So Nude, So Dead

by Ed McBain

  Ray lit the cigarette, blowing out smoke. “What?” he asked.

  “That ‘accused’ routine. You playing the hurt, innocent child. That’s very funny.”

  “Somehow it doesn’t quite gas me,” Ray said.

  “Come down,” Kramer snarled, his lip twisting back over his teeth. “I know you killed Eileen, and you’re not fooling anyone with your song and dance.”

  “You’re really brilliant, you know?” Ray said. “You’re following the line of reasoning every stupid bastard in the city is following. That’s very smart.”

  “I think so.”

  “Sure. Did you ever stop to wonder why I’d want to kill your wife? Did that ever enter your empty head?”

  “Hopheads don’t need reasons,” Kramer said flatly.

  “Ahhh, the secret word. Hophead.” Ray’s features twisted into a grimace. “That explains everything, doesn’t it?”

  “I know junkies, Stone. My wife was one, remember? I know how utterly irresponsible they can be.”

  “Is that why you tossed her off the band?”

  “I did nothing of the kind,” Kramer flared. “She left of her own accord.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “You already said that.”

  “I’m saying it again. And I’ll keep right on saying it.”

  Ray stepped closer to Kramer. In a conversational tone, he asked, “How would you like to lose a few teeth?”

  Kramer snorted. “You don’t scare me, Stone. You’d have to kill me. If you left me alive, I’d call the police the minute you stepped outside that door.”

  “I might leave you in no condition to call the police.”

  “You’re tough, all right,” Kramer said. “It takes a lot of guts to kill a woman!”

  Ray lashed out open-handed, his palm catching Kramer on the side of his face. Kramer’s head rocked back, and he stared at Ray sullenly.

  “Don’t say that again,” Ray warned. “Don’t say it ever again.”

  “Tough guy,” Kramer muttered.

  “Why’d she leave the band?”

  Kramer didn’t answer. He kept staring at Ray.

  “Was it because of Rusty?”

  “What? How—”

  “I met the dragon lady,” Ray said. “Is she the reason Eileen took a fast powder?”

  “Rusty had nothing to do with it,” Kramer said evenly.

  “Then maybe you’d better tell me just what did have something to do with it.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you. The cops’ll pick you up eventually, Stone. You can’t hope to hide from the entire city.”

  “I don’t expect to. But when they get me, I’m going to have a lot to tell them. And when they start questioning my motives, it’s not going to look so hot for you.”

  Kramer turned away, in exasperation. “Just what the hell are you talking about?”

  “The baby.”

  “I told you Rusty had nothing to—”

  “I’m not talking about your baby doll, Kramer. I’m talking about Eileen’s baby. The baby she was carrying.”

  Kramer’s face seemed to crumble. His eyebrows climbed onto his forehead, and his eyes seemed to glaze over. “Wh—what?” he stammered.

  “Didn’t you know?” Ray asked. “Your wife was three months pregnant.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “She was pregnant, Kramer.”

  Kramer lunged across the room, his hands reaching for Ray’s throat. Ray sidestepped quickly, shoved Kramer past him. Kramer turned, his teeth bared, his eyes blazing hatred.

  “You’re a liar!” he bellowed.

  His fingers found Ray’s throat, strong pianist’s fingers that tightened around the Adam’s apple.

  “Let go!” Ray gasped.

  “Take it back,” Kramer shouted, strength pouring through his arms with maniacal intensity. “You lousy hophead, take it—”

  Ray’s hands flew up inside Kramer’s extended arms. He brought them apart suddenly, his knuckles crashing against Kramer’s wrists, breaking the lock on his throat. He bunched the fist of his left hand, brought it down in a hard chopping motion that caught Kramer on the side of his neck. Kramer clutched at Ray’s jacket, and Ray slammed his right fist into the bandleader’s gut. Kramer dropped to the rug.

  “Liar,” he muttered. “Dirty, hopped-up liar. Lousy son-of-a-bitch liar.”

