Dark Maze

by Thomas Adcock

  The latest downpour of rain had finally cleared the streets. Nobody was willing to cope with this day, with the chancey April weather.

  But we kept galloping, Ruby and I and our painted horses.

  The organ played “By the Sea” and the horses lifted and fell.

  And lifted and fell.

  So, what’s this Sweet Land of Liberty going to give to the next generation?

  A dream? A promise?

  That’s what we got, ain’t that right?

  Damn straight.

  But I ask you. What about the next generation? Ho, ho, they got some kind of a new deal creeping up on them, hey?

  Used to be, work made money. Now it’s only money that makes money. You want to know what I say about that? I say it’s un-freaking-American!

  It’s killing us!

  Ain’t that what I been warning them all of these long goddamn years I have sacrificed myself to observing what I seen here in the Land of Our Pilgrims’ Pride? Ain’t it?

  Ain’t a guy with true love in his heart got the responsibility to observe like I have done? And make the people see what I seen?

  Don’t that at least deserve some respect?

  Oh, but they don’t see. No! They don’t want to see. Consequently, this is how so many great artists ain’t so ‘espectable.

  And where’s that leave me?

  Well, sir, you know the old saw: you always kill the ones you love.…

  After I put Ruby on the Manhattan-bound train, I waited out what I hoped was the last of the unrelenting rain in a little bar on Surf Avenue that did not have a single drop of Johnnie Walker red for sale. I drank coffee and ate a cheese sandwich with a pickle, which I suppose would have made Ruby happy.

  I also spent some money on the juke, which was good and heavy on Billie Holiday tunes like “My Sweet Hunk of Trash,” “Do Your Duty,” “In My Solitude,” and “Gimmee a Pigfoot and a Bottle of Beer.”

  Dusk came early, and with it a swirling front of cold wet ocean wind. I walked briskly along Surf Avenue in the direction of the Seashore Hotel, but a quick step did not prevent my shivering in the damp evening breezes blowing up off the beach.

  As I had requested, the Coney Island precinct station house had the hotel staked. A blue-and-white Brooklyn cruiser was parked in the west alley alongside the hotel; two uniforms sat inside, with a stained paper bag from Dunkin’ Donuts propped open on the dashboard between them. Over on the east end, across the street, was a black unmarked car with exhaust smoke pluming out from the tailpipe. I assumed there was a cop or two on footpost out back and somebody up on the roof.

  I stepped into the lobby, which was smaller than my apartment. It looked bigger, though, because there was only one chair in the place. A prostitute in a red wig sat there smoking with her skirt hiked up almost to her waist. The ceiling was low and full of buzzing fluorescent lights that bathed everything in a harsh shade of white that reminded me of refrigerator frost. There was a sour smell of dirty laundry that seemed more or less permanent. And a teller’s cage against the back wall, near the stairway. Over the cage was a white steel sign with a bullet hole and brown lettering: IF YOU LIVED HERE, YOU’D BE HOME NOW.

  The pross looked me over as I crossed through the lobby toward the cage. There was a young fat guy wedged inside with a till, a radio and a board full of mail and key slots. He had pale waxy skin, curly orange hair and a thick wart on his lower lip. He was listening intently to Dr. Ruth Westheimer’s call-in show.

  He switched off the radio and said to me in a tired-out tone, “Rates are twenty-two fifty a night plus tax—or by the week starting out at a hundred, plus your linen charges. Cash only, in advance.”

  I took out my wallet and showed him the NYPD gold shield.

  “I guess you don’t want a room?” he said.

  “Tonight, no. I just want some information.”

  “Like I told all the other cops crawling around here, the Seashore Hotel doesn’t give out personal information on our guests. It’s a violation of privacy and nobody’s got any search warrants out or anything like that. I know my rights.”

  “I can tell that you do,” I said. My wallet was still out. I opened it so that the clerk could see the money inside. “But I’m special.”

