by Kane, Henry
“But what’s left, kid?”
“I’ve got a little night duty to attend to. I’ve sort of been resting up for it. I was going to try it on my own. Now I’ve got an invitation.”
“Night duty?” he said.
“It’s my last punch. I’m begging, Lieutenant.”
He stood up, looked at me, looked at his cigar, looked at his fingernails, looked back at me. “Okay,” he said, “you twisted my arm. And I’m not asking any more questions. I’m in a spot, and you dusted it off for me. Just remember that.
I only work for a living. I can get kicked off the force just as fast as the Commissioner can pull a shakeup. Just remember that.”
“I’ll remember,” I said.
“I’ll be honest with you. You’re in a hell of a jam. I don’t care if it’s in the classic tradition, or the modern tradition or what the hell kind of tradition. You’re jammed in some kind of cockeyed deal.” He scraped a fingernail against his teeth. “I’m flipping. I’m mixing friendship with business. That stinks for a cop. Maybe I’m a chump. Bye, Peter. See you, I hope, tomorrow. Just in case you can make it before then, it’s perfectly all right with me.”
9
Anger was not in the tradition. Anger is for the amateur. But anger was a sullen boiling inside of me as I locked up and slammed for the garage. The Flame was in Queens, and Queens is for a private car, not a taxi. Last stop, Queens. Last stop for a private detective who’s supposed to have been around, who’s supposed to have a head packed with the hard kind of brains, who’s rubbed up against all the angles. Last stop for a guy who hadn’t been played for a patsy since he was a schoolboy in a freshman cap. The Flame was in Queens.
I drove across the bridge on the high side. I wanted to make time. There was nothing to hurry me but I wanted to make time. I was impatient, anger inside of me like black dynamite with the fuse going.
I realized, suddenly, that I had not even hooked on a holster.
Anger is an enemy. And being a sucker becomes a habit.
I shifted about in the seat, thinking where I could get a gun. Nowhere, that was where I could get a gun. I could turn back and pick one up at home or at the office, but the fuse kept sizzling in me, pushing me forward. You fall into the habit, when you fall into being a sucker. The Flame was an innocent white split-level house on the outskirts of Queens. It could be passed up for a farmhouse except for the scalloped blue neons around its edges. And the talent displayed on the floor of The Flame was bluer than its neons. The Flame attracted the New York dilettantes, the bored ones of cafe society, the sporting gentry, and the gamblers who could afford the high prices. It was a hot-spot that featured the most frivolous of the high-pay border-line entertainment, but to the good burghers of the vicinity, it was an eyesore, and it was the good burghers of the vicinity who had brought me into the picture in the first place. Bruce Burke and the languishing Loretta had taken adequate care of the local constabulary, so I had been rung in, from left field, to operate privately, with some of the staunchest of the burghers as witnesses. Bruce had had a good thing going, but Bruce had been one to make good things better, and his form of amelioration, in this case, had been the injection of water into the brand-name whiskey, probably on the humanitarian theory that his customers had had sufficient to drink by the time they arrived there. We had planned it well (the good burghers and I) and we had caught the management with its pants down—omit Loretta on that. There had been a flurry in the local newspapers, a trial wherein glass-eyed chemists had been the star witnesses, excellent oratory by the prosecuting burgher, and The Flame had been closed.
And had opened up right quick. The Flame, in Queens, had a vast parking lot, and, at the moment, the vast parking lot was vastly crowded. If there was an attendant, he was nowhere in sight, probably as drunk as his customers. Since the trial, there was always a uniformed policeman about, but he was up front, and the parking lot was in the rear. I parked, and I crunched through gravel toward The Flame. It was a long hike through the warm night, a little cut of moon hanging like a sample in the sky. Finally, I could see the uniformed policeman a distance off. Perhaps that was the far-off focus that prevented me from seeing what was nearby. As has been remarked, being a sucker takes on the habiliments of nefarious habit. I was just passing a small shed, when a voice came up out of the night like a floating spirit at a seance.