  “You can check with a Dr. Leo Simms,” Ray said. “You’ll find him in the phone book.”

  “You’re lying,” Kramer said. This time his voice didn’t carry as much conviction.

  “Call the doctor, go ahead. I’m telling the truth, Kramer.”

  Kramer stared at Ray for a long time, as if trying to digest what he’d just said. He began to nod his head slowly then, up and down.

  “I should have known,” he mumbled. “I should have known from the beginning.”

  “What?” Ray asked.

  “That fat, filthy bastard,” Kramer said vehemently. “That’s why she wanted to leave the band. So she could be near him all the time. That’s why. I should have known.”

  “Who the hell are you talking about?”

  “Lewis, that’s who. Scat Lewis.” Kramer got to his feet rapidly, moved up close to Ray. “He did it, Stone. That lousy bastard did it.”

  “You’re dreaming,” Ray said.

  “It was Lewis,” Kramer shouted. He clutched Ray’s chest. “Go after him, Stone. Go after him and kill the bastard. He’s the one who shot her. He got her in trouble and then killed her. You’ve got to get him, Stone.”

  Ray moved away from Kramer. “I thought you said I killed her.”

  “No, no,” Kramer said hastily. “It was Lewis.” He shook his head. “Can you picture that fat bastard touching Eileen? With those fat fingers? That fat, greasy—”

  “I can’t picture it,” Ray said flatly.

  “I should have known,” Kramer went on. “How could she do this to me, Stone? With him? Of all people, with him? A fat, rotten—”

  “You’re making me sick, Kramer. Stop ranting like an outraged male. You were playing around, too.”

  Kramer pawed at Ray’s jacket again. “But Lewis?” he said. “Can’t you understand, Stone? A man like Lewis, with Eileen!”

  “You’re on the wrong track. Lewis couldn’t—”

  “Then why else would she leave the band?” Kramer asked. “Tell me that. Why else would she leave my band?”

  “I can think of a few good reasons,” Ray said.

  “Why? Why would she?”

  Ray pulled away from Kramer’s grip, turned his back and started for the door. “Maybe she didn’t like you very much,” he said. He paused. “Maybe she realized you were nothing but a spineless cockroach.” He opened the door, and threw a withering glance at Kramer. “Maybe that’s why she left you.”

  * * *

  Scat Lewis threw back his head and laughed, and the fat under his neck quivered like jello.

  “Me? Me? Why, man, that’s the laugh of the century.” He let out another loud guffaw. “That’s the greatest since the Pyramids.”

  He wore a white shirt, open at the throat, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Behind him, the record player threw a hot trumpet solo into the small room. Record albums were stacked high behind Lewis’s easy chair. Magazines were scattered over the floor, old copies of DownBeat, a few current issues of Show Business and, incongruously, a battered copy of Étude. The cigarette tray on the arm of the chair was overflowing with half-smoked butts, and an inch-long butt hung from Lewis’s puffy lips.

  “Her husband seems to think you were making it together,” Ray repeated.

  “He’s blown his wig, man. Me and Eileen? Now, does that sound sensible?” Lewis shook his head and leaned back. A tenor sax picked up the melody, and Lewis cocked his head to one side. “Dig this ride, man. Listen to the sound he gets.”

  “Did you know Eileen was pregnant?” Ray asked. He studied the trumpet player�
�s face. Lewis’s lips parted slightly, and he widened his eyes as if it were a great effort.

  “You leveling?” he asked.

  Ray nodded.

  “Well, now, ain’t that something?” Lewis looked at Ray again. “You’re not snowing me, are you?”

  “She was pregnant.”

  Lewis nodded vaguely. “So that’s why she was seeing a doctor.” He shook his head, his eyes rolling. “And I thought she was trying to ditch the habit. I kept telling her it was for the birds, and I thought maybe she was listening to me. Should’ve known better.” He looked up at Ray. “Really pregnant, huh?”

  “Kramer says you were responsible.”

  “Ahh, man, have a heart,” Lewis said. “Eileen and I never so much as held hands.”

