Cinderella

by Ed McBain

  5

  At ten o'clock on Wednesday morning, Matthew remembered that he had to call Susan about the Father's Day weekend. He did not much feel like making this particular call. On his desk were copies of the two files he had Xeroxed at Otto Samalson's office on Monday. Matthew wanted to read those files more thoroughly than he had yesterday, when he'd only briefly glanced through them. He had asked Cynthia Huellen, the firm's factotum, not to put through any calls. But now he was about to make one. To Susan. Who, on Sunday night, had left his bedroom in a huff.

  Years ago, when there were still some laughs left in their marriage, he and Susan had defined a "huff" as a "small two-wheeled carriage." A person who went off in a huff was therefore a somewhat lower-class individual who could not afford to hire or own a "high dudgeon." A high dudgeon was one of those big old expensive four-wheelers. A person who went off in "high dudgeon" was usually quite well off. A person who was in a "tizzy," however, was truly rich since a tizzy was a luxurious coach drawn by a great team of horses to a stately mansion called "Sixes and Sevens." All at Sixes and Sevens were in a tizzy save for Tempest, the youngest daughter, who was in a "teapot." A teapot was even smaller than a huff, about the size of a cart, but fitted with a striped parasol that… And so it had gone.

  In the days when their marriage was still alive.

  These days, their marriage was as dead as old Aunt Hattie, who had left Sixes and Sevens in a "trice," which was a flat-bedded vehicle used to transport coffins. Dead and gone. Like all things mortal. Which is why he had no burning desire to talk to Susan today. But place the call he did. Dialed the number by heart-used to be his number, after all-dialed all seven numerals, and waited. Listened to the ringing on the other end. Waited. Five… six… seven… all at Sixes and Sevens…

  "Hello?"

  Susan's voice.

  "Susan, hi, it's Matthew."

  "Matthew! I was just about to call you!"

  "I wanted to discuss arrangements for the weekend," he said. Business as usual. Forget the foolish hugging and kissing on Sunday. "You do remember it's…?"

  "Father's Day, yes, of course," she said. "But, Matthew, first I want to apologize for Sunday night."

  "There's no need."

  "I'm so ashamed, I could die."

  "Well, really…"

  "That's why I was calling," she said. "To apologize. I'm genuinely sorry, Matthew."

  "So am I," he said, and guessed he meant it.

  "Walking out," she said. "Dumb. Just plain dumb." She hesitated and then said, "Just when it was getting good, too."

  There was a sudden silence on the line.

  Matthew cleared his throat.

  "Uh, Susan," he said, "about the weekend…"

  "Yes, the weekend," Susan said. "Here's what I thought, if it's okay with you. Can you pick her up here at about five on Friday?"

  "Sure, that'll-"

  "And if you have a little time, maybe you can come in for a drink."

  Another silence on the line.

  "Yes, I'd like that," Matthew said.

  "So would I," Susan said.

  "So… Friday at five, right?"

  "Right. See you then. And Matthew…?"

  "Yes?"

  Her voice lowered. "It really was getting good."

  There was a small click on the line.

  It sounded like a maiden's blush.

  Smiling, he put the receiver back on the cradle and pulled the first of the two folders to him. Both folders had been labeled here at the office yesterday morning, after he'd given the photocopied pages to Cynthia. Both folders contained Otto's standard contract form, signed by himself and the party or parties hiring him, stapled to which was a two-paragraph rider. The first paragraph stated why Otto was being hired, and the second was a disclaimer to the effect that whereas Otto would investigate diligently and in good faith, there was no guarantee, stated or implied, that he would necessarily achieve results. That Otto had felt it essential to add this rider to his basic contract indicated that he'd been burned before and was taking no chances on collecting his fee. Each folder also contained Otto's daily notes on the case, all of them typed clean.

  The first folder was labeled DAVID LARKIN.

