Anything But Saintly

by Richard Deming

  The girl’s frank, cheerful attitude toward her profession began to get to me. She had the moral outlook of an alley cat, but there was an odd mixture of callousness and naïveté about her which was strangely appealing. Despite my low opinion of whores in general, I found myself beginning to like her.

  The private eye drama on television ended at that moment and a commercial came on. “I want to catch the news,” I said. “Like another drink before it starts?”

  “Sure.” She drained her glass and handed it to me.

  CHAPTER 8

  Rising, I carried both glasses over to the dresser. Mine was still half full, so I added only about a half ounce of bourbon and filled the glass with soda and ice. I made her a full drink. The news had started when I returned to my chair and handed back her glass. We watched and listened in silence through the national and international news. When that ended and another commercial came on, she hoisted her glass.

  “Cheers again,” she said. “Don’t you think we’re acquainted enough now?”

  I gave her an inquiring look.

  “I mean there’s such a thing as being too slow,” she said. “Those psychologists have it all wrong.”

  “What psychologists?” I asked, lost.

  “The ones who write books about call girls. They sit in their dusty offices and make up a lot of stuff about how we live and how we feel.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Those psychologists.”

  “In every book I’ve read about call girls, they say they’re all frigid, that they do it just for the money. Not even for the money, really, because subconsciously they think it’s dirty money, so they throw it all away on pimps as fast as they earn it. They make me so mad.”

  I gave her a sympathetic smile.

  “I don’t throw my money away. You should see my bank account. I’m saving to open a lingerie shop. And I’m not frigid either. Sometimes I’d just as soon sit out the whole night. But you kind of appeal to me. It makes me all goose pimply to sit here bare naked with you looking at me from those big brown eyes. I’m getting kind of warm.”

  I grinned at her. “Soon as the local news is over. Can you hold out five more minutes?”

  Her shoulders lifted in another shrug and she took a long pull of her drink.

  The commercial ended and the local news came on.

  Apparently there hadn’t been any further developments in the Katherine Desmond case, for the report was an exact replica of the one on the eight-thirty newscast. I kept my eyes on Jolly’s face as the newscaster spoke. There was no reaction to his first sentence, which merely announced that a local young woman had been murdered by an unknown assailant. But when he mentioned the name Katherine Desmond, Jolly’s eyes popped wide open. As the newscaster’s voice droned on, her mouth formed a little round O and she grew paler and paler.

  When the item ended and the announcer went on to other news, Jolly pulled her feet from beneath her, set them on the floor and stared at me white-faced.

  “What’s the matter?” I inquired.

  “That was Kitty,” she whispered. “One of my best girl friends.”

  “The murdered girl?” I asked with raised brows.

  “Yes. I just talked to her on the phone at eleven-thirty this morning. She’d just returned from an all-night date.”

  “Oh, she was a colleague of yours?”

  Her head moved up and down in a jerky nod. “She must have been killed not more than an hour or two after I talked to her. The man said Doll walked in at three. Maybe it was only minutes after I talked to her.”

  “Doll?”

  “Her apartment-mate, Delores. We call her Doll.”

  “Oh. She’s in the business too?”

  “Just recently. She’s brand new, only been on a couple of dates. Kitty got her lined up with—with the referral agency, and had her move in with her only about a week ago. Kitty asked me to share her apartment first, but I like to live alone. Just think. If I had taken her up, I would have been the one to walk in and find her.”

  Shuddering slightly, she drained her glass and held it out. “I need another drink. Straight, on the ice.”

  Walking over to the dresser, I set down my own glass, which was hardly touched, threw a little more ice into hers and poured about four ounces of whisky over it. When I handed back the glass, she greedily knocked off about half of it in one gulp.

  The raw whisky made her gasp. Closing her eyes, she shook herself like a puppy, making her oversized breasts jiggle like twin balloons full of Jello. When she opened her eyes again, a little color had returned to her face.

  “I think I’m going to cry,” she announced.

  I probably looked alarmed, because crying women upset me. “Drink the rest of your drink,” I urged hurriedly.

  Her face had begun to screw up for tears, but my suggestion distracted her attention to the glass in her hand. Raising it, she drained it completely, closed her eyes and shook herself again, with the same interesting effect.

  After a moment she opened her eyes and thrust the glass at me. “I’ll be all right now. Thanks.”

  “More?” I inquired.

  She shook her head. “I’d pass out.”

  Setting her glass on the dresser next to mine, I walked over to switch off the TV set, then turned to gaze down at her.

  “Do you have any idea who could have killed your friend?” I asked.

  She started to shake her head, abruptly stopped as something occurred to her. “I told her she was playing with dynamite,” she said, as though speaking aloud to herself.

  “How was that?” I asked.

  Her eyes focused on me as though she had momentarily forgotten I was there. Her face had become quite flushed, and I realized she was becoming slightly drunk.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I’d rather not talk about it any more.”

  “It might make you feel better to talk things out. I’m a good listener.”

  “No. I don’t even want to think about it. Poor Kitty.” Her face started to screw up again.

  I came to a decision. “Jolly!” I said sharply.