“Easy does it, Mister.”
And there he was, appearing as if out of nowhere; right there in front of me.
“Well,” I said, “if it ain’t little Willie.”
Willie was loaded with artillery which was hurriedly jammed to my ribs.
“Move,” he said. “Back up to that shed.”
But I was not having any. I was not taking my eyes off Willie. I had done that once and once was enough.
“Move your ass,” he said. “Double time. In there. In that shed. Come on, pal, shake it up.”
And right there the sputter of the fuse ended, and the dynamite popped, and the roar was senseless inside of me. My left hand lashed to the gun, my right mashed to his chin, and Willie was down, and so was I, but I was on top, and the roaring was blood-red sucker’s murder inside of me. The gun was kicked out of the way, and then Willie was kicked and torn and clobbered, and then my hands found his throat, and they were the hands of murder without control. I was panting like a beast and perhaps that is what stopped me: I heard my own wild panting.
“You … you’re choking me,” Willie rasped. “Hey … hey … you’re … choking me.”
“That’s the general idea, Willie.” My voice sounded like I was imitating myself.
“Lemme up,” he gurgled. “Please. Please … lemme up.”
I hit him on the mouth and it almost went through. Teeth broke on my knuckles and blood splattered. His head hit the gravel with the squash of a flattened pumpkin, and for a moment he was motionless. I scrambled upward, straddling him, sitting across his belly like it was a thick hassock, and then my fingers found his bull-neck again, but Willie had a good deal of resistance, because Willie was still conscious and still mumbling.
“Let up, Mac. Please. Please.”
“Talk it up, Willie.”
But Willie needed more convincing.
And Willie received more convincing.
“Wha …?” he croaked. “Wha … whadaya want me to talk about? Let up, Mac. Easy.”
“I want the whole story, Willie. I want all of it.”
“Wha … what story?”
“What did you conk me with, back there at the Ascot?”
“Blackjack. Li’l ole blackjack.”
“Why?”
“Whadaya mean, why? Because you was roughing up Jack. That is why.”
“All rightee, pal. I think we’re in rhythm now.” I settled myself on his belly and my hands tightened on his neck.
“Wha …?” he said. “Whadaya gonna do?”
“I’m going to kill you, Willie. I’m going to choke you until you’re dead. That’s what I’m going to do, Willie, unless …”
“Unless what? For Chrissake, unless what?”
“Unless you’re going to talk it up real good. But real good, Willie. You’ve got nothing to lose. Just between you and me, right now you’re as lost as you’re ever going to be. If I let you up—anything that happens to you after that—is pure velvet. Do you understand me, Willie?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Okay.”
“Why did you croak Bruce Burke?”
“Me? Burke? What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m going to start squeezing again, Willie.”
“I don’t know nothing about no Bruce Burke. I’m telling ya, I’m telling ya the truth, Mister.”
“Elsa Corey.”
Silence.
“Talk it up, Willie.” Silence.
My right fist went up again and the pulp of his mouth received it.
Silence.
The fingers of both my hands were at his throat and they tightened. “This is it,
Willie. You asked for it. Good bye, Willie.”
“Me!” he gasped. “Me, me, me. I went there.”
Willie was finished. Willie was loosened up and he was rolling downhill. Fear had been the lever, and Willie had had good reason to fear. My fingers eased on his throat as the prattle of fear rambled from him. “Me. Me. Me. 39th Street. Me. I went there. Jack sent me. Jack told me. I went there and I knocked on the door and she wasn’t there yet, so I waited outside. And then she came. And I told her Jack sent me. And she took me upstairs, she knew me, she knew I was Jack’s boy, and I told her I had to talk to her, and that it was from Jack. And then I did a job on her, upstairs, I did like Jack told me to do. And then I clicked off her spring-lock, and I slammed the door, and I went back to the theatre. Not me. Not me. I only did like I was told. Jack, it was Jack—”
“And what are you doing here now?”
