The Dark Fantastic

by Stanley Ellin

  Also true.

  He heard his phone as he was unlocking his apartment door.

  Christine Bailey said, “I’ve been calling you every half hour.”

  “Didn’t I say to call in the morning?” Milano asked.

  “This is morning. You think I could get to sleep after what you said? After what happened?”

  Cotton-pickin’ or midtown, that was quite a voice. Milano sat down in his number one armchair, pulled off his shoes, and settled back the better to enjoy it. “Said what?” he asked. “And what did happen?”

  “That whole business about Lorena you didn’t finish telling me. Meaning that because I didn’t drag you right into the house, you got pissed off and ran.”

  That was accurate enough to bruise. “Well,” Milano said, “I know a grudging hostess when I meet one.”

  “Uh-huh. So let’s skip all the funny dialogue in between and get right to the meaningful stuff. I am not part of this trade-off, Milano. Not personally. No way. You read that?”

  “You mean I look that menacing?”

  “Come on, Milano, don’t turn it on for me. Just talk business. Like about Lorena. And that money she spent. Where do you think it came from? How much did it look to be anyhow?”

  He did some sketchy mental arithmetic. “Oh, maybe one-fifty, maybe two hundred. But like I said, there was no shoplifting, and she had some easy shots at it, too. You don’t want to hear it, Bailey, but that kid must be selling something. Something high profit.”

  He didn’t have to spell it out. Christine said, “Look, she doesn’t show any sign – the least sign—”

  Milano cut in: “I didn’t say she uses the stuff, did I? As you put it, maybe a joint now and then at the most. But what’s that got to do with the price of pills? Or whatever.”

  Silence. Then Christine said, “God damn.” More silence. When she finally spoke she really did sound as if she was up against the wall. “You know we can’t let it go at that, Milano.”

  We.

  But from the way she sounded, this was no time for smart-ass repartee.

  “What’s her school schedule?” Milano asked. “And home and job schedule?”

  “My mother would know that.”

  “Would she know about her school friends, club activities, neighborhood bunch – all that?”

  “A lot of it. Mama always likes to know what’s going on with us. That’s what’s killing her now. That she can’t—”

  “Right. So I want to talk to her in private. Away from the kids, that is. Any chance of setting it up quick?”

  “Well, the kids have tickets for a Palladium show tonight, so they’ll be lining up for it around noon. And Mama can be home from church around then if I phone her to. That leaves the rest of the day there for any private talking.”

  “All right, I’ll pick you up at noon,” Milano said, then couldn’t resist saying, “I won’t come upstairs. I know that hall already. I’ll just ring from downstairs.”

  She laughed.

  Yes she did. Just a brief involuntary hoot out of all the misery but an honest laugh nevertheless.

  Heavy points there.

  Then a thought struck Milano. “I forgot,” he said. “You’ve got Sunday matinee, don’t you?”

  “No performances today. Maybe none at all any more. Period.”

  “The show fold just like that?”

  “Not exactly. Look, what matters now—”

  “I know,” said Milano. There was no indication that she had spotted him taking in her act last night, so what the hell. “But let me try one of my educated guesses. You got fed up with what’s-her-name – Tamar – steamrollering the show, so you cut loose about that. And since it’s Tamar’s ball, she won’t let anybody play with it unless you say you’re oh so sorry.”

  There was another of those Christine Bailey silences, then finally: “Were you there last night, Milano?”

  “No, I was not. Why?”

  “Because I – no, never mind. But you’re not a bad guesser. Now let it go at that.”

  “Sure. Are you going to tell them you’re sorry?”

  “That’s my problem, isn’t it? I’ll see you around noon.”

  Smart girl. Woman. Person. Girl. Smart girl, but she was up against a man who had, one hour before, filled a flush against a pat king-high straight on one side and three bullets on the other. Obviously, the Force was with him.

