The Neon Haystack

by James Michael Ullman

  “I don’t think,” he concluded thoughtfully, “it’ll work. If a guy did know anything about your brother, he’d stay away from you. Knowing you were on Clay Street, he’d stay away from Clay Street. The cops had a lot of pressure put on them when your brother disappeared. From reformers and so forth, who like to put the heat on Clay Street for political reasons. Big stories in the newspapers. Things were so bad that for a while my dancers weren’t even allowed to bare their breasts, and you know what that can do to business in a dump like this one. And so some of us, in our trade association, we asked a few questions too. We figured that if your brother was found, the reformers would lay off. But we didn’t learn no more than the police learned.”

  I picked up my drink. I downed some of it.

  “You can’t change my mind.”

  “I wouldn’t try,” Amber said. “But I oughta warn you. A lot of businessmen on Clay Street don’t like strangers who ask questions. Only the cops can get away with that. And when the newspapers get wind of what you’re up to, there’ll be more stories about your brother’s disappearance, and all the bad things that are supposed to happen down here.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think anyone will hurt me. They wouldn’t dare. You wouldn’t let ’em. Think what a story that would make—‘Man Knifed On Clay Street While Seeking Lost Brother.’ You’d never allow that to happen, Mr. Amber. You know that while the newspapers will make a big thing of my being here, I’ll be just a one-day sensation. But that if I’m roughed up or killed, the heat will go on more than ever.”

  Amber smiled. “That’s very good.” He finished his drink. “We wondered if you’d be smart enough to figure that out. And I told my associates you were a college man, you’d been all over the world, you wouldn’t be bluffed. Okay. We don’t like you here, but so long as you don’t get out of line, there’s nothing we can do about it. Personally, I think you’ll get tired of beating your head against a wall. You’ll go back to building bridges. Either that, or hanging around in these dumps, you’ll turn into an alcoholic. You won’t get no more free drinks from me, though.”

  He pushed his chair back.

  “So go on looking. But remember, I ain’t responsible for everyone on Clay Street. There’s a lot goes on here I don’t know and don’t want to know, even where my own associates are concerned. So I’m not guaranteeing you’ll lead a charmed life.”

  “Thanks for the bourbon.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Amber’s eyes strayed to the bar. “By the way, you’re being followed.”

  “By whom?”

  “Two detectives from the Clay Street Precinct. The two young guys in black jackets, dressed like truck drivers. They picked you up in the seventh place you hit. Doyle is the night lieutenant, I guess he decided to give you a bodyguard. But if you keep this up every night, he’ll have to pull your bodyguard off. He’s short on manpower as it is.”

  * * * *

  Two men hopped from a parked car as I left Kelly’s Club. Both wore sports coats and one carried a camera.

  “That must be him,” the man with the camera said.

  The other man walked up to me. He was tall, blond, and bare-headed, about thirty years old. His face was thin and amiable. He asked, “You’re Stephen Kolchak, aren’t you? The lost guy’s brother?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Bill Totten. A reporter for the Beacon. We got a tip from some bartender you were down here. How long you been in town?”

  A crowd, attracted by the photographer’s press camera, began to gather.

  “Since this afternoon.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for Ed.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Moreland. Same room Ed had.”

  “How long you plan to be here?”

  “Until I find my brother. However long that takes.”

  “Oh boy,” the reporter said. “Mind if we grab a few pictures?”

  I let them have their fun. The sooner the first flurry of excitement about my presence on Clay Street ended, the better. Meanwhile, the stories in the press might turn up someone who had seen the ring or the watch.

  I was photographed supposedly questioning panhandlers, bartenders, and B-girls who agreeably hiked their tight skirts to their thighs. Partway through Totten’s interview, a team from the Journal showed up. The Journal photographer found more panhandlers and B-girls willing to pose.

  At 2 a.m., the press, after buying me a drink, finally allowed me to grab a cab back to the Moreland.

  Impassively, the night clerk handed me my key. He also handed me six telephone slips.

