Don't Dare a Dame

by M. Ruth Myers

  “Good policy.”

  His fingers moved an inch and stopped.

  “He do that to you?” He gestured with his chin.

  “No. I just need to talk to him.”

  “Room 22. Two up, right.”

  The four bits clinked as he transferred them to his pocket. I made a quick inventory of the inside. To the right of the counter an archway opened into a small bar. The plant at the entrance was bigger than mine, but almost as dead. The bar looked empty.

  “Neal have any other visitors?” I asked.

  The clerk shook his head. Hard to say whether he was telling the truth.

  “I need to borrow a bucket to take up.”

  He stared uneasily.

  “The janitor locks his up when he leaves for the day.”

  “Don’t you have a key?”

  “No. Look, honey, I don’t want any trouble—”

  “Then give me a bucket. Tell you what, I’ll settle for that champagne bucket.”

  I could tell he meant to deny they had one until he realized I was looking into the bar where one sat in plain view. Empty.

  “It’s the only one we have. We might need it.”

  I wondered what he thought I meant to do with it, not that I cared. Reaching under my jacket I brought out my .38. With my other hand I caught his ugly yellow tie and jerked his face close to mine.

  “See this?” I tapped my cheek with the tip of the gun to make sure he got a good look at the ends of stiff black thread which poked out of my skin like barbed wire now that the swelling was gone. “The guy who did it won’t be walking for quite a while. I’m disagreeable when I get peeved. So unless you want me to put a hole in that champagne bucket — and maybe a couple of other things — I suggest you march in there and bring it to me.” I released his tie. “Feel free to call the police. I’m sure they’d be interested in those girls you have doing business upstairs.”

  His face turned three shades of red.

  “I don’t have anything to do — they just rent rooms!”

  He scuttled backwards, wrenching his eyes from the gun long enough to make sure he didn’t run into the door, and returned with the champagne bucket.

  “Thanks,” I said, and headed upstairs.

  I heard voices behind one of the doors that I passed, snoring from behind another. No sound at all emanated from Room 22. I knocked softly but got no response. I upped the volume with no better results.

  The door wasn’t locked. I eased it open a couple of inches and listened. There was the sound of even breathing. Neal sleeping one off, or someone calm and confident lying in wait. No guarantee I wouldn’t encounter both when I went in. It wasn’t the use I’d had in mind for the champagne bucket, but that didn’t stop me from tossing it in. Better it got shot at than me. It clattered to the floor untouched.

  I slammed the door full open in case anyone was hiding behind it. They weren’t. I locked it behind me and went to look at Neal sprawled face up on the bed. He’d managed to shed his shoes and his jacket. One toe poked through a hole in his sock.

  Odds were he was passed out rather than sleeping. I lifted my foot and nudged his leg. A gargle of protest escaped him, but he didn’t rouse.

  The room reeked, mostly of sweat and booze. In addition to the iron bed, it held a chest of drawers, a ladder-back chair and a lamp. A mostly empty bottle on the chest of drawers suggested Neal supplemented his visits to beer joints with home cooking. I tried to open the window to let in some fresh air. The wood had swelled.

  “Hey, Neal.” I shook his shoulder. He didn’t respond any more than he had when I’d used my foot. Time to use the champagne bucket I’d borrowed.

  I went into a tile-floored bathroom. It didn’t have a bathtub, just the toilet and sink and a shower the size of my file cabinet. A tub would have made things easier, but the shower would do. I ran the water to make sure it was nice and cold, then held the bucket close to the showerhead to fill it. Returning to the bedroom, and not without a certain enjoyment, I threw the contents directly at Neal’s face and shoulders.

  He yelped and flailed in an attempt to sit. I missed the entertainment since I’d left the water running and lost no time in filling the bucket again and repeating the dousing. This time he swore and managed to push himself up on his elbows. He looked around blearily, hunting the source of his torment. After wheeling unsteadily, his gaze picked me out. A little more effort and he finally focused.