“Waiting for you. Jack figured you’d show. If you showed, I was supposed to let you have it and beat it back to town, I was supposed …”
But Willie passed out of the picture like the picture was feature-booked for Boston and Willie was an avowed pimp. I got off him and collected his gun and went looking for the cop. I found him and brought him back with me and latched him onto both Willie and the pistol with explicit instructions that the combination be deposited in the lap of Detective-lieutenant Louis Parker, Homicide, New York City. The detective-lieutenant did it. The cop snapped to attention and went to work. When you pull rank on the law, it is the equivalent of pulling rank in the army—your orders are obeyed to the letter. I left the cop fixing cuffs around Willie’s wrists. Then, tenderly, I wrapped a handkerchief around my masticated hand, and made for The Flame proper.
10
The act on the floor was Malka Movis, a six-foot stripper who could twitch the most unexpected of muscles. When I entered the hot room, Miss Movis was on stage. Miss Movis was attired in little more than a couple of long earrings which dangled from exquisite lobes. Nothing else about Miss Movis dangled. She was standing quite still, arms aloft and eyes disinterested, but separate parts of her bounced and wriggled as though they were entities unto themselves. The eyes of the audience were riveted upon the gyrations of Miss Movis’ separate parts, and that was good for me. It was also good for me that the room was dark with only a bright spot on the pulsating Malka Movis.
I made my way down a side aisle to the men’s room and even there Miss Movis’ charms were effective. The attendant was outside his door in bug-eyed appreciation; but when he saw me, he returned to the business of john-John, escorting me in. “What happened to you?” he said.
“Cracked up my car. Got a little mangled. How’re you fixed for first-aid stuff?”
“Fixed good. Fixed just fine.”
I tipped him in advance, and he laid out towels and peroxide and iodine and adhesive gauze-strips. I unwound the handkerchief, pried loose a jagged half-tooth, washed with soap and water, stemmed the bleeding, dabbed with iodine, and tightly wrapped the strips about my knuckles. Then I took care of my face, combed my hair, adjusted my clothes, thanked the attendant, and departed the salubrious confines of the toilet.
The act was over.
The lights were on.
The music was blaring.
Waiters were serving and couples were dancing.
I trod a narrow path through the joyous people to a discreet door discreetly marked Office Of The Manager and I opened it without knocking.
“Well, looka here,” Loretta Burke said.
“Evening, Mrs. Burke.”
“Evening, Mr. Chambers. Come right in. We were just talking about you. Come in and close the door, please.”
I came in and closed the door.
Loretta was seated behind a carved mahogany desk. Opposite her was Jack Burke. Jack was resplendent in a beautifully-cut blue-black tuxedo, stud shirt, and blue-black bow. His white hair was slicked back and his slender face was composed. He did not move, but his brown eyes had widened under lifted eyebrows in casual controlled interest at my entrance.
Loretta showed more animation. She smiled, if a joyless exposure of teeth can be called a smile. I smiled in return. Loretta Burke was something to smile upon. She was wrapped within a body-tight glistening red gown so far off the shoulders it took a goodly bulge of breast to hold it up, and dear Loretta, in addition to other pulse-quickening endowments, had a fair share of goodly bulge of breast. Loretta was beautiful, really quite beautiful, and, for a moment, she took my mind off my work, but she brought it right back to attention when her lily-white hand daintily dipped into a desk-drawer and came up with a distressing, bulk-heavy .45. The pupils of Loretta’s eyes were contracted to pin-points of hate. “Sit down,” she said, “Mr. Chambers.”
“Thanks very much,” I said. “I’ll stand.” My sigh was tired. “That’s all I’ve been doing all day.”
“Standing?”
“No. Looking at guns.” “This may be the last time you’re going to look, Mr. Chambers.”
“I’ve got a couple of doubts about that.”
“Have you? Perhaps we’ll resolve those doubts.” She glanced toward Jack Burke, returned her gaze to me. “And just in case you’re fretful,” she said, “about any possible noise your demise may make, please don’t be fretful on my account. This room is completely soundproofed, and we will have the most skillful assistance in disposing of your remains, many many miles from here.”