  The clerk looked past me, over to the pross. Then he whispered, “How much you want to know?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what I could tell you about this Picasso guy everybody’s looking for?”

  “That and whatever else it might occur to me to ask. Start talking and we’ll see if we’ve got business to conduct.”

  I took out a twenty-dollar bill and crackled it. Then I heard the pross get up from the chair and head over my way.

  “Well, let’s see now, Picasso burnt up his room the day we had to have the marshall come put him out.”

  “That I already know, son. No sale. Tell me something original.”

  “The guy was a real loner type.”

  “You’re not even trying.”

  The clerk thought, which brought pain to his broad face. Then he brightened and said, “Once he had a visitor—I was on duty! This was a very big deal because it was the only visitor the guy ever had in all the time he’d been here.”

  “First, how long did he live here?”

  “Say, man, you ever going to let loose of that money?”

  I crackled the bill and turned around. The pross smiled at me, and I counted three gold caps on her teeth. I asked her, “You ever visit Picasso, darlin’?”

  “Hey!” The clerk complained so loudly there was an echo in the lobby. “I’m going to tell you!”

  I said to the pross, “Ignore Fats back there in the cage, darlin’. Here’s for your conversation.” I handed her the twenty. She stuffed it in her bra.

  “Hey, the name’s Jerry!” the fleshy clerk complained.

  I looked back and told him, “Okay, Jerry, now keep quiet so I can hear the lady. You just be thinking all about that visitor, and watch how easy it could be for you to make some money.”

  The pross asked me, “What’re you, with the cops?”

  I introduced myself, then asked, “What’s your name, darlin’?”

  “Chastity.”

  “That’s a pretty name,” I told her. She flashed gold teeth. “Did you ever visit Picasso?”

  “Well, I been up to his room, oh, maybe six, seven times. No big deal. Mostly he’d pay five bucks for me to kneel down and pray with him.”

  I commiserated with her. “A lot of these johns nowadays, they’re only looking for Mary Magdalene.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it.”

  “Did Picasso ever do anything else?”

  “Naw, but once or twice he paid double when he wanted me to see him play with Madam Thumb and her four lovely daughters, you know?”

  “You earn every penny you make, don’t you, Chastity?” I gave her another twenty. I heard Jerry sighing behind me.

  “Did you ever see Picasso with anybody, up in his room, I mean?”

  “No,” she said. “I only would see him going through the lobby here, then up in his room when he’d ask. I never saw him even out in the street or the boardwalk.”

  “Can you tell me anything else about him?”

  Chastity shrugged and said, “People said he was hot-tempered, but I never saw that. I know he was a painter over at Astroland. That’s it, I guess, unless you want a date tonight.”

  “No, but thanks, Chastity. I’m sort of going steady. She’s a real nice lady.”

  “That’s good,” Chastity said. She went back to her chair. “Hey, you!” Jerry bellowed.

  “You just cost yourself a ten-dollar penalty,” I said, turning to him. “Now, quietly, tell me how long he lived here.”

  “Five years, thereabouts.”

  “Where’d he live before?”

  “Nobody knows, honest.”

  “When did he have this one visitor of his?”

  “Just before we had to call the ma
rshall to come put him out.”

  “What was the visitor’s name?”

  “Hey, man—the names you get around here! I mean, give me a break—Picasso and Chastity? We don’t even bother asking anymore. Somebody gives us a funny name for their convenience, we use it and that’s it.”

  “Let’s keep it short and to the point, Jerry.”

  “Okay, but how about—you know?” Jerry stuck a soft hand out from the cage.

  I gave him a ten. “Let’s try for the twenty this time around. Did you personally see the visitor? What did he—or she—look like?”

  “It was a he, about the same age as Picasso, I’d say. He came in right about this time of night and I was on the desk here.”

  Jerry earned a twenty. I crackled another one at him. “What do you suppose the visit was about?”

  “Well, we don’t know,” Jerry said. “But I’d guess the subject was money. Picasso was really under the gun since he was owing us six months rent or so and he was owing everybody else up and down the boardwalk, too.”

