The Monkey Rope

by Stephen Lewis

  Seymour paced the floor nervously, and lit a cigarette. He felt it was time to give voice to his own deepest concerns, as if in the speaking he would be able to confront them.

  “As Junior’s attorney, I have assumed that he is innocent. Given what I know of him, I have not been able to decide whether he is. I’m trying to keep the two things separate. I’m defending him as an innocent man. If I had reason to believe him guilty, as his attorney, I would still have to defend him as best I could.”

  Rosalie walked over to him, and smiled.

  “And what does all that mean?” she asked.

  “It means,” he said, “that we’ll check this Gomez thing out very carefully. Maybe go back and try to find him in his hole.”

  * * * *

  O’Riley called as soon as Seymour walked into his office the next day.

  “Have you heard from our chap?” the prosecutor asked.

  “Not a word,” Seymour answered.

  “You know, Rosenberg will find him.”

  “I’m hoping to be able to bring him in under his own steam.”

  “One way or the other. But I have to do something. My opponent has restrained himself, so far, perhaps out of a sense of decency, but more probably because his media people haven’t come up with something nasty enough yet.” He paused. “I have to keep a step ahead, so I’m going to announce our chap’s place at the top of the suspect list tomorrow.”

  “What’s the point? We all know that already.” Seymour knew the answer, but he wanted O’Riley to say it. The prosecutor did not disappoint him.

  “What we know is meaningless. What the public knows is the important thing. You know that, Lipp. Don’t pretend that you are unaware of the rules of the game. Not at this stage.”

  “Of course, I do,” Seymour said. “That’s why I’m going to suggest something to you. I’ve seen the headlines, wondering when the city was going to apprehend the vicious murderer. You know it’s sort of like the Colosseum, and it’s our job to toss somebody, it doesn’t matter who, to the lions. Am I right?”

  “I wouldn’t put it so crudely,” O’Riley said. “But yes, in substance, that is correct.”

  “I thought so. Well, since it doesn’t matter who the meat is, if you can give me a little time, maybe I can serve up Gomez.”

  O’Riley snorted into the phone, “Not that one again. Please spare me. The man is mentally incompetent. I know Goode mentioned that to you, but I am not sure anyone will buy it.”

  “The lions won’t care. But more than that, I have reason to believe Gomez might be the man.”

  “Tell me about it.” O’Riley’s tone indicated that he was genuinely interested.

  “In time, but I want to be sure, first.”

  “You’ve got a day, two at most. Meanwhile I’ll put Rosenberg on that one, too. But the poor man can do just so much by himself.”

  “He’s good,” Seymour offered, “but surely he’s not a one man show.”

  “You’d be surprised,” O’Riley answered, “at the drop off after him. Have you seen my spot?”

  Seymour took a second to follow the jump.

  “No, I’m afraid I’ve been too busy.”

  “Well, catch it some time. Better, I’ll send you a copy. You do have a VCR, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “No matter,” O’Riley continued, sounding now somewhat manic. “I’ll send it over with a player. When you see it, you’ll understand how my opponent has let the mayor castrate the department.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Seymour said.

  “Twenty-four hours, then our chap’s picture hits the front page.”

  The phone clicked, and Seymour could imagine O’Riley in the robes of Pontius Pilate, looking down from his throne, and with elaborate gestures, showing that he was washing his hands of the whole matter, or if not that, ready to rectify the mistake he had made in the interest of trying to help a hardened criminal. But, Seymour knew, the prosecutor would be just as happy showing the howling crowd Gomez’ head.

  * * * *

  He had bought a little time, not much, but it would have to do. After O’Riley’s call, he started interviewing the other people in the building, hoping that somebody would give him just a crumb of information about Gomez. He talked to the salespeople and manager of Phil’s Fur Salon, but came up empty. Most of them didn’t want to talk about the case. A cashier, a young and decidedly plain woman, was more than happy to share her suspicions that the wife of her boss had been carrying on with just about every man in the building, Seymour excepted, because he was standing right in front of her. He thanked her for her information.

