by Henry, Kane,
“Not me. You’re out of your brains. Why should I pop Mousie? Mousie’s my partner.”
“Was,” I corrected.
“Mousie was my partner.”
“Then what about the gun you’re holding?”
“I kept two pieces here, two spare pieces. The one the lady’s got, and this one. Kept them here. Kept a load of junk here too. Kiddy’s no dope, man.”
“Kiddy, you in shape?” I said.
“The best,” he said.
“Tell me true,” I said.
“The best,” he said.
“Did you blast Mousie?”
“No.”
“Because if you did, I’m the boy to cover you up, and you know it. Did you, Kiddy boy?”
“No … no. No! You hear me, you bastard! No!”
Kiddy Malone did not kill Mousie Lawrence.
I had my story. Complete.
Now it was up to him.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ve got it straight.”
“Got what straight?”
“I know the deal. And I can pull you through. But you’ve got to work with me, kid, you’ve got to work with me.”
The gun was back in his lap. His hands were clenched over it. “You know shit, pal,” he said. “You don’t know no deal. You’re trying to shake up a buck. You don’t know nothing. You’re a talker. You’re trying to shake up a buck, that’s what you’re doing. Trying to talk your way into a fancy buck. Okay, talk. Mabe you will talk yourself into some fancy bucks.”
“I don’t want to shake up any bucks. Not from you, Kiddy.”
“Then what the hell do you want?”
“I want to pull you out of it, Kiddy. You’re practically a dead man, Kiddy. You know that. Down deep, you know that. We’re old friends, Kiddy, I know you and you know me. You’re just sitting here waiting to get killed. Oh, you’ve got a gun in your hands, and you may make it tough for them, but you’re just sitting here waiting to get killed, and you know it.”
He stared at me for a long time. Then, without any change in expression, he began to cry. The tears came out of the inner corners of his eyes and ran down his nose. He made no effort to wipe them. He sniffed, once.
“Okay, Betty,” he said. “Get out of here.”
She stood up. “I think he is a friend,” she said.
“Get out of here.”
She smiled at me. “I really think you are. I hope you can help him. He’s a good guy.”
“Yes,” I said, “he’s a good guy.”
“Excuse me,” she said. “I’ll go to sleep now.”
“Yeah, go to sleep, baby,” Kiddy said. “The stuff you got in you, you’ll sleep real good, real good. Good night, baby.”
She went away, and I watched her going away, and I enjoyed watching her go away. She closed the door of the other room behind her.
“Give,” Kiddy said. “Let’s hear. Let’s hear the deal, baby boy. Talk it up for me, sweetie boy.”
“I’ll talk. You listen. You’re in shape, you said.”
“The best. Talk. I’m listening.”
“We start at the start,” I said, and then I threw in a threat. “By the way, what I know, the cops know. I may fling a guess here and there — but the cops, they’ve got it all nice and clean.”
“Talk, baby. Kiddy’s listening.”
I drew a deep breath. “You and Mousie,” I said, “came into town to set up the Nirvana. Sweet deal too. Package stuff, passed through some of the smart chicks, at a hundred bucks a throw.”
His eyes widened. He nodded. He was mystified but he was approving of me.
“Steve Pedi was in on the pitch …” I threw it and let it lie. He smiled, nodding: he still approved of me.
I had it all. It was complete.
“Steve Pedi,” I said, “was in on the pitch, although he would deny it if it ever shaped up trouble. He just didn’t know a thing that was happening to his girls — if it shaped up trouble. Like that — if it shaped up trouble — the most that could happen to him would be a revocation of his dance hall license.”
“It didn’t figure to shape up trouble,” Kiddy said.
“Of course not,” I said. “That was his end, Pedi’s end — the local end. With a little political pressure, a little bit of ice spread in the right places — this thing could run and run. You guys were here to set it up, to get it running, and it was just beginning to go — when a crazy dame butts her nose in. Vivian Frayne. Somehow, she got wind of what was cooking — maybe one of the chicks there let it bleed a little — and this Frayne is nuts in the mother-hen department. She gets to Steve and threatens to blow the whistle unless the operation is cut off quick.”