  “He didn’t have any work?”

  “No. They’re not painting anything at Astroland anymore, not even maintenance painting. It’s all just going to pot.”

  “Have you ever seen this visitor around here before?”

  “Nobody’s seen him before or since.”

  “How long was the meeting?”

  “How long’ve I got to keep answering questions with no more revenues?”

  “Don’t be greedy, Jerry. Did you see Chastity over there being greedy? If I think you deserve it, I’ll take care of you.”

  Jerry sighed and said, “Okay. They were up there about an hour. On my break, I went up and sort of listened outside the door.”

  “I figured you were the type,” I said, handing over another twenty. “What did you hear?”

  “An argument, but not anything real bad as far as they go. See, I’ve heard Picasso carry on pretty good all by himself. Everybody has. He talks to himself, you know, usually after he’s been drinking pretty good over at the Neptune where he hangs. You’d swear sometimes there was two people up in his room.”

  “This little argument, what was it about?”

  “Oh, that I don’t remember—honest. I think maybe it might’ve been about a woman. But you know, over the years you hear guys having so much grief over women it all sort of runs together until you don’t pay attention anymore.”

  I took the snapshot out of my wallet and showed it to Jerry.

  “Who are the people in this picture?” I asked.

  “That’s really old, right?”

  “Never mind that. Just tell me what I want to know.”

  “I’ll try.” Jerry took the snapshot and studied it. He pointed to Picasso and said, “That’s your boy, Picasso. He’s younger in this picture, of course.”

  “Who’s the other man?”

  “He kind of looks like he might’ve been that visitor we’re talking about. I can’t be real sure, though.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Sorry. I got no idea about her.”

  I looked at my wristwatch. It was closing in on seven, and I was due at the Carny Club in a few minutes.

  “You’ve been a real brick,” I told Jerry. “I’ll probably be back sometime soon, but until then, do you want to tell me anything else you think is worth my while?”

  Jerry looked up. His lips moved in thought and he drummed his heavy fingers. “Nope. Can’t think of anything right now. I’ll make a list for the next time, though. Don’t forget to bring your wallet.”

  He switched on the radio again. Somebody was telling Dr. Ruth about rubber suits and purple whips.

  It was time to leave the Seashore Hotel lobby for the relative comfort of the dank breezes of Surf Avenue, and I was thinking how I had no time to spare. Not if I wanted to be prompt about meeting Big Stuff over at the Carny Club.

  Then Chastity threw me off schedule. She got up out of her chair, smoothed down her skirt in a semblance of modesty, and planted herself between me and the front door.

  “I got to ask you something, Detective Hockaday,” she said sternly.

  “Go ahead.”

  “How long before them lousy newspapers hang poor old Picasso for murder?” There was a sharp accusatory tone in her voice. I thought we had got along well before; now it was as if she had consigned me to the familiar category of big dumb heartless cop.

  “I don’t write newspaper stories,” I said. “I’m only trying to find Picasso in a hurry. You want to help the cause, there’s some fast money in it for you.”

  “I don’t want more money. I just want to tell you, for whatever it’s worth, I think Picasso’s got royally jerked around his whole life.”

  “Maybe so. What do you know about it?”

  “Nothing you could go to court with. It’s just something I feel, all right. Don’t laugh, even a girl like me’s got some women’s intuition.”

  “I never laugh at a woman’s intuition.”

  “Men never should. But most do. It’s because men naturally hate women.”

  “Oh, why?”

  Chastity looked at me with great pity, as if my head was full of dents. “It’s because of our women’s intuition,” she explained. “You hate us because we always know where things are.”

  “I see.”

  “That’s what you all say.”

  Maybe so, I said to myself. “Let me ask you something now.”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you like the life?”

  “If you mean hooking, honey, it’s like sweet old Coney Island itself. I don’t like it and I don’t dislike it, I’m just used to it.”

