Triple Slay

by Lawrence Lariar

  “You’ve said that before. Just what is your business, Helen? Down here, I mean. Jeff Masterson?”

  “I like it here.”

  “Where can I reach the great man?”

  “I never asked his address.” She was watching the street door nervously. “I’m going home in a couple of minutes, Steve.”

  “Want an escort?”

  “I’ll make it alone, thanks.”

  “A very upset girl emotionally,” said Max, shaking his head at her sadly. She was drifting away from us and asking someone to get her a drink and keeping herself well acquainted with any action that might take place near the front door. “You staying with her, Steve?”

  “I’ll watch her. She was playing footie with Masterson earlier in the evening. She may lead me to him. You stay with Haddon.”

  “I’ll come back to your place, Steve. My wife Esther will have a fit when I tell her I’m out for the night. Ever since I got to Lynbrook I’ve been a steady family man. But, you know something, I feel pretty good. Like old times.”

  He moved slowly back to the bar and took up a position at the near end, where he could keep his eye on Haddon without any effort.

  I walked toward the door and into the street and waited for Helen Calabrese to make her move.

  CHAPTER 8

  I ambled toward the corner and then turned left into a narrow alley that dead-ended before it got anywhere. There was a store front off the corner devoted to “Greenwich Village Knickknacks,” a perfect blind for me because it hid me well while affording me a fine view of Gretchen’s door across the street. It was open and the muffled sounds of the hi-fi drifted toward me on the loud riffs. A fine drizzle had begun to fall, adding deeper overtones to the foggy scene. Nothing moved at this hour. Nothing reached the ears but the occasional buzz of traffic racing uptown on Sixth Avenue, about three blocks away. Tires sang on the slick pavements, a sticky hum punctured by the occasional tired bleat of a horn.

  She came out in a hurry, looking this way and that for a taxi. She stood on the edge of the curb and pretty soon one of the Nowist youths came out, approached her and was quietly brushed off. He shrugged and returned to Gretchen’s. She moved to the right and when she reached the corner Grippo stepped out of the shadows. Her pantomime showed me her disapproval. When she lifted her voice I could catch the line, something like: “Get lost, will you? Get lost!” and she stepped briskly away from him. The scene was almost humorous, because he followed her and ventured a tentative hand on her arm. She stopped and said a few more angry words, too muffled for me to hear clearly.

  She shook him off and minced away. Grippo stood where she left him, then turned toward Gretchen’s again, shaking his head sadly.

  Grippo didn’t see me leave the alley. He didn’t see me when I caught up with her two blocks down the line. She was aimed for another bistro, The Haystack, whose canopied entrance was designed to trap the tourist trade.

  “You going to drink alone, Helen?”

  “My God, Steve. Don’t you ever give up?”

  “You worry me. This is no hour for going home alone.”

  “You sound like my damned fool brother.”

  “It could be worse,” I said. “Do you do this often? I mean, lollygagging around town in the dark?”

  “Just like Luigi. You’re working overtime to make me think of you as a brother, is that it, Steve?”

  “What it is, is simple. I’ll take you where you’re going. You want a drink in The Haystack? Let’s go in.”

  “I’ll give you a laugh line,” she said. “I was going in to use the little girls’ room.”

  “Use it. I’ll have something on the bar for you when you get out.”

  “A vodka,” she said and showed me a large smile. “You’re a pest, Steve Conacher, but just about the nicest pest I know.”

  The Haystack was rigged to satisfy the rustic nostalgia of transient farmers, cattlemen and sewing circle members. The decor literally smelled of hay, a giant room festooned with barn trappings, the stage designed to resemble a Grange hall, artfully wooden and alive with the symbols of farm life, sulky wheels, corncribs and enough artificial wheat to give a dozen artificial pigs artificial indigestion.

  The man at the bar sweated under his rural straw. His face, however, was out of key with his headdress. He was a swarthy type, fat in the jowls and wise in the eyes. He wheezed as he filled my order, gazing longingly at the old-fashioned clock over the entrance.

