And 47 Miles of Rope (Trace 2)

by Warren Murphy

  “I thought she was only into donkeys,” Chico said.

  “So I’m told,” he said blandly.

  “Of course. Of course, you qualify. You’re more of a mule than a donkey, but I’m sure she couldn’t tell the difference.”

  “I really would rather not discuss this with you,” he said righteously. “You’re getting yourself all worked up over nothing.”

  “Nothing? You call that amazon, that bovine, a nothing? Where did you do it?”

  “I don’t really know what you’re talking about. Honestly, I hate it when you get this way.”

  “Does she do it in bed like, normal women? A motel room? Or did you have to rent a stable? Tell me, you Irish-Jewish half-breed bastard. Confess your sins.”

  “I have nothing to confess. How come you’re home so early?”

  “Don’t change the subject, you son of a bitch. I came home early because I got tired of all those insurance people. I wanted to spend part of an evening with you. I hungered—no, I yearned for your body. I wanted to make love to you. And what’s he do? He’s out porking some nitwit. I’m ashamed of you.”

  “The day will come when you’ll apologize to me for this,” he said.

  “I’ll die before I apologize. You are beneath contempt. A hundred generations of Japanese ancestors curse your name.”

  “That may be true, but I’m nevertheless innocent of all charges.”

  “I want you to come to bed and tell me all about it. I want to know how she did it. Describe it in great detail. Maybe I can learn something I can use on the job.”

  “That is a low blow,” he said. “Totally uncalled for. I refuse to stand here and listen to you degrade yourself.”

  He went out into the living room, very pleased with himself. She was convinced now that he had made love to National Anthem. Now, at the right moment, he could be very honest and very sincere and tell her the absolute, totally acquitting truth, he had not slept with National Anthem. He would make her believe him because truth and justice were on his side

  “Did you tape it?” she called out from the bedroom. “I want to hear the tape. Does she go eeeeyou when you stick it in?”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” he called back. “Please go to sleep. There’s nothing worse in the world than an accusing woman who has her mind made up in total disregard of the facts.”

  “I insist that you play me the tape of her I absolutely insist.”

  “It’s obvious that I’m never going to get any peace, isn’t it? You want to talk about this. Okay, we’ll discuss it when I come back in. Then we’ll talk about it as much as you want, but I’ve got things to do first.”

  “I hope dying is one of them. Die, you bastard. Rust, then die. I hope she gave you donkey fever. Your ears are going to grow and then your balls will explode.”

  “See how little you know. It’s a well-known fact that porn stars are the cleanest people in the world,” he said. He took the tape recording of Felicia from his recorder and hid it behind a book.

  “A well-known fact,” she scoffed. “How come you’re the only person in the world who knows that well-known fact?”

  “Just think about it. Who’s going to hire somebody for a pornographic epic if she’s going to give a dose to everybody?”

  “Including the livestock,” Chico screamed.

  “It’d ruin the industry. I tell you, cleanliness is their stock-in-trade. Of course, I don’t know this personally, since I do not associate with such types, but it has been told to me by people in a position to know.”

  “You lie, you bastard.”

  “Well discuss it when I come in there,” he said. “I have no desire to be accused by you long-distance, with you baying in full throat. I will not entertain another word you say. Meanwhile, consider this. I am clothed in rectitude.” He felt better having hidden the tape.

  The telephone rang and Trace answered it before Chico could. It was his father.

  “How’s it going, Sarge?”

  “Some ups, some downs, mostly downs. I couldn’t find out anything about his passport, so that’s a dead end. But I found the woman who was working at the car-rental desk that night. She remembered Jarvis when I showed her the picture. I got a copy of the contract.”

  “Okay That’s all right.”

  “How’s your night been?” Sarge asked

  “Pretty much a blank. There wasn’t anything in Jarvis’ room and the countess doesn’t know anything about why he was flying in and out of New York like that.”

