Too Darn Hot

by Sandra Scoppettone

  “Probably no kinda case, Mr. Widmark, but I hafta check out a few things with ya.”

  “Are you working for Claire? Miss Turner?”

  “I can’t tell ya that.”

  “Then I can’t see you.”

  “Wait a minute, Mr. Widmark. I told ya I got yer number from Miss Turner. Isn’t that enough for ya to know I’m legit?”

  Silence.

  “You there?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  I waited.

  “All right,” he said. “When do you want to come?”

  “Soon as possible.”

  “How about in an hour?”

  “Fine. Thanks.”

  Right after I hung up Birdie came in with my sandwich. “I got ya an RC, too.”

  “Thanks. You been outside, Bird?”

  “Not since I came to work.”

  “It’s hell out there. Don’t go if ya don’t hafta.”

  “Me and Pete are goin to Coney tonight, sit on the board-walk, take in the breeze.”

  I unwrapped my sandwich and took a bite. Delish.

  “You seein Johnny tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ya oughta go someplace cool.”

  “I think we’re goin to the movies where they got airconditionin.”

  “Whatcha seein?”

  “This Is the Army, that new musical.”

  “I hear that’s a good one.” She started singing the title song.

  “Can it, Bird.”

  “Ya don’t like my singin?”

  “I like it fine. I’m just not in the mood.”

  “Well, tell me when ya are and I’ll do all of ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ for ya.”

  “I’ll be sure to let ya know.”

  “You want anything else?”

  “I’m just gonna eat my pastrami and read my book.”

  “Suit yerself.” She left my office swinging her behind and singing “You’re a Grand Old Flag.”

  FOUR

  Van Widmark lived on the Upper West Side. There was almost nothing worse than going down into the subway on a hot, humid day. Beyond the smells that could turn a girl’s stomach, it felt like walking into a public bathhouse. Steam seeped from the walls, the ceiling, the floor, and from the trains themselves.

  The platform was crowded and I wondered where all these people were going in the middle of the day. Same thing I wondered when I went to daytime movies. Didn’t anybody in New York City work? Course I worked and I was there.

  The train and its load of steam came in. I got a bench seat next to the window. Not that I could see anything through it. I eyeballed the people around me and once again decided that the human race was a funny-looking bunch. Would somebody from Mars think that?

  A guy down the line was reading the Daily News. The back page was hollering about the Yankees being Number One. Of course they were number one. With a roster like they had, who could beat em?

  A woman sat down beside me and said, “I haven’t slept in two years.”

  I turned and gave her the once-over. She didn’t look crazy so I said, “How come?”

  “I know if I close my eyes and sleep, I’ll never wake up again.”

  An interesting theory. This gal had white hair and by the look of her pleated skin, I figured she was in her late seventies.

  “How d’ya keep yerself awake?” I asked.

  “Sew and pull.”

  That was a new one to me. “What’s that mean?”

  “I sit up sewing little squares together and then I pull out all the stitches. It does the trick.”

  “It’s good ya found a way to stay awake.”

  “Yes.” She smiled and I could see how pretty she once was.

  I smiled back and turned away, then opened my book.

  After a few moments she said, “What are you reading, dear?”

  “The Human Comedy.”

  “You’ll like it. I read it when it was first published.”

  “I can’t afford new books. Sometimes I get em from the library, but if I want to own em I gotta wait till they turn up in used-book stores.”

  “But that only came out in February.”

  “Well, that’s six months ago. Anyway, I found it in my favorite store.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The Bookman on Fourth Avenue.”

  “I love those stores down there.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I’ve probably been in The Bookman, but I never remember names.”

  No wonder if she hadn’t slept in two years.

  “This is my stop,” she said. “It’s time for me to walk. Nice talking to you, dear.”

  “You, too.”

  I watched her go to the doors, and she was pretty sprightly for somebody who hadn’t had forty winks in two years. Crazy as a loon but a sweet old thing. When she got off and the train started moving again, I laughed in my head cause I figured I’d been had. Couldn’t work out why she’d want to tell a whopper like that, but I had to admit it was a way to get someone to talk to you.

  I opened my book again and read until we got to the Eighty-sixth Street stop, where I got off. As I headed for the stairs, I felt that something was different. It was my pocketbook. Lighter. Oh, no.

  I stopped and opened it up. My wallet was gone. The sweet old thing! I’d had my purse between us and never noticed. I couldn’t imagine when she’d done it. I thought I was looking at her the whole time. That was it. I was looking at her. Misdirection. It was something scam artists did all the time. Magicians, too. I didn’t even hear the clasp of my purse open and shut. She was good. Well, this was some snafu.

  I couldn’t picture myself panhandling for a nickel to get back to Midtown so I knew I was gonna have to tap Widmark. What was the worst that could happen? He could chuck me out of his apartment. So what? I wasn’t gonna hustle him for the five cents till the end of the interview. If he wouldn’t dish out I might have to pass the hat on Broadway after all.

  I had to put this dilemma on the back burner and concentrate on what I was gonna ask Widmark. I climbed the stairs to the street and headed for 145 West Eighty-sixth.

