by Parnell Hall
Jill arrived about then, and I extricated myself from Claude’s clutches and fought my way across the room to tackle her.
The host, Steve Muldoon, was still greeting her when I arrived.
“Jill,” I said. “I was afraid you weren’t going to make it.”
She turned, saw me. “Oh, hello, Mr. Hastings.”
“Stanley,” I said.
Steve Muldoon had undergone a major transformation. “Stanley Hastings,” he said. “You know, I have to apologize. I should have caught the name.” He lowered his voice. “Is it true you did a movie with Schwarzenegger?”
“Yeah, it’s true,” I said. “But don’t spread it around.”
He winked conspiratorially, then moved off, I’m sure to do exactly that.
“What’s that all about?” Jill asked.
“Your director thought I should have a cover story. Evidently he’s been spreading it around.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. He seems to be getting a kick out of the whole thing.”
“Yeah. He would.”
I looked at her inquiringly.
“I dated him once,” she said. “It was a long time ago, and I don’t want to talk about it. But yeah. That fits. Sherry’s dead, and he’s having fun.”
“You mean he didn’t care about her?”
“No, I mean he’s totally self-centered. I think he had the hots for her. I don’t think he scored. I don’t think he’s glad she’s dead, but he just doesn’t give a shit, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah. So what about the boyfriend? Is he here?”
“I just got here myself. Let me look around.”
She moved off and vanished into the crowd. I elbowed my way back into the center of the room. Marshall Crane passed by me. He didn’t stop and talk, just nodded an acknowledgment and kept on going. I wondered if that was evasive and should make me more suspicious, or perfectly natural and should make me less.
A rather attractive young girl maneuvered my way and started up a conversation. She was obviously coming on to me, which might have done things for my ego, if I hadn’t known damn well either my host or the director had tipped her off to who I supposedly was.
I escaped her clutches and bumped into Marshall Crane again. This time he stopped to talk.
“Walter tells me you’re some movie bigwig. I think that’s stupid.”
“Probably right.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“Walter thought I needed a cover of some sort.”
Marshall shook his head. “Stupid,” he said, and moved off again.
I couldn’t really disagree.
I spotted Jill pushing her way through the room. I started working toward her, met her halfway.
“Found him,” she said.
“Where?”
“In the kitchen.”
“Come point him out.”
“Okay. But you couldn’t miss him.”
She was right. The kitchen was an L-shaped affair. The man I was looking for was sitting on a chair in the far corner of the L. He was a young man, about twenty-five to thirty, with straight dark hair, a little on the long side, and a thin face a reviewer was certain to refer to as sensitive. Under other circumstances, he was probably a pretty good-looking guy, in a frail, fragile sort of way. But at the moment he looked like shit. His hair was uncombed, his eyes were watery and bloodshot, and his face was slack and pale. He was holding a glass of some dark liquid, probably scotch or bourbon, and it certainly wasn’t his first.
And he was alone. In the midst of this incredibly crowded party, he was sitting there all alone.
I walked over to him. If he noticed my presence, he didn’t acknowledge it. He took a sip from the glass, stared blankly straight ahead.
“Dexter?” I said.
He didn’t look up then, and for a moment I thought he hadn’t heard me. Then he said, “I shouldn’t have come.”
I was trying to think of what to say next when he went on, “Jack and Vicki came by and got me. Said I had to get out. Said I had to come.” He shook his head slightly. “Shouldn’t have listened.”
“You live alone?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d you hear about it?”
“TV. Last night. Evening news. Actress murdered on upper West Side. Watching. Is it anyone I know. . .? And it’s her.”
A tear ran down his cheek.
For a few moments, neither of us moved. Then he looked up sideways, saw me.
His eyes at first were dull and vacant. Then they registered puzzlement. “Who are you?”
“Stanley Hastings. I’m investigating the murder.”
And now a flick of interest. “Yes. The murder. Talked to the cops. Wouldn’t tell me nothing.”
“You talked to the cops?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Today.”
“They come to you?”
“No.”
“You go to see them?”
“No.”
“How you talk to them?”
“Phone.”
“You called ’em on the phone?”
“Yeah.”
“Told ’em you knew Sherry?”
“Yeah.”
“They ask you to come in?”
“No. Didn’t want to talk to me. Wouldn’t tell me nothing,”
Jesus Christ. MacAullif was right. With Sergeant Thurman in charge of the investigation, the cops didn’t have a prayer of cracking the case. Here was Sherry Fontaine’s ex-boyfriend, the one person the cops should have got on to. But they hadn’t. And then he calls up and drops himself in their lap, and they still don’t talk to him.
“The police didn’t say anything?”
“No.”
“You tell ’em you used to be her boyfriend?”
“Yeah.”
“And they still wouldn’t talk to you?”
“No.”
“What did they ask you?”
“Asked me when we broke up. Told ’em six months. Asked when I seen her last. I said not in a couple of months. They lose interest. They don’t want to talk to me.”
