“What now, Cella?” I said quietly. “Where do we go from here?”
She lit yet another cigarette and said, “I don’t know. Any suggestions?”
Prodding the conversation, nudging it to somewhere she wanted it to go but didn’t have the courage to say out loud.
I said the words for her: “I want you to work for me as well as Misery. Only us two will know. Whatever you find out, report to her as agreed between you, but also to me. She won’t know about it, I guarantee it.”
She nodded slowly, almost like a drugged motion, someone under heavy water. When she spoke her words sounded accel- erated by comparison: “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay. I think I can, ah…”
“I need your help, big mama. I admit it straight up. I’m gonna tell you something nobody knows: we’ve a leak inside the HCPD. Don’t have a clue who or how or what’s going on, but my five songbirds in lock-up know certain stuff they shouldn’t know and couldn’t know. I have a leak, and I need someone on the outside, someone I can trust. I need you.” I let that sink in then said, “And you get from it what I said already: you’re uneasy about Misery and the situation you’ve found yourself in. Help me out and it’s all over all the quicker. I get my woman, you get paid, we all get to fuck off home for a good night’s sleep.”
Cella smiled and cleared her throat. “Yeah. Okay, Genie, I’ll do it. ’Cause I am nervous about it, that’s correct. I just want this goddamn thing over and done with. So, uh, yeah. We have a— what? An arrangement?”
She smiled. I patted her hand again and said, “An under- standing. Cool. It’s settled. Look, I’ll go now and we’ll talk tomorrow maybe.”
“Here.” She pressed a business card into my hand; phone number and address. I didn’t recognize either. Cella said, “I check in like clockwork. If I’m not there leave a message and I’ll call you within the hour.”
“Okay.”
I went to open the car door and she frowned, clicked her fingers, remembering. “Ooh. There was something else. Ashbery, she told me something, I don’t know if it’s relevant but you’re still gathering information, right?”
I nodded. Cella said, “The dress. That polka dot dress the Greenhill kid was found in? Noni said she had an infatuation with the pattern. ‘Black spots on pure white.’ That’s a quote. Madeleine used to talk about it a lot—monochrome polka dot. I don’t know what it meant for her, the shrink wasn’t sure, but it meant something. Used to draw it, you know, doodling on a notepad, she drew it everywhere. On her hand, even. Black dots against white skin. She thought, this is Ashbery, she thought maybe it was some hangover from childhood, something Madeleine had held onto. Like, uh…what’s that term? Like a mental comfort blanket. I dunno, it made her feel safe. Calmed her down, or when she was stressed or upset. Anyway, Ashbery said the girl didn’t tell this to anyone else, not even her mother. So, uh, there you have it. That’s all I got.”
We shook hands, wordlessly parting company, small smiles and barely perceptible nods. We locked eyes and held the gaze and were committed to each other. I strolled back to my car as Cella gunned her engine and drove away at speed, as the clouds of evening rolled in across the day, filling it, obscuring the light. And I thought about Madeleine and her obsession with polka dot. Black on white, bright and dark, empty and filled, space and enclosure. A crossword looked like that, too, didn’t it? An accumulation of clues, of hints and teases, obscure allusions, structured in clean black and white.
Reaching my car I stood with the key in the door, not turning it, not doing anything, still thinking about Madeleine and the polka dot dress in which she died. I pictured her returning to Caritas Heights that fateful last night, the images scrolling across my mind like a slideshow; pictured her wearing the trousers Misery had mentioned, going upstairs to her dressing-room, stripping to her underwear and opening the door of a huge standalone wardrobe, something ancient and impossibly grand in polished mahogany or iroko; I pictured Madeleine sifting through clothes on hangers, considering one thing, discarding something else, this skirt, that scarf, taking her time over what to wear; then I pictured her eye falling on the polka dot dress as it struck her, of course, what else could I put on tonight, especially tonight, but this, my talisman, my comfort and succor, my familiar pattern, my monochrome polka dot.
