by Ted Lewis
After I’m dry and half-dressed, I go back into the room where Murdock is, and he’s standing by the door wearing his hat and coat.
“I’m going to get a paper and a pack of cigarettes. I’ll wait in the lobby.”
I nod and Murdock goes out. I carry on back toward the bathroom and as I cross the carpet there’s another small table on which there’s a telephone. I stop and pick up the receiver and wait until I get the switchboard and then I ask to be put through to the Plaza Suite. When the receiver at the other end is lifted, I hear her voice before she puts her mouth close to the phone and she’s talking in a happy fashion to somebody who’s in the room with her. The way she’s talking it can only be the guy she’s been telling me about so when she finally says “Hello” I put the receiver down. I carry on back to the bedroom and find Murdock’s shirt and his electric shaver and when I’m shaved and fully dressed, I phone room service and order some scrambled eggs and fresh coffee. While I’m waiting for that to arrive, I pour another drink and try not to think of the evening before.
When I’ve had breakfast, I go downstairs and find Murdock in the lobby sitting on one of the divans smoking, his unopened newspaper beside him, and when I get out of the elevator, he watches me walk all the way over to where he’s sitting. When I get there I don’t bother to sit down.
“Okay?” I say to him.
“You better sit down,” he tells me.
“Why?”
“Sit down and I’ll tell you.”
I sit down.
“Styles is here,” Murdock says.
I look at him.
“In this hotel,” Murdock says. “He checked in ten minutes ago. A whole flock of suitcases.”
I light a cigarette and when I’ve done that I say to Murdock, “You sure about this?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. But if you don’t think I’m sure—”
“Okay, you’re sure.”
Neither of us says anything for a minute or two.
“So,” I say eventually, “Styles is here, in this hotel, but why should we care about that? We knew he was coming to town and he had to stay somewhere so he stays here. He’s not exactly coming in by the back door, is he? What did he register under?”
“His own name.”
“So he can’t be here on business, can he? Styles is protected, sure, but even he doesn’t advertise any more than he has to.”
Murdock doesn’t answer.
“Well, come on George, what do you think?”
“I don’t know what I think,” Murdock says. “All I think is Styles being in town, it stinks. He doesn’t come to a town like this to see the sights.”
I’m just about to remind him that, in any case, it doesn’t matter a fuck to us because all we have to do is pass it on when Murdock raises his hand slightly and says, “The hit man cometh.”
I hear the elevator doors open but I don’t turn my head. Murdock shakes another cigarette from his pack and I wait for Styles to pass by, aware of his approach, but crazily this is not uppermost in my mind. My senses are being disturbed by a different presence that makes itself felt in concert with Style’s passing, and that presence is cloaked in the perfume I’ve been trying to forget ever since I woke up. As Styles goes past us I look up, and holding on to his arm is Lesley, pressing as close to him as she can and still keep on walking. I watch them all the way over to the glass doors. The guy in the livery steps forward and opens a door for them but only Styles is going out because the two of them stop and Lesley kisses Styles on the cheek, squeezing the arm she’s hanging on to as though there’s never going to be a next time. And while that’s happening, I notice that Styles, with his free hand, is carrying a bunch of gaily wrapped parcels all strung together. Then Lesley finally lets go of the arm and Styles goes through the door saying something to the liveried guy that makes the liveried guy stick his arm up for a cab. Lesley turns away and begins to walk back toward the elevator which means passing me again. This time I’m on my feet but as she approaches me, she looks into my face as if she’s never seen me before, a frightening blankness in her eyes. She can either stop or go around me and as she starts to go around me, I say to her, “So that’s Mr. Wonderful.”
She stops and looks at me.
“That’s right,” she says. “Now you can see why there’s no comparison.”
Then she carries on toward the elevator. Murdock stands up. “What the hell is going on?”
I don’t answer him. I just watch the elevator doors close on Lesley.
“What are you trying to do?” Murdock asks.
“Nothing,” I tell him. “Come on, let’s go and tell Draper that Styles is here then for Christ’s sake maybe we won’t have to think about the fuck anymore, okay?”
Murdock just looks at me and says nothing. I turn away and walk over to the glass doors, Murdock following and the guy in the livery does his work.
On the way over to the building Murdock and me don’t say anything; in fact, the only words we say before we see Draper is when we’re in the elevator when I ask Murdock to give me a cigarette.
Draper, as usual, appears as though he’s just about to host a T.V. show; his shirt looks like it’s just been broken out of its cellophane, his suit like he just had it sent over from the tailor’s. He’s sitting behind the clear expanse of his desk as if the neatness of the desk top and the elegance of his pose are sufficient to justify his existence.
“Well now,” he says when the two of us go through the door, “could this mean good news or could it mean bad?”
“Depends on your point of view,” I tell him.
“And what’s your point of view?” Draper says.
“I haven’t got one. The information we have’s got nothing to do with our detail.”
“Well?”
“I don’t know whether or not you already know, but Albert Styles is paying a visit to our fair city.”
Draper stares at me, his face expressionless. He doesn’t speak for a while and then he says, “When did you find out?”
