by Roger Hurn
‘I thought you could take me on a tour of gay bars that cater for lesbians.’
He snorted dismissively. ‘Shouldn’t take too long. These days Lesbian bars in New York City are about as rare as pandas in the wild. But there are still a couple out there. Though straight guys aren’t really welcome so I’d play gay if I were you.’
I didn’t answer, but my heart sank.
He gave a slight twitch of his shoulders. ‘Alright, but I gotta say that if I was her then I’d have headed for the hills … not a gay bar.’
He had a point, but I couldn’t think of where else to start looking. ‘Yeah, but being seen in a bar hitting on people is as good a way as any to establish an alibi.’
‘It would be – if the gay clubs opened in the morning. Only they don’t. The earliest they throw open their doors is four in the afternoon. So no way could she go to one to set up an alibi.’
I didn’t exactly welcome this bit of info like the prodigal son, but I wasn’t backing down. I had to find Angelica and the gay bars still seemed like a good place to start, even if my alibi theory was dead in the water.
But Shamak hadn’t finished. ‘Anyway, do you know for sure that Jez was alive when Monika and Angelica left the apartment? You’re the detective not me, but maybe they teamed up and killed her before they went out. The argument the neighbour heard could have been staged for her benefit.’
I tried not to react, but Shamak had let something else slip. The only way he could’ve known about the neighbour was from Martinez. And it also explained why he’d been so quick to come and pick me up … Martinez must have had him on standby in the area ready to keep an eye on me and report back on any progress I made in finding the MS. Shamak was the link between Martinez and Sanjay, but I was hoping he hadn’t cottoned on to the fact that I’d rumbled him. It was a bloody nuisance having him as my shadow and not my ally, but the upside was I could use him to feed Sanjay and Martinez false information and get them off my back. It wasn’t much of an upside, but it was the only one I had.
I shook my head. ‘No, ‘cos the neighbour told me she’d heard someone moving around in the apartment after Monika and Angel had gone.’ She hadn’t said anything of the sort, but I just wanted to rain on Shamak’s parade. It was a stupid thing to do, but then I often wonder if my mum dropped me on my head when I was a baby … it would explain a lot.
Chapter Twenty
Some people like the snow. They like the feel of it; the smell of it; the taste of it. I’m not one of them. Thin flakes of the stuff were swirling around on a vicious wind as I clambered out of Shamak’s cab and hurried up to the door of the Cubbyhole. It was the last club on Shamak’s list and the others had been a total waste of time. I had no great expectations that this one would be any different, but I wanted to go inside as quickly as possible to where it was warm – even if the welcome wasn’t.
Actually, I needn’t have worried. The bouncer was a hefty black girl with dyed bright blonde hair, a gap between her teeth and a surprisingly friendly grin. She waved me in without any fuss and the heat and an old Human League song blasting out from the jukebox hit me as soon as I stepped through the door.
The joint was so small it could have made a telephone box seem roomy and the ceiling looked like it had been decorated by someone with a fetish for brightly coloured soft toys. Still, I didn’t get any kind of negative vibe from the bar staff or the punters, even though the only other guy in there was the gay barman. It was Happy Hour so my beer didn’t cost me an arm and a leg and I even remembered to give the guy the kind of exorbitant tip that everyone in the New York service industry seems to expect. It was a good move ‘cos he smiled at me and seemed ready to chat.
‘First time in New York, buddy?’
‘No, but I’m looking for somebody.’
He gave me a sly grin. ‘Aren’t we all?’
I grinned back. ‘I guess … but the particular somebody I want is a woman called Angelica Rayburn. I was hoping she’d be here.’
It was a shot in the dark, but the guy nodded. ‘Well, she hangs out here a lot, but she’s not been in today … tho’ it’s kinda early for her and Monika. They don’t usually show until much later.’ Then he raised his eyebrows in surprise and looked past me. ‘Hey, speak of an angel and you hear the fluttering of her wings. Here she is now, sweet stuff, you’re in luck.’
I turned and spotted Angelica arm in arm with a very pretty blonde girl.
‘But Monika’s so not gonna be happy if she comes in and catches her with sexy Sadie.’
I raised my eyebrows a notch. ‘Why’s that?’