  ***

  Whether you approached the place by land or by sea, it didn't make any difference. Either way, you could see the sign announcing Larkin Boats. Big white double-sided sign with ice-blue plastic lettering on each side, Larkin Boats. Biggest retailer of boats in all Calusa, sold them new, sold them used, sold them from dinghies to yachts-Larkin Boats, his TV commercials said. The Way to the Water. The showroom was on the Trail itself, but behind that was a deepwater canal and enough dock space to accommodate fifteen, twenty boats, depending on the size. Bird sanctuary just beyond the canal, and beyond that the Inland Waterway, man wants to take a boat out for a spin, be my guest. Larkin Boats, The Way to the Water.

  Late that Wednesday morning, Larkin was sitting with Jimmy the Accountant on the foredeck of a fifty-seven-foot Chris-Craft Constellation, a boat maybe twenty years old but still in terrific shape, could take you clear to the Bahamas if you wanted it to. Larkin was wearing jeans and Topsiders, and a white T-shirt with blue lettering on it: Larkin Boats, The Way to the Water. Jimmy the Accountant was wearing a green polyester suit and pointy brown shoes and a white shirt with a tie looked like somebody vomited on it and mirrored sunglasses and a narrow-brimmed straw fedora. Jimmy was five feet eight inches tall and he weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, and Larkin thought he looked more like a fat spic than the Italian he actually was. Jimmy's real name was James Anthony Largura but almost everybody called him Jimmy the Accountant or Jimmy Legs, both names having to do with his occupation. Jimmy the Accountant came to see you when there was an accounting due. Jimmy Legs broke your legs if you didn't account to his satisfaction. Or your arms. Or your head. Or sometimes only your eyeglasses.

  Jimmy was Larkin's younger brother.

  Jimmy was here to ask if Larkin could let him and some friends of his use one of the boats for a little trip they had to make on Friday, the twentieth of June. The kind of boat Jimmy had in mind was a cigarette. Which could outrun the Coast Guard, if Larkin followed his drift. Larkin followed his drift perfectly, not for nothing were they brothers. Jimmy and his friends were expecting another shipment, of what Larkin didn't want to know. Larkin made a point of never asking Jimmy about business. That way, Larkin stayed clean. Every once in a while, Jimmy asked him for the use of a boat. Larkin always said what he said now.

  "If somebody accidentally left the keys in one of the boats, and somebody came in and used it, I wouldn't know anything about it. It comes back safe and sound, that's terrific. It gets blown out of the water, I didn't even know it was gone."

  "Yeah, that's cool," Jimmy said.

  Forty-two years old, Larkin thought, and he looks like a fat spic, and he buys his clothes in the discount joints lining 41, and he still talks like a teenager. Yeah, that's cool. Jesus!

  "Then we pick it up that night sometime, that's cool with you, huh?"

  "If I don't know anything about it," Larkin said.

  "But the keys'll be in one of the cigarettes, huh?"

  "It's possible keys could get left in a boat by mistake."

  "Sure, I dig," Jimmy said.

  I dig, Larkin thought. Jesus!

  The men sat in the sunshine drinking beer.

  "I hear you're searchin' for some broad," Jimmy said.

  Larkin looked at him.

  "A Miami hooker," Jimmy said.

  Larkin said nothing.

  "Stole your watch," Jimmy said.

  "Where'd you hear that?" Larkin said.

  "You remember Jackie? Jackie Pasconi, his mother used to run the candy store downstairs when we were kids in New York? Jackie? Pasconi? Whose brother got stabbed up in Attica? Don't you remember Jackie?"

  "What about him?"

  "What he does sometimes, he works-he used to work-for this guy got shot here last Sunday. Thi
s Jewish guy, I forget his name. Jackie done work for him in Miami."

  "What kind of work?"

  "Like listening around, you know? Like a snitch, sort of, but not really, 'cause this wasn't for the cops, it was for this Jewish private eye, what the fuck's his name, I can't think of his name right now."

  "Samalson," Larkin said.

  "Yeah, right, Samuelson."

  "So?" Larkin said.

  "So I run into Jackie at the dogs, he starts tellin' me my brother hired this private eye to find this hooker ran off with his solid gold Rolex, that's what Jackie tells me."

  Larkin looked at him again.

  "Is it true?" Jimmy asked. "That a hooker took you for five bills plus the gold Rolex?"