  I studied the slips on the ride to the seventh floor. I had been asked to return calls to the Express, two television newsrooms, and the local bureaus of the Associated Press and United Press International. I had a suspicion those guys would keep calling all night.

  The sixth slip reported a call from a “Ronald Layne, TA 4-5892.” The word “Urgent” had been written across the face of the slip.

  In the room, I hung up my coat, sat down, and dialed TA 4-5892. The bell sounded nine times before someone lifted the receiver.

  “Who in hell is this?” a man asked.

  “This is Kolchak. Stephen Kolchak.”

  “Christ, man. It’s nearly dawn.”

  “Who are you? And what do you want with me?”

  “Whatever it is, it can wait.”

  “You said it was urgent.”

  “Good grief. Look. I live at 429 Mason. That’s a half block east of Clay at 1800 North. Why don’t you drop around later today? Any time between noon and midnight.”

  Layne hung up.

  I depressed the hook. I called the switchboard. I told the operator not to channel calls to me under any circumstances until ten o’clock.

  Before turning in, I addressed another envelope to Max Fuller. In it, I placed a piece of paper on which I had printed, PHIL AMBER, GANGSTER.

  CHAPTER 3.

  With the coming of the new day, the management of the Moreland Hotel began to appreciate my promotional possibilities. These were suggested by the growing stack of messages from communications media in my mailbox and the appearance, in the lobby, of men carrying cameras. My status began to change from that of unwanted guest to man of the hour. After all, whatever happened to my brother hadn’t happened in the Moreland. It had happened far away on Clay Street. So what harm would come of insuring that all stories and television reports on me included mention of the Moreland? Where so many interesting visitors to the city liked to stay?

  Thus at 9:30 a.m. the Moreland’s manager paid a visit to my room. He bore a cellophane-wrapped basket of fruit. He also brought with him the girl who handled his public relations. She was sweet but crisp. Quickly she pointed out the advantages of holding a formal press conference and giving all the boys a break, instead of doling out interviews to a favored few, as I’d done at 1 a.m. on Clay Street. That way, all the boys would be on my side. It never paid to have any of the boys sore at you. I told her okay, you arrange everything, but I want it over in time to eat lunch and take off by three o’clock.

  At eleven she called on the house phone and said, Come on down to the lobby, we’re all set. A vote was taken when I arrived and it was almost unanimously decided to hold the conference in the cocktail lounge, away from the public’s prying eyes. A television technician complained it would be hard setting up equipment in there, but he was overruled. He managed to set up his equipment anyhow.

  I put on the performance expected of me. I figured I might as well make the most of my temporary notoriety. A week from now, I’d be last week’s news. A month from now I’d be forgotten.

  The Moreland supplied drinks all around. I hunched behind a table in a circular booth, my drink hidden on the seat. I stared intently at the television cameras and made a plea
for anyone having any information whatsoever about my brother to come forward. I held up a huge enlargement of a photograph of my brother. One of the television men had conveniently supplied me with that. I clenched my fist and stuck my hand out and let the cameras focus on the ring. I described the watch, an ordinary cheap Time-0 on the outside, but with the name “Ed Kolchak” crudely scratched on the inside. My brother had scratched his name there himself with a penknife when he was ten years old, because he was so proud of that watch. My father had given it to him, and Ed had carried it ever since. Some men get sentimental over a commonplace item and never allow it out of their possession. Ed was that way about his pocket watch. It always kept perfect time. Ed liked to pull it out when time signals were given on the radio to compare it with the hands on his expensive wrist watch. Invariably, the wrist watch was maybe a half minute off.

  As I completed my speech I had an inspiration. I announced I would offer a hundred-dollar reward for either the ring or the watch. I hoped the reward would serve to dramatize the importance of those articles.

  The reporters threw me a lot of questions. I emphasized and re-emphasized my intention to remain in the city until I learned the truth. That was for the benefit of the unknown person or persons watching the television screen who knew the truth.

