Death of a Hooker

by Kane, Henry

  “Oh, great, I thank you.”

  “Goodbye,” I said.

  “Just a minute.”

  “Yes?”

  “What about the other thing?”

  “What other thing?”

  “The six gees.”

  “One step at a time, my dear. I’ll be in touch with you.” I hung up and then dialed another number—Vinnie Veneto’s town house on East 85th Street. His Japanese man told me that Vinnie was at his estate in Riverdale. I hung up, groaned.

  “What’s the matter?” said Sally.

  “I’ve got to go up to Riverdale, and my car’s in the repair shop.”

  “Then how’ll you go?”

  “Cab, I suppose.”

  “I can save you the fare—one way.”

  “Like how?” I said.

  “My car and chauffeur are lolling about the garage doing nothing. I can spare them both for a couple of hours, but then I’ll need them. I’ll have him drive you up, drop you, and return. Then you attend to your business there, and return by cab. Save you some cab fare and a whopping fare it is all the way up to Riverdale.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but if it’s any imposition at all—”

  “No, no,” he said as he reached for the phone. “I consider it a personal favor. After all, you promised me first crack, remember?”

  “First crack?” I screwed up my eyes.

  “When you shift genders. A guy as curious as you, you figure to make the full circle.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’ll be the day.”

  He dialled his number, asked for Arthur, and then he said, “Arthur, you’ll drive a gentleman friend of mine to Riverdale, but then you’ll return at once….”

  But the way it turned out, I was chauffeur-driven all the way up to Riverdale, and then I was chauffeur-driven all the way back.

  FIVE

  Arthur rolled the Cadillac up the flagstoned driveway, deposited me at the foot of the stairs leading up to the entrance door of Veneto’s white mansion, snapped a salute, and then he and the Cadillac rolled off. I ran up the steps and clanged the golden clanger hooked to the white marble door. A Japanese opened the door, bowed, smiled, and ushered me into a pink-marble foyer.

  “Yes, please?” he said.

  “Mr. Veneto,” I said.

  “Who is you, please?” he said.

  “Mr. Chambers.”

  “Kindly wait one small moment, please, Mr. Chambers,” he said, gestured toward a chair, turned, and made a shuffling exit.

  I sat, and two minutes later, a second Japanese entered; this one taller, broader, and with a longer-toothed smile. He spoke English perfectly. “Mr. Chambers,” he said, “I am Mr. Veneto’s secretary. Do you have an appointment with Mr. Veneto?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  The long-toothed smile was vaguely disapproving. “May I have your full name, please?”

  “Peter Chambers.”

  “Thank you very much, sir. I shall inquire.”

  And I was alone again, smiling to myself, a short-toothed smile. That Vinnie Veneto was something. Class. He prided himself on his class. As can be surmised, he had a penchant for Japanese servants. He also had a penchant for ease, charm, and availability. But he was avilable only when he wanted to be available. The Japanese servants were no more than the front guard, in the event that the caller was a friend or a member of the smart social set of which he fancied himself a part. It would be ugly manners to have proper guests greeted by suave hoodlums carrying carbines but wherever Vinnie Veneto was, there were always hoodlums and carbines in sufficiency to quell a small riot. Vinnie Veneto lived behind barricades, no matter if the barricades were invisible. And now a grizzled, bow-legged, ruddy-faced, burly man appeared, a man whom I knew. He was McCarthy, an ex-lieutenant of police, fired, during an investigation of the numbers racket, for being on the take. McCarthy was no longer on the take—he no longer needed to be. He was now in the employ of Veneto, as one of his prized bodyguards, at an under-the-table salary four times the amount he had drawn as a lieutenant of police.

  “Hello, Peter,” said McCarthy.

  “Hello, McCarthy,” said Peter.

  “The boss will see you.”

  “Do I now go down on my knees and give thanks?”

  “Why don’t you cut it?” said McCarthy. “There’s a million people wants to see him and he turns them down. You, he don’t turn down. The guy happens to like you. That don’t hurt you in your business, does it? So why don’t you be nice?”

