The Neon Haystack

by James Michael Ullman

  “I’d like to, Lorene. But your father was right. All I can bring you at this point is trouble. I don’t think it would be wise even to be seen in The Dugout.”

  “Schell won’t bother us. Harry will get him to leave us alone, like he did before.”

  “Schell left you alone because I moved out, not because of Harry Bagwell.”

  “I told you, you didn’t have to move. Harry has enough influence…”

  “Schell knows Harry has an interest in your place,” I said. “He stopped the garbage pickup and sent the inspectors around anyhow. That was Schell’s message to me: ‘Get out of my ward or I’ll hurt anyone who helps you stay.’ Furthermore, I’m sure Bagwell would evict me before tangling with his pal Schell. Harry goes all-out for clients, but I’m no longer his client. If I was his tenant and I jeopardized his investment in the restaurant, he’d oust me immediately. And if you don’t think Bagwell is a hard-headed businessman, you should see the bill I got for his services.”

  Lorene sighed. “All right. Be stubborn. And I bet I know another reason you won’t be seen here. You’re thinking of Irma Bronson. But I don’t think I’d be courting danger if you were one of about twenty guests at a party I’m giving, do you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “The party’s at noon Saturday. At my house. It’s Jackie’s birthday. The other guests will be considerably younger than you, but I imagine you’ll all get along. And if you buy Jackie a present, don’t you dare spend more than a dollar. Can you make it?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Fine. I’m taking the whole day off—the first one since Pop went to the hospital. We’ve hired a new assistant manager, and he can run The Dugout.”

  “Tony still works for you, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, but he’s too inexperienced to take full charge. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. See you Saturday.”

  Nothing in Lorene’s voice had betrayed her feelings. But she had just asked me to her home to meet Jackie.

  I had a date with Bagwell that night. His penthouse was only a few blocks from Don Collins’ building. I had telephoned Bagwell’s office to protest the size of his bill. He refused to discuss it on the phone and said he’d be tied up in court the remainder of the week. But he suggested, somewhat acidly, that if I had any complaints, he’d hear them in the evening at his home.

  The attorney wore dark trousers and an ornate dressing gown. His hair was mussed more than usual. He smirked and held the door back and asked, “You bring the check?”

  I walked inside. “I brought the checkbook. But as I told you, five hundred dollars seems like an awful lot.”

  “I knew you’d be cheap about it. But then, you always did have the cautious look of a Bohemian with a locked wallet.”

  Bagwell, the efficient, reassuring attorney I’d met at the Clay Street Precinct, had been replaced again by Bagwell, the sadistic buffoon.

  He led me to a sofa. A coffee table held a decanter, an ice bucket, and two glasses. One glass, half-full, sported a big lipstick smear on its rim. On the floor beside the coffee table I observed two high-heeled shoes, two nylon stockings, a crumpled cocktail dress, a slip, a brassiere, and a pair of panties. Bagwell must have made the girl strip for him right there. Fuller’s report had been correct: the attorney’s sex life verged on the moronic.

  “I’ve been entertaining,” Bagwell explained vaguely. He sat down and poured himself a drink. “As for my fee—you forget, I performed some very specialized services. I woke Hiram Schell from a sound sleep and got him to order Doyle onto the case. No other lawyer in town would have dared do that. And a few hours later Doyle found your witness.”

  I sat on a chair. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you did, Harry. And I certainly expected to pay you for your time. But five hundred…”

  “I’ll tell you something.” Bagwell seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. Behind his horn-rimmed glasses, his blue eyes flashed. “At first I wasn’t going to charge you at all. I’d help you as a favor to Lorene, and for the personal pleasure of demolishing a police frame-up.” He leaned back. “Then I thought: Here’s this Kolchak fellow, throwing God knows how much money down the drain in a crazy search for a long-lost relative. He ought to at least pay me a few dollars. A token bill—fifty bucks, maybe.” The attorney picked up his glass and downed a gulp of bourbon. “And that’s what I would have charged you—if I hadn’t learned how you abused my hospitality.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The expressway land scandal, that’s what I mean. Your pal Bill Totten told half a dozen guys in the Beacon’s city room how he got the original tip from you. And city room gossip always gets back to me. It’s easy enough to deduce what happened. Old Updyke of the highway commission was at my party and so were you. Updyke got stoned and fell all over himself telling his cronies how the commission was going to announce the route the following week. Updyke’s a big-mouthed ass. But I didn’t think any of my guests who heard too much would betray him. The only reporter there was Nesbitt, and Nesbitt was too drunk to hear anything but the clink of the martini pitcher. That crazy young idealist Ordway left before Updyke arrived.”

