Swan Dive

by Jeremiah Healy

  “Hope there’re no hard feelings about yesterday?”

  The little guy in the bellboy outfit had a sincere look in his remaining eye, the patch on the other one tied on jauntily with black, woven cords. The man with the pop-bottle glasses was dozing behind the registration desk across the lobby.

  “No hard feelings,” I said, resting my elbow on the top of the wooden captain’s stand. “Thanks for not identifying me as the bad guy.”

  “Hah,” he said, unnecessarily shuffling some blank forms on the writing area in front of him. “You ain’t exactly the sort we cater to nowadays.”

  He moved his head around, sweeping quickly over the tattered carpet, worn upholstery, and sallow wallpaper. He made a clucking sound with his tongue against his teeth. “You also ain’t old enough to remember her in her glory, but this dowdy bitch was a hell of a hotel once.”

  I stuck out my hand. “John Cuddy.”

  “Name on my discharge papers is Norbert, Olin C. But everybody calls me Patch. Bet ya can’t guess why.”

  I laughed politely and let him go on.

  “Lost the eye right near the end of things, when the Japs were trying to kill us and themselves with the kamikazes. Hit the ship, but we managed to save her. Didn’t have no medical attention for six hours, but the doc said six minutes wouldn’t have made any difference. Fire flash seared the lens part right off. But I got no complaints, the VA takes care of me, and the disability pension plus this place pay me as much as I’ll ever need.”

  “How’d you come to be here?”

  “The hotel, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We was here on liberty once. Boston, I mean. First time I ever seen a real city, being from Indiana bottomland originally. Also, right here’s where I first got laid. Room seventeen-oh-four. Never will forget it. I thought about this place afterwards, while I was in the hospital. After I got out and all, I come here and they signed me on.”

  “Since the cops had you in for the show-up, I’m guessing you were on when Teri Angel was killed.”

  “Shit, son, I’m on pretty near every day.”

  “You remember her that night?”

  “Nope. I knew which one she was, though. You ever see her?”

  “Just a photo.”

  “Well, she was a beauty, that one. Not just the body, she had the face, too. Didn’t look the same as the others somehow, like she didn’t have the same hardness to her or something.”

  A black woman in a blond wig and purple hot pants plowed past us, towing a fiftyish guy scratching his forehead to keep us from seeing his face clearly. They didn’t bother stopping at the registration desk.

  Patch gave me a look that said, “See what I mean.”

  “The police told me that somebody here recognized Roy Marsh as one of Teri’s regular customers.”

  “That was me.”

  “You know her other regulars, too?”

  “To be square with you, no, I can’t say for sure. You see, I come on at three usually. I like my days off, go for walks, especially this time of year. So there could be a lot of guys—some women too, if you can believe it—who coulda been regulars and I’d never see ’em, or just see ’em coming or leaving and never with any particular girl.”

  “See any other regulars that night?”

  “Of hers, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nope.”

  “But you knew Marsh was one of hers for sure.”

  “Yeah. Well, I didn’t know his name till the cops told me. It ain’t exactly the sort of thing we wanta keep track of, get me?”

  “You saw her with him?”

  “Once. And I’d see him sometimes on days I knew she was entertaining.”

  “You the one who saw him with the suitcase?”

  “Right. Both times.”

  “Both times?”

  “Yeah. I saw him with it maybe six, eight months ago, then again on Monday night.”

  “Eight months ago?”

  “Give or take.”

  That was way before any of the divorce stuff.

  “Any idea what was in the suitcase?”

  Patch smiled knowingly. “Nope. And around here, you don’t ask.”

  “What are my chances of seeing the room?”

  Patch crossed his arms, doing a slow-motion dance with his feet. “ No chance at all. The cops are pretty good about not bothering us here. So when something happens, we cooperate like goddamn boy scouts. They say nobody goes in the room, nobody gets in.”

  “What does a room rent for here?”

  “Ten bucks.”