He pouted and leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘Because Angel and Sadie were an item before Angel moved in with Monika.’
Then another customer grabbed his attention before I could pump him for any more information. It didn’t matter though because Angelica had spotted me. She scowled and pushed her way through the crowd to the bar. Sadie trotted along dutifully behind her.
‘What the fuck are you doing here, Kyd? Did Jezebel send you?’
I shook my head. ‘No, she didn’t on account of the fact that she’s dead.’
Angel did a double take. ‘What?’ She actually seemed genuinely shocked.
‘She was murdered this morning at Monika’s apartment.’
Angel’s eyes were wider than soup plates and her mouth dangled open.
‘No, that can’t be. Who did it?’
‘The smart money’s on you, Angel. You hated her.’
She looked totally bemused. ‘No … No … I just didn’t want her crashing at our place ‘cos it was obvious to me that Mika still wanted her even though Jezebel was only using her. We argued about it all night after Jez had crashed out in the spare bedroom. Well, I told Mika to wake up and smell the coffee, but she was like, “Oh no, Angel, Jez is so talented it’s our responsibility as fellow artists to help her.” Like I couldn’t see that it was the thought of getting it on with that bitch again that was making her hot - not any fucking “sister artist” bullshit. So I told her this morning as we were leaving to go to the Warehouse, “It’s make up your mind time, Mika, it’s either Jezebel or me ‘cos I don’t want her in the apartment when we get back tonight.”’ The anger and resentment blazed white hot in her baby blues at the memory. ‘But she refused to go back and tell Jezebel to pack her bags and fuck off. Instead she went on and on about how poor little Jezzie needed our love and support, so I stormed off and went to Sadie’s place and I’m glad I did ‘cos we’ve been fucking each other’s brains out all day.’ She paused and gave Sadie a squeeze. ‘Haven’t we baby.’ It was a statement not a question.
Sadie smiled like the cat who’d got the cream. ‘Yeah, we have and Monika’s not gonna split us up this time. Angel’s back with me for good.’
I looked at Angel and saw that a calculating glint had crept into her eyes. She smiled at me triumphantly. ‘So, I guess that makes me all alibied up, Mr Private Investigator.’
Chapter Twenty-One
I was back in Shamak’s cab. It seemed to me that Angelica was in the clear for Jezebel’s murder, though I guessed she’d killed her relationship with Monika stone dead. Still, that wasn’t something I was shedding any tears over. The way I saw it, you were better off not loving anybody ‘cos, sooner or later, they only did the dirty on you. Carly’s face flashed up in my mind, but before I could turn feeling sorry for myself into an Olympic sport, a text buzzed onto my mobile and wrenched me right back into the present. It was from Byron St James. He’d insisted on taking one of my cards the night before and now he was putting it to use. Despite myself, I felt a small surge of excitement as I opened the message. It was simple.
“Meet me in the lobby of the Casablanca Hotel Times Square. 9pm. We need to talk.”
I checked my watch. It was 8.45. We were in the West Village and, according to my phone, the Casablanca was about a fifteen minute drive away. If I was going to make it there on time I needed Shamak to take me there, but I didn’t want
him knowing what I was up to. I decided to try a bluff.
‘Shamak, I’m sick to the back teeth of this flaming business. I need to switch off for a while, so how about you drop me off in Times Square so I can at least say I’ve had a look at the sights of the Big Apple.’
It sounded a bit on the thin side to my ears, but then I knew I was lying. Shamak grimaced. ‘You really wanna walk around Times Square in this weather?’
‘Yeah, but then you know what they say about mad dogs and Englishmen.’
‘They go out in the midday sun,’ replied Shamak. ‘Not freaking blizzards.’
‘It’s not so bad,’ I said. ‘And the way things are going it’ll be the only chance I get.’
‘But what about finding the play script?’
I shrugged. ‘I dunno who’s got it, mate. I thought it was Angelica, but I was barking up completely the wrong tree - so your guess is as good as mine. For all I know your delightful partners in crime, Herbert and Sherbert, jumped the gun, bumped off Jez and took the bloody thing themselves.’
Shamak shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t do that.’