“Ain’t fretful in the least, my lady. Let’s get going, if you please, on resolving those doubts.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Mr. Burke and I, as a matter of fact, were just talking about you.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid any doubts to resolve are most meagre, most trivial.” Wrath was in her voice, tremulous, pulled-back, subdued, giving it a peculiar hushed-baritone timbre. And the gun in her hand was no stage prop for effect. For the breath of a moment I considered getting out of there. In a hurry. But I did not budge. It was either Loretta’s gun or Parker’s D. A. “Most meagre,” she said. “Most trivial.”
“You and Jack Burke,” I said, “were talking about me? In what connection?”
“In connection with the death of my husband.” The hand with the gun reposed on the desk, leaning on an elbow. “About motive—we know all about motive. I believe that you and I discussed that this afternoon. And Jack informs me he mentioned it to you during a talk you two had at the Casa Morretti.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Talk.”
“So much for motive, Mr. Chambers. But there’s more, so very much more.”
“Like what, Mrs. Burke?”
“Like we have it from the grapevine that you were in Bruce’s apartment at the very time of his death. That you were in possession of the gun that killed him. That the only prints on that gun were yours.”
“You didn’t get that from any grapevine, sweetie.”
“Didn’t I?”
“Damn right you didn’t.”
“And why not?” she said.
“Because there ain’t no grapevine,” I said. “Because no grapevine exists. You didn’t get it from any grapevine, sweetie. You got it”—I pointed—”from this little son of a bitch right here.”
Jack Burke talked up. “Me?” he said.
“Yes, you, you little—”
“That’s right, Mr. Chambers.” Loretta waved the gun. “That’s right, I got it from him. And he got it—”
“Right from the horse’s mouth,” I said. “Only he’s the horse.”
“Do you deny it, Mr. Chambers?” she said. “Do you deny any of it? Do you?”
Wearily I said, “Lady, believe me, you’re pointing that gun in the wrong direction.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” A furrow creased the flesh between her eyes.
“I’m talking about this little son of a bitch right here. Jack Burke—who dreamed himself up a fool-proof little murder. Thought he had it all plastered up neat and nice. Maybe he did, but now I’m going to take it apart for him.”
“This had better be good.” The furrow deepened.
“It’s gonna be, my lady.”
“It had better!” The voice trembled in huskiness and the pin-point eyes were wild. “Whether or not you realize it—and if you don’t, I’m telling you—right now you’re counsel for the defense, and you’re your own client.” “And you’re judge, jury and executioner.”
“That’s the way it is, Mr. Chambers. Now, if you’ve got a story—let’s have it.” “Sure,” I said. “Sure, I’ve got a story. Once upon a time, there was Jack Burke. Know Jack Burke? That’s this innocent-looking little momser sitting here. Well, ma’am, once upon a time, this Jack Burke was putting on a show, and his show got jammed for want of dough. The Lady Whirls had him in a whirl. By the way, may I interrupt my story with a question?”
“What is it?” she said.
“Did he know about Bruce’s will?”
“Of course. So did I Bruce made no secret of it.”
“Fits,” I said. “Fits fine.”
“What … fits … fine?”
“Listen,” I said. “Jack is in a jam with his show. He needs money. He needs money desperately. So desperately, he’s had to call off rehearsals. He’s looking for a loan all over town. Question again, and you’re a real help, Mrs. Burke.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know whether he asked Bruce for a loan?” “Yes, I know. He did. Bruce turned him down. Bruce had no confidence in The Lady Whirls.” I nodded, cheerfully. “That’s when bright-boy figured out his little humdinger. If Bruce gets bumped, bright-boy winds up with half the estate. Even if he can’t get the loot immediately, he can borrow immediately, on the strength of it. So … he does it. He gets to Bruce’s place, bumps him, cleans up and goes to work on a real little minor masterpiece.”
Jack Burke twisted half out of his chair.
“He’s a liar,” he screamed. “A goddamned, dirty, filthy liar.”