“Crazy dame, huh? Boy, how some dames is crazy.”
“Stevie-boy fast-talks her, but she’s a dead pigeon from the moment she opened up. Here’s a crazy dame that’s do-gooding on an operation that can gross millions of bucks. All right. So Stevie calls you guys in. You’ve got to pop her, and pop her quick. No sense calling in anybody else, because anybody else only widens out a murder clique. Keep it close, figures Stevie-boy, because Stevie-boy is a pretty smart fella. So you guys are going to pop her, and pop her quick, although you’re kind of out of practice, you’re big shots now. How’m I doing?”
“Keep punching, pal.” In his own way, Kiddy was being proud of me.
“He rigged it with you guys,” I said, “to make it look like a mugging killing, but it got scrambled and he was boiling. He had to move very fast after that, because if she began to think about it, she might get the angle, and then it would be the whistle but quick. So he made the move himself. Now I’ll be telling you things you don’t know.”
“Tell me, boy,” Kiddy said. “You’re a brain-guy, I always said so.”
“Steve Pedi used to be married to Vivian Frayne. He still had the key to the apartment. He also knew there was a gun in the apartment that belonged to a guy called Phelps who had a grudge against her because she was trying to pull some black dough out of him. That set it up pretty good, if he could lay his hands on that gun. So last night he goes to her apartment, rings the bell, and she’s not home yet. He uses his key and goes in. He finds the gun he’s looking for, and he hides out, probably on the terrace, until she comes home. She gets into her lounging clothes, he comes out, and pops her with Phelps’ gun, which he leaves there. He reminds himself that she must have the marriage certificate, also the divorce decree — because they were married and divorced. So he gives the joint a toss, looking for those documents.”
“Why?” Kiddy asked.
“He figures if he can get rid of them, he won’t be tied in at all. He’d just be an employer of the chick, period. And there’d be no idea that he might have a key. So he gives the place a search, but he doesn’t find either document. Okay, it’s not good, but it’s not fatal. If the stuff is found, it might tie him in a little, but not too much, unless it gets tied tighter and there are only two guys in the world who can tie it tighter. Get it, pal?”
“I get it, pal.”
“You and Mousie.”
“I get it, pal.”
“Am I giving you any new stuff?” I said. “A little,” he said.
“But you guys didn’t know, when he came visiting you at the Montrose, that he had already paid a visit at Vivian’s. By the way, he had locked that door from the outside, just to make things look kosher — he’d probably figured Phelps had a key to the place, which Phelps didn’t.”
“Okay, okay, he’s now visiting our place.”
“He came with a heater. If he gets rid of you two, he’s clean all the way around — completely clean of the murder that you guys messed up in the first place — and the operation keeps going because you guys can be replaced. He’s a smart cookie. He had pulled a murder. A smart cookie gets rid of anything — or anyone — that can tie him to murder. You guys can tie him, so he’s set to get rid of you. As far as the organization is concerned, he’s got a clean beef — you guys tripped up on a murder. Yo
u trip, you stink, you’re out. You messed a murder and you messed a deal that could go in the millions, plus he’s got relatives high in the organization. So whatever he does — he’s clean with the boys. Plus he’s a hero, because it turns out the cops figured a print on the knife that was dropped, the print was Mousie’s, and the cops are out looking for Mousie. You following?”
“I’m getting ahead of you,” Kiddy said, but his approval was disappearing; he was growing sad.
“So he comes to the Montrose for a little chatter. He’s going to ball you guys out for the miss, and plan a new little deal for Vivian, who is already dead, only you guys don’t know it, it hasn’t hit the news yet. He’s a friend, practically the boss in this operation, so your guns are in the bedroom, and you’re all gentlemen. Next, he starts shooting, clips Mousie.” I stopped and I smiled. “Your turn now, Kiddy,” I said. “Pick it up from there.”
“I rammed him,” Kiddy blurted. “Gave him the rush, the head to the belly, and knocked him on his ass. I didn’t have a gun on me, and his gun was in his hand, so I ran. And here I am, pal.” He lifted a hand to his hair and pulled on it, ruminatively. “You found me,” he said. “It figures he’ll find me too.”