  I stood up. “Okay. I’m nice.”

  “All right,” he grumbled. “This way.”

  We went through many rooms, many doors, to an enclosed roofless patio where Vinnie Veneto, taking the sun in nothing but white tennis shorts, was being served his lunch at a small square sparkling-clothed table. Veneto was a tall, slender, sunburnt man, black hair touching to grey at the temples. He was good-looking in a sinister way that pleased him. He had a smooth narrow face, fox-like piercing black eyes, thin lips, an aquiline nose, and even white perfectly-jacketed teeth. He had a wife somewhere but no one knew where. He lived the life of a bachelor in the only way a bachelor should live life—richly.

  He waved McCarthy away and motioned to me to sit down.

  “Don’t tell me you’re here again to plead the case of Olaf Kalmar.” He always spoke softly. He never raised his voice.

  “I’ve already had your reassurances on that,” I said. “And I thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank Boligula.”

  “For what?”

  “For the fact that he lived. For the fact that he refused to press charges. For the fact that he said the whole thing was an accident.”

  “Some accident,” I said.

  “But it took the wind out of the D.A.’s sails, didn’t it? No case. No crime. Release of the accused. So, after all, we didn’t have anything against your crumby friend, did we?”

  “Well, sometimes, guys like you, you know, you like to make an example of a good citizen—to put fear into other good citizens.”

  He looked up from his food. “What do you mean—guys like me?”

  I shrugged.

  He flashed a smile of gleaming capped teeth and shook his head slowly. “Maybe that’s why I like you—your goddamned nerve. Okay. The newspapers made a big deal about it. Maybe your friend was in line for a little going-over, as an example. But you stood up for him, and I stand up for you. You know why, don’t you?”

  “I’ve heard,” I said.

  “Well, hear it again. I think you’re a terrific man, a guy with guts and brains and experience, the kind of guy I could find very useful in a high place in my organization. At my time in life, all the machinery is working, and, mostly, I’m an executive. An executive picks his important men; he needs good new cogs to replace the old outworn cogs. And you’re a cog I’m after, pal. I’ve offered you a yearly salary double the amount the best year you’ve had in your career, and if you press me, I’ll do better. So why don’t you press me?”

  “I’m not interested in the line of work.”

  “You’ll come around. They all do, sooner or later. It’s a wise man who said every man has his price. Maybe your price ain’t in money, maybe it’ll be something else, we’ll see; meanwhile I do you a favor here and there, and throw you a little legit business here and there, just to keep you on tap. Would you like a bite of lunch?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Always polite too. Class. I love a class guy. How’s about some coffee?”

  “Yes, I’ll have some coffee, please.” He liked good manners, so I was on my best behavior. Honey draws flies. Lay it out low enough and you may catch a snake.

  He raised his hand and instantly a white-coated Japanese appeared. “Coffee for my friend,” said Vinnie Veneto and the Japanese hurried away. “So?” said Veneto. “What brings you?”

  “Astrid Lund.”

  Carefully he patted his lips with a white napkin. He threw it on the table and pushed
his plate away. He lit a cigarette and leaned back. Black eyes glinted narrowly in the sunlight. Casually he said, “That bitch is looking to be dead.”

  “Be glad I came, Vinnie.”

  “I’m always glad when you come, dear Peter.”

  “What good would she be as a corpse, Mr. Veneto?”

  He puffed, inhaled, blew smoke. “A good question. A question I have been pondering myself. Let’s hear your view on that.” He smiled, fleetingly. “You see, I got you working for me for free.”

  “Only temporarily. And only on matters I choose to work on.”

  There was a flicker of annoyance, and grit crept into the voice. “Let’s hear your views on the subject, please.”

  “A dead debtor cannot pay,” I said. “A dead debtor is therefore part of advertising expense for the loan shark. The word is passed and the dead debtor becomes a symbol and a caution to the live debtors; they either toe the mark or they too shall become dead debtors. An excellent practice, and most efficacious, unless one loses his head and kills off too many debtors—and when I say excellent, I do not mean I favor; I mean, pragmatically.”