  “An hour.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “There another room like the one she died in?”

  “Sure. Any of the oh-twos.”

  “The what?”

  “The oh-twos. Like nine-oh-two, ten-oh-two, get it? She was killed in twelve-oh-two, and all of them are like identical above and below.”

  “How about I reserve eleven-oh-two upfront for a coupla hours, but use it only for about twenty minutes?”

  “Alone?”

  “No. You as my tour guide.”

  He smiled and said, “Elevator on the right. Watch your step, please.”

  “Anything different?”

  Patch looked around 1102. Swaybacked double bed, bureau that looked like the backstop at an archery range, a couple of faded prints on the wall, one in a frame with cracked glass. “Can’t swear about the prints, but the furniture is all like twelve-oh-two’s.”

  “In the same relative position in the room?”

  “Yup.”

  I walked to the window. The sill was old-fashioned, beginning just above my knee, the glass rising nearly six feet high. Patch said, “That’s where he went out. Up a floor, of course.”

  The view was the South Station coupling yards, two locomotives desultorily warming up or cooling down. Must have been a damned impressive sight in the forties, though I doubted Marsh appreciated the historical perspective.

  In addition to the entrance, there were two big doors off the room, one next to the bed, the other past the footboard. Each looked to be of solid wood with glass knobs.

  I looked into the one at the footboard first. Just a hopper and a sink within the loosely tiled walls. “Only a half bath?”

  “The oh-twos used to be suites. Then they broke ’em up. Didn’t put showers and all in most of them.”

  I moved to the other door. Patch whisked it open for me. “The spacious walk-in closet.”

  Four feet by five. A horizontal bar at eye level, some wire hangers on it. An old baggage holder with two of three straps broken. I said, “This where they found Marsh’s wallet?”

  “So they tell me. After he hit the ground, some guy off the street comes running in, saying there was somebody splattered all over the goddamn pavement. I run out after him. There’s a body all right. Kind of. Haven’t seen such a mess since the war. It looks to me like her regular ’cause of the short hair, but Karl—he’s the guy with the thick cheaters—he goes all to pieces, so he’s no good, and I gotta call the cops, then go out and make sure nobody fools around with what’s left of this guy Marsh until they get here.”

  “So you weren’t in a position to see who was leaving the hotel?”

  “Son, like I told the cops, with the commotion from the sirens and all, you gotta understand, a lot of people in beds in this place ain’t planning to sleep over. The joint cleared out like one of them old-time cartoons of the rats leaving the ship, you know? Like in speeded-up motion?”

  “Did you see the actual scene in twelve-oh-two?”

  Patch sighed. “Yeah. After the cops got here and secured things in the street, I pointed up to the window. You could see it was broke ’cause of the way the lights from the yards across there didn’t shine off it. I brought one of them, the Guinness guy was with you yesterday morning, I brought him up to twelve-oh-two and let him in. He told me to stay outside, and I did, but I could see the girl, down by the bed th
ere.”

  Patch swung his index finger left to right from the bed up to the wall near the closet door. “So much blood and the way she was lying, you could tell she was dead.”

  I walked around the room one more time. It wasn’t telling me anything. I thanked Patch and left.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I GOT BACK TO the condominium about 4:00 P.M. My office answering service gave me the same two messages that my home tape machine had. Hanna Marsh and J.J. Braxley. I called Hanna first at the Swampscott number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hanna, this is John Cuddy, returning your call.”

  “Oh, thank you. Two men come here to see me.”

  “Who?”

  “Two black men. They say that Roy was in business with them.”

  Here we go. “When was this?”

  “This morning. Before lunch.”

  “What did they want?”

  “They want something they said Roy had. They didn’t say the drugs, but I knew that was what they meant. I told them I knew nothing, I was not with Roy then or before even. The man with kind of funny hair just smiled. The other, he didn’t say nothing but he smelled so bad.”

  “Did they threaten you?”