Sure. What else could you have worn, Madeleine, en route to your violent end? I opened the car door and remembered her last words to Misericordiae, spoken that morning: “I love you, Mother.” I finally knew then, in my blood, in black and white, that the girl had realized she was going to meet her death.
Chapter 14
Camilla
“I TOLD you once already, small fry—I can’t help you. Now ya gonna buy a drink or piss off? ’Cause you’re making my customers nervous.”
Camilla Castelmagno had a smile on her face that was about as warm as a frozen-over Hell in January. She was leaning against the bar in Coochie Coo’s—one of many drinking emporia she owned/controlled in Hera City, and the one she spent most time in herself. Dark, minimalist design, alien-blue strobe lights making our skin glow like it was radioactive. A fantastic acid-jazz tune snaked its way out of spaced-out speakers, it hissed through the room like mist. I couldn’t think of the name but I loved this piece of music. Who knew Camilla had such good taste?
She wore a tailored pin-striped suit, three-piece, sharp as a razor blade. She also sported a fedora—yes, indoors—tilted at just the right menacing angle, and a pair of black and white spats booties, buttoned up to the ankle. Classic gangster chic. It was beyond classic, it was almost a parody, an homage. She looked like the villain from an old noir movie, or somebody done up as one for Halloween. She couldn’t have known I would drop by without warning this evening, but a part of me still believed she’d dressed like that just to antagonize me.
This was the second time Camilla had called me “small fry” and now I had to call her on it. Once you can let slide, maybe nothing was meant by it, maybe she was being playful. Twice is an affront to your authority, the authority of the badge you wear. Camilla scared me a little, I admit it—she was a tough broad, fortysomething and hitting fast for 50, hard-headed and quick with her hands, too ruthless and too smart for us to have ever managed to nail her on anything more than minor beefs: license violations, tardiness in settling her tax bill. She was the queen bee of Hera’s underworld and, off the record, didn’t deny it. The other crims usually steered a wide berth; the cops harassed and disrupted her business, up to a point. But nobody screwed around with Camilla. You treated her with respect.
Well, fine, I played the game as I was told to play it. But goddamn, I was into something serious here, I hadn’t time to dance around the ring in a blur of shadows and feints. I’d come here almost straight from my Cella meet, allowing myself a quick hour for a shower and a sandwich. Now I needed to know what Camilla needed to tell me. And fuck it, she needed to show me respect, too; me and the badge, the job I did, the cause I repre- sented. The fact that Madeleine was dead and someone had to pay for it.
I lit a cigarette, blew smoke in her face and said, “Call me that one more time and I will bust your ass, Camilla.”
She snorted dismissively. A tough-looking, wiry woman down the bar—also wearing a hat and trouser suit, though not nearly as well-cut—dipped her shoulders and took two steps towards me. Her fingers flexed, her eyes darting from me to her boss. The woman looked scarred and reckless, capable of incredible bravery. Camilla’s muscle/bodyguard: what was her name again? Something funny…
My senses pricked fully awake, tickled the skin across my shoulder-blades and up along my neck. I visualized where my guns were, which one I’d reach first if I needed to. I could almost feel my pupils dilate, the moment reduced to a hard black circle. I swallowed and blew smoke in this chick’s face, saying, “Yeah? And what the fuck do you want? Police business, sister. Whyn’t you go mind your own for five minutes?”
The woman looked at Camilla once more, then me again, licking her dry li
ps, a strange look of regret and anticipation on her chipped, leathery face. The moment got minutely harder, noticeably harder. I braced myself.
Then Camilla said, “Alright, Merrylegs. It’s alright.” She laughed. “Stand down, soldier. Detective Auf der Maur here is an old friend. Just dropped by for a little chat. Ain’t that right, sm… Ain’t that right, Genie?”
I nodded and smiled. “That’s right, Camilla. Old friends.”
We both knew where we stood now; and Camilla knew I wasn’t in the mood for fun and games.
“You heard her, Merrylegs,” she said, while still looking at me. “Go find something to occupy yourself. I think I’m safe enough in the company of Hera’s Finest?”