  "No, I didn't pay her nothing," Larkin said. "I didn't even know she was a pro."

  "But she got your watch though."

  "Yeah."

  "Walked off with the watch, huh?"

  "It was on the dresser."

  "You musta been sleepin', huh?"

  "Yeah."

  "This was when, in the morning?"

  "Yeah."

  "She was gone when you woke up, huh?"

  "Yeah."

  "With the watch."

  "Yeah."

  "So why'd you go to a private eye? Whyn't you come to me? I'm your brother, I coulda taken care of this for you."

  "Well."

  "Better'n any fuckin' private eye, that's for sure. Who got himself killed, by the way."

  "Well."

  "You think she mighta done it?"

  "I know she did," Larkin said.

  "Killed him? No shit?"

  "No, no, I thought you meant-"

  "Oh, the watch, sure. But you don't think she killed him, huh?"

  "Who the fuck knows what she did," Larkin said.

  One thing he knew for sure, she'd stolen his watch. The other thing he knew for sure… well, the other thing was something he hadn't even told Samalson, and he sure as hell wasn't going to tell his brother, either. Nor anybody. Ever. Fucking little bitch! He wondered now, sitting in the sunshine on the foredeck of a sleek Constellation with his fat brother Jimmy Legs the Accountant in his polyester suit, wondered if maybe she had killed Samalson. Because suppose Samalson was getting close? And suppose she knew this was something more than a solid gold Rolex, this was something could get a pretty girl's face rearranged in a way you'd never recognize her again. And suppose she knew the minute Samalson zeroed in she'd be having company who didn't want to hear no shit about what a big gorgeous cock you got, honey. It was possible. Desperate people did desperate things.

  "You want me to go on the earie?" his brother asked.

  "What?" Larkin said.

  "You want me to listen around, see I can get a line on her? Bust her fuckin' head and get the watch back for you?"

  "You've got other things to do," Larkin said.

  "No, I ain't too busy just now," Jimmy said. "You want me to, or not?"

  "Well, I'd like to find her," Larkin said.

  "Then consider it done," Jimmy said. "What's her name?"

  "Angela West. That's the name she gave me. But I don't think that's her real name."

  "You got a picture of her?"

  "I gave it to Samalson."

  "Then tell me what she looks like."

  "Blonde hair, blue eyes, about five feet nine inches tall."

  "How old?"

  "Twenty-two, twenty-three. Tits out to here, legs that won't quit…"

  "They'll quit when I find her," Jimmy said.

  ***

  What he told her, he said there was dope in the house there.

  Coke in the house, he said it had to be worth on the street something like seven hundred and fifty K. Six kilos of pure, something like that. This customer of his had seen them- half a dozen of those white plastic bags-when he opened the safe. Well, seven including the one that was already open and on the dresser. Figure he'd already used a few bags, or sold them off, whatever, so say there were still four in the house, maybe three, shit, even two would make it worthwhile.

  You came away with two kilos of pure, that was a bit more than seventy ounces, you stepped on it till you got it to street strength, you could ask a hundred and a quarter a gram. Something like twenty-eight grams to the ounce, you multiplied that by your seventy ounces, you got nineteen hundred and sixty grams times a hundred and twenty-five bucks, you came away with two hundred and forty-five thousand bucks, almost a quarter of a million, that's if there was only two kilos in the house.

  You could add, say, another hundred and a quarter, give or take, for every kilo you came away with. Come out of there with four kilos, for example, you had half a million bucks right there in your hand. You were talking two point two pounds per kilo. You were talking carrying eight, ten pounds the most in your tote bag when you left the house. Walk away with it, disappear in the night.

  She told him it sounded dangerous.

  Also, how did he know this customer of his wasn't full of shit?

  He said For Christ's sake, I've known her for ages, she's a hooker same as you, she had no reason to lie to me, she was just telling me an interesting story.

  Listening to him tell her all this, she was thinking amateurs shouldn't fuck around with dope deals.