  Some of the questions got rougher when the television boys packed up their film and turned off their recorders. Most of the newsmen were friendly and sympathetic. But one man—his name was George Nesbitt, and he was the chief crime beat man for the Journal—seemed determined to give me a hard time.

  “Mr. Kolchak,” he drawled, “do you have any idea why your brother never married?”

  “I guess he never met the right girl.”

  “Did he live alone in Chicago? Or did he ever share an apartment with another man?”

  “He lived alone.”

  “He was a good-looking boy, wasn’t he. When he was a kid, did he ever form any special attachments with grown men? Schoolteachers, that sort of thing?”

  I gazed with growing interest at Nesbitt, who was tall, thin, middle-aged, and already more than a little drunk.

  “Yes. He was very close to his high-school football coach.” Nesbitt’s eyes lighted up. He began to phrase another question. I added, “The coach has five children and nine grandchildren, so far. Before taking up coaching, he played tackle eight years for the Chicago Cardinals.”

  For the moment, that stopped Nesbitt. But as the conference broke up and I elbowed through the lounge toward the lobby, Nesbitt tugged at my sleeve. He pulled me aside.

  “Look, guy,” he said. “Nothing personal. But when something like this happens, I cover all the angles.”

  “Sure.”

  “Let’s face it. A lot of professional queers hang out on Clay Street. A lot of young guys go down there just for that. And your brother, a single kid with dough, where he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone recognizing him.”

  “I understand.”

  “When you were small boys, did your brother ever like to dress up in his mother’s clothes?”

  I scratched my chin.

  “Now that you mention it, I’ll tell you something. Off the record.” I took his arm. “Where these other guys won’t hear.”

  I led him into the lobby and up a carpeted stairway. At the first turn, we were out of sight of both the lobby and the floor above.

  I clenched my right fist and punched Nesbitt on the jaw.

  The reporter bounced against the wall. He fell hard. He lay on his back, rubbing his jaw and snarling at me.

  Without a word, I walked back down to the lobby. Two reporters collared me with more questions. Nesbitt came down a moment later. His face sported a big bruise. He glowered and made for the door. He passed a telephone booth in which the Associated Press man was hanging up.

  The AP man looked at Nesbitt’s face. He looked at me. He came over and shook my hand and said, “Nice going. If you hadn’t done that, I think I would have.”

  After lunch I mailed Fuller a slip of paper on which I’d printed GEORGE NESBITT, JOURNAL CRIME REPORTER.

  Sam Alban waited down the street in his cab. I piled in.

  “Still going through with it?”

  “You know it.”

  “Clay and Jackson?”

  “No. Take me to 429 Mason.”

  I did not elaborate.

  As he took off, Sam observed, “You’re a real celebrity. I got the treatment too when your brother disappeared. But nothing like what you’re getting.”

  “That won’t last long.”

  “You’re right,” Sam agreed philosophically. “Four days after I took my lie test I coulda died and nobody would have cared.”

  Four-two-nine Mason was a three-story brick building with stone steps flanked by iron railings. In the vestibule I pushed the bell marked LAYNE. A buzzer sounded. I opened the vestibule door and started up.

  On the first floor, a man waited. He was a squat youth, with upright and unkempt white hair and immense shoulders. He stood no more than 5‘7” but weighed an easy 190. He wore khaki trousers, a T-shirt, and sneakers. A pug nose emerged from his round, hairless face. His mouth was small, his chin receding, his brow furrowed, and his eyes were pink.

  “Whozzat?” he demanded.

  “I’m Kolchak. Stephen Kolchak.”

  “Oh, the screwball.” He turned and hollered into the apartment. “Hon, it’s the three-ayem screwball I told you about.”

  “No kidding,” a girl called out.

  Layne stepped aside. I walked past him into chaos. The apartment was littered with books, magazines, newspapers, junk, ash trays, glasses, and glossy eight-by-ten photographs. Most of the photographs were of nearly naked young women. The exceptions were of entirely naked young women.

