Night Life

by David C. Taylor

  “And you just send one off?” Cassidy asked.

  “Sure. I mean, who wants someone’s birth certificate except someone in the family? People need them for all kinds of things, estate problems, probate. You know.”

  “Is there a record of where the copy was sent?”

  “There should be. Wait. Here, it wasn’t sent anywhere. Someone picked it up in person and signed for it.” She slid the paper to him and then leaned over his shoulder to point out the place on the form where a scrawled signature could have been Einstein or Lincoln and managed to press a large, soft breast against his arm. Her breath smelled of the peppermints she chewed from a roll on her desk.

  “Do you like living in the city? I always thought I’d like it, but I could never get Carl, that’s my ex, the louse, to move. Born in New Jersey, going to die in New Jersey, he’d say. Wish he had, it would’ve saved me the aggravation.”

  “Once someone’s got a birth certificate, he can apply for a driver’s license in that name, right?”

  “Sure. A copy of his Social Security number, driver’s license, whatever you need.”

  “Do you have those records here?”

  “Uh-uh. Social Security’s federal, driver’s license is state. I’ve got a friend in records at the Motor Vehicle Commission. I could give her a call if you want.”

  “Ask her if anyone got a license in Ingram’s name, and where it was sent if it was sent.”

  She pulled the phone over and dialed. “What did this guy do, rob a bank or something?”

  “Nothing that exciting.”

  She dialed with a pencil to save her long red fingernail. “Hey, Doreen, Gladys. Hi, honey. What, Friday? Uh-uh, I can’t. That’s bowling night. I could go Thursday. I really want to see it. God, Brando. I mean, come on. Okay, Thursday. Listen, honey, can you do me a favor and look up a license? Alexander Ingram? There’s this real cute guy here asked me, and I just can’t say no.” She winked at Cassidy. “Sure, I’ll wait.”

  Alexander Ingram had applied for a New Jersey driver’s license in November 1950 and had renewed it once. The address on both licenses was Joe Ingram’s house on Linwood, but the mailing address was Box 1289 at the main post office in New York across from Penn Station.

  Gladys waited until he had written down the information. “I get off at five. There’s this Italian restaurant over on Palisades. It’s pretty good. Maybe not New York good, but good.” Gladys took a deep breath to show off her assets.

  “I’d like to, but I can’t. I’m with someone.”

  “Just my luck. I was with someone too, but he threw me back.”

  With someone. He thought about it on the drive back and knew it was true. Was someone with him?

  * * *

  He knocked on Dylan’s door, and she opened it and said, “I’m glad you’re back,” and kissed him hard. He picked her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist, and he carried her to the bedroom. He pushed her up against the wall, holding her there with his weight and her legs around him and pulled her shirt out from her jeans and pushed his hands up under her shirt to her breasts. She bit his lip and then took his head in both her hands and pushed it back so she could look in his face. He did not know what she found there, but her eyes were bright, and then she drew him back and kissed him, her tongue deep in his mouth. She released her legs from his waist and they went toward the bed trying not to break the kiss. They undressed each other slowly to hold off the moment, to prolong the anticipation, but in the end impatience got him and he ripped the last three buttons from her shirt. When he went into her, one of them said, Oh, God. They would rest, and then one would reach for the other, a touch, a hand, a tongue, and they would go again until finally she rolled aside and laughed and said, no more, no more. I’m ruined. I’m so sore it’s beginning to hurt. They lay together, pressing along the lengths of their bodies as their sweat cooled. Then they slept.

  They woke hungry at two in the morning and walked to the Bickford’s on Seventh Avenue and ordered ham and eggs. Dylan poured rum from the pint in her leather bag into their coffee. A couple of late-shift cabbies played gin rummy at one of the red Formica tables in the back while a third read the bulldog edition of the Daily News. A young drunk in a rumpled tuxedo with wine stains on his ruffled shirt quietly sang Cole Porter songs to his date, a pretty girl in a dark blue silk dress who slept openmouthed with her head cradled on her arms.