  At eleven-thirty, he tucked away two thousand dollars worth of Pacifica’s money into his pocket and went down to the garage below the co-op to pick up his Mercedes. A lovely thing – a 450SLC in royal blue – that Maxie Rovinsky kept parked in a special area of the garage among some other regal numbers, including Gracie Macfadden’s Rolls. On the other hand, the Milano second car, a workaday Toyota, was relegated to inner darkness. Milano got into the Mercedes, then after some reflection abandoned it for the Toyota. He had the uneasy feeling that rolling up to the lady’s door right now in the big one would be making it show-off time. The peacock strut. Material values, something like that, when focus should be concentrated on the suspect in the case, not the private-eye. At least, that was the way Christine might view it.

  Matter of fact, he was warming up to this case of the pain-in-the-ass kid sister and her mysterious wealth. Definitely, if not stealing, then dealing. But it was uncomfortable to think of a wrong number in that family after what he had seen of it and put together about it. And the kid herself under observation hadn’t showed any signs of street smarts at all. And why, since she was obviously living right under the money tree, would she take on even a few hours a week boring work next door for pennies?

  Annoying.

  As it happened, when Christine got into the car she had no comment to make about it. Or about anything. Just hunched down as if afflicted with an inner chill and kept her thoughts to herself. Milano let it go at that until they were well on their way, then remarked, “Two Stops Before The End of The Line.”

  “What?”

  “The play. Will they really fold it?”

  “Maybe. Or get someone to replace me. It’s up in the air for the next few days. And I’m not being asked to say I’m sorry. The last from Tamar was that it’s her or me. Simple. One or the other. So if it reopens, I guess it’ll reopen without me.”

  “I see. How much has it been costing to carry it?”

  “Oh, four, five hundred a week. Good weeks.”

  “All from Tamar’s daddy?”

  “She’s his great big golden girl,” said Christine. A little acid there.

  “And,” said Milano, working through this very carefully, “this playwright – this Pearl – and your director don’t like the set-up any more than you do, but that’s the way it has to be, right?”

  Christine looked at him suspiciously. “What about it?”

  “Good question. Because I’d like to buy into that show. Say, a couple of thousand to start with. That’s four or five weeks’ worth. If it builds at all, more to come. Of course, Tamar’s daddy is out. Possibly Tamar too, if she doesn’t know what’s good for her.” He slapped his pocket. “The investment is right here waiting.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Jesus,” said Milano, “there’s a knee-jerk negative if I ever heard one. Now consider. When I told you what I thought about that production—”

  “You didn’t incite any mutiny, Milano. All you did was say out loud what’s been bothering me since first rehearsal. You don’t owe me anything for what happened.”

  No question, she did have some good moves.

  “All right,” Milano said, “look at it this way. The show might fold. I think it should keep running. What’s wrong with me backing my judgment with cash?”

  “Because I’ll handle my end of our trade-off without your cash. Look, man, you suddenly start to bankroll this production now, nobody’ll have to wonder why. They’ll know fucking well I must be putting out for you. I wouldn’t even try to tell them they’re wrong, that’s how useless it would be. And
I don’t want to live with those opinions. Simple?”

  “Maybe not,” said Milano. “Suppose it was some black moneyman from Harlem or Bed-Stuy who told you he wanted to bankroll that production? Could you live with that?”

  No answer. Not until two blocks and one red light later when Christine said, “Believe me, Milano, if I give you an honest answer to that one, you won’t like it.”

  Milano couldn’t quite throttle rising temper. “You mind if I tell you I’m getting a little weary of this racist comedy bit? Black, white, and everything in between?”

  “Do you mind if I tell you I’ve got twenty-three years head start on you in that?” said Christine.

  Another one of those deft moves for which the heartfelt and proper response would be a swift boot in the tail.

  Then think what a case the NAACP could bring to court.

  Despite the assurance that Lorena’s mama kept close tabs on her, Milano wasn’t surprised to find that the tabs weren’t as close as advertised. But the essentials were there. Lorena left for school every morning at eight-thirty, and she was doing all right in school. She had to be home in the house – no fooling around on those steps out there neither – every night at eleven sharp, same as it had been with Christine and the boys in their turn, and she didn’t give much trouble about that. Not too much.