  “Who needs this?” he asked me. “These damned fool hicks never know when to quit. Get a load of my ginger ale house. They’ll sit here until we close, a bunch of potato farmers. You know something? I should have my head examined buying this dump. I had a nice deal uptown, The Purple Grotto it was called, real drinkers and none of this God-damned fiddle music. So what do I do? I have to be a wise guy. They told me big stories about the tourist trade down here in the lousy Village. I went for it like a dope. A head shrinker is what I need. Is it worth the profit, I ask myself, to stand here every night in the week and listen to the stupid fiddles?”

  “You’ve got a nice place, a very nice place,” I said.

  “I’ll give it to you, mister. Cheap.”

  “Don’t kid me. You’ve got lots of Village regulars here.”

  “Lots?” He gawked at me as though I might be a Mongolian idiot. “Regulars, yes. But lots I got on Long Island. Building lots.”

  “Young regulars,” I insisted. “You know a kid named Masterson for instance? Jeff Masterson? Beard?”

  “It could be.”

  “Reddish beard?”

  “Oh, that one. He was in here tonight. He could be in here now. Wait.” He whistled at a passing waiter. “Sam, you see the one with the red beard around?”

  “Scrammed,” said Sam, and scooped up a bottle of ginger ale and slid off into the fiddle music.

  Helen returned and had her vodka and then had another. She seemed content to sit with me at the bar and watch the crowd square dancing and listen to them sing the usual folk songs.

  “You’re wasting your time,” I said. “Jeff Masterson has come and gone.”

  “What a clever man you are, Steve,” She was feeling good after the liquor, no longer sharp and quick, no longer anxious to fence with words, “Do I look like the type of idiot girl who pursues a man?”

  “You look a bit high again, Helen. Why don’t you let me take you home?”

  “I’m going to do just that. Only one more vodka?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  She had the other vodka and we walked slowly through the drizzle, her arm holding tight to mine, her body loose and moving with an alcoholic bounce. In the cab she continued to stay close to me, talking brightly about her job with Silverton, explaining some of the intrigues of television production. She lapsed into a slower tempo at times, probably fighting off a deeper mood. She was a pleasant package, a warm and attractive girl, easy to be with, the sort who radiates a physical appeal, a yen to hold and have, to kiss and fondle at a time like this.

  I found myself trying her and making good with her. She clung to me, a little bit frantic.

  “I was beginning to wonder about you,” she laughed.

  “And I was beginning to wonder about me, too, Helen. Too many drinks tonight, probably.”

  “You’re not apologizing?”

  “You’re a very attractive girl.”

  “Don’t edit your dialogue, Steve. You’re pretty nice yourself.”

  “Maybe I was thinking about Luigi.”

  “To hell with Luigi. Why Luigi?”

  “My age, I guess. You’re his kid sister.”

  “Oh, please.”

  She kissed me again and then again and when we left the cab her hand was on my arm and she wanted to be taken all the way upstairs to her apartment. It was a modern place, one of the big east side c
ooperatives, complete with fancy murals in the lobby and a do-it-yourself elevator. She leaned into me on the way up, saying nothing at all until we reached her door. Then she was tugging me inside for a nightcap.

  And then we were marching into her living room and making surprised faces at the man who sat in the easy chair near the big picture window.

  It was Luigi Calabrese.

  “I’ll be damned,” he smiled, getting up fast and shaking my hand. “Steve Conacher, for God’s sake.”

  “Old home week,” said Helen petulantly.

  “It’s been a long time, Luigi.”

  “Two, three years?” He had gone to fat in the middle, no longer the jaunty soldier he used to be. Not too long ago I had assumed that Luigi Calabrese would ripen into the lean and ageless type. But easy living and the force of his genes had converted him into another character. His face was larded in the jowls and round now rather than oval, his skin was oilier, and his teeth no longer the remarkable white they used to be. Nothing remained of the old Luigi but his eyes, pale gray and retaining the old look—the crafty, sly and yet almost intellectual calm of his army days.