  A small portable bar served as the room’s focal point. A girl stood beside the bar. She couldn’t have been a day over twenty. Her height was 5‘1” at best. For a tiny thing, she was splendidly curved, a fact made even more obvious by her costume, an insignificant white bikini. She was barefoot. Her hair was dark and disheveled, her eyes wide and bright. Her nose was a pert button, her cheeks were red, and her strong little chin had a dimple on it.

  “Betsy,” Layne said, “this is Kolchak.”

  “Hi,” Betsy said.

  “Good afternoon.” It was rude of me, but I couldn’t help staring at her.

  Layne closed the door.

  “He likes you,” Layne said to Betsy.

  I looked away, for a place to sit down. There was no place to sit down. Junk covered the chairs and sofa.

  Betsy grinned. She seemed pleased I liked her.

  “Ronnie,” she said, “why don’t I fix coffee or something while you two talk business.”

  “Screw coffee. Make me the usual, you know how I like it. And bring the same for Kolchak.”

  Betsy wiggled to the kitchen. Casually, Layne knocked a pile of girlie magazines from a chair to the floor. He dumped a stack of photographs off another chair. With one brawny arm, he swept a jumble of empty film boxes from the sofa. He sat down on the sofa.

  I sat down on a chair.

  “You have a very attractive wife,” I said.

  Layne laughed. “She ain’t my wife. She’s a goddam model.”

  “You’re a photographer?”

  “Can’t you tell?” He pointed to a door. “My studio’s in there. I’m just getting started, see. So far I been specializing in cheesecake in between ratty little commercial jobs. You know. Layouts of girls from all angles.”

  “How did you know I was staying at the Moreland? And what do you want with me?”

  “Well,” Layne said, lighting a cigarette, “it was no trick finding you. It was all over the street that the Lost Man’s brother was in town, going from one joint to another asking questions. And what’s heard on
the street, see, finds its way to me. As for finding you—I had a hunch you’d be at the Moreland. That’s where your brother stayed. So I called and asked, and sure enough, that’s where you were.”

  Betsy returned, a tall drink in each hand. She gave me mine and padded to Layne with his. Maybe Layne was accustomed to her near nudity at close quarters, but I wasn’t. I raised the glass and took a deep swallow. I nearly gagged. I was drinking warm, cheap bourbon.

  Betsy curled into the other cleared chair, her hands hugging her bare tummy.

  “I think it’s wonderful,” she said. “I read about you in the paper this morning, Mr. Kolchak. I never had a little sister, but if I did and she got lost, I’d do the same thing. I’d go look for her no matter what.”

  “Thank you.” I set the glass down. No more of that.

  “I,” Layne said, “have a proposition.”

  “What kind?”

  “I want to shoot you. With the camera, of course.”

  “I’ve already been photographed. By guys from the newspapers.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Layne leaned forward, smiling, his drink in hand. “I want to follow you around, see. On Clay Street. Everywhere you go. I’ll be right beside you, working with fast film and miniatures. So I can use natural light. I’ll get real arty stuff. Interiors and everything. Smoke-filled dives, strip joints, queers, the whole bit. A picture story about you looking for your brother on the street of lost men. It can’t miss. You give me the exclusive right to shoot you, see, and after a week, I ought to have enough prints to sell a layout to Life, or Look, or the Saturday Evening Post. They’ll pay a mint for a dramatic picture sequence like that. It’ll be a real boost for me, too. It might get me some decent commercial jobs, so I won’t have to mess around with this girlie crap. So I’ll tell you what. We make this arrangement, see, and I’ll pay you twenty-five percent of whatever I get.”

  For a moment I was too stunned to reply. Then I rose.

  “No thanks.”

  Layne refused to believe me.

  “Why not? What can you lose? You do what you’d do anyway, see. Only I’m there taking pictures of you doing it. You don’t have to pay attention to me. You won’t even hear the shutter click. And you’ll rake in a couple hundred bucks at least.”