  But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Me, clipped like any regular mark. My mind went right to the boys at Stork’s. I could see them laughing, Fat Freddy holding his bellies. Well, they never had to know. I sure wasn’t gonna wag the tongue to those mugs.

  And Johnny? Did I have to spill to him? He’d think I was an easy target. Maybe not. He wasn’t like that. He’d understand.

  I wouldn’t tell him.

  The people on the street looked like limp linguini. It was getting hotter by the second. I picked up my pace so I could get into a building away from the sun. I turned on Eighty-sixth toward Amsterdam. Nice trees there.

  Pretty soon I was at 145. Naturally there was a doorman but he wasn’t quite as spiffy looking as the ones on Park Avenue. His gray uniform was slightly shabby. No gold braid. And the brim of the cap he wore had lost its sheen.

  I said I was there to see Mr. Widmark. He rang him, then told me to go up to the tenth floor, Apartment 10B.

  I knew when the elevator came down the operator would be as old as they all were—now that the young ones were in the army. So when the doors opened, I was knocked back on my heels.

  There was a jane at the controls. I’d never seen a girl running one before, but why not? Girls were doing almost everything else. I guessed that the old men were getting too old to do a lot of things.

  She was in full uniform: jacket, pants, the whole thing. Miss Operator gave me the fisheye.

  “You gonna stare all day or get on?”

  “Sorry.” I stepped into the elevator.

  “What floor?”

  “Tenth.”

  “Who ya gonna see?”

  I had a feeling she wasn’t supposed to ask, but I told her anyway.

  “Nice fella.”

  As long as she was gonna be personal about this I decided I would, too.

  “
He get a lotta visitors?”

  “Not too many. I think his girlfriend threw him over. She came in the beginnin, but I ain’t seen her lately.”

  I wondered if she meant Claire Turner.

  “Tenth floor.”

  It was a smooth landing.

  “He’s right over there.” She pointed across the hall.

  “Thanks.”

  “Poor guy,” she said.

  I turned, but the doors had closed. Was she still talking about him being jilted? Or was it something else? I’d probably never know.

  I rang Widmark’s bell.

  “Come in,” he shouted.

  Some gentleman. I opened the door. There was a small foyer, but I could see the living room—and Widmark. He was sitting there. In a wheelchair. Now I knew what the elevator operator meant.

  “Come in, Miss Quick. Sit down.” He pointed to the striped sofa.

  I sat where he wanted me to. There was no question I was thrown off my game by him being in the wheelchair and I musta showed it.

  “No one told you, I gather?”

  “Told me?”

  He sighed like he’d been through this a million times. “That I’d lost my legs at Guadalcanal.”

  “No. No one told me.”

  “Well, don’t worry. I’m used to it.”

  Widmark was a handsome guy. He had a ginger crew cut and green eyes that looked like they’d seen more than they ever wanted to. It didn’t seem likely that he could’ve had anything to do with either Ladd’s disappearance or the murder of John Doe. He wasn’t a person anyone would forget and, besides, it would be hard for him to get around. But you never knew, he might be helpful.

  He was wearing a white dress shirt buttoned at the neck, no tie. The rest of him was covered with a maroon blanket that clashed with his hair.

  He said, “Now that you know, do you still want to talk with me?”

  “Sure.”

  “You said on the phone that you wanted to talk about Claire. So what do you have on your mind, Miss Quick?” He took a pack of Old Golds and a lighter from his shirt pocket.

  “Call me Faye.” I went into my pocketbook, empty of my wallet, and took out my cigs. Widmark lit his with a Zippo.

  “Sorry I can’t light yours,” he said. He meant he couldn’t reach me from the chair.

  “I’m doin fine,” I said, and lit up. “I don’t think I said I wanted to talk about Claire. I said she’d given me your number.”

  “So you did. What do you want to talk about then?”

  “Miss Turner told me you two used to be an item.” Oops.

  He smiled. It was crooked and I liked it. “I guess you could say that. We’d been dating for about three months when Ladd came along. You know about him, don’t you?”

  “Know what?”

  “That he stole her from me. Right in front of my eyes.” He blew out a lotta smoke, like a boiling teakettle.

  “You bitter about that?”

  “I was at the time. But now that I’m like this none of it matters.”

  “Meanin?”

  “What girl would want to be stuck with a cripple? Claire would’ve left me by now anyway.”

  In the movies girls always said things like, I didn’t fall in love with yer legs, Jim. But this wasn’t the movies and he was probably right. I wondered again if Claire had been the girl the elevator operator had mentioned.

  “Claire come to see ya much?”

  “No.”

  “Not ever?”

  “Not ever.”

  So she hadn’t been the one.

  “I think she’s too ashamed,” he said. “It’s foolish of her, but that’s the way it is.”

  “Ashamed she left ya?”

  “It was the way she did it.”

  “How was that?”

  “By Western Union.”

  “Really?” That seemed shabby. “What’d she say?”

  “I know it by heart.” He closed his eyes. “Van, please forgive me. Stop. I’ve met the man of my dreams. Stop. I’ll always care for you, but I have to say goodbye. Stop. Love, Claire. Big Stop. Big End.” He opened his eyes.