  “You!” he said thickly. He looked as though he might have had more to say, but suddenly he collapsed, hanging his head off the bed just in time to vomit.

  When I saw the heaves were diminishing, I returned to the bathroom and filled the bucket again. This time I turned the shower off. Neal rested unsteadily on one arm, his head still over the side of the bed. As he became aware of me, he looked up long enough for a baleful glare.

  It was also long enough to register what I had in my hands. He would have dodged if he’d been able to. This time I delivered the water with less force.

  “That’ll make you feel better, Neal. Honest. Cleaner at least.”

  He sputtered.

  “Who sent you?” he gasped weakly.

  “Nobody sent me, Neal. I’ve been hunting your miserable carcass for almost two weeks. Why your sisters care about you, I can’t understand, but they’ve been worried sick since they learned you were missing. Now. Start talking. Who did you think sent me?”

  He started to shake his head, but fell back with a groan. I saw his chest heave and wondered if he might get sick again. He didn’t.

  “I can’t,” he moaned holding his head in both hands.

  Checking the ladder-back chair to make sure it was reasonably clean, I sat down.

  “Neal, listen to me,” I said patiently. “If I could find you, so can whoever else is looking.”

  I was vain enough to think it was a lie. He moaned again.

  “Oh, God! I can’t!”

  I tapped the bucket.

  “Don’t make this hard on yourself, Neal. Let me help you. Here’s what I already know.”

  He was sobering up some, but was still too soused to realize most of what I laid out was speculation rather than fact. With luck he’d confirm it and be scared enough he’d tell me the rest.

  “You ran because a man was waiting for you outside where you work the day after Alf’s funeral. He knew you’d been at Alf’s house the night he was murdered.”

  “No! That’s not—”

  “They saw you there, Neal. So did one of the neighbors.”

  “I don’t — I wasn’t there!”

  “You even told George that someone had killed his father.”

  “I told George—?”

  His eyes had been closed, hoping that if he couldn’t see me I’d disappear. They flew open.

  “Yep. You did. The night after Alf’s funeral. Now you better start talking fast if you want me to help you. The people looking for you don’t know how much you saw. They’re not going to take chances.”

  He started to blubber.

  “Oh, Jesus! How did I get in this mess? Jesus, what am I going to do?”

  Forty-one

  I let him bawl like a baby for five or ten minutes. Snot dribbled from his nose and his eyes got red and puffy. When I’d had enough, I went into the bathroom and found the glass tumbler provided by the hotel. I rinsed it a couple of times before putting an inch of water in it and carrying it out to the man on the bed.

  He cringed when he realized I had more water.

  “Rinse your mouth out,” I ordered. “You might as well spit on the floor. It’s not going to matter much, considering what’s already there.”

  He shrank back from the glass I offered him like he expected me to jab a knife in his chest. At least he complied, which suggested progress.

  “What kind of mess?” I asked when he finished.

  “Huh?”

  “A few minutes back you said, ‘How did I get in this mess?’”

  He sighed an
d scooted up on his pillow a little.

  “That first time I met you, at the house. I’d called my sisters the night before to say I was coming over the next day to get Alf’s things. Corrine told me I couldn’t, that someone was coming to discuss ‘personal matters’. She had that superior sound that she gets. It made me sore, and I ranted about it to Alf. He thought maybe they were up to something — maybe fixing to sue him the way he’d done them. I guess ... I guess maybe he went over and sneaked in to listen, only he knocked something over and made a racket and had to run.”

  “You guess that’s what he did, or you know?”

  He looked at his nails and pushed at a cuticle.

  “I know. He told me. He didn’t say what he’d heard that upset him, but I know something had.”

  “So he’s the one who killed the dog.”

  He twisted his shirttail, which was hanging out, avoiding my eyes.

  “He didn’t need to do that,” he mumbled. “There must have been some other way.”