  “Let me work on that some.” Sarge said “I’ve got some ideas.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll be over at ten?” Sarge asked…

  “Sure. Get some sleep. I’ll see you then. By the way, have you talked to Mother?”

  “Not all day.”

  “If the right occasion arises,” Trace said, “you might tell her that I don’t want her redecorating my apartment.”

  “That occasion will never arise,” his father said.

  Trace had barely hung up the telephone when it rang again. This time it was Bob Swenson.

  “Trace, I’m in trouble.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s all your fault for getting me near that National Anthem.”

  “What has she got to do with it?” Trace asked.

  “Everything. It’s her fault and yours.”

  “You’d better explain yourself,” Trace said. “I’m losing my tolerance tonight for being wrongfully accused.”

  “Hah,” he heard Chico chortle from the bedroom.

  Swenson said, “I told you how I spent last night, virginal and pure, lying next to that woman.”

  “I envied you your restraint,” Trace said.

  “Sure. But I wasn’t going to make that same mistake tonight. So I picked up this hooker at the lounge downstairs and I brought her up here.”

  “How much did she get?” Trace asked.

  “Three thousand dollars in casino chips. All in hundreds. I had them in a sock and she stole the sock. I was in the bathroom and she lifted the sock and beat it out the door.”

  “Do you know her name?” Trace asked. “What was she wearing? What’d she look like?”

  “She was wearing this zebra outfit, tight pants and top. She was a big blonde. I went downstairs and asked the bartender, but he played mummy on me and said he never saw her before.”

  “It’s all right,” Trace said. “I have.”

  “Good,” Swenson said.

  “And you want your three thousand dollars back,” Trace said.

  “No, I want my sock back. It’s a particularly beautiful argyle, handwoven by Scottish peasants out of peat moss. Of course I want my three thousand back.”

  “You haven’t called the cops or done anything dopey, have you?”

  “Trace, I’d rather be broke than dead. I get my name in the paper, right? Insurance-company president swindled by hooker. Swell, my wife sees that, I’m a dead man. Of course, I trust your discretion.”

  “Leave it with me,” Trace said.

  “Thank you. I knew I could count on you. I just want you to know that no matter how badly Walter Marks’ foreign detective embarrasses you, you’ll always have a job with Garrison Fidelity…if you get my money back for me.”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  “That won’t do,” Swenson said. “You must succeed.”

  “Bob?” Trace said.

  “What?”

  “Please stay away from hookers at the bar.”

  “You have my word. I’m going to bed now. Alone.”

  Trace pressed down the phone button and got out the telephone book. There was only an office address listed for R. J. Roberts, so he called it, expecting a tape machine or an answering service. Instead, Roberts answered.

  “R. J. Roberts,” he announced.

  “This is Devlin Tracy. Are you in the office?”

  “Did you call the office number?” Roberts asked.

  “Yes.”

/>   “Then naturally I’m in the office. I answered the phone, didn’t I?”

  “Why is everybody so full of glib repartee tonight?” Trace said. “Wait there. I’m coming right down. I have to talk to you.”

  “It sounds important,” Roberts said.

  “It is. Wait for me.”

  Trace hung up and went into the bedroom.

  “I’m ignoring you,” Chico said.

  “Why?”

  “When I was a kid, I was always afraid that there were ghosts in the room. When I told my mother, she said if I ignored them, they’d go away.”

  “Did it work?”

  “It didn’t work with the ghosts, but I’m hoping it works with you,” she said.

  “You want me to leave, I’m leaving,” Trace said.

  “Good.”

  He put on his jacket.

  “Where are you going? That cow need another milking?”

  “No. I have to see Roberts and it’s all your fault,” Trace said.

  “Why me?”

  “If you had stayed on the job tonight instead of surrendering to your base animal desires, you might have been around to keep Swenson out of trouble. But, no, you had to come home here to harass me, and that left him free to get in trouble with a hooker and she clipped him for three grand.”

  “Oh, crap,” Chico said. “Do you know who it was?”