  And yes, there was a classroom schedule pasted right in front of Lorena’s school copybook. Milano, borrowing a sheet of Lorena’s looseleaf paper, made his own copy of the schedule while mama dredged up a residue of essentials along with some interesting non-essentials. Lorena ate supper mostly with the family. In fact she had to get that supper on the stove when her mama had late days doing domestic. Sometimes she ate out with girl friends at one of them Chinee or maybe Jamaica beef-patty places on Flatbush Avenue and Lord knows what junk she was stuffing into herself then.

  No, for all the child told about a Jimmy who bought her things, there was never any sign of any such Jimmy. Try to pin her down about it, she’d get real tensed up. Threaten to just take off and never show up again. She could do it too. Done it twice already. Now with all this money on her she could do it even easier. Her daddy’s spoiled baby until he died, always Miss Uppity once she got over the hurt of his dying.

  Not that Christine there had been any little woolly lamb.

  “Man’s not asking about me, Mama,” said Christine. “I am not the one giving you that high blood pressure. You just tell him what you can about Lorena.”

  What else was there to tell? Oh yes, Monday and Wednesday and Friday she did an hour’s work for old Doctor Kirwan next door. Landlord here, but lived in the old family home there.

  “Doctor?” said Milano.

  “Ph.D.,” Christine said. “Doctor Charles Kirwan. Used to teach over at Borough College. Retired now.”

  “A nice man,” said Mrs. Bailey. “Real nice.”

  “Mama,” Christine said, “he is a cheap son of a bitch. You look what’s happening to this building. He’s too cheap to even have a super in here any more. And then you look at that great big fancy place of his next door and see what your rent money goes into.”

  “Man’s got troubles,” said Mrs. Bailey uncowed. “Sick old man. Got misery in every bone. And the way that Miz Florence died so hard—”

  “God damn,” Christine said loudly, “it was not Miz Florence! It was Mrs. Kirwan! You don’t have to come on like Butterfly McQueen just because you ran and fetched for her all those years cut-rate!”

  “Don’t you curse like that, Christine, ’specially Sunday. And that old man’s got nothing now except that house. Family’s all gone, friends don’t show up. You curse like that, it’ll happen to you some day, girl.”

  “Anyhow,” said Milano the peacemaker, “that means Lorena’ll go next door from school tomorrow. About what time?”

  “Half past three,” said Mrs. Bailey. “Home first to get neatened up, then over there till four-thirty.”

  “She seems to like him,” Milano said. “Otherwise, why would she put in any working time for him, what with all that other money she’s got?”

  “Because he is a nice old man,” said Mrs. Bailey. “You listen to Christine about this one and that one, you are listening to the lemon juice lady.”

  Christine leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and growled deep in her throat.

  Milano hated to cut this short, but there was the domino effect to move on. Lorena Bailey, Wim Rammaert, Pacifica, and at the end of the effect about a quarter of a million dollars. “Can I use your phone?” he asked.

  “In the bedroom,” said Mrs. Bailey. “The one that side of the hall.”

  The ladies’ bedroom it was, providing a view through its open window of the landlord’s domain across the courtyard, the windows of the tower close curtained. At least a dozen rooms in that building and one sick old man rattling around in their emptiness.

  He dialed Shirley Glass’s home number.

  “Johnny,” she said, “no office today. Please. I’ve got the whole family here.”

  “You can handle this from home. I need somebody on a surveillance first thing tomorrow morning. Somebody” – he lowered his voice – “black, you what what I mean?”

  “There’s Lee Meecham.”

  “Too old. I need somebody young. I seem to remember somebody like that around the office. Chunky kid with the earring. Is he just clerical or does he know his way around?”

  “DeLong Heywood. He knows his way around.”

  “And another one, same age, same caliber,” Milano said. “Not much travel, but it’ll be double shift for a couple of days.”

  “Same color?” asked Shirley.

  “Same.”