She raised her eyebrows, all faux-innocence, and chuckled. I laughed too, despite myself. Merrylegs sloped off to a table in the far corner, pretending to read the Hera Investigator, keeping an eye and an ear on us. Merrylegs—that was it. I couldn’t quite recall how she got that name. The music had shifted in tone, moving from the liquid-silver intro, that wash of high-hat cymbals and two-note bass, easing down, getting groovy. A looped horn motif came in, off the beat slightly, getting very groovy. The spoken refrain repeated at odd intervals. I’d have to ask Camilla what the song was called before I left.
For now I asked her this: “You know why I’m here?”
“Sure. You’re checking into the Greenhill kid’s murder, and you know she used to hang out in some of my places. So now you wanna pump me. Drink?”
I shook my head. “Working.”
“Don’t worry, Genie, I won’t tell. No? Suit yourself. You’ll allow me fix something for myself?”
I fluttered my hand extravagantly in the direction of the bottles behind the counter. Camilla bowed and walked around to them. So: we were still parrying, still shadowboxing. Okay. Be patient, Genie. Be cool.
She snapped her fingers twice and told the bartender, “Take off. Have a smoke for ten minutes.” The girl left and Camilla mixed a shot of something clear and a shot of something dark and a third shot into a tall glass, threw in some ice, put her hand over the top and shook it vigorously. Then she grabbed a straw and took a deep sip.
“You know what I call this? The Hoochie Coochie. Makes the girls drop their drawers quicker ’n the hookers down Whinlatter.”
“Cute, Camilla. Now finish your drink, sit the fuck down and start talking.”
I stubbed out my Dark Nine under my toe and popped onto a barstool. She slugged back her drink and glared at me for a few seconds, but there was something half-hearted about it. Like this was a little role she felt obliged to play, out of respect for the whole cop-crook dynamic, but she wasn’t feeling it in her gut. Finally Camilla dropped the glare, dropped the glass, came back around the counter and sat next to me.
She said quietly, “Okay, Genie. You’ve always played fair with me, so this one time you’ll get it easy. But next time bring a warrant for my arrest or bring your dancing shoes, one or other.”
“Fine. What can you tell me about Madeleine?”
“Madeleine. Madeleine was a wash-out, a space cadet. A total fucked-in-the-head far-gone baby. Poor kid. Shit to hear about that. I mean, she was alright, you know? Nice girl. Always real polite, said please and thank you every time. And there were a lot of times. She started, uh, frequenting my drinking establish- ments about two years ago. Nah, more. Two-and-a-half, maybe. Though she was legal age, in case you’re wondering.”
I smiled wryly. “Right. Because you’d never serve to under- age girls, huh?”
“Actually, I don’t. Believe it if you want. There’s no need in this town. More than enough full-grown dames needin’ their fix of alcohol. Don’t worry, Genie, I ain’t gone all moralistic on you in my old age.”
I waved a hand and felt tired—tired in the head, tiredness washing through my mind. “Oh look, I don’t care. Right now I don’t give a shit about the drinking laws. I just wanna find out what happened to Madeleine.”
Camilla nodded. I said, “Go on. Space cadet—how so?”
“Just a flake, you dig? Her head was on fucking Mars or someplace. She spoke like a whacked-out drunk even before she’d started drinking. Crazy stuff, all over the place. I could never understand her.”
“Spoke about what?”
“That’s what I’m telling you, little genius. I don’t know. It was unintelligible, gibberish. Bits of songs. Why she didn’t like French fries, or such-and-such the movie star. Whatever had come into her head that minute, random thoughts. Childhood memories, little things she remembered from when she was small. There was a lot of that. The color of a favorite overcoat she had as a kid, what she used to call her toys. And plans for the future, stupid shit that didn’t make a lick of sense. Said she was gonna, someday she said she’d ‘step through a magic door and become someone else.’ Here I quote. And I don’t think she meant metaphorically. I mean, I think she believed it. She was going to be transformed, or resurrected, or something.”