  “She was a mighty pretty girl,” Ray said.

  “Sure, sure. Don’t I know it? But a chick like Eileen doesn’t have to mess with a broken-down horn man. No, man, Kramer’s way off base.”

  “The fact remains,” Ray insisted.

  “Yeah,” Lewis said. “Damnedest thing, ain’t it?” He paused and tugged at the loose flesh under his jaw. “You check with Charlie Massine? He may have been the guy.”

  “Massine is dead.”

  “Sure, I know. I mean before, though. If anyone had the opportunity it was Charlie.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Hell, man, he was getting her the stuff she needed. A chick’ll do most anything to get her fix. You don’t know how it is with a dope fiend, man.”

  “I’ve got some idea,” Ray said.

  “Sure, Charlie could’ve done it easy.”

  “Pass the buck,” Ray said.

  “How’s that?”

  “Everybody’s passing the buck. Kramer says you’re the man, and you tag Charlie. I wonder who Charlie would pass it to.”

  “Ain’t no way to find out, is there?”

  “No.”

  Lewis chuckled a little, then tilted his ear toward the record player. “Listen to this, man. This is me on trumpet.”

  The clear, bell-like tones of a trumpet in the upper register sliced into the room. Ray listened for several moments, politely holding his tongue.

  Finally, he asked, “Do you have any idea where Charlie was getting the stuff?”

  “The heroin?”

  “Yes.”

  “No idea at all, man. Most pushers don’t talk about it.”

  “I know one who might,” Ray said.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. Thanks a lot for the information.”

  Lewis was leaning back now, his eyes closed, his fingers drumming on the chair arm in time to the music.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  “Not at all. Glad to help, man.”

  * * *

  Ray waited patiently while the phone rang. There was a lot missing, but things were beginning to fit into place. He was still a long way from knowing who’d killed Eileen, but at least he no longer felt so damned confused, so helpless.

  “Hello.”

  “Louie?”

  The pusher recognized his voice. “Listen, Stone, I don’t want to tell you again. I haven’t got anything for you. Nothing at all. I ain’t gonna—”

  “All I want is information, Louie.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “What do you know about Charlie Massine?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, Louie. He’s dead now. You can tell me.”

  “Did you kill him, Stone?”

  “No.”

  Louie paused, and Ray could hear the faint crackle of electricity on the line as he waited.

  “He was a pusher, Stone. That’s all I know.”

  “Would you happen to know where he got his stuff?”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “The same place you got it?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m small-time, Stone. A few steadies like yourself, and that’s the extent. Massine was connected with a big outfit.”

  “One more question, Louie.”

  “All right, Stone, make it fast. I don’t know why the hell I’m bothering—”

  “How much is sixteen ounces of heroin worth?”

  “The cut stuff? Or pure?”

  “Pure.”

  “Christ, a fortune. Why?”

  “Just wondering. Thanks a lot, Louie.”

  “Yeah,” Louie said.

  Ray hung up and sat in the booth for a few minutes. He got up then and walked out into the street. He’d learned a little bit, but the pusher’s voice had upset him. Deep within him, he could feel the restless clawing begin. He didn’t know whether it was Louie’s voice, or the fact that this was about the time of day he usually took a shot. But it was beginning again, taking control of his body.

  He walked aimlessly, the need for the drug drumming inside him. He tried to take his mind off it, tried to think of other things, of the puzzle before him, of Babs. But it was more than mind. It climbed up through his veins and scratched at the inside of his skull. It clawed at his back and raked at his stomach. It pushed sweat out onto his skin, and it made his legs feel heavy, his heart beat faster.

  He was turning a corner when it hit him with the force of a pile driver, ploughing into his midsection like a steam-powered piston. He backed against the wall of the building, his fingers frantically clutching the bricks.

  He was drenched. In ten seconds, he had become soaking wet, the sweat seeping through his underwear and his shirt. He closed his eyes tightly and waited for the pain of nausea to subside, rocking his head with each roaring wave. The pavement tilted and tried to shake him off, and he clutched at the bricks for support. His scalp felt itchy, and his feet were like lead, and there was a hot iron ball in the pit of his stomach.