  I hurried along to my appointment.

  Naturally, I wondered what lay ahead at the Carny Club. But I was not so preoccupied by this that I could not appreciate the richness of Chastity’s intriguing logic, Jerry’s minor revelations, Johnny Halo’s major evasions and Ruby’s inarguable conclusions about the chances of Picasso’s posterity if the artless fangs of the Prescott organization were to start chewing up Coney Island real estate.

  I was glad, finally, that I had trusted Ruby and myself to this long day’s leg work, that I had not sloughed it off to Logue or anybody else at Central Homicide. I was relieved that I had not wasted my time after all. In a word, I was no longer discouraged.

  Here I had reached that interesting and delicate point in a criminal investigation—the intuitive point—where a detective may rightly feel possessed of all the main elements of a solution, in the legal if not moral sense. All that was needed to be known was there. The facts may not have been fully visible, but they were available just below the surface.

  All that was needed now was time and opportunity to compute dozens of naked, fugitive facts. A good night’s sleep might do this detective’s trick. And I am a believer in dreams that forge sense from senselessness.

  But for one weakness, I was confident as I moved through dark wet streets toward the Carny Club. All my satisfaction in a day’s work well done was based merely on a man’s intuition.

  West Fifth Street, where I walked now, was once back-stage to Coney Island.

  Here I remembered seeing machine shops and studios and hangars, and hearing their noises, day and night. Giant roller coasters were fabricated and assembled here on West Fifth. Carousel horses were carved from tree trunks by proud craftsmen who added conceits to their work such as a black cat coiled beneath a saddle. Great chains of light bulbs were strung together on this street, sketching a summer’s boardwalk night in electric flame, such as I will never forget from my childhood.

  Here, flats were painted for Astroland attractions. Here was where Charlie Furman began to nurse his grudges. And rightly so.

  Now the street was devoid of light and sound. The buildings were black from fire or else abandoned, the dwelling places of squatters and vermin.

  In the lanes off West Fifth were clapboard tenements and low cramped row houses where hundreds of Brooklyn workers
had once lived and raised families. Now they were warrens for classes of the unemployed who did not burden the government so long as the government did not burden them.

  I looked at the handbill that Big Stuff had given me, checked the West Fifth Street address he had written out on the back. Two more doors, then I was there.

  My spirits lifted again when I heard a bit of music floating out the door of a low, boarded-up shop. It was the unlikely sound of the Benny Goodman orchestra, swinging with “Mama, That Man Is Here Again” as I knocked and waited.

  Then the music died.

  “What is it?” a woman’s voice said from the other side of the door.

  “I’m looking for the Carny Club,” I said.

  “Who’s looking?”

  “The name is Neil Hockaday.”

  I heard feet shuffling, then excited voices. Then the door opened a crack.

  There appeared in the crack the heavyset face of a young woman vaguely familiar to me. She might have been thirty or thirty-two, thereabouts, but excess weight aged her. She had pink skin, a wide nose over a small mouth wet with red lipstick and a pile of curly hair the color of scrambled eggs. Her eyes were brown, embellished with so much liner and mascara it appeared she might have mashed two chocolate cupcakes in her face.

  She looked me up and down in a matter-of-fact way and asked, “You the cop?”

  I showed her my shield.

  Most people do not actually look closely at a police shield. They notice the shape of it, whether it is a star or not; they see the beveled outline of it; they see that it is either silver or gold, but never ask the difference. This one with the cupcake eyes was different; she inspected my gold shield closely, so closely she read off the name and badge number.

  “Detective Hockaday, 4321,” she said. “Okay, Hockaday, let’s see your guns.”

  “I don’t—”

  She interrupted with, “If you want in, you have to check the hardware. Nothing personal, just house rules.”

  “I’m looking for a dwarf named Big Stuff,” I said. “Tell him to come here.”

  “Let’s see the guns.”

  “I can get a warrant.”

  “You do that.” She started to close the door.