  “No other men, Johnny. But I’ve got a girl in the steno pool who’s itching to get into investigation. Gracella Smith. Smart, twenty-six, could pass for maybe eighteen. But you know Willie.”

  “Never mind Willie. And a female is even better. Just get those two together and have them meet me eight a.m. at the Church Avenue station of the D train. I’ll be outside there. Got that?”

  “Yes. Charge to Pacifica?”

  “What did you think?”

  “I think that if I tell Willie it’s Pacifica he’ll buy anything right now. That Grassie – the one who owns those paintings – called him personally Friday and gave him the needle about them. Also let him know the San Francisco P.D. is convinced the paintings are going through New York like some others did from a museum burglary out there last year. And if the New York police—”

  “Not to knock the New York police, beautiful, but we’re still a long way ahead of them at this reading. But let Willie sweat it out. It’ll do him good.”

  “But not me.” Shirley’s tone changed. “Johnny, there’s one other thing. You mind? Helen Monahan.”

  Ah yes. Monahan, the sad, toadlike secretary lately canned. “What about her?” Milano said cautiously.

  “She thought she could get office temporary jobs a few hours a day, but she can’t. And she can’t leave her husband alone all day, he’s that helpless now. So if you could line up somebody who needed occasional help—”

  “Line up who? Look, Shirl, there’s all kinds of social welfare programs we’re paying taxes for.”

  “Johnny—”

  “All right, all right. What you do is draw another three thousand Pacifica expense money for me and give it to her. Just tell her not to make the mistake of thanking Willie for it.”

  “Johnny, you are one hell of a nice guy, and I – oh, gee, I almost forgot again. Your birthday last week. What with all—”

  “Never mind my birthday,” Milano cut in. “Now get this part. You might—”

  Blink

  Blink

  A flash of light from the second-story window of that tower across the way. The briefest dazzle of reflected sunlight followed almost instantaneously by another dazzle of reflected sunlight. Then nothing. The curtain there was closed, but it seemed to be still in motion, settling down
.

  “Johnny?” said Shirley Glass.

  “Yeah. Sorry. Anyhow, you might be getting a follow-up call from Erasmus High about a Lorena Bailey this week, and I—”

  “Another Bailey?”

  “The kid sister. And I want you to cover my cover. She’s being considered as an applicant to the Watrous Associates summer training program for deserving youth. I’m in charge of the program. That’s all you need. And, Shirl, just make sure your Heywood and Smith team get to church on time tomorrow morning.”

  He put down the phone, squinted at the tower window.

  Binoculars? He looked around the bedroom. Lighting not too good but sufficient. Lorena there by the window, mama here, going by these pill bottles on the night table. Not long ago most likely, Christine had used that bed by the window and mama had the privilege of a sleeper in the living room.

  Milano went back to the living room. Something had gone on between the ladies, because mama now looked weary and Christine looked on the edge of distrait. Vulnerable. First time she had exposed that side of herself. She looked very appealing vulnerable.

  Milano said, “I’ve just arranged for the kid to be under surveillance full-time for a couple of days. Maybe more if it’s necessary. And you two’ll have to back this up by being smart about it. Meaning you won’t tip Lorena off in any way. Understood?”

  “Yes,” said Christine, and looked at her mother who nodded woefully.

  “One more thing,” said Milano. “I want you to let her know that you asked me about office work for her next summer. Like in a summer training program for youngsters my company runs.”

  Christine frowned. “Why that?”

  “Oh, let’s say it’s to add verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.”

  “Lend verisimilitude,” Christine corrected mechanically, and when Milano gave her a split-second double-take she said, “Yeah, I played in The Mikado. Slant-eyed was easy. Never got a chance at Ophelia though.”

  Vulnerable certainly didn’t last long with her.

  String along with this one long enough, Milano advised himself, and you’ll wind up picketing something.

  He said, “Anyhow, just tell her that. Now there’s a couple of things I’d like to know about your landlord. Does he make a habit of checking out his tenants through a pair of binoculars?”