  “What’s that got to do with the people you’re running from?”

  A whine I recognized crept back into his voice.

  “I never expected him to go over there!”

  “Neal.”

  “It wasn’t my fault.” He started to snivel.

  “I don’t care whose fault it was. Just answer my question.”

  “My head hurts.”

  “It’ll hurt more if I smack it.” I went to the side of the bed without a puddle and used his shirtfront to haul him to a more or less sitting position. He groaned. Yanking him forward, I turned his single pillow longwise and shoved him back against it.

  “What did Alf’s eavesdropping have to do with his murder?”

  “I don’t know! Please. Give me some of that whiskey ... an aspirin ... something.”

  “I’ll get you some water.” I brought him an inch. “Now answer my questions. Don’t make me use this.” I wagged the champagne bucket.

  “Yeah, okay,” he said sullenly.

  “Why were you at Alf’s house the night he was killed?”

  “He called me. Right after I got home from work. I’d never heard him so worked up. That’s when I found out he’d listened to whatever you and Corrie and Isobel talked about. So see, you know more about—”

  “Finish your story, Neal.”

  He might have attempted a glare, but maybe he was just squinting. His face was the blue-white of skimmed milk.

  “He said he had to see me that night — that it couldn’t wait — and not to tell George. He said come around eleven, that he had to go see somebody else first.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “I went over around eleven, like he’d said. I rang the bell, but nobody answered, so I waited ten minutes and left. I came back around midnight and tried again, but there was still no answer. Then I noticed there was a light in the kitchen.”

  “Was it there before?”

  “I don’t know. But I thought maybe Alf was back there or was in the crapper or something and hadn’t heard me ring. Anyway, I went around the side of the house, thinking I’d try the back door. Knock and then go in and yell it was me, you know?”

  It was how I’d done at Kate and Billy’s when I was a kid, and at Wee Willie’s, too. I nodded.

  “There’s a window there on the side. The shade hangs up about an inch from the bottom unless you notice and fiddle with it. One time George and I peeked under and saw Alf and his girlfriend—”

  He broke off at my expression.

  “Yeah. So. It was starting to feel funny, Alf making such a big deal over needing to see me and then not being there. I looked through that gap and saw Alf at the kitchen table, passed out with a bottle beside him.”

  “Was he already dead?”

  “I - I don’t know.” He looked so miserable I almost felt sorry for him. “I didn’t go in. I thought, well, maybe he was just a little bit drunk, or maybe sleepy. I went on to the back door, still meaning to knock. But just as I was starting to...” He swallowed with effort. “I heard somebody moving inside. And I ... oh, God ... I don’t know what I thought .... Just that something wasn’t right, and I’d better clear out, and that’s what I did. I figured the people in the other side of the duplex would be asleep and wouldn’t see me, so I went that way.”

  “But somebody did see you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Somebody who knows Alf was murdered and thinks you saw the killer.”

  “All I saw was what I’ve told you!”

  “And cars.”

  “Cars?”

  “Maybe they think you recognized cars.”

  Neal looked blank. Maybe he made connections better when he was sober. I doubted it. I switched directions.

  “Who’s got you scared, Neal? Who came to see you that day at work? Was it one of Cy Warren’s men?”

  “Cy Warren?” he repeated stupidly.

  “He and Cy were thick when they were young.”

  “I know who he is. You think I’m dumb?” Irritation pushed color into his face. “He’s running for something. Statehouse, maybe. Of course it wasn’t anybody he sent!”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because ... because it was somebody from the other bunch.”

  “The other party, you mean?”

  He wet his lips. His eyes darted nervously from the door to the window.

  “No. His own. The ones who paid me to dig up dirt on him.”

  ***

  I leaned against the wall of the shabby hotel room and let the import of what he’d just told me sink in. That was why so much in this case hadn’t made sense. Why someone already was snatching Corrine at the very moment my presence first alerted Cy Warren to the fact I’d made a connection between him and Alf. Why a car tailing me bore a license plate that didn’t appear on the list Heebs compiled. Why there’d always seemed to be an extra element that didn’t fit.