  Cassidy told Dylan about his trip to New Jersey and his discovery that the real Alex Ingram had died more than twenty years ago.

  “So somebody found out he was dead and stole his identity. Who would do that?”

  “Somebody looking for a fresh start with a clean name. Maybe a guy with a record. Maybe somebody running from somebody else. I don’t know.”

  “Do you have any idea of who he really was?”

  “No.”

  “Wow. You’re some detective.”

  “Hey.” Mock outrage. “I did find out that he had his driver’s license sent to a post office box here in the city.”

  “And?”

  “I guess I better go see if there’s anything in it.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe something that will give me a better idea of who Ingram really was.”

  “So you just kind of poke around hoping that something will fall into your lap to solve the case.”

  “You know, you could show a little more respect. I am one of New York’s Finest.”

  “We’re in trouble.”

  Dylan mopped the last of the egg yolk from her plate with a piece of toast, drank the last of her coffee, and took two cigarettes from his pack on the table. She lit one and gave it to him, and then lit the other for herself. She blew smoke toward the ceiling and watched him. There was a question in her eyes.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I just want to know you a little. Tell me something.”

  “What should I tell you?”

  “Anything. I don’t know anything, so you can tell me almost anything and I’ll know more. Tell me what you were like as a boy.”

  “Oh, hell, I don’t know. I was a boy. A pain in the ass. Impatient, willful, a wiseass.”

  “Why’d you become a cop?”

  He told her about coming back from the war, about freewheeling, trying to find traction, out of sorts with everything he touched, and then seeing the recruiting poster and walking into the station house on 67th Street and signing up. She smoked another cigarette and watched him carefully while he told it.

  “That’s it? You joined out of boredom? Come on.” She stubbed the cigarette out impatiently. “That’s the story you tell everybody. I don’t want the story you tell everybody. I want the story you tell me.”

  “I hate bullies.” Jesus, that sounds lame.

  She smiled and sat back. “I get that. Sure. I get that.”

  “Who protects the sheep from the wolves?”

  “The guys who beat you up were cops.”

  “Hold it. Wait. Are you trying to tell me it’s not all black and white?”

  “Okay. Right.”

  “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”

  “What’s that, Latin?”

  “Yes. It means ‘Who watches the watchmen?’”

  “Who does?”

  “I do.”

  She touched his hand gently. “Why do men look so embarrassed when they talk about being good?”

  * * *

  New York streets are never empty, and there were a few people out as they walked home: shift workers coming or going, solitary serious drinkers tacking from one bar to the next, a horn player and a cellist carrying their instrument cases toward the 12th Street subway, an old woman walking three miniature poodles.

  Dylan held his arm, and once when they stopped to let traffic clear, rubbed her head against his shoulder, and he did not want the night to end.

  He stopped to light a cigarette and turned to shield the match from wind off the river and caught movement down t
he block out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked, there was no one there. He watched for a moment but saw nothing in the deep shadows of the doorways. When they went on, he had a prickly feeling on his back that someone watched them.

  19

  “What do you think?” Rhonda whispered.

  A showroom at Henri Bendel on 57th Street. Thin, expensive women and a scattering of willowy men in well-cut suits perched on uncomfortable gilt chairs.

  “I think I’d get paper cuts from her hips.” The model turned and stalked back up the runway.

  “Of the dress.”

  “I like the dress,” Cassidy whispered back. A couple of people in the row looked at them in annoyance, as if they were talking in church.

  “Coco Chanel. She actually makes clothes for women, rather than some weird semi-demi-male fantasy. I swear to God I’d wear only Chanel if I could afford it. Come on, let’s get out of here. I have more than enough for my piece.”

  They walked up Fifth Avenue to The Plaza and took a table by the windows in the Oak Bar and ordered gin and tonics in a bow to spring. The trees in Central Park across 59th Street spread their new green leaves, and businessmen and -women from the buildings nearby carried bag lunches into the park.