  Veneto nodded gravely. “Some of the words are over my head but most of them hit me where I live. I admire you, dear Peter. As I said, you’re a good man. Now your views on the Lund bitch.”

  I drew a deep breath. “A loan shark eats off a certain segment of society, the low segment, let us say, and in that nether world, the violent death of a welcher, as I said, serves a purpose. But Astrid Lund is not low society; she is, in a manner of speaking, high society. Her death would give no warning to anyone in her stratum because there the people, generally, do not deal with loan sharks. So her killing would be spite, revenge and anger, and two hundred thousand dollars, aside from interest, would be, to my way of thinking, a stupid and extravagant expenditure to satisfy a whim of revenge. How is it to your way of thinking, Vinnie?”

  “Similar,” he said and expunged his cigarette. “How are you fixed for alternatives, dear Peter? Because, it’s my hunch, that’s why you’re here.”

  The Japanese came with a tray bearing a silver pot of coffee, cups, cream, sugar, and utensils. He laid out the stuff, poured for both of us, and departed. I took my time sugaring, creaming, and stirring. I lit a cigarette, dragged, sipped, smiled.

  “Question,” I said. “How come you made that loan in the first place?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t understand the question.”

  “Two hundred thousand bucks is a lot of loot—even for you. Aside from the matter of interest, there is the matter of principal. How did you know you would be able to get a return of the principal? In other words, how did you know she was good for it?”

  “I’m not altogether a fool, dear Peter.”

  “Which is the reason for my question, dear Vinnie.”

  Slender fingers lit a new cigarette. He sipped coffee. “This thing came about in June. In June I was in Chicago. Ever hear of the Copa Danzig?”

  “The joint owned by Jerry Danzig?” Big shot Chambers displaying his knowledge of world affairs.

  “Correction,” said Vinnie. “The joint owned by me.”

  Big shot Chambers bent over an ashtray and made an elaborate procedure of extinguishing his cigarette in order to cover up his confusion. Then he made an attempt at rehabilitation by vouchsafing another major item of world affairs. “That kid brother, Danny,” lamely quoth Chambers, “is an awfully good dancer, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” said Vinnie, “if he stuck to dancing.”

  “You ever use him for anything—except dancing?”

  “For my money, he’s a dancer, period.”

  “So?” I said.

  “In June I was in Chicago attending to some business in a joint I own called the Copa Danzig and where, as a matter of fact, this Danny was dancing at the time.” That put me in my place on the theme of world affairs. “Kiki Kalmar was also dancing in the joint at the time which, naturally, brought in Roy Paxton on overnight hops. You know Paxton.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s when I got the call from Mickey that Lund was in trouble in Vegas, two hundred thousand dollars worth of trouble. I remember it like it was now. Mickey reached me at the Copa Danzig pretty late at night. Your Danny-boy was on the floor, and me and Paxton and Kiki were at a table together. Paxton was knocking off champagne, at my expense of course, like it was soda pop, and he was pretty well looped. The call came, I excused myself, and when I came back, I started a pump job on Paxton.”

  “Why?” I said, as though I didn’t know.

  “Paxton is the attorney for the Lund family. Don’t you know that?”

  “No.” I had retired from displaying my knowledge of world affairs.

  “Well, he is. He is also grateful to me for lots of business which I have thrown his way although, between you and me, that chump hasn’t got a dime. Lives too high, thinks he’s a stock market wizard which he ain’t, and has to shell out plenty in alimony.”

  “So?”

  “I pumped him about the old lady’s will, pouring champagne for him and Kiki until they were both floating. You know about the old lady’s will?”

  “No,” I said and that was the truth. How much about world affairs can one private richard know?

  “A very simple will,” said Vinnie. “And very generous in the right departments. Lawyer Paxton spilled it all like the very ethical lawyer he is. The maid, the cook, the butler, the chauffeur, each get fifty gees. Olaf gets a nice slice, five hundred gees. The doorman downstairs, Juan Fernandez, gets twenty-five gees. That’s all. All the rest goes to Astrid Lund. You know how much that is?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “I wasn’t sure but I flew into New York the next morning and found out. Oscar Berger, of Berger, Berger and Fenwick, is her financial counselor and investment broker as he is also for Paxton. I talked to Berger. How much do you think the old lady is worth?”