  “Yeah. One of Roberts’ girls. I’ll be back as soon as I get the money. Then we’ll talk.”

  “I’ll be asleep. Don’t wake me. We’ve got nothing to talk about,” Chico said.

  “Then you’ll never know, will you?”

  “I hate you, Trace.”

  “I love you, Chico.”

  “You don’t look happy,” Roberts said.

  “Maybe you like working these hours, but I don’t. I like to get some sleep,” Trace said.

  “Go to sleep. Who’s stopping you?”

  “You are. Now just listen, Roberts. I’m going to go through this just once. I’m not going to negotiate and I’m not going to play cat and mouse. I’m just going to tell you what I want and you’re going to give it to me.”

  “I don’t think I like your tone,” Roberts said.

  “Wait until you hear the content,” Trace said. “It’s even worse. Here it is. Your hooker, Lip Service, nabbed a John tonight at the Araby. She clipped three thousand dollars in casino chips from his room. He’s a very important man and I want his money back now. I don’t want any blackmail threats, or any hints that we’ll tell the wife, or any of that. All I want is three thousand dollars.”

  “What do you mean, my—”

  “See,” Trace interrupted. “There you go. You’re going to want to deny that you’re running hookers. You’re going to try to play games with my head. You’re going to waste my time and I’m going to get mad and fry your ass. Three thousand dollars. That concludes this unfortunate piece of business.”

  “I don’t—”

  “No. You’re going to do it again, aren’t you? Three thousand. No conversation, please. I’m very tired. I’ve had a rough day.”

  Roberts looked at him for a full five seconds before answering. “You think I keep three thousand in cash around here?”

  “R. J., old buddy, your check’s good enough for me. Because I know where to find you.”

  Roberts looked at him some more, then nodded and drew a checkbook from a drawer.

  “All right,” he said. “Who do I make this to?”

  “Make it to me. Devlin Tracy. I’ll see that my man gets the money.”

  Roberts wrote the check and handed it to Trace.

  “Thank you.”

  “Now will you get out of here?” Roberts said.

  “Consider it done,” Trace said.

  Chico was making believe she was asleep when Trace climbed into the bed and slid under the light cover.

  He rolled toward her and whispered in her ear as if he believed she was asleep.

  “Good night, Chico. I love you very much.”

  “You know I’m awake, don’t you?”

  “I thought you were asleep. Honest.”

  “Tell me the truth, Trace. Purely professional interest, since I know we’ve got nothing and we’re going nowhere. Was she good?”

  “Who?”

  “Miss Stars and Stripes Forever,” Chico said.

  “Chico, I want you to know how much you hurt me tonight. I want to tell you one thing: I didn’t make love to National Anthem. I didn’t go near that woman. I didn’t so much as touch her.”

  Chico rolled over toward him and seemed to examine his face in the dark, then said, “Hey, you’re telling the truth, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve never been more truthful,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Trace.”

  “It’s all right. Forget it.”

  “I can’t just forget it. How can I make it up to you?”

  “You’ll think of something,” he said.

  16

  Trace’s log:

  Tape Recording Number Two, 5:30 A.M., Wednesday, in the matter of Early Jarvis, late of Las Vegas. I, Devlin Tracy, am becoming a conglomerate. I have added an assistant. My father. So, if I’m so smart and now so thoroughly staffed, why am I up at 5:30 in the morning talking to this stupid machine while Chico sleeps?

  I know why and I’m not saying, but tomorrow I’ll bring Chico flowers. Women are suckers for flowers. Give me enough flowers and I can get over on the world. Maybe I’ll send some to National Anthem.

  Or maybe straw.

  I had to put Pop on this job. Christ, going to police headquarters just to talk to cops. You know you’re desperate when you want to talk to cops.

  I’ve spent a lot of time today and wasted a lot of tape and I don’t know any more, I guess, than when I started. Well, maybe a couple of things. Like when I told Groucho that nonsense about the ritual murder, he went right to a phone to call Hubbaker. So there’s my insurance detective, the baron, sneaking around. And probably burgling Spiro’s apartment while that landlady was out having her hair fried.