  “No. Well, no, they didn’t make to hit me or nothing. I looked through the window when they ring the bell, so I send Vickie upstairs where they can’t see her.”

  Out of sight wasn’t exactly out of mind. “What did they do?”

  “Nothing I could tell the police or anybody. Just that they wanted the—the smiling one called it ‘the material’—the material back or else they would have to ‘pursue other alternations’ or something like that.”

  “Hanna, listen. If they’re willing to visit you in broad daylight, they’re not planning on doing anything just yet. They also probably expected you to call me, which means they’ll want to give me time to find the drugs for them.”

  “So you think Vickie and I are safe?”

  “For a while, anyway. Still, better keep Vickie around you a little closer than usual, okay?”

  “Okay. John?”

  “Yes?”

  “I thank you for helping us, but please don’t get hurt again.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

  I rang off and dialed the number J.J. had left. A crusty voice said, “Yeah?”

  “Can I talk with J.J. Braxley?”

  “Who want him?”

  “The guy he called.”

  “J.J., he call lotsa folk.”

  It didn’t sound like Terdell, so I said, “Look, pal, tell you what. You tell J.J. that the guy he wanted to talk to spoke to you and you fucked it up. Or I can mention it to J.J. the next time I see him.”

  “You lookin’ to end up—”

  “Because I’m pretty sure he’ll know it was you, since he really needs to talk to me and he left me this number to call, which means he probably knows that you’re always around to answer it.”

  Some hesitation, then barely civilly, “He got the number you at?”

  “He’s got two of them. Let him guess which one’ll be good for fifteen more minutes.”

  “Hey, I don’t—”

  I hung up on him. No more than five minutes later, the telephone rang.

  “This is John Cuddy.”

  “Mon, you think you a pretty slick dude.”

  “Let’s just say I’m not too impressed by the quality of your staff.”

  “My staff, huh? My staff Terdell, he like to know exactly what happen last night.”

  “Hard to say. I was delirious.”

  “Terdell, he not too smart to start with. Last night didn’t improve things none.”

  “They can do wonders nowadays with learning disabilities.”

  “Oh, mon. Two quality players like you and me, we shouldn’t be all the time fighting. We got lots of things to talk about, be beneficent to both of us.”

  “I guess I wouldn’t have called last night so beneficent.”

  “My mistake. Don’t like to admit to such things generally, but I approach you all wrong. Didn’t realize your depth.”

  “Why don’t we cut the crap, all right? I’ve got other calls to make.”

  “I expect you do at that. I want another meet, try a different approach this time.”

  “What about?”

  “I tell you when I see you.”

  “You’re wasting my time, J.J.”

  “You pick the time and the place. And I guarantee it won’t be no waste.”

  “Okay. Half an hour. Bar on Boylston Street called J.C. Hillary’s.”

  “I be there.”

  “Better leave Terdell in the car. Unless you’ve had him hermetically sealed.”

  “You not exactly on Terdell’s kiss list, mon. I’d walk wide around him, I was you.”

  “Half an hour.”

  I hung up and debated with myself for all of ten seconds before punching Murphy’s office number.

  “Lieutenant Murphy.”

  “Lieutenant, John Cuddy.”

  “Cuddy, I told you already. I can’t talk with you.”

  “Then talk with your buddy Sergeant Dawkins. Tell him I’m meeting Braxley at Braxley’s request at J.C. Hillary’s in thirty minutes.”

  “The one on Boylston?”

  “Right.”

  “You got something going with Dawkins, why don’t you call him yourself?”

  “Because he didn’t dress like he hung around his office much. Besides, I think I’m going to want a council of war tomorrow with Holt, and I know where his office is.”

  “I’m not even gonna ask why the hell you don’t call Holt then.”

  “Be back to you tonight.”

  “I’ll be in Saint Croix by then.”

  Murphy hung up. I was glad to see him regaining his sense of humor.