  “That’s lousy.”

  “Not how I would’ve done it,” he said.

  I couldn’t figure out if she did it that way cause she was naïve or dumb. I guessed she wasn’t trying to be mean, but I didn’t really know her.

  “What d’ya think of Charlie Ladd?” I said, and took a drag on my butt.

  “I don’t know him. I met him at the same time Claire did.”

  “At the Biltmore?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You never saw him again?”

  “No. Why?”

  “He’s disappeared.”

  “From where?”

  I explained.

  “He’s probably out on a binge.”

  “Is he a drunk?”

  “Not that I know of. I didn’t mean that. When soldiers are on leave, they often get soused. Hit all the gin mills they can.”

  “D’ya think Ladd would do that when he was supposed to meet Miss Turner?”

  “I wouldn’t do it. But I don’t know what Ladd would do. I told you, I don’t know him.”

  “Sorry.”

  “How long has he been missing?”

  “A couple a days. But here’s the thing, Mr. Widmark. A dead man was found in his hotel room. There was no identification.”

  “Was he a soldier?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “And he didn’t have his dog tags on?”

  “No.”

  “So how do you know it’s not Ladd?”

  “We don’t. Yet. When I left the scene, the cops were gonna get the hotel personnel to see if anyone knew him, any of them checked him in.”

  “I hope you don’t expect me to identify him.”

  “Never entered my mind.”

  “I like that song,” he said.

  “What?”

  “ ‘It Never Entered My Mind.’ You know it, don’t you?”

  “Why are we talkin about songs?”

  “Song. We’re talking about one song. You know the words?”

  “Yeah.” It was one of the songs I wanted to sing in my act if I ever got to do one.

  “I always think of Claire when I hear it.”

  At least we were back to Claire. I thought about the words. “I can see why ya would.”

  He smiled sadly and then he killed his cig in a heavy-looking ashtray. I figured it was so he couldn’t accidentally knock it to the floor. “And you thought I’d know where Ladd was?”

  “Anything’s possible, Mr. Widmark.”

  “Is Claire all right?” He wheeled himself closer to me but he still wasn’t within arm’s reach.

  “She’s fine. Worried about Private Ladd.”

  “Can’t she identify the man in Ladd’s room?”

  “She doesn’t know about him yet. She’ll have to view the body later if no one else can ID the corpse.”

  “Did she hire you?”

  “Can’t tell ya that, Mr. Widmark.”

  He nodded. “I’d do anything to help Claire. But I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Ya still in love with her?”

  “I’ll always be in love with her.”

  “Would ya do anything to get her back?”

  “I’d . . . what does that mean?”

  “It’s not a trick question.”

  “If you mean would I kill Charlie Ladd or some man in his hotel room, I wouldn’t. Not even if I could get there. And even if I could get there and wanted to kill this mystery man, I can’t see how that would get Claire back.”

  “I just asked if you’d do anything to get her.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed I’m no longer a man. There won’t be Claire or any other woman knocking on my door.”

  “Speakin of that, I heard there was some girl who used to visit ya, but no more. Who was she?”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  I shru
gged.

  “I get it. I answer the questions but you don’t.”

  “Somethin like that.”

  “And what if I don’t answer.”

  “Nothin. Ya don’t hafta talk to me.”

  “Maybe I won’t.”

  “Ya don’t wanna tell me who yer lady visitor was?”

  “It wasn’t Claire.”

  “Did she know Claire?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Do ya?”

  “What?”

  “Say that. That she knew Claire.”

  “She did.”

  “Can’t ya tell me her name?”

  “I could, but I’m not going to. I’m not getting that girl in trouble.”

  “She wouldn’t get in trouble.”

  “Then why do you want to know her name?”

  “Can ya tell me why she stopped comin around?”

  “I told her to stop.”

  “Why?”

  He lit another cigarette.

  “Why’d ya tell yer girlfriend to stop comin round?”

  “She wasn’t my girlfriend. I told her to stop because it . . . it wasn’t good for her.”

  “Good for her? Why not?”

  “Forget it, Miss Quick. I think it’s time for you to go now.”

  The words I loved to hear. The words I’d heard too often. I stood up.

  Widmark didn’t say anything. Just sat there looking down at the blanket that covered his missing legs. I started to leave and then I remembered my stolen wallet.

  “Mr. Widmark. I have one more question.”

  He looked up at me. “Yes?”

  “Could ya lend me a nickel?”

  “What?”

  “My wallet was stolen on the subway up here and I don’t have any money. I’m very embarrassed to ask ya for it, but I don’t have any choice. I hope you’ll understand.”

  “Who stole your wallet?”

  “I don’t know.” I wasn’t about to tell him that it was an old lady.

  A grin grew on his kisser and then he broke out guffawing until I thought he was gonna hurt himself.

  I waited.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . you’re . . . well, you’re not much of a detective, are you?”

  What could I say to that?

  “Can I have the nickel?”

  “Sure. Take it from that jar over there.”

  He pointed to a small purple vase with a large opening. I dipped in and came up with some change, went through it, picked out the nickel, and threw the rest back.