“I’m here and I want to talk to you.”
“You a cop?”
“I’m a detective investigating the murder. But I don’t want to upset people coming in looking like a cop.”
“Yeah. Party. Shouldn’t have come.”
He shook his head and took another drink.
“Can I ask you some questions?”
“Sure.”
“You broke up with Sherry six months ago?”
“Yeah.”
“You have a girlfriend now?”
“No.”
“No one since Sherry?”
“No.”
“You live alone?”
“Yeah. Jack and Vicki came to get me. Said I shouldn’t be alone.” He shook his head. “Wrong. I shouldn’t have come.”
“Where you live?”
He gave me an address on West 8th Street. I wrote it down.
“What’s your last name, Dexter?”
“Manyon.”
He spelled it for me and I wrote it down.
“Two nights ago, Dexter, where were you?”
He looked at me. His eyes were wide. “You think I killed her? Is that what you think?”
“No, Dexter, but I gotta ask everybody. Everybody who knew her. So where were you?”
“Home.”
“What’d you do?”
“Watched TV and went to sleep.”
“You live alone?”
“Yeah, alone.”
So. No alibi. Not even a stab at one. Either he didn’t need one, or he didn’t care.
“All right. Look, Dexter. I need your help.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. You tell me. Who do you think did it?”
His eyes were wide and sad. “Don’t know. Who would do such a thing? Horrible.”
I felt awful. Yeah, Dexter. You and me both. But I had
to keep on.
“What about her other friends?”
“Friends?”
“Yeah. After you. After you two broke up. She have another boyfriend?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what do you think?”
He shook his head. “Don’t know. Maybe she was seeing someone. But not special. Not. . .” He groped for the word. “. . . permanent. She was so. . . Oh, Jesus Christ.”
He dissolved into sobs.
I figured I’d done as much good as I could. Also as much harm. At least I had his name and address. I could tackle him again when he was sober. Assuming he’d be sober any time in the near future. He obviously cared a lot and was taking it real hard.
I wanted to find out if Sherry had any other friends here at the party, but Dexter was in no condition to point them out to me. I figured I’d hunt up Jill, see if she’d bumped into anyone. Then I was gonna call it a day. Talking to Dexter Manyon had really gotten to me and I just couldn’t play out Walter Shelby’s little charade any more. It was time to pack it up and head for home.
I fought my way back into the living room and looked around for Jill. I spotted Marshall Crane in the corner, having a philosophical conversation with a rather effeminate young man in a purple satin shirt. That gave me a clue as to his sexual preferences, but shed no light on my murder investigation.
On the other side of the room Claude and Audrey were having a rather earnest-looking discussion. Neither one looked happy, and I had a feeling the topic of conversation might be me.
Over near the drink table, Walter Shelby and the understudy were holding court. They had a small audience of actors around them, and Walter was pontificating on some subject or other. I hoped it wasn’t my film career.
I looked around for my host to say good-bye. I didn’t give a shit about the social conventions, but I figured it would be better to make my excuses to him, than to make an unexplained departure that might prompt speculation. I spotted him at the door, which was convenient. I could say good-bye and go, without having to fight my way through a room of people, and running the risk of being stopped by someone and having to start apologizing for my exit all over again.
I made my way across the room, keeping my host in sight, so he wouldn’t slip past me in the crush and defeat my purpose. Not to fear. He’d gone to the door to let someone in. I’d almost reached him when he turned around, ushering in the new arrival.
I immediately drew back and averted my head.
Jesus Christ.
He looked a lot different from when I’d seen him before. His long hair was pulled away from his face and tied in a ponytail. And he was wearing a light blue turtleneck, instead of a hooded sweatshirt.
But there was no question about it. The young man my host had just ushered into the party was definitely the same man who’d been waiting outside Sherry Fontaine’s apartment and grabbed her by the wrists.
28.
I DIDN’T WANT HIM TO see me. The first time he’d seen me, he’d run. I didn’t want him to run again. I faded back into the crowd and watched to see what he’d do.
After a brief greeting, he extricated himself from his host and began worming his way into the room. A lot of people seemed to know him. There was a lot of smiling, nodding, high-fives, back-slapping and what have you. That was good. It was gonna be no trouble at all pinning down his name.
As he made his way across the floor it was clear he was not heading for the dining room where the refreshments were. Instead he was heading in the other direction, to the hallway that I figured led to the bedrooms. I followed from a discreet distance, and was close enough to see him and another guy work their way through the edge of the crowd and disappear down the hall. As if by common agreement, no one followed them.
Except me. I did, and found myself in a short hallway with a door straight in front of me. I figured that was where they went. Then the door opened, and a young woman emerged from what proved to be a bathroom. I smiled, walked past her, and discovered another short hallway leading off this one to the left. There was a closed door at the end that had to be it. I gave them about thirty seconds to get settled, then turned the knob, opened the door and went in.