“So will the cops.”
“The hell with them.”
“Cops are your salvation, Kiddy.”
“Sure, cops are my salvation.”
“Wake up, for Chrissake, Kiddy.”
“What the hell you talking about?”
“You’re in the middle, Kiddy, and you’ve got no out. It’s not only Pedi who’s gunning for you now, it’s the whole organization, because you stink now, you’re through. You messed a murder, you messed a big operation, and you’re an actual eyewitness to murder, Mousie’s murder. Witnesses to murder don’t live long when they’re on the wrong side of the organization. You’re dead right now, kid, and you know it, and even if you get out of here, you’ve got no place to run, and you know that too. You’ve got nothing, nobody, except one friend — me. I can keep you alive, Kiddy.”
I had my fingers crossed. He was crying again but I did not care about that. He either accepted me or he rejected me — now, right now. The man was a hophead. Which way would he turn?
“I can keep you alive,” I said and I waited. And then, finally, he said: “How?” I had him.
“Listen, kid,” I said. “Listen hard. You’ve got no choice. You’re a dead man. The whole organization is after you, and Pedi is pushing them, because with you alive, he can be a dead man convicted of murder. He killed Mousie, didn’t he? He killed your pal. And you’re next. So you’ve got nothing to lose by turning around on him, do you understand? I take you in. I take you in, personally, and you turn around on him.”
“Sure, but what happens to me?”
“Nothing, really. Maybe they won’t be able to prove the Frayne murder on him, but they’ll prove Mousie, with you as State’s witness.”
“Sure, but what happens to me?” he insisted.
“Nothing, pal. The best happens to you. You’re an alien, an illegal-entry alien. What happens to you — you get deported. The cops figure to work with you. You’re turning State’s evidence, you’re a big wheel, you’re important to them. And you’re going to spill your guts, everything, the whole deal. For that, there’s a hell of a lot of appreciation, believe me. They’ll fix you with a bodyguard, they’ll even change your name for you, and they’ll deport you back to Ireland where you get lost in the shuffle if you don’t play the bright spots too hard. Even Mexico can’t reach out for you when you’re lost somewhere in your own country. After a while, they’ll forget about you. Pedi’ll have the chair, so he can’t press them. And you’ve got dough, I know that, plenty of dough, stashed away. After a while you’ll get it together, and you’ll begin to move around. My advice, stick to Europe, stay away from here. Are you listening to me, Kiddy? I’m making a live one out of a dead one. Are you listening?”
“Yeah, I’m listening.”
“Do I make sense?”
“God damn right you do.”
“I’m glad you were in shape to listen.”
“Me too. Lopsided, you might have been a sorry boy for coming here.”
“I took my chances, Kiddy.”
“Yeah, you took your chances, boy. Why?”
“I wanted to make a live one out of a dead one. I know you a long time, Kiddy.”
“Yeah, a long time, boy. Frigged up world, huh?”
“Go get dressed, Kiddy. Right now.”
“Yeah, I’ll go get dressed,” he said. “Right now. Here, hold this.” And he gave me his gun.
TWENTY-FOUR
I brought in Kiddy, and then I brought in Sophia and Phelps, and Parker’s people brought in Steve Pedi. I requested that the cops did not make Phelps’ involvement public — there was no need — and they agreed (which earned my fee). Then I did it big and loud and glorious, mostly to impress Sophia Sierra. I told them all I knew on Frayne, and Kiddy told them all he knew on Pedi, which really wrapped it up, but I also cleared up the Frick bit. Since Vivian had told Adam, little Adam had finally added it up — the narcotics situation at Nirvana, the fact that Pedi had been married to Vivian, the fact that Pedi probably had a key. So he had tapped Pedi for a conference, but Adam was playing out of his league, and Pedi had come and blasted him with the very same gun he had used on Mousie. When I had arrived, Adam’s last gasp of “wife, wife” had been a reference to Vivian, his dying attempt at a tip-off both to his murderer and to his murderer’s connection with Vivian (although my interpretation had had to do with another man’s wife). I omitted all reference to Mrs. Barbara Phelps (which assured me of an interesting client for the future) and I omitted all reference to Sophia’s letters which made me a hero with Sophia (and there was no one I more wished to be a hero with). Parker and the District Attorney saw it my way about trading with Kiddy — his testimony in return for deportation and good riddance — and so ended a long night. Or did it begin?