  I said, “I won’t deny it, Harry. I phoned a tip to Bill Totten. I didn’t tell him about you or your party. Hell, it was just a wild guess. But in view of the ease with which Totten dug up enough material to expose the scandal, it was just a matter of time before someone else exposed it. Every real-estate agent dealing in properties along the route must have suspected long ago that the smart money from the city was moving in on another sure thing…”

  “You’re quite right. It was a sloppy deal. So many people got advance word of the route that exposure and scandal were inevitable.” Bagwell chuckled. “And such a mixed company! A syndicate headed by Hiram Schell’s business partner disclosed as the owners of the old deserted Flyways Airport up on River Road, a quarter mile from what will be an arterial turnoff. What a site for a subdivision! Or an industrial park! Right next to the airport, a hundred-acre farm held in the name of the wife of a CGL director. Thieves from both parties jumped in on this one. A logical development, since the highway commission is split four-to-three. The image of that simon-pure minority candidate for mayor might even be tarnished before the scandal ends. And all along River Road, Phil Amber’s been buying sites for a future string of hotbed motels.”

  “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

  “Oh, I’m not embarrassed. The few people who learn what happened will be sore at Updyke, not at me. But the point is—by phoning your tip to Totten, you proved a rude guest. And I think you ought to pay for that.”

  I studied Bagwell for a moment. I reached for my checkbook and a pen and started writing.

  “Harry, I haven’t seen your name in Totten’s stories yet. Where did you make your little investment?”

  Bagwell’s eyebrows arched in mock innocence. “Heaven forbid! I wouldn’t get mixed up in anything as shady as that. And even if I did, I’d do what all the really smart boys have learned to do. I’d confine my speculations to a few modest purchases made through a bank trust. Nothing so obviously greedy as the old Flyways Airport, with its acres and acres of flat, juicy, already-cleared land. And behind a bank trust because it would take an act of God before my identity could be disclosed.”

  I handed him the check. It was for two hundred dollars. Bagwell smacked his lips. I hadn’t let him down. He’d have been terribly disappointed if I paid him the full five hundred “There,” I said. “It’s excessive, but you’re worth it. The sum also includes a measure of balm for my lack of social grace. But this is all you’ll get.”

  “I’ll accept your check—as partial payment. Got a slip of paper?”

  I gave him one. While I lit a cigarette, Bagwell wrote out a receipt. On the receipt he acknowledged payment of $200 toward a debt of $500.

 
“You pay me the remainder by the end of next month,” he said happily, “or I’ll turn the balance over to a collection agency. And I’ll call Nesbitt at the Journal. I doubt he could print the story, but it would make a helluva headline. Searcher Exposed as Deadbeat.”

  I rose.

  “Where are you going?” Bagwell asked.

  “Clay Street. I’m not allowed in Phil Amber’s joints any more. Other bartenders seem to have orders to throw me out, too. But I make appearances down there as often as I can. So anyone who wants to can find me.”

  “Have a drink first.”

  “I’d rather not. Your guest is probably getting bored, hiding out in your bedroom.”

  “Oh, she won’t mind. I want her to say hello to you…He raised his voice. “Come on out, dear. It’s not the vice squad, it’s just a friend. Come out, or I’ll be very angry, and you know what that could mean…”

  A bedroom door opened. Slowly, Joan Engstrom walked toward us. She’d thrown one of Bagwell’s robes around herself. She was barefoot. She looked sore as hell.