  “I hope I’ve been helpful,” she said coyly. “I’ve never done anything like this before. I was becoming embarrassed working here, you know.” She paused long enough to shove her gun into her cheek with her tongue. “I mean, I like to be respectable.” She seemed perplexed for a moment, and then added, “Let me know if I can help you again.” Her smile revealed a shard of gum on her incisor.

  “Here’s my card,” Seymour said. “If you remember anything else, please get in touch. Particularly, anything about the custodians.”

  “Geez, we didn’t see much of them.” Her face brightened. “But that one, dark-haired guy, he was kind of cute. And now I think of it, I kind of remember him hanging around with Mrs. Levine quite a lot.”

  “What about the other one, the night custodian?”

  She shuddered.

  “I saw him once, when I was late because I had trouble closing my register, it must have been when I had just started, but that was enough.”

  “Was he doing anything unusual?”

  “Just pushing his broom, but his eyes, well, you know what I mean.”

  “Thanks,” Seymour said. “You’ve been more than helpful.”

  Apparently, either nobody knew anything more than he did, or if they did they were reluctant to talk. He picked up various attitudes about Junior, ranging from respect to complete mistrust. Some thought he was hardworking, others that he looked like “he had a past,” which made them nervous, and a few made smirking references to Emily. People had even less to say about Eddie. The consensus was that he was crazy and that was all there was to it. But one person, an ambitious young salesman who dreamed someday of opening his own, high-class fur salon and who openly disdained Phil’s discount operation as inappropriate, offered a nugget of information.

  “I do remember one thing,” he said just as Seymour was about to wish him good luck in his store, if and when he ever opened it, “once I saw Mrs. Levine talking to that strange custodian. Like I told you, I come in early and leave late. Want to learn as much as I can about this business so I can get outta here and start my own. Anyway, once, maybe twice, I saw those two together. It looked like they were arguing.” His eyes opened in wonder. “Say,” he said, “you don’t think he might have done it, do you?”

  Seymour fought to maintain his composure. He hadn’t expected anything from these interviews, certainly not from the pale young man in front of him who looked as though he hadn’t been out in the sun in years, and whose dull eyes seemed lost in the yellow flesh of his face. But just maybe he had stumbled onto the break that would provide something concrete to hand to O’Riley.

  “What else can you remember? About that time?” he asked.

  The young man’s response came without hesitation.

  “I’m afraid that’s about it,” he said.

  Seymour felt a rush of anger.

  “You mean, all you can tell me is that you saw Mrs. Levine and Eddie Gomez talking?”

  “That’s about it. I said it didn’t seem like much. Not so much that they were talking, but the way she looked later.”

  “The way?” Seymour prodded. Does this guy know something or not, he wondered. “What about the way?”

  “Scared,” he said simply, “like she had seen something she never wanted to see again.”

  “Did you ever hear anything they said?”
>
  The young man’s face reddened.

  “Oh, of course not. I didn’t want her to think I was snooping around. But I guess I can’t hurt her with what I know any more.”

  “Which is?”

  The salesman looked blank.

  “What is it you know?” Seymour said, forcing himself to be calm.

  “What I told you. About the argument, and how she looked.”

  “When did you say this conversation took place?”

  His eyes brightened.

  “What? Are you trying to catch me up? I didn’t say. But I think it was about a week or so ago, right before she got killed.”

  * * * *

  “What do you think?” Seymour asked. “It’s beginning to look possible.”

  Rosalie sipped her wine, and then shoved aside their dinner plates to make more room for her glass. She found a wet spot on the table and drew circles in it for a moment before wiping it up with a napkin.

  “I was thinking,” she said, “this is all too convenient.”

  “I know. Somehow I was hoping you wouldn’t see it the same way. But right after O’Riley shows interest in Gomez as a replacement suspect up pops this salesman, just about the last one on my list to interview, and hands us a lead in that direction. And then before I have a chance to consider that one, who calls but that Gomez woman, Esmeralda she called herself, wanting to speak to me again. Seems she remembered something.”