For, at long last, I was back in my apartment, alone with Sophia Sierra, and we were toasting one another with Rob Roys (not too sweet), and we were both as tight as the boasts of a brothel girl, when I returned her letters.
“Oh, lover,” she said, “you’re wonderful, wonderful. You’re the sweetest, the sweetest….” She threw the letters in the air, watched them go plop, and reached for me. “I love you,” she said.
And this was the girl that old Phelps had described as exclusively on the hunt for loot. Poor old Phelps.
She kissed me and we swayed, clinging to one another, probably to keep from falling down. We were swacked on the Rob Roys, looped like sailors’ knots, and we were enjoying every dizzy moment.
“You were wonderful, lover,” she said.
“Aahhh,” I grunted modestly.
“Wonderful,” she said.
“Aahhh,” I grunted intelligently.
“You make lots of money,” she said, “don’t you?”
“Lots, lots, lots,” I said. “Wonderful,” she said. “Aahhh,” I said.
I held her tightly. I kissed her warmly.
“Five thousand dollars,” she said, “from Mr. Phelps.”
“A lousy five thousand,” I said.
“Wonderful,” she said.
“Aahhh,” I said, squeezing her.
“You make many thousands, don’t you?”
“Many, many, many,” I said.
“You could help a girl like me.”
“Sure,” I said.
“I want to be an actress. I want to be an actress more than anything else in the world.”
“Sure,” I said. “You’re wonderful.”
“Aahhh,” I said. “Would you help me?”
“Sure,” I said, suddenly sober.
“There’s a teacher,” she said. “Strassan. Elia Strassan. He’s retired, but he would take me on, he thinks I have talent. He would take me on, for a year, but he wants a fee in advance.”
“Aahhh,” I said glumly. �
�Of course. Advance.”
“Ten thousand dollars, lover. Only ten thousand dollars. A man like you, a wonderful man like you, it doesn’t really mean anything. But a girl like me, without help, it … it’s impossible. Will you help me, lover? Please? Will you?”
“Sure,” I said as my hands fell from around her. “Sure, I’ll help. Sure, my sweet, my beloved, my true love, my one and only. Sure, sure, sure, sure….”
And so ended my romance with Sophia Sierra.
Before it began.
(Postscript to Gordon Phelps. My humble apologies, sir. A dope is a dope is a dope is a dope, and a cocky big-male dope who derides well-meant advice and is contemptuous of the adviser, that is a real, platinum-edged, fourteen-carat, A-Number-One-type dope. Sir, I am a real, platinum-edged, fourteen-carat, A-Number-One-type dope. Regards to all, be good to your neighbors, be kind to animals, and watch your wife. Love and thistles, yours truly, Peter Chambers.)
If you liked Death is the Last Lover check out:
The Name is Chambers
CANDLESTICK
NIGHT was black: a starry oblong framed within the open window. No breeze stirred. It was hot: summer-hot, city-hot, breathless. Night came through the open window, peaceful night, merging with the breathing in the room: soft, inter-mingled breathing, relaxed now, deep and hushed. Motionless, I lay on my back, my hands clasped behind my head, the sweat on my body not uncomfortable, and I viewed the tranquil oblong of night as though it were a picture hung on my bedroom wall. The swirl of conscious thinking was subdued; mine was the twilight phase between wakefulness and dreaming. It was pleasant, summer-hot-pleasant, early nighttime in the city, the room dark but not pitch dark — no room in the middle of the city is ever pitch dark — the lights of the city bunch to a faint luminous cloudiness: it was dim.
The ringing of the phone was a raucous intrusion. I reached for it on the first ring, and held a palm over the mouthpiece. There was a disturbed stirring beside me, then nothing, no movement, only the gentle rhythmic breathing. I lifted the phone to my mouth, whispered, “Yes?”
“Pete?”