  “What did you get me into?” Rhonda leaned forward to accept a light for her cigarette.

  “What happened?”

  “I went to the place on Sixty-fourth Street and gave them some malarkey about an article I was doing on exclusive apartment buildings on the Upper East Side, and they politely told me to go to hell. So I found a janitor banging garbage cans around in the alley, and gave him twenty bucks, and he gave me the dirt. Mrs. Sculley on eleven tends to meet the delivery boys in her underwear. Mr. and Mrs. Fraser throw things at each other. The Samsons on three are two months behind in their rent. That kind of thing. And he gave me a list of apartments on four to eight facing the street.” She slipped a piece of paper across to him. “And you owe me the twenty I gave him. I don’t know what they’re paying cops these days, but it’s got to be more than what girl reporters get.”

  “Thanks.” He handed her a twenty and she tucked it in her bag as the waiter left their drinks. “It’s going to take more than thanks, because the next day I was paid a visit in the newsroom by a polite but arrogant young man in a crappy suit who wanted to know why I was asking questions about that particular apartment building. I gave him the same malarkey that I gave the building manager, but I don’t think he believed me.”

  “Why not? I always thought you were an expert liar.”

  “Oooh, thank you. But flattery will get you nowhere. And by the way, the guy who came to see me, he’s leaning against the bar. He’s been there since we sat down.”

  Cassidy turned to look. One of the FBI agents who had searched his apartment was at the end of the bar near the door. As he watched, Susdorf came in and spoke to him and then crossed the room to their table and put his hands on the back of an empty chair.

  “Miss Raskin, I’d like to speak to Detective Cassidy. Alone.”

  “I think I’ll stay. Freedom of the press and all that. Besides, I haven’t finished my drink.”

  Susdorf raised a hand, and the other FBI agent left the bar and came across the room toward their table. Rhonda sipped her drink and pretended to be calm. Cassidy lit a cigarette. Susdorf leaned his weight on his hands on the back of the chair and watched them without expression. The agent stopped at his shoulder. “Frank, arrest Miss Raskin, please.”

  “What charge?” Rhonda took another sip of her drink.

  “Interfering with an FBI agent in performance of his duty.”

  “It’ll never stick.”

  “You’ll still spend the night downtown in the federal lockup.”

  Rhonda tried to gauge his seriousness. What she read made her put down her glass, pick up her purse, and stand. “Well, I’d love to be arrested by such a good-looking guy, but I’ve got work to do. Michael, give me a hug.”

  Cassidy stood and put his arms around her. She leaned in to kiss him and whispered, “Caldwell on the sixth floor was at Ribera’s the other night.” She pulled back, smiled at them, and said, “Bye, guys. Have fun.”

  Cassidy sat down again and took his cigarette out of the ashtray. He tasted his gin and tonic and outwaited Susdorf.

  “Why’d you send her to that building? We already told you we checked it out. There’s nothing there for you.”

  “What building?”

  “The one on Sixty-fourth Street.”

  “I didn’t send her there.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Cassidy shrugged. “I’ve known her a long time. We used to go out together. I bet you know that. I ran into her at Toots Shor’s the other night. She said she was doing an article on upscale Upper East Side apartment buildings. We talked about getting together. Today we found the time.”

  “At a fashion show at Bendel’s?”

  “I like women. I like their clothes. You’d be amazed at how few men can talk to women about their clothes. You should take an interest. Your wife would appreciate it.”

  Susdorf’s anger showed in his white knuckles on the chair back and bunching muscles in his jaw. “We’re watching you, Cassidy.”

  “Thank you. It makes me feel safe in a dangerous world.”

  Susdorf jerked his hands off the chair, started to say something, thought better of it, and stalked away, followed by the agent Frank.