  “I give up.”

  “Upwards of fifteen million. So Astrid Lund, as chief beneficiary, figures to be good for two hundred thousand, doesn’t she?”

  “She does,” I said. “At what rate of interest?”

  “One percent a month. Almost as good as a bank would do for her.”

  “A bank would charge six percent. Your charge figures for double. That’s almost?”

  His eyes were sad. “All I get is a note. No collateral. No nothing. I think I was being very reasonable at two thousand a month, although the bitch has only paid her interest once, for the month of July. Now what’s your story, Peter?”

  I sipped cold coffee and made a face. “My story is simple,” I said. “Astrid Lund wants a couple of months’ extension, at which time she will return the principal plus six months’ interest.”

  “And what about the two months’ interest she owes now?”

  “I’m sure she’ll pay that.”

  “And what about the interest for the couple of months in between?”

  “I’m certain she’ll pay that too.”

  He closed his eyes. “Two and two is four and six is ten,” he murmured. “Ten months is twenty gees.” He opened his eyes. “Okay. For twenty gees now owing to me as interest, she has got her couple of months.”

  I stood up. I said, “Thank you.”

  “Where you going?” he said.

  “I’ve successfully completed my mission,” I said. “I don’t want to take up any more of your valuable time.”

  “Don’t con a conner,” he said and he rose, perspiration on his sun-heated chest running down in rivulets. “Hang around while I shower and dress. I’ll drive you back into town.”

  “You’re going to town?” I said as ingenuously as I could muster.

  “I’m going into town,” he said, “to protect my interests.”

  And so I was chauffeur-driven back into the city, this time in a Rolls limousine, with a blond flat-nosed hood as a driver and McCarthy up front as a footman and Veneto and myself in the rear,
chatting amiably.

  “Where do you want me to drop you?” he said.

  “My office, if you please.”

  SIX

  I did routine at the office, I went out for a lonely dinner, I called Marilyn Windsor twice and got no answer twice. I strolled the streets, I window-shopped, I went to an Art Movie showing an intellectual foreign film with unintellectual subtitles, but I walked out on it because my unintellectual behind kept falling asleep. I called Marilyn Windsor once and got no answer once. I went home and read an intellectual novel by an intellectual southern author (aren’t they all?) who had made his reputation by running his sentences together to the point of unintelligibility and this time my behind did not fall asleep but I did. I awoke, showered, shaved, fruitlessly called Marilyn Windsor, locked up, went out, hailed a cab, and of course with all the time in the world to spare, I was late. I arrived at 700 Park Avenue at twenty minutes after eleven. Juan Fernandez bobbed his head as I emerged from the cab and smiled in recognition.

  “Good evening, Mr. Chambers,” said Juan Fernandez.

  “Good evening, Juan,” I said.

  Juan Fernandez was a Puerto Rican who spoke English without a Spanish accent. He had been a resident of the United States for twenty years and the doorman at 700 Park for the past fifteen. He was a kind, considerate man and a deserved favorite of all the tenants. He was about fifty years of age, small, spry, smiling, tireless, always attentive, always helpful. He swung open the door for me, smiled again, and remained outside.

  The lobby of 700 Park was vast, cool, quiet, with subdued lighting from small amber-bulbed wall brackets. There were two elevators, one of which shut down at 11 o’clock each evening. The other stood open in the lobby, the elevator-man seated reading a newspaper. As I approached, he folded the paper, laid it away, and stood up. He was a tall, taciturn young man with the inward look of the horse player who knows he has devised a foolproof system and is waiting to accumulate the small amount of investment capital necessary to make him rich. “Evening,” he said.

  “Evening,” I said. “Penthouse floor, please.”

  “Yessir.” The elevator ascended noiselessly.