  She gave me a startled look.

  “I’ve got another shock for you, Jolly.”

  “What do you mean, Matt?”

  Producing my wallet, I walked forward and thrust my badge under her nose. “I’m a cop. Sergeant Matt Rudd of the prostitution detail.”

  When she recovered from the first shock of my announcement, the girl underwent a typically feminine reaction. She clasped her arms protectively across the bare bosom I had been gazing at for more than fifteen minutes.

  Looking up at me reproachfully, she said, “And I thought you were nice!”

  “I am,” I assured her. “Want to put on your clothes?”

  Jumping up, she hurriedly dressed with her back to me. This offered just as pleasant a view as her front. She was a trifle plump in the rear, but it was an attractive plumpness.

  When she was fully clothed, she turned to stare at me defiantly.

  “Take a look at that fifty I gave you,” I suggested.

  Picking up her bag, she removed the bill and studied it. In a rueful voice she said, “It’s initialed M.R. Matt Rudd, huh?” The alcohol was no longer effecting her voice. The discovery that I was a cop had shocked away the mild glow she had been getting.

  Moving forward, I took the bill from her hand and replaced it in my wallet. “Now there’s no evidence,” I said. “I guess I can’t arrest you.”

  She examined me warily. “What is this?”

  “Sit down again,” I invited.

  Her eyes narrowed. “If this is some kind of a shakedown, I never carry more than five dollars on a date.”

  I put a pained expression on my face. “Do I look like a crooked cop?”

  “You’re beginning to sound like one.”

  “Look,” I said. “I’m not going to arrest you and I’m not going to shake you down. Before you arrived, I meant to run you in as soon as the financial transaction was completed. But
I changed my mind a couple of minutes after you got here.”

  She said with mocking disbelief, “You mean my charm made you forget your duty?”

  “Your charm had nothing to do with it,” I said irritably, beginning to tire of the exchange. “You’re a rather charming gal, but I’ve got a cold-blooded sense of duty. I’d arrest my own grandmother if I thought she deserved it. I’ll give you a choice. Sit down long enough to listen to me, or I’ll upend you and fix you so you won’t want to sit down for a week.”

  After eyeing me for a moment, she decided I meant it. Returning to the easy chair, she sat primly erect with her hands clasped in her lap.

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  CHAPTER 9

  I stood directly in front of the chair, looking down at the girl.

  “I want to tell you a story,” I said. “This morning a man from Houston who’s staying at the Hotel Leland came in to report he’d been rolled by a call girl named Kitty. I won’t bore you with the details of the investigation my partner and I made, but we established that Kitty was one of Little Artie Nowak’s girls. I assume you are too.”

  She blinked, but said nothing.

  “I suppose you girls know you’re pretty well protected. Artie must have informed you that you don’t have to worry about being picked up by the law. Right?”

  She said cautiously, “We’ve always understood there was some kind of fix in at police headquarters.”

  “You understood wrong,” I told her. “It was a political fix, and it ended today. That’s why we started after you girls tonight. But this morning the fix was still in and we couldn’t touch Kitty without risking displeasure from a pretty influential political figure. So we just visited Little Artie, explained what had happened and suggested it would be nice to get the Houston man’s money back. Artie seemed a little sore at Kitty for rolling a customer. He paid what she had stolen out of his own pocket and said he’d collect from her later. I passed on the money to the Houston man and forgot about it until eight-thirty tonight. Then I heard on television that Kitty had been murdered.”

  Jolly’s eyes grew round. “You think Little Artie …” It trailed off and she licked her lips.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But if he did, I caused it. I didn’t know Kitty personally, but I hate to think I condemned a young girl to death for stealing a lousy five hundred dollars. That’s why I changed my mind about you. I’m not a homicide cop, so her murder is really none of my business. But she’s on my conscience. I figured nailing her murderer was more important than booking you for prostitution. So I deliberately used you. I had an idea you might know her, and hearing about her murder on television might jolt some information out of you. Does that make you sore?”

  She licked her lips again. “It was a kind of dirty trick, but I guess it’s better than being arrested.”

  “Would you like to see her killer nailed?”

  “Of course. She was about my best friend.”

  “Then we’re on the same side in this. Maybe between us we can nail him. Want to forget that I brought you here under false pretenses, start over and be friends?”

  She studied my face, mulling it over.

  “I suppose you’re a cop hater,” I said. “Most girls in your business are. But forget that and think about your friend Kitty.”

  “Why should I be a cop hater?” she asked. “I’ve never been arrested. I’ve never worked for anyone but Artie, and until tonight Artie’s girls never got arrested. I admit I don’t have a high regard for cops, but I don’t hate them. You fellows have to make a living too, I suppose.”

  “That’s tolerant of you,” I said dryly. “Then why are you hesitating?”

  In a slow voice she said, “I was thinking that I wouldn’t want what happened to Kitty to happen to me.”

  I frowned at her. “Why should it?”

  “I mean if I talked out of turn, and it got back to—to whoever killed Kitty, I’d be in real trouble.”