  “Still,” she murmured, “it could all be legitimate.” Her face was drawn.

  “I’ll go to Gomez’s place again.”

  “Tomorrow,” she said.

  “I thought I’d just look over your notes and the clippings one more time. See if I missed anything.”

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “It’ll all still be there.”

  * * * *

  They had just fallen asleep, Rosalie lying with her head on his shoulder, when the phone rang. He reached to the night table and swatted at the alarm clock, but the ringing continued. His body lingered in the languor of his exhaustion and the touch of her flesh, but he groped for the phone. When he heard the voice, he lifted himself up and tried to get his mind to work.

  “Later, tonight. It’s gotta be tonight,” Junior said. “Don’t argue, and don’t ask questions. I’ve got the word that things are going to break soon. We have to talk. Just listen. I’ll tell you where and when.”

  Seymour found a piece of paper, scribbled the address, and then put the phone down. He fumbled for his cigarettes and lit one. Rosalie turned on the light. She propped her head on her hand and forced a smile.

  “What’d I tell you. When you’ve forgotten him, he turns up. Don’t tell me. You’re meeting him tonight.”

  Seymour nodded.

  “He didn’t leave me a lot of choice. Hung up before I could say anything.” He studied the piece of paper and then handed it to her. “Hold onto this, just in case.”

  “Then, you’d better get ready,” she said. “Tomorrow came a little early thanks to Junior. How much time do you have?”

  “I’m meeting him in an hour.”

  “Be careful,” she said. “I’ll wait up.”

  “I might be very late.”

  “I’ll be up,” she insisted. “What do you think?”

  “I think,” he said, “that you will do precisely as you please. And,” he paused, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  * * * *

  Even though it was after two when Seymour got out of the cab on Avenue D, there were still a few people on the street. He saw a couple, walking unsteadily, arms linked, halfway down the block. They passed under a streetlight and he could make out that they were both young men. As Junior had instructed, he walked two blocks until he found The Sitar, a tiny restaurant on the edge of an alley. A dark-looking man in a shabby raincoat stumbled out of the restaurant and staggered by him. Seymour waited until he passed, and for a moment their eyes met. When he was gone, Seymour turned down the alley and walked to the back of the building. He waited a few minutes, and then lit a cigarette. A light flashed on in the back window of the second floor, as promised, and he made his way toward it. He found a door ajar and pushed it open.

  He was inside the back entrance to the building, facing stairs that led up to the second floor. Apparently, there was an apartment to the right of the stairs because he could see light beneath another door, and he heard low voices and then a woman’s laugh. He paused for a moment, and then started up the stairs. The only light came from a bulb on the landing, and he almost tripped over the figure huddled near the top of the stairs. It was the same man in the raincoat, and this time his movements were quick and purposeful. He sprang to his feet and turned Seymour against the wall. He ran his hands along Seymour’s sides and then down his legs, and before Seymour had a chance to react the man was down the stairs.

  “That’s okay, Pedro,” Junior called from the doorway on the second floor. “You didn’t have to frisk him.”

  Seymour glanced up at Junior and then down the stairs where the man had sat down again. He could just make out a smile from the dark face. He walked down a couple of steps to make sure. He got close enough to the man to check out the gold front tooth.

  “It’s a new one, man,” Pedro grinned.

  Seymour rubbed his knuckles.

  “I’ve still got the old one, at home in a box.”

  The smile faded from Pedro’s face.

  “Hey, man, that was an accident,” he said. “Next time will be different.”

  Junior was at Seymour’s side.

  “I told you about that,” he said. “There ain’t gonna be any next time.”

  “Sure, sure,” Pedro half snarled, half smiled. “But just in case there is.”

  Junior took Seymour’s arm.

  “Small world,” he said. “But he’s very useful. Very good.”

