer to be at the club, but perhaps he could get his home number. At any rate, it wouldn’t hurt to—

  “Trade Winds, good afternoon.”

  “Hello—ah—I wonder if you could give me some information?”

  “What kind of information, sir?”

  Ray hesitated. In the
background, he heard a trumpet reaching for a high note. He listened as saxes joined the blaring brass. Then the entire ensemble came to an abrupt stop.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes,” Ray said. “I’m still here.”

  “What kind of information did you wish, sir?”

  The band started again, in the middle of a number, and the trumpet hit the upper register, with the saxes joining in again. This time they kept playing.

  “I was wondering if you could let me have Dale Kramer’s home number?”

  There was a discreet cough on the other end of the wire.

  “I’m sorry, sir. We’re not allowed—”

  “That’s all right. Thanks.”

  He replaced the phone on its hook. That had been a rehearsal, all right. He’d been to enough of them to know what they sounded like. That meant that Dale Kramer was now at the Trade Winds. Ray nodded, and stepped out of the booth.

  A pain sliced into his stomach, ripped across his gut. God, oh God, holy mother of— He gripped the door of the booth, held tightly, while the wave of pain looped over and then subsided. The hell with Kramer, the hell with Eileen, the hell with everybody. He had to get a shot. He’d die; he’d drop dead right here on the floor if he didn’t get one.

  You can’t get one, his mind mocked. The cops are looking for you, you stupid bastard.

  He shook his head, wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  Outside, he hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to the Trade Winds.

  * * *

  The sounds came to him as he stood at the bar, the old familiar rehearsal sounds. They came from behind a closed door at the other end of the room, and a bouncer sat in front of that door, his heavy legs straddling a chair. Ray downed his drink hastily, put his trembling hands into his pockets, and walked across the room.