Now another horn, maybe a sax, was worming its way around the tune, deep and warm, basso profundo, those high-hats still ditzing and spritzing behind it all. Budda-bum, tsh-tsh-tsh- tshhh… I let the music play on my senses for a few moments then said to myself, “Guess that’s not going to happen now, Madeleine.”
“Guess not.” Camilla lit a cigarette. “Anything else?” “When did you last see her in one of your places?”
She shrugged. It’s remarkable how certain people can bring so much of their personality and reputation to the most innocuous of actions. Camilla shrugged, and that tiny, uncomplicated movement of the shoulders contained within it insouciance, menace and a bored, amused sort of half-interest. I repeated the question and sensed Merrylegs tensing, just a bit, behind me. I tensed too and asked it a third time.
Camilla sighed and blew out smoke and said, “Dunno. Coupla weeks ago. Not that recent but not that long. I know you’re too smart to buy some bullshit about ‘Oh but I haven’t seen her in months, Detective’, so I won’t feed you any. It was a few weeks back. The recent past, you could say. Drinking on her own for once.”
“So she usually had company.” “Oh yeah. Almost always.”
“Who? Did you know any of them?”
“Not by name. I’d maybe recognize some faces if you lined ’em up for me. …Actually, there was one. Merrylegs. Who was that chick used to hang with Madeleine Greenhill? You know, the one with the brown curly hair. Stacked. Quiet. Sorta shuffled around. What was her name?”
Merrylegs screwed her face into a comical contortion as she thought. She looked like a weasel with an itch. I smiled and covered it by pretending to cough into my hand. Then the muscle said, “Ginny. That’s what the Greenhill girl used to call her. Ginny, uh…Ginny Newman.”
Bing. Hello once more, Virginia.
Merrylegs added, “Sorry, Camilla, I don’t know nothing else about her. But I can find out if you want.”
I raised my eyebrows and said, half-laughing, half-affronted, “If she wants?”
Camilla laughed as well. Merrylegs said, doleful and sincere, “I’m not trying to be funny but I don’t work for you, Detective.” Fair enough. I turned back to Camilla who dismissed her bodyguard with a flick of her hand. I said, “Which of your bars and clubs did Madeleine go to most often? Do you know?”
She chewed it over. “This one, maybe. Saw her in here a lot, but then again, I’m here a lot myself. Uh, lemme think… Xanadu. She liked that. Youngish crowd. Loud music, you know, louder than here.” A pause. “Shit. I don’t know, Genie. I’m trying to help you here but I just don’t know. Some of them, all of them.
Madeleine Greenhill got around, know what I’m saying? Probably wasn’t a dive in Hera City where the bartenders didn’t know her by name and reputation.”
I held back for a moment then jumped straight into it: “Know anything about a drug habit?”
“Whose? Mine? Yours? Or someone else’s?”
“So we’re back to being cute. Someone else’s, yes.”
>
“This someone else being someone we may have just been talking about?”
I nodded. “Mm-hm. Officially I’ll deny it, but yeah. She was a user. We found track-marks. Four months, they reckon.”
Camilla shook her head, a very definitive motion. “Nah. Nothin’. I ain’t heard nothin’, and you know that’s legit. You know I don’t truck with that shit, Genie. I got, ah… Well. Let’s just say I got my fingers in enough pies. I don’t need the heat from Narco. Again, please believe me, I ain’t gone all moralistic on you. It’s simple business smarts.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“You thinks that? Ha. Think all you like, Detective. Just don’t fuckin’ think I’ve gone soft.”
The last notes were dying away, moving from speaker to speaker, little sonic gasps around the room. The voice instructing us to get together, to put our hands together. The cymbals had almost faded beyond audible range; now there was just an insistent four- or five-note motif, maybe a keyboard, maybe strings. It was hard to tell, it was so quiet, almost gentle, those final breaths, repeating, weakening, dying. I hopped off my stool and said, “What’s that piece of music called again? The one that was playing just there.”
Camilla regarded me with a look of self-satisfaction—I assumed her artistic taste was being vindicated by me asking. “That? It’s called Rose Rouge. Sort of acid-jazz. You like?”
The Polka Dot Girl Page 14