“A half hour ago, maybe.”
Draper leans back in his seat.
“And this has got nothing to do with your investigation?” he queries.
“Oh, sure,” I tell him. “He sends us a note and then he books a suite in the second biggest hotel in the city.”
Draper gets up out of his seat, comes around to my side of the desk and stands a foot or so in front of me.
“Jesus Christ,” he says. “I thought you were supposed to be a cop.”
I let that one pass.
“I suppose it occurred to you that maybe the note has got nothing to do with Styles, that maybe he could be contracted to some group that wants your brother out of politics for good, that the fucking note is from a different source, and that Styles isn’t lying low because he doesn’t have to, not until after the hit. Christ, nobody’s got anything on Styles, and he’s the kind of guy that likes rubbing noses in that fact. And he’s such a pro that it gives him a great deal of pleasure to walk in and out of a place without anything sticking to him.”
“Yeah, and his specialty is whacking politicians,” I drawl.
“Listen,” Draper says. “You got to take this seriously. If Styles is here we’ve got to look after him. Christ, if he’s here to make a hit and it’s your fuck of a brother, then it’d be really great for all of us, wouldn’t it?”
“He’s here to see his wife and kid, that’s why he’s here.”
I feel Murdock take an interest in what I’ve just said and Draper says, “What are you talking about?”
“Styles has a wife and kid. Or as least had a wife. He’s separated. She lives in this city. Even hit men get married and get separated, love their kids. It’s his time to see his kid. That’s why he’s here.”
“Flori
an would be touched, he really would,” Draper says, “to know that Styles is in town but it’s okay; Boldt figures it’s only a sentimental journey. Just out of interest, where do you get all this information about the private life of Albert Styles?”
“Does it matter?” I ask him.
Draper looks at me for a moment or two then he turns away, walks over to his desk, then turns back again and leans on the desk edge.
“All right,” he says. “But what does matter is this: I want Styles out of this city before your brother’s in. I don’t care how. But that’s what I want.”
“Maybe Mr. Florian could help us on that one,” I say to him. “I mean, when he finds out he’s here.”
Draper steps forward again even closer this time.
“Don’t push it, Boldt,” he says. “Don’t push by going too deep into those things.”
I shrug. “So now we devote our time to Styles?” I say to him.
“Until he’s out, yes. And don’t take long. Whoever sent that letter can still write.”
Murdock and I leave Draper’s office and while we’re going down in the elevator, Murdock remarks, “I may be a lousy cop, but I guess I can figure out your source of information.”
“Yeah, you may be a lousy cop,” I tell him.
When we get downstairs I check on the cab company and a quarter of an hour later I have the address where Styles was dropped--- 1418 Glendale Avenue. So with that little piece of information Murdock and I get back in the car and drive east on Beacon for twenty minutes or so and then we’re on Glendale Avenue looking out for number 1418.
Glendale Avenue is a nice part of town if you like the kind of dead life the rising young executives and their families like, if you like the neat lawns and the ranch-style houses and the freshly painted mailboxes. On Glendale Avenue even the dust seems neater than in any other part of town.
Number 1418 is on the left-hand side of the avenue, no different to all the rest, just as neat, just as antiseptic looking. Murdock parks the car and we get out, cross the empty street and walk up the path. On the lawn there are some kid’s toys, a bike, a baseball bat.
We climb the steps to the front door and Murdock rings the bell; musical chimes echo inside the house and then Glendale Avenue is quiet again. We wait a few moments and then Murdock pushes the bell again. While he’s doing that, there is a shadow behind the frosted glass and then the door is opened and we’re facing the ex-wife of Albert Styles. She’s around thirty years old and she looks as if there’s been some color in her family tree at some time or another. The way she looks at us she doesn’t need to see our badges to know what we want. We all look at each other for a moment or two and then she says, “I wondered if you guys’d be around.”
“We’d like to ask a few questions,” I say to her.
“Sure,” she says, turning away from the door. “Whatever you say.”
We go through the door, close it behind us and follow her across the hall into a large living room. As she goes through the door she says, “I told him. I said, ‘If you come here, they’ll be on your neck, bound to be. Why don’t you have Pauly come and stay with you?’ But he said no, he wanted to come here, it would suit him.”
She goes over to the divan, sits down and takes a cigarette out of a box on the table in front of the divan. Murdock and I sit down in chairs opposite her. When she’s lit her cigarette she says, “But I knew you’d be around.”
“Mrs. Styles—”
“The name’s Burnett. Mrs. Barbara Burnett. I’m a widow; that’s how I’m known around here.”
“Okay,” I tell her. “Mrs. Burnett. How long have you been parted from your husband?”
“You mean did I ever know what he did while I was married to him? Did I know him when there was all that stuff in the papers where nobody could prove he’d knocked over some guys but everybody said he did it anyhow?” She shakes her head. “When I knew him he was a runner. A bagman. That’s what he was when I knew him.”
“And now? Do you believe what they all say even though it couldn’t be proved?”