They were standing next to the bed with their backs to me, my guy and another young guy with curly red hair. They wheeled around with guilty looks. I’m not great at interpreting looks, but trust me, these were guilty ones. At first they were just general guilty looks, at being surprised by anyone. Then the guy recognized me. I could see the expression change in his eyes, from guilt to panic. I could tell his first instinct was to run.
There was a leather bag on the bed next to them. The guy glanced at it quickly, then back at me. I figured that told me all I needed to know.
I closed the door and held up my hand. “All right, let’s hold it right there. Whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it. It will do you no good. Just shut up and listen.” I held up my finger. “You guys are lucky.” I pointed my finger at the redhead. “You are really lucky. You know why? ’Cause I don’t want to talk to you, that’s why.” I switched my finger to the other guy. “Now you I want to talk to, but you’re lucky too. You’re thinking about running, don’t try it. There’s a whole roomful of people out there, they all know you, and how far are you gonna get?”
I switched back to the redhead. “Now you, you’re lucky ’cause I’m letting you walk. So happy birthday. ’Cause I don’t want to talk to you, I wanna talk to him. So here’s the deal. You walk out of here right now, you’re free to go.” I held up my hand. “Only one thing. I wanna talk to him alone. So you don’t go. You wait by the door. When I come out, if no one’s come in here, you’ve done a good job, I don’t wanna talk to you, you can go. But if someone comes in, disturbs me while I’m talking to him, then you done a bad job, and when I come out I wanna talk to you a lot. You got that?”
The redhead gulped. “Yes, sir.”
I jerked my thumb. “Fine. Get out of here.”
He went, closing the door behind him.
I turned to the other guy. He still looked big and strong, like he could take me apart. But that wasn’t the issue now.
“Okay,” I said. “Now let’s talk about how you’re lucky. You’re lucky in that you got a choice. You can either talk to me here, or you can talk to the boys downtown. If you talk to me here you’re real lucky, ’cause I don’t give a shit what’s in that bag on the bed. And when we get done talking, you walk.”
He was staring at me incredulously. “What?”
“You heard me. That’s why you’re lucky. You see, things are different. It’s murder now.”
“Oh.”
“So talk.”
“Whaddya want to know?”
“Tell me what you know about the murder.”
“What murder?”
I shook my head. “That’s a bad start. Okay, let’s go downtown.”
He put up his hands. “No, no, wait. You mean Sherry Fontaine?”
“That’s right. Sherry Fontaine. What do you know about it?”
“Nothing.”
“But you know her?”
“Yeah.”
“And you know me, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer.
“You saw me outside her building the other day. When you saw me you ran. You’d like to run now, you just know it would do no good. So tell me, why’d you run?”
“Why do you think?”
“I’m not here to play guessing games. You want this deal, you come halfway. I’ll give you some help. Sherry Fontaine was a cokehead. Wasn’t she?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re her connection, aren’t you?”
He took a breath, pursed his lips. “I wanna see a lawyer.”
I looked at him, shook my head, laughed mirthlessly. “You dumb shit. No, you don’t. You’re peddling drugs at this party. You got a bag of dope on the bed. And here we are talking informally. Now you wanna press your rights? Sure, you can call a lawyer, we
can go downtown, the cops can take your bag of dope away from you and charge you with possession with intent to sell, and then everything will be nice and legal.
“Or you can talk to me here and now, and when we’re done you can pick up that bag on the bed, since I don’t know what’s in it, and you can walk out of here.
“So, that’s that. Now, you want this deal or not?”
He thought about it a minute. “All right.”
“Fine,” I said. “Then start cooperating. First off, let’s see some ID.”
“I thought this wasn’t a bust.”
“It isn’t. But I wanna know who I’m talking to.”
I held out my hand. He scowled at me, then reached in his hip pocket and pulled out a wallet. He flipped it open and passed it over.
I whipped out my notebook and wrote down the name Luke Brent from his driver’s license. I copied the address too.
“What’s your phone number?” I said.
He told me, and I wrote it down.
I flipped the wallet back to him. “Okay. That’s a good start. Tell me about Sherry Fontaine.”
“That’s it. She’s a cokehead.”
“And?”
“And she buys from me.”
“How much?”
“Small. Half-gram, gram tops. Not a heavy user. Just recreational.”
“How often?”
He shrugged. “Week. Two weeks. Sometimes longer. Depends how she’s doin’.”
“What about the other day?”
“What about it?”
“The scene in front of her apartment—what was that all about?”
“She got behind.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every now and then she’d do the dirty.”
“The dirty?”
“Yeah. She’d call me up, order some coke, and when I’d come by she wouldn’t have the money.”
“And you’d give it to her?”
He made a face. “Sometimes. You understand, I wouldn’t do that normally. But there was something about Sherry. She had a way of getting you to do things.”
I sighed. “Yeah. You sleeping with her?”
“No. Not that I wouldn’t want to. That was part of it, you know? Frankly, I didn’t think I’d ever make it with her. But she was so attractive. There was something sexual about her that. . . well, she was just hard to say no to, you know?”