  Roberts said there was nothing on the street about the jewels and Herman backed him up. I trust Herman. How can you not trust a chess player? But he’s right: if those jewels wind up in New York, they’re gone forever. They’ll sink without a trace.

  Well, that’s not my problem. My problem is murder. I wish I knew where Jarvis’ passport is. Felicia couldn’t find it and maybe, reluctantly, I’m going to have to agree with her point that maybe the killer stole it. But it just doesn’t jell. If I had a million in jewels in my hand, would I stop to steal a passport? And an ashtray too? No sense.

  I wonder. I wonder if the baron is back at the plotzo right now, talking to a tape recorder, asking the same stupid questions that I always ask.

  Aaaah, screw the baron. Back to business. So I got Roberts on tape and he checked out Spiro’s police record and he’s definitely the petty-thief kind, so scratch him. Anyway, his place was burgled, and that’s got to mean the baron looking for the jewels. When I talked to Spiro tonight at Felicia’s, he wasn’t lying to me. He doesn’t know anything more than he said he does. I know; I’m an expert on lying. Except I don’t think he was home to find out yet that his place had been looted. Maybe he’ll think it was the landlady cleaning.

  So Jarvis went to New York every Thursday before he died, and he traveled under the name of Edward Stark. Now, why is that? That was, by the way, a good find for Sarge. Whatever I wind up paying him, he’ll have earned it right there. Anyway, Jarvis goes to New York and comes back the same day. Why?

  And Sarge found the woman at the car counter who rented Jarvis the car. It’s not really anything new, but at least he nailed it down. So Jarvis calls Spiro and says, ‘Pick me up,’ and then rents a car. Why? Another illogical loose end. Why isn’t the world as logical as I am?

  There was nothing in Jarvis’ room. Felicia said she cleaned it up for me and that was stupid. I wish she’d clean up her own room ’cause my toe
hurts where I stubbed it on that goddamn unpacked luggage of hers. Get a maid and clean your room, Countess. Why did Felicia expect the jewel thief to be calling her? That doesn’t ring quite right, but I don’t know why.

  There’s a lot of things I don’t know, except Jarvis ought to have had a checking account. Everybody does.

  So that’s that. Except for what Sarge found out, today was pretty much of a blank, and I did a personal thing for Bob Swenson that I’m not going to talk about in case anybody ever hears this tape and I’ve got to remember to go to the bank in the morning.

  Anyway, that was my day. I’m not going to make one single comment about my mother trying to redecorate our apartment. All it did was put Chico in a bad mood and she was unjustly on my case all night because of that bad mood. Are you listening, Chico? Feel guilty. You ought to.

  Expenses. My usual one hundred and fifty dollars. I’ll be adding Sarge’s expenses in when I get done, but that’ll wait until later. I’m glad I got him away from my mother. Now if only I can get me away from my mother. Jesus, one more day and I’m forty.

  I’m going back to bed.

  17

  Trace slept late and was awakened by a buzz from the doorman.

  Naked, he padded to the speaker box in the kitchen.

  “A man here says he’s your father.”

  “He’s my father. Send him up.”

  “I just didn’t want to take any chances after yesterday,” the doorman said.

  “Look again. It’s not my mother in disguise, is it?”

  “No. It’s a man.”

  “Send him up.”

  He tossed on his bathrobe and found a note on Chico’s pillow. “Dear Trace, Sorry for not trusting you. Love you, Chico.”

  Great. Just what he needed to start the day. More guilt.

  Chico had already loaded the electric coffeepot. He pressed the ON switch, then opened his front door so his father could just walk in, then went to the bathroom to shower. One nagging problem, he realized, was that he had nothing today for his father to do. Actually he had nothing today for himself to do. Sarge had done well yesterday at the airport, but what was left for him to bird-dog?