  “Longer, Luigi,” I said. “Maybe closer to five. You’ve changed.”

  “Fat,” he smiled. “A congenital Italian defect. But you’re the same, Steve. And still playing detective?”

  “It’s a living.”

  “And business? Is it good?”

  “I get along.”

  “Maybe I should leave you two lads alone?” Helen asked. She glared at her brother briefly. He watched her as he talked to me. He seemed to be enjoying some private joke, an inner laugh that came through his eyes.

  “Steve and I are very, very old friends,” he said.

  “Is that why you came up here at this hour?”

  “Emotional,” he said quietly. He winked at me as though sharing a secret. “It’s a real pleasure for me to see her going out with a man for a change, Steve. How did you two get together?”

  “I get around, Luigi. I’m on a job. I’m making a locate.”

  “Of course. You do the skip-tracing stuff.”

  “My specialty.” I saw Helen tighten to the conversation and head for the kitchen, mumbling something about making coffee for us. But she was pausing in the doorway, primed to catch the next part of our conversation.

  I said: “But you probably know who I’m trying to find, Luigi.”

  “How would I know?”

  “Hasn’t Helen told you?”

  “Helen doesn’t tell me the right time, Steve.” He half turned in his chair to watch her in the kitchen. There was no sound from in there. “You meet an old buddy of mine in your office and you don’t say a word. Aren’t you ashamed, sister dear?”

  Helen did not announce that she was ashamed.

  “I’m trying to locate Mari Barstow,” I said.

  “Barstow?” He whistled his approval. “What a doll that one is.”

  “You know her, Luigi?”

  “I’ve caught her act and bought her a drink. Wasn’t she with Tony Granada?”

  “She’s much bigger now, Luigi. She’s network property now.”

  He nodded at me knowingly, his bland face completely caught up in my problem. “Locate her, for God’s sake? The way I read it in the papers, she should be easy to find. I mean, network performances and all that stuff. Why in hell would she take a powder?”

  “She’s getting tougher to locate by the minute.”

  “A fantastic thing. Have you seen Tony Granada? He should be able to help you.”

  “I’ve seen Granada.”

  “I don’t envy you your job,” Luigi said, turning again to study his sister in the kitchen, “What’s with the coffee, Helen dear? You picking the beans in there?”

  “Why don’t you go home?” She was back in the doorway again, glaring at him. Her deliberate antagonism converted her into another character—unloving, bitter, and almost evil. But her histrionics had no effect on Luigi at all. He continued to smile at her. “I’ve told you before, Luigi. Leave me alone,” she said. “Let me live my own life, do you hear?”

  “Temper,” he said softly. “I can’t turn it off, Helen. You know that. I worry about you.”

  “That was all right when I went to college. I know the facts of life.”

  “Never mind the clever talk. You worry me. You know why I came up here?”

  “Save it.”

  “You were down in the Village again?”

  “Why ask me? You know everything, Luigi.”

  “In that Nowist dump again?”

  “I’ll finish making the coffee,” she said.

  “Not for me,” he said, suddenly brusque. He got out of his chair and reached for his hat. He regarded me with an understanding eye, trustfully. “I’m probably not rigged for taking care of kid sister, Steve. I worry too much. I really worry. I wish to hell she could find a guy like you, somebody with stability. Instead, she picks up the nuts, the real nuts. What would you do if your kid sister went for the odd-balls, the offbeat characters? I admit I worry, Steve. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I would indeed,” I said.

  “You boys are tearing pieces out of my girlish heart.”

  “You hear that, Steve? No appreciation.”

  “The younger generation,” I said. “They often resent guidance.”

  “And some of those Village wolves are dangerous,” Luigi said. “Some of them can do a kid real damage.”

  “You’re talking about characters like Jeff Masterson?” I asked.

  “What do you think of him, Steve?”

  “Nut.”

  “Ah? You hear that, Helen?”

  “You can both go to hell, boys.”