  “I just got Joanie a new job,” Bagwell explained. “Beginning Monday, she’s going to work at the Harriman Advertising Agency, the biggest in town. Old Harriman is a special friend of mine. Joanie will start as a copywriter, but her future will be bounded only by her ability, or should I say agility, which I have already learned is considerable. You remember Mr. Kolchak, Joanie…”

  “Hi,” Joan Engstrom said woodenly.

  I got out of there fast. Bagwell was exacting his revenge and then some for that crack about his needing a bath. I didn’t think many working girls would envy Joan her newfound success.

  CHAPTER 14.

  Tony lived in a rundown apartment building within walking distance of The Dugout. The Puerto Rican boy had left his family and moved there when The Dugout expanded. As one of the original staff, he had been elevated to a position of some authority. And while his new salary wasn’t high, it had been high enough to allow him to escape from the communal tenement where he had spent his boyhood.

  I rapped on Tony’s door at ten in the morning. Under my arm, I carried an attaché case. Yawning, Tony opened the door a moment later.

  “Hello, Tony.”

  I slipped inside. Tony gazed at me with genuine bewilderment. He wore slippers, old trousers, and an undershirt. “Mr. Kolchak. It’s nice to see you. But what…”

  “I’m glad you’re glad to see me. Then you won’t mind if I look around.”

  “Hey…”

  I’d already scanned the living room. It was a mess. Clothes and newspapers lay everywhere. Apparently, when Tony lived with his family, his mother had done all his picking up for him. On a mantel he’d arranged about a dozen little plastic model automobiles. From the parts strewn on a card table it was obvious he was assembling another one. It struck me that, like Betsy, Tony was hardly more than a child.

  I strode into his bedroom. The bed was unmade. Pin-up pictures filled one wall. I spotted the photograph I was looking for right away. In it, Betsy peered back over her shoulder. She wore no top and her bikini bottom had been pulled low.

  “I didn’t think you’d hide it in a closet the way I did,” I said. I reached for the picture. “Where did you get this?”

  “I bought it.”

  “No, you didn’t buy it. You stole it. From my place, when I lived above The Dugout.”

  “You have no right…”

  “Let’s talk.” I carried the picture and the attaché case into the living room. I sat on a straight-backed chair. “Tony,” I said, “a few months ago I’d have been so angry at the notion of you prowling my room that I’d have tried to beat the truth out of you. But I’m learning things. From some real pros. There are other ways to hurt a man.”

  “Mr. Kolchak, that’s my picture.”

  “I’m not going to waste time arguing. You’ve had a special interest in me all along. You even figured out that I ate lunch with Pete Ordway every Friday. So here’s the deal: If you don’t level with me, I’ll tell Lorene how this picture disappeared from my closet and turned up in your apartment. She’ll take my word for it. She’ll fire you immediately. What’s more, you’ll have a tough time getting a job that pays as well anywhere else. Give The Dugout as a reference and your new employer will be told you were fired for stealing. You won’t be able to afford this place any more. You’ll have to move back with your family and sleep with all your brothers and sisters on the living-room floor. You won’t even be able to afford another model automobile…”

  Tony clenched his fists. He sat down and punched his thighs a few times. He looked very worried.

  “I’m no thief,” he insisted.

  “I don’t care what you are. A lot of kids make mistakes. I’m not your judge. All I want are straight answers.”

  “Doggone,” Tony said. He got up and shoved his hands into his pockets. He turned away from me. “I never did feel right about it. But I’m no thief. I took the picture because I liked the girl, if you get me. You had plenty of other pictures of her and I didn’t see how you could miss that one. But there were times I could have stole money you left lying around, or your gun. But I didn’t.”

  “You went up there often?”

  “Every week or so. When I knew you were way down at the end of Clay Street. It’s easy to get up there. There’s a key to your apartment on the ring in the office.”

  “Whose idea was this?”

  “Martin Moss. At first he paid me five bucks a week, just to tell him everything I heard about what you were doing and who you were seeing. When I told him you were meeting Mr. Ordway, he offered me fifty bucks to sneak into your apartment and look