  * * *

  The doorman at the building on 64th said General Wilson Caldwell, of apartment 6B, was not home and probably would not be for a while. He had left with a suitcase two days ago.

  A telephone call from the squad room to the Department of the Army told Cassidy that General Caldwell was commanding maneuvers in North Carolina. The information officer had no information as to when the general might be back in New York.

  20

  Three days of rain, and then the sun came out. Cassidy found May Stiles in her office, a booth in the coffee shop across the street from the Cortland Hotel. She was dressed in a gray linen business suit with red accents. Her makeup was perfect, and her blond hair was held back with tortoiseshell clips that matched her glasses. She looked like the middle-aged businesswoman she was, but there was little chance she would be mentioned in Forbes or BusinessWeek. A glass of iced tea sweated onto a folded napkin. There was a telephone at her elbow on the Formica tabletop. She held the receiver against her ear with her shoulder while she leafed through a small black notebook. Cassidy waited while she finished the call. “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, Claudine isn’t available today. She has classes. Lorette would be happy to accommodate you in the usual way.” A cigarette bobbed at the corner of her mouth while she talked. She raised her eyebrows at Cassidy and offered the other side of the booth with a nod. Cassidy slid in. “How about Alana? She speaks of you very highly. Fine, then. Alana at two thirty. The usual arrangements.” She cut off the call with her finger, then let the button up and dialed. “How’re you doing, Cassidy?” Someone answered the phone. “Sweetie? That guy Smith. The one with the funny dick. Two thirty. Room six oh one. Key’s at the desk.” She hung up and made a note in her book, and then looked up at Cassidy. “What’s up? I see that shit Franklin’s back on the job. I wish you’d been on the sixth floor that night.”

  “I need a name, May.”

  “Sure. What do you fancy—blonde, brunette, redhead? You looking for a specialty, something a little out of the ordinary?” She sipped her iced tea and blew smoke at the window, where it curled against the pane.

  “Who do you send your girls to if they get knocked up?”

  She looked at him over her glasses. “Come on, Cassidy.”

  “It’s not that, May. I’m out of Vice. I’ve got a friend who’s in trouble.”

  She did not believe friend. “Jesus, don’t you guys ever learn?” She made up her mind. “There’s a guy I use. It’ll cost you a couple of hundred. He only takes cash. You use my name.”

  “Is
he good?”

  “Yeah. He’s a brilliant surgeon working out of an operating room at Doctors Hospital. What do you think? He’s a guy who lost his license because he was writing prescriptions to himself, but he’s clean and efficient, and he doesn’t drink or toot during office hours. He’s not some guy in a back room in Jersey City with a rusty hanger. I know maybe six guys in town who do abortions, and he’s the best.”

  “Okay.”

  “You know, the world would be a much better place if men were born without dicks.”

  “You’d be out of business.”

  “It’d be worth it for the tranquillity.”

  * * *

  Cassidy studied the Maxfield Parrish mural on the wall of the King Cole Bar of the St. Regis Hotel and sipped a Bloody Mary. Old King Cole didn’t look particularly merry, but maybe Parrish had caught him on a bad day. There were only a few other midday drinkers, four businessmen at a table calling for another round, a solitary hunched over a martini at the end of the bar, and three out-of-town women surrounded by shopping bags, drinking mimosas and showing each other the loot from their store raids along Fifth Avenue. Leah arrived ten minutes late and slipped onto the stool next to him. She leaned to kiss him on the cheek and ordered a whiskey sour.

  “Twee, tweedle dee.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the sound Old King Cole’s fiddlers make in the rhyme.”

  “No wonder he looks so grumpy,” she said. She had a knack for peeking into his thoughts.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m fine.” She sipped her drink. “I went to see Dad.”

  “He didn’t want you to go down there.”

  “Well, I wanted to, so I went. Jesus, what an awful place.”

  “How was he?”

  “You haven’t been down there yet?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just haven’t had the time. I’ve been busy.” He heard the thinness of the excuse.