I laughed. ‘Wouldn’t they? They’d have had no trouble getting in because the locks on the apartment are just simple pin-and-tumbler ones. Guys like your pals probably learned how to pick locks like that when they were still at kindergarden. Maybe they thought they’d impress Mr Kapoor with their initiative.’
Shamak’s face was a mask. ‘No, that’s not what happened.’
I frowned. ‘Isn’t it? So, what did happen then, Shamak?’
He shook his head. ‘I dunno … but whoever killed Jezebel it wasn’t Hari or Paresh.
‘And you know this because?
‘Because when they came along to take the manuscript from her, the police were there and Jezebel was already dead.’
I laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. ‘So Sanjay didn’t trust me to get the manuscript for him after all. The “you have twenty-four hours” stuff was just bollocks was it?’ I slumped back against the plastic seat like I was upset. ‘It’s nice to know he thinks so highly of me.’ Actually, I didn’t give a toss about Sanjay Kapoor’s opinion, but I was interested to know that his lunk-headed muscle men weren’t Jez’s killers. And, as we were now a spit away from Times Square, it gave me the perfect excuse to have a hissy fit. ‘OK, pal, you can drop me off here. I’ve had it with you guys. Jesus, you’ve got no respect for me at all.’
He pulled over and started to say something, but I wasn’t having any of it. ‘No, I’m sorry, Shamak, but you’ve pissed me off big style. So just leave me be.’
In my haste to jump out of the cab, I bashed against the glove compartment. The catch snapped open and a large manila envelope fell out onto my lap. It wasn’t stuck down and I could see, poking out of it, the pages of a handwritten script.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Shamak stared at me. ‘It’s not what you think it is,’ he said.
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Really? So, what is it then, pal, because it sure as hell looks like a handwritten play script to me?’
His Adam’s apple danced a jig. ‘Yeah, it is, but it’s not the one you want. It’s not Jezebel’s play.’
‘OK, so you won’t mind if I just take a closer look then, will you?’
He shrugged like he didn’t care. ‘Go ahead. Knock yourself out.’
He wasn’t acting like a guilty man but, if he had the play, he had to have been the one who bumped off Jez, so no way was I dropping my guard. I pulled out the sheets of paper without taking my eyes from Shamak’s face. Then I glanced down quickly at the top one. It was the title page for a script called ‘Indians Take New York’ by Shamak Chande.
I must have looked stunned because he grinned and said, ‘Yeah, guess you never had me pegged as a writer, huh?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Though you could see me as a killer easy enough, I guess.’
I pulled a sour face. ‘Sorry, but I’m an ex-cop and I’m a suspicious guy by nature. It’s nothing personal.’ I raised my hands in an open palmed gesture and, in doing so, managed to drop the pages of his script onto the floor of the cab. Then I banged my head on the dashboard as I bent forward to pick them up. Shamak chuckled and it helped to break the tension.
‘Fair enough, I guess. I work for a mobster so why not? But, as I already told you, I’m just a gofer, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid or that I don’t have my own ideas. I spend a lot of time waiting around in my cab and I pass the time by writing those ideas down on paper.’ He nodded at the script. ‘And that’s what that is. It’s the first draft of a sitcom about my batshit crazy Indian family.’ He grinned and his voice became electric with excitement. ‘Man, trust me, with gold dust like that I’m not going to be working for the likes of Sanjay Kapoor much longer whatever anybody says.’
I didn’t argue as I put the pages back carefully into the envelope and returned it to the glove compartment. The script wasn’t heavy, but it was the stuff Shamak’s dreams were made of - as Sam Spade almost said at the end of The Maltese Falcon. However, I didn’t share that observation with him as it wasn’t up to me to crush his dream. Instead I wished him luck with it and we shook hands, but I hadn’t forgotten that, until his ship came in, he was still Martinez’s stooge.
‘Listen, matey. I’m not mad at you anymore, but I really do need to get some time on my own to think this all through. So, I’m gonna take a walk and clear my head, and while I’m doing that why don’t you polish up that script of yours? After all, it’s what you’d rather be doing.’
Shamak looked a bit uncertain, but then he nodded. ‘OK, but call me when you’ve had enough of eating sleet and I’ll come get you.’