  J.J. came through the heavy front doors by himself. I was seated at the bar. He casually looked around, the place nearly empty at 4:30, as the convention facility across the street was under construction. He walked over to me and said, “How about we take us a table?”

  I led him to a back corner. We sat and the waitress took his order for Chivas on the rocks while I sipped my screwdriver.

  When she moved away, he said, “Smart. You picking a place this public and this confidential, all at the same time.”

  I raised my drink, turning the glass slowly in my hand. “I picked this place because they use fresh-squeezed orange juice in their cocktails.”

  Braxley gave me a barracuda grin. “You a little more than I bargain for, Cuddy.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I figure, mon so dumb he get whomped on the head and lose his piece, that mon be a little easier to push.”

  “I take it you finally buy my version of what happened?”

  The waitress brought his drink. He worked his smile on her, but got nothing in return. He hooded his eyes, tossed off half the drink, then settled back.

  “I don’t buy nothing. I already bought. Bought and paid for the stuff Marsh had on him.”

  “I think we already had this conversation.”

  “Oh no, mon. Not this conversation. Last night just an exhibition compared to what come.”

  “You make me too nervous, I might spill my drink on you.”

  “No, my friend. What come ain’t gonna come on you. I watch just now, coming over to the table here. You move pretty good for what Terdell whale upon you last night. You gotta hurt, nobody take that and not hurt, but you cover it. That mean you can take a lot more, and probably be real careful not to get suckered like we do last night. No, I was not thinking on you.”

  “Your visit to Hanna Marsh?”

  Braxley looked pleased. “Thought she be calling about that.”

  “She doesn’t know where the drugs are. She had nothing to do with Marsh for a while before he died.”

  “I believe her.”

  “So?”

  “So, I visiting not to see the woman so much as the
house. Saw it once before, but that was in the night, time we paid Marsh himself a little visit.”

  “The one that put him in the hospital?”

  “Marsh, he made of milk, mon. Can’t take the lickin’ like you.”

  “Didn’t you get a good look at it the time you and Terdell tossed it?”

  “Just Terdell that time.”

  “Maybe if you got to the point?”

  Braxley lapped a little more scotch. “Thought you be smart enough to see the point.”

  “I’ve always been disappointing that way.”

  “Maybe I better sharpen the matter up for you then.” He put down the glass with a flourish. “I get the stuff from my supplier, I pay him. I give the stuff to Marsh, he don’t pay me. The word is out on the street. ‘J.J. get the sting,’ ‘J.J. give the credit and get burned,’ and like that. But the stuff, it ain’t on the street. That don’t ring true. Some people get ideas, think maybe I’m gone soft about things. Business things. Somebody work up the balls to try me, see if I push a little on the territory. Means I gotta push back. Inefficient. Waste my resources on fights I don’t want and can’t make pay.”

  Braxley affected a woeful look, playing to the second balcony. “Or maybe my supplier talk to one of these dudes, get the word that I’m loose with his shit, he think, ‘Fuck, J.J. slipping the knot, getting ready to bolt on me, gotta groom this new J.J., take his place.’ Then I push the new man, supplier say, ‘Fuck is this shit? What the hell J.J. doing?’ Then the supplier, he ask himself, ‘How come the last load ain’t hit the street yet?’ I don’t need those kinds of troubles, mon.”

  “Sounds like you got them. Through your own fault with Marsh.”

  The woeful look dissolved. “Sound that way to you? Well, let’s us see how this sound. I give Marsh the credit, he don’t pay up. He do that to a bank, what the bank do?”

  I didn’t respond. Braxley reached for his drink and finished it decisively.

  “Tell you what the bank do. The bank treat that like a family obligation, mon. The bank go take his house and toss his family on the street. Well, you talking to a bank now, the First National Bank of Braxley. Terdell and me visit the missus this morning, polite as can be. We wearing hats, they woulda been in our hands. We give her notice this morning, but I spell it out for you. I get back my shit, or we take the house to cover it.”