  There was an extra element. It had nothing to do with Percy Street or the Vanhorns. It had to do with politics. Not money — at least not as far as I could see — but power. Or maybe prestige.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” I muttered to myself. “They’re as bad as gangsters.”

  Neal was holding his head in his hands, as miserable at what he’d done as from the bender now hammering him with its effects. I went into the bathroom and got him half a glass of water. This time I added a miserly splash of whiskey from the bottle on the dresser before I gave it to him.

  “Who are these men? What did they want you to find out?”

  It was late, and my patience was strained. Apparently Neal could tell.

  “I-I don’t know any names. The one who hired me, he’s some bigwig. In the party, I mean. Not anybody who’s been elected. But he’s there sometimes, at headquarters.”

  “Cy’s headquarters?”

  “No — the party’s. Alf’s kind of — was kind of — keen on politics. I’d tag along sometimes. Pretend I was too, because....”

  “Because you wanted to butter him up.”

  “I guess. George said all their blather was boring. I thought so too, but I went now and then. That’s how I knew about Alf and Cy being pals. Alf always made it a point to go over and talk to Cy, though to tell you the truth, they didn’t really talk. More like Cy pasted on a smile and said ‘Good to see you, Alf.’ Like I say, this other guy, the bigwig, was around. I never paid him much attention. I think he runs people’s campaigns or something like that.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Fair. Real fair. Kind of blocky.” He shrugged. “I only talked to him once.”

  “When he hired you to spy on Alf?”

  He looked down guiltily and swallowed some water.

  “Yeah. I guess. But I never spied. I was ... I’d just get him to talk about Cy, about what they did in the old days. Then I’d tell a guy who worked for the bigwig.”

  “What were they trying to f
ind out?”

  “They never said. The important guy came up to me at a meeting. He slipped me five bucks and said if I wanted to make five more, be down at the corner in ten minutes. I wasn’t to tell Alf or anyone else.

  “So I went and a guy of his met me. He said they’d pay me a fin a week to pump Alf about anything stupid Cy had done. I couldn’t see it would hurt Alf any, so I said sure. Every week I’d meet the same guy somewhere and tell him anything I’d learned, but it never was anything important. Just pranks they’d played, stuff like that. Then Alf died and the guy I’d been reporting to turned up—”

  “Outside where you worked.”

  “Yeah. He called me names. Said they knew I’d been sneaking around at Alf’s the night he died. He said unless I told what I’d seen — who I’d seen — they’d pin it on me!”

  He sank back, hands shaking as he used both to raise the glass to his lips.

  To pressure him, they’d terrorized Corrine. What they didn’t know then was that Neal already was in the process of running. Even now, he probably had no inkling what had befallen his sister. Meanwhile, unaware of a second faction, I’d erroneously assumed her abduction was intended to scare me — or the sisters — into dropping the case.

  Thinking of how much trouble was stirred up by people who ‘never meant to’ do any harm disgusted me as much as the smell of the room. I’d had all I could take for one day.

  “You’ve got two minutes to get out of those clothes and into the shower to clean yourself up,” I said. “Get moving or I’ll do it for you.”

  Forty-two

  The doc who’d embroidered my lip had said the stitches should stay in at least a week. One week and thirteen hours later I tried to hold him to taking them out. He argued waiting two more days would be better, so we finally compromised. He’d take them out if I promised not to use lipstick for another week.

  As soon as I got to my car I got out my lipstick. Then I had second thoughts. Tiny holes remained where the silk or catgut or whatever it was had been pulled out, and there was a line where skin was still growing together. Feeling uncommonly virtuous, I put the lipstick away, had breakfast, and bought some fresh Vaseline, which at least gave me some shine. Then I headed over to check on Neal.