I promised him I would and then stepped out of the cab and strode off into the crowds and the night.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I already knew that Times Square isn’t actually a proper square like Trafalgar Square, it’s what New Yorkers call, in their typically understated way, “The Crossroads of the World”. Apparently it’s the most visited tourist attraction on Earth and it seemed to me that, despite the freezing weather, most of those visitors had chosen that night to turn up and gawp. I’ve never understood why it is when you’re in a hurry everybody in front of you just wants to dawdle but, when you’re strolling along trying to take in the sights, some idiot is always treading on your heels. It’s the contrary nature of the universe and it never works in my favour. And yes, I am a bloody hypocrite, but I can live with that.
I finally made it to the Casablanca Hotel shortly after nine and hurried into the lobby. The place paid homage to the old Humphrey Bogart classic and was some designer’s fantasy of what Morocco would be like if the world actually was a Hollywood movie. Well, I was a Private Eye for real, but sadly no one was looking to cast me in the Bogey role.
Byron St James was sitting in a chair by a fake flame fire in the “Rick’s Café” club room nursing a stiff whiskey. He had a shiny black attaché case nestling between his feet. He smiled when he saw me and beckoned me over. I took the chair opposite him and ordered a Jack Daniels with no ice from the overly attentive waiter who hovered at my elbow.
St James was a fleshy guy, with red cheeks and sea green eyes. He had teeth that were too white and hands that were just made for grasping. His clothes were tailor made and expensive, but slightly on the shabby side like he’d been wearing them for more years than they were meant for. He’d dyed his hair, but was smart enough to let the silver shine through at his temples. In short, he looked like a man who been round the block a few times and lived to tell the tale. I suspected he was as trustworthy as a timeshare salesman on a commission only salary, but what I really had to decide was, did I think he was capable of murder? Though, in my experience, everybody is if they’re desperate enough or pushed hard enough. So the real question was, how desperate was he?
‘You wanted to talk to me, Mr St James? Well, here I am so fire away.’
He smiled urbanely and scratched his chin with a thumbnail as s
quare as the ice cube in his drink. ‘Call me Byron, Mr Kyd and I’ll call you Ryan. That way we can keep this on a friendly footing.’
I gave him a half smile. ‘Why wouldn’t we be friendly? We’re sitting here in a plush hotel with a couple of whiskies and all the time in the world, so why don’t you tell me what it is you want to discuss, Byron, and then we can see how it goes.’
He inclined his head. ‘Fair enough, Ryan. Now, what would you say if I told you I have the manuscript that Mulwhinney wants back so badly?’
My heart flipped but I didn’t let it show. ‘I’d say you’re either a liar or a murderer.’
His eyebrows shot up his forehead like startled caterpillars. ‘Hey, easy there tiger. I’m neither of those things.’
I stared at him coldly. ‘Do you have the manuscript?’
He looked mildly discomforted. ‘’Yes … but I don’t have it in my possession at this moment in time.’
‘So who does have it in their possession - at this moment in time?’ My voice had barbs in it.
‘Someone I’m representing.’
I took a swallow of my JD. It tasted sour on my tongue, but I blamed that on the company I was keeping rather than the whiskey. ‘And they are?’
He shook his head and while his face had all the expression of a dough ball, his eyes were hooded and wary. ‘That’s not important. What is important however is the fact that this manuscript’s worth way more than money to Mulwhinney.’
I took a sip of my drink. I didn’t want to give the impression that I was too eager to climb into bed with him. ‘How so?’
St James didn’t hold back. ‘Well, it’s odds-on his lady friend is going to be put on trial for the murder of Jezebel Montague, but my testimony will help her beat the rap by delivering the real killer to the police. He’ll get the MS back, his girlfriend will be off the hook and the public will be hot to see the play that was at the heart of a real life murder case.’ He sat forward, his eyes now wide open and gleaming with excitement. ‘But even better than that, publishers will be falling over themselves for him to write a book telling the true story of what happened. I mean it’s like something straight outta that soap of his, The Cranes of Ravenscroft - only for real this time.’ He was almost salivating at the prospect. ‘And you can bet your ass that Hollywood will be desperate to make a movie of it too. He can’t lose and neither can we … if you play ball that is.’