  “She’s sensitive,” Luigi shrugged. “Can you imagine a girl being sensitive about a jerk like Masterson?”

  “The party,” said Helen, “is over.”

  “It never really began,” I said. “I’ll take a raincheck on it. Be seeing you up at the network.”

  “I’ll be biting my nails waiting for you.”

  Then we were out in the hall and she was slamming the door.

  “Sisters,” sighed Luigi. “A real burden sometimes. How about coming over to my place and chewing the old fat for a while?”

  I begged off, promising to see him soon. Fatigue had caught up with me a few minutes ago, and with it the usual fogginess when physical weariness no longer fades under the stimulus of drinks.

  I crawled into bed. Max was still out and it was almost five in the morning and for a while he worried me. But the flesh is weakest and the brain dies easiest in the dim hours just before dawn.

  The black pit of sleep opened for me suddenly.

  CHAPTER 9

  The phone jolted me awake. It was exactly half-past eight and difficult to open my eyes to reality. My hand grabbed the phone from the night table and I found myself talking to Esther Ornstein.

  “You sound like I woke you, Steve,” she said. “And I’m sorry if I did, but I’ve just got to talk to Max. Tell him there’s a man here from the chair place with samples of the new chairs Max wanted for the restaurant.”

  “Hold on a minute, Esther.”

  But she would have to hold on for a long time. The bed was empty in my den; I staggered around groggily, checked the kitchen and began waking up fast now, feeling a growing sickness building inside me. Worry clawed at me, the worry that comes of knowing a man too well. Max was a creature of solid habits. I could think of nothing plausible that would keep him away from a friendly bed after a night like last night. I could think of nothing but fantasy and fear, but fear was winning the battle when I returned to the phone.

  “Max just went out for a while,” I told her.

  “You were chasing him, maybe? It took you so long to make up your mind?”

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p; “He left a note for me in the kitchen. I’ll be seeing him in about an hour, Esther.”

  “Then he should phone the Eureka Chair Supply Company, Steve. The man will be waiting for his call. And also, he should call me, you hear?”

  “He’ll call you, Esther.”

  “There’s nothing wrong?”

  “Don’t be silly. What could be wrong?”

  “It’s just that he always used to phone me in the morning, Steve. You know that. You remember that, don’t you?”

  “He’ll call you, Esther.”

  It would be really tough to forget the way her voice changed, to forget her wifely concern for him. He had always taken great pride in his domestic life, always worked to keep his little family happy with him. This kind of break in his normal habit pattern could prove upsetting to Esther.

  And I? Panic was moving me into a shower where I let the icy needles stab me awake.

  The phone rang again as I finished dressing.

  It was Harry Gahan.

  “I’ve got bad news, Steve. You want to come down here right away?”

  “Don’t stall me, Harry. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Max.” His usually gruff voice seemed softer and edged with a deep and personal sorrow. “He’s in bad shape.”

  “Where?”

  “Downtown Hospital.”

  “Serious?”

  “Bad. Very bad. He was picked up in an alley down in the Village. Knifed. Listen, Steve, Dave Cushing wants to see you on this. Max was working with you. You can’t clam up now. Not any more now.”

  “Anything else I should know about Max?”

  “You’ve got what we’ve got. Dave says when will he see you?”

  “Soon, Harry. Very soon.”

  “Today, Steve.”

  “I’ll do my best.” I was beginning to crack, my voice going shaky, the way it always gets when intemperate emotion takes hold of me. My mind fought hard for same direction, but nothing came through to me but the terrible anger, the gnawing anger. Because I was thinking of Esther, and his family. “Do me a big favor, Harry? Call his wife and tell her. Out in Lynbrook.”

  I got my automatic and looked at it and laughed at it and finally stuffed it into my pocket. Private investigators are not equipped with private arsenals, despite the fictional claims of the writers. Most of us have a permit to carry a gun, but few actually ever use it on routine assignments. Once, in Minneapolis, I frightened a man into an admission of his true identity. Once or twice on other adventures involving personal danger, my gun proved a real help.