“Well,” she says, “I’ll tell you. I always knew what he was—that he was in the rackets. But now he’s out with my boy and that boy is my life, so do you think I’d let that be if I thought what everybody said was right?”
I shrug.
“Everything’s possible,” I tell her.
“It sure as hell is,” she says.
There is a silence.
“So why did you separate?” Murdock asks.
“That’s not really any of your business,” she says, “but I don’t mind telling you. We didn’t officially. He just went away. He left me a lot of money and a note and he went away. And since then he sends me money every quarter, plenty of money, more than I really need. So I live here in this nice house with my kid. And that’s all.”
“Why did he leave?”
“Does it matter?”
I don’t say anything.
“Well, it wasn’t because of another woman, that’s for sure. In a way I wish it had been. But it wasn’t. I guess he just got tired of me, that’s all. Not even that; you have to feel something for somebody before that feeling wears out.”
“And you didn’t remarry?”
“No,” she says. “Nobody else came along, at least nobody who could take his place.”
“You make him sound like a fish on a slab and then say nobody could take his place,” Murdock says. “I mean, which is it?”
The woman shakes her head and begins to answer but I don’t want to hear another description of the charms of Albert Styles so I break in. “We’re wasting time. Where’s Styles now?”
“What do you want him for?”
“Like you said earlier that’s not really any of your business.”
She stubs her cigarette out in a cut-glass ashtray.
“Jesus,” she says. “The kid’s only been with him an hour.”
Murdock and I don’t respond. Styles’s ex-wife leans back on the divan.
“The zoo,” she says. “He’s taken him to the zoo. Then they’re going to eat at the restaurant there.”
I stand up and so does Murdock.
“What about Pauly?” she says.
“What makes you think we’re going to take Styles downtown?”
Now it’s her turn to say nothing.
Murdock says, “If we have to talk someplace else, your boy’ll be looked after.”
“Sure,” she says.
Murdock and I turn to go out of the room but before we can get to the door Styles’s ex-wife says, “Oh, by the way.”
We stop and turn back to look at her. For a moment she does nothing then very deliberately she leans forward and spits on the carpet in front of us, and when she’s done that, she settles back into her previous position looking at us all the time.
She doesn’t speak. Murdock and I turn away again and go out of the house into the sunlight. As we walk down the garden path Murdock says to me, “She must have meant it because that was a really expensive carpet.”
Murdock and I wander through the warm sunlit smells of the zoo, me smoking, Murdock occasionally delving into the bag of popcorn he’s carrying.
“This is the first time I ever came here, you know that?” Murdock says. “I never once got to bring my kids down here.”
“Probably a lucky break,” I tell him. “Like the rest of the kids today they’d probably have asked why don’t they have pigs at the zoo?”
We walk along a little more and then, as we round the corner of the lion house, I see Styles and his son, hand in hand, about fifty feet ahead.
“There you go,” I say to Murdock and Murdock scans the crowd for a second or two until he fastens onto Styles.
“That’s nice,” Murdock says. “My feet
were beginning to ache.”
I look at my watch. It’s twelve forty-five. The restaurant is way over on the left and Styles and his kid seem to be moving in that direction.
“Let’s go and get our lunch,” I say to Murdock. “I guess it’s time for the animals to get fed.”
We drift over toward the restaurant and watch Styles and the kid move in the same direction. Eventually they climb the broad wooden steps toward the restaurant’s entrance.
“What do we do about the kid?” Murdock says.
“How do you mean?” I ask him.
“When we talk to Styles,” Murdock says.
“We don’t do anything,” I tell him. “The kid is Styles’s responsibility not ours.”
We climb the steps and go into the restaurant. Styles and his kid are moving down the endless counter, picking stuff out and putting it on their trays. Murdock and I stand by the be-ginning of the counter, watching until Styles and his kid have filled their trays, moved away from the counter and decided which table they’re going to have. When they’ve sat down Murdock and I thread our way through the tables until we’re at Styles’s table. When we get there he’s in the process of unloading the trays and he carries on doing this, taking no notice whatsoever of our presence, but the kid is different; he tries to attract Styles’s attention, tell him about the two guys standing there just looking at them, but Styles just grins and says to his kid, “I know. I already seen them.”
Then Murdock and I sit down and watch Styles until he’s finished and when he’s done that he says, “Pauly, I forgot to pick up any sugar; go get some for me, will you?”
The kid, almost the image of his mother only a bit darker, looks at Murdock and me and then gets up and moves off from the table.
Styles says, “You guys want to talk to me, it’s when the kid isn’t around. If you start talking now all I do is get up and walk away and there won’t be nothing you can do about it. Sure you can take me downtown on any number of excuses but I like to plan ahead. And I figured supposing cops got in my way while I’m visiting with my boy, it might be a good idea to hire myself a good lawyer; you probably heard of him—a guy called O’Connell. He’ll move me out inside of an hour, so if you know that then you’ll wait until you think you have something good enough to keep me down there, and I can guarantee that you’re not going to come up with anything good enough because I’m clean. I’m whiter than white, man.”