  She told him she knew a hooker in L.A., a working girl like herself, who got involved bringing dope in on an airplane. They were paying her fifty thousand bucks to bring the dope in from Antigua where it had come from London by way of Marseilles. All she had to do was carry in this false bottom bag with the dope in it. So they brought out the police dogs that day, and she was now doing twenty in San Quentin, and the guys who hired her were still having a nice time on their yacht on the French Riviera. Amateurs shouldn't fuck around with dope deals, she told him.

  Also, you shouldn't try to cross guys dealing dope.

  That's how amateurs got their brains blown out. Crossing guys who were dealing dope for a living. Nobody likes his rice bowl broken, she told him. You mess with a guy's rice bowl, he's gonna come break your head.

  So I don't think I want to do it, she said.

  But at the same time she was thinking Oh God, this could be my way out.

  This was back in March.

  They were at this house he was renting in Hallandale. They were sitting by his swimming pool. This was the beginning of March, it was still too cold to swim here no matter what anybody said. She'd flown to Miami from L.A., got there on the twentieth of January. A girlfriend on the Coast told her she heard they were paying two, two-fifty for an hour's work in Miami, she ought to go down there, check it out. Any given city, you wanted to know what call girls were getting you looked in the Yellow Pages under "Massage" or "Escort." In L.A., Jenny was registered with an outcall massage service that advertised in the Yellow Pages and accepted credit cards. You dialed the number, you got somebody who told you what the agency fee was and asked if you wanted a girl to call you. What Jenny did when she called, she reminded you that the agency fee was fifty bucks, and then she mentioned that she usually got a hundred an hour. So what it was, it was a hundred and fifty bucks an hour, did you want some company or not? Some nights, she turned seven, eight tricks and went home with a thousand bucks when you figured the guys who tipped extra for an, ahem, exceptional blow job. Some nights she watched Johnny Carson. Miami was supposed to be two hundred, two-fifty an hour, which was a lot of bullshit as it turned out. She figured she'd get a few days' sun-actually it was also rainy and cold-and then head back to the Coast.

  The day before she was supposed to leave, she met a girl on the beach, told the girl she was an insurance investigator working for a company in L.A., here settling a big claim, be leaving tomorrow. She always made up stories about what she did for a living. A lot of her friends were straight, and you couldn't just say Hey, guess what, I'm a hooker. So she either worked for a bank, or an insurance company, or she did research for a computer company, or she was office manager for a textile firm, all bland jobs no
body would ask her much more about. She liked playing different roles. Well, that was why she'd gone out to L.A. in the first place, to become a big movie star, sure, some star. A hooker was what she was, plain and simple. But even so, she thought of hooking as playing different roles, sort of.

  Anyway, she'd hit it off right away with the girl on the beach-Molly Ryder was her name-and Molly was saying like Gee, what a shame it is you're leaving so soon, just when we're getting to know each other, it's a shame you can't stay a little longer, get the feel of the place, 'cause it's real nice here, it really is. And then she told Jenny that there was gonna be a party tonight at this guy's house in Hallandale that had a swimming pool and everything, and there'd be some interesting quite far-out people there, if Jenny would like to come along.

  So Jenny went to the party and met a lot of interesting quite far-out people who were doing coke and stuff and decided to hang around Miami a while, see if she couldn't drum up a little trade at the fancier hotels on the beach, maybe even find some old geezer she could play house with, because Miami seemed to have less phonies here than there were in L.A. where they came a thousand to the square inch. What came a thousand to the square inch down here were the cockroaches. She remembered them from when she used to be a kid living down here. They called them palmetto bugs down here. They were as big as your forefinger, some of them. You stepped on them, you jumped up and down on them, they crawled away all crippled and broken but they wouldn't die unless you hit them with a sledgehammer. Also, they knew how to fly. Staying with Molly the first few weeks she was in Miami, she almost wet her pants when one of them flew right up into her face.

  That had been back in January.

  By the beginning of March, she was sitting by a swimming pool and listening to talk about a quarter of a million dollars for a single night's work.

  What she usually got for an all-night stand in L. A. was five hundred, sometimes only four if things were slow.

  This was a quarter of a million.

  Split it with him, it still came to a hundred and a quarter.