  They went up the stairs and into the apartment, which turned out to be one room furnished with a bed, a cheap wooden night table, and a lamp covered with a dirty and torn shade.

  “What would have happened if I hadn’t lit that cigarette?” Seymour asked.

  “He would’ve cut you,” Junior smiled.

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t ask me to whistle.”

  Junior waited, and then Seymour added, “I can’t. And where would you be without your counselor?”

  “But I know you can smoke, man,” Junior laughed. “So no problem. You know you should give that shit up. It’s no good for you.” He swept his arm around the room. “How do you like the place?”

  “It looks adequate,” Seymour answered.

  “That’s what it is.” He paused for effect. “Lois used to bring her Johns here. Pick them up in the village, mostly suburban types, and stroll them down here to the low-rent district. I kind of kept my interest in the place. You never know when you might need somewhere to disappear.”

  Seymour tried not to picture it. Lois, arm in arm with a young businessman, his eyes lit with lust and hers laughing while her hand sought the inside of his thigh. And in bed, in the room below, she offered him her breasts, and when they were through he plucked his wallet from the inside pocket of his neatly folded suit jacket and handed her a bill. Seymour had to force his attention back to Junior.

  “It’s time you surfaced,” he said. “In a day, your face will be all over the front pages of every newspaper.”

  A woman’s moans drifted up from the apartment he had passed, and he started.

  Junior laughed.

  “Take it easy, man,” he said. “That ain’t Lois. She’s home with the baby.” He furrowed his brows. “Maybe that’s not what’s bothering you. Maybe you’d like some of that, huh? Am I right? I’ll tell Pedro to set it up for when we’re done. On the house.”

  “I don’t think so,” Seymour said slowly. “But just tell me one thing. Is she working for you?”

  Junior’s face beamed.

  “No, she’s just a friend. I got a lotta friends, you know? From the old days before
I became respectable.”

  “When was that?”

  Junior looked confused, for a moment, and Seymour smiled.

  “Just when did you become respectable?” he insisted.

  “You should know that better than anybody.” Junior’s manner changed, and Seymour made a mental note of the sensitive spot. “Anyway,” Junior continued. “If you don’t want no pussy, I guess we should get down to business.”

  The sound of a slap, flesh against flesh, now reached them, and then the thud of something solid against the wall.

  “Getting a little rough for your friend,” Seymour said.

  “No sweat. Kitten can handle it. And, anyway, Pedro is looking out for her.”

  “A man of many talents.”

  “Like I said, he’s useful. Now, let’s get down to it. But I’ll tell you right off, that I ain’t showing myself unless you got something very good to offer.”

  “I don’t know how good it’ll be. But on the other hand, I don’t know how the idea of jail strikes you. If we don’t do something damned soon, that’s where you’ll be heading. You might go there anyway, for a while.”

  “Not unless they catch me.”

  Seymour had expected this reaction.

  “They will. You can bet on it. Our friend, O’Riley, has a serious interest in this case. And he’s put a damned good detective on it. He’ll sniff you out. Sooner or later.”

  Junior looked pleased.

  “I’m that important, huh? Probably their best fuckin’ man out lookin’ for me.”

  “I’m disappointed in you,” Seymour answered. “You sound like a cheap hood who doesn’t know which end is up. What difference does it make who catches you. The thing is, you’ll be caught, whether it’s Dick Tracy or the Lone Ranger, doesn’t make any difference. What does make a difference is how you wind up in their hands. If we walk in, maybe we can deal. If not, it’s their play.”

  “Deal,” Junior snapped. “Who said anything about dealin’? I don’t like the sound of that. You sayin’ I should cop?”

  “Maybe,” Seymour said softly. “But let’s take it one step at a time.”

  Junior’s hand shot out and grabbed Seymour’s collar and twisted.

  “The first step,” he said, “is to understand that I ain’t coppin’ for something I didn’t do.” He relaxed his hand without removing it, and smiled. “That’s one of my principles.”