  “You don’t have to be so delicate,” I said. “There’s nobody here but us. You mean if it got back to Artie.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “I’m a human clam,” I assured her. “Whatever you tell me is strictly between us.”

  “How do I know? I’ve never known any cops, but the girls all say never trust one. You might go right down to headquarters and tell the homicide cops. Then they’d drag me in and ask all sorts of questions, and it would be all over the newspapers that I’d talked.”

  I said grimly, “I’ve got one girl’s death on my conscience now, Jolly. Believe me, I’ll make sure nothing happens to you on my account.”

  After examining me for several seconds, she gave me a wan smile. “I do believe you, Matt. I guess I’ll forgive you for being a cop. I suppose you don’t have any more respect for my profession than I have for yours, so we start out even.”

  “All right,” I said with a smile. “We’re friends then?”

  “If you’re willing to meet me halfway. I’ll forget you’re a cop if you’ll forget I’m a whore.”

  “Forget the last part yourself,” I said gruffly. “I already have.”

  “It’s not easy to forget,” she said in a low voice. “I have to look in the mirror every day.”

  This left a good opening to suggest she get out of the racket if it depressed her so much, but I’m neither a reformer nor a psychoanalyst. She was old enough to straighten out her own life if she wanted to badly enough.

  I said, “You’re a big girl. You must know what you’re doing.”

  “Oh, I went into it with my eyes wide open. I can’t blame anyone but myself. Except I thought I could quit whenever I wanted to. I had it all figured out that I’d save enough money to open some legitimate business.”

  “Sure. But you always decide to go for one more grand, huh?”

  She shook her head. “It isn’t that at all. I have more than I need now, and I have a little lingerie shop all picked out. It’s Artie.”

  “You mean he won’t let you quit?”

  She gave a little shudder. “Artie’s girls quit when they stop making money. He gave me a sample of what happens to girls who want to retire without his permission.”

  “You mean he beat you?”

  “He put me in bed for three days. He’s so little, I thought I could handle him. I don’t think he outweighs me more than five pounds. But he’s fast as lightning and he can hit like a sledge hammer. He was very methodical about it. He didn’t mark my face at all, because that would have been bad for business. But I was black and blue from my neck to my hips. I’ve never taken such a beating in my life.”

  “The son of a bitch,” I growled.

  She lifted her shoulders in a tired shrug. “It convinced me. That was six months ago, and I’ve never mentioned retirement since.”

  “If he takes a fall for murder, you’ll be off the hook,” I said. “Let’s get back on the subject. A few minutes ago you said something about warning Kitty that she was playing with dynamite. What did you mean?”

  “She was rolling Johns. I guess several of the girls were, because it got back to Artie a while ago. He called us all together and warned us that if he caught any girl rolling a John in the future, he’d beat hell out of her. But Kitty went on rolling them anyway. She wanted me to come in on the deal, but I wouldn’t have any part of it. One beating from Artie is all I ever want. I warned her that if she got caught, he’d do exactly as he said.”

  “What do you mean, come in on the deal?”

  “Kitty said she had protection in the event Artie did get rough. She was paying a percentage of the take for it. I don’t know who he was, but I gathered he’d put Kitty and the other girls up to rolling Johns, and it wasn’t their own idea.”

  So Nick Bartkowiak had been wrong in thinking the girls were rolling clients on Artie’s order, I thought. It seemed that Little Artie had been as concerned about the practice as Nick.

  I said, “If Kitty was such a close confidante of your
s, how come she didn’t tell you who this protector was?”

  “I didn’t want to know. I made it quite clear that I wanted no part of the deal and I particularly didn’t want to know her protector’s name. I was thinking of Artie, you see. I didn’t want him coming around to beat information out of me, and the best way to avoid it was not to have any information.”

  No wonder she had been reluctant to talk, I thought. If we could put her on the stand to testify to the warning Little Artie had given the girls, my testimony on top of hers would build a pretty sound circumstantial case for premeditated murder. The trouble was that I had guaranteed her evidence would go no further than me. She could be subpoenaed and forced to testify, but that involved going back on my word. And I wasn’t going to violate her confidence even to convict a murderer. I could try to talk her into co-operating, however.

  I said, “Are you convinced in your own mind that Artie killed Kitty?”

  She looked surprised. “Who else could have, Matt? He warned us all that any girl caught rolling a John would catch a beating. You told him about Kitty, and a few hours later she was beaten to death.”

  “It takes evidence in court to get a conviction,” I said. “Would you be willing to repeat on the stand what you’ve told me?”

  Her eyes grew big and she looked scared to death. “He’d kill me, Matt. You promised that what I told you would stay between us.”

  “It will unless you release me from my promise,” I assured her. “But he couldn’t kill you if he was in jail. And there’s no bond set for first-degree murderers.”

  “He could still have me killed. Jake Stark wouldn’t be in jail, and he’s Artie’s hatchet man.”

  “You’d be furnished police protection, Jolly.”

  “Oh, fine. Suppose he beat the rap? After the trial the protection would be dropped and Artie could take his revenge at his leisure.”

  “He won’t beat it if he’s guilty. Racketeers like Artie get away with a lot in this town, but nobody gets protected for murder.”