  He hung onto the building for dear life, the sickness tugging at him like a strong undercurrent, wave after wave of nausea rolling through his stomach.

  He was very sick.

  * * *

  He leaned against the door jamb, and the push button swam before his eyes. He didn’t know how he’d found his way here. He vaguely remembered stumbling through the streets, the sun a sinking red ball on the horizon.

  “Babs,” he mumbled. “Babs.”

  A crest of blackness swept over him and he reeled, almost falling backwards. The door opened.

  He was aware of her lips rounding into a surprised O, of her brown eyes opening wide, the lashes long and dark. She put an arm around him and he leaned against her gratefully as she pulled him into the apartment. His head rolled to one side as she took off his jacket and led him to the bathroom. She closed the door behind him and he was alone with the pale green tile and the bowl that moved all over the floor. He ducked his head, and the room swam, and sickness suddenly became a foul, wretched thing that stuck to the lining of his throat and sent his stomach wildly looping….

  He showered afterwards. He took off his clothes and passed them out to Babs, and then he stood under a hot needle-point spray that sent stabbing fingers of sensitivity to every muscle in his body. He toweled, and wrapped the soft white square around his waist.

  Barefoot, he walked back into the living room and took a cigarette from the tray on the coffee table. Babs watched him light it.

  “A little better?” she asked.

  “Yes, much.”

  She watched him intently, and her face was serious. “You shouldn’t have come here, Ray. You were very foolish.”

  “I’ll leave in a little while.” He found her eyes and held them with his own. “I didn’t have any place else to go, Babs.”

  “It isn’t that, darling. I’m thinking of your own safety. The police were here all afternoon. They kept asking questions until I thought I’d scream.”

  “Who do you suppose tipped them?”

  “I wish I knew,” she said.

  “What did you tell them? The cops, I mean.”<
br />
  Babs leaned over, reached for a cigarette, hung it on her lip and lighted it before answering him. “Nothing. Not a thing. I told them I’d never heard of you before, and that you certainly had never been to my apartment.”

  “Did they believe you?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. That’s why you were foolish to come here. They’re probably watching the place.”

  Ray shrugged, took a long pull on his cigarette.

  “What’s the difference? They’re watching everywhere.”

  “Well, you’re here now,” Babs said. She leaned back and her hair cushioned the back of her head against the sofa.

  “It really hit me, Babs. Like a knife in the gut, I needed a shot so bad I thought I’d drop dead on the spot.”

  “Sit down, darling,” she said. She patted the sofa beside her.

  He touched the towel with the flats of his palms. “The towel—it’s wet.”

  “The hell with the towel. Sit down.”

  He shrugged and sat down beside her, and she took his hand in hers and leaned her head on his bare shoulder.

  “Did you know Charlie Massine was a pusher?” he asked suddenly.

  She didn’t move her head, and when she spoke her breath was warm against his flesh. “I suspected as much.”

  “Well, he was.”

  She wrapped one arm around his chest, pushed her head more tightly against his shoulder.

  “It’s one hell of a rat race,” he went on. “There are so many loose ends, so many blind alleys. I keep asking people questions, but I’m not sure I’m asking the right ones—and I’m not sure the answers mean anything. All I know is that I’ve got to find the real answer before it’s too late. That was a close call this morning, Babs. I won’t be lucky always.”

  “What kind of questions have you been asking?”

  “Oh, all kinds. I’m just trying to get a lead, something to go on. I don’t ask anything definite because I’ve got nothing definite to ask. It’s not as if I had a clue, Babs, a handkerchief with someone’s initials, or hair in a comb, or anything like that. I’ve just got a bunch of people, that’s all.”

  “Which people?”

  “Kramer, Lewis—” He paused. “What do you know about Lewis, Babs?”

  “Not very much, I’m afraid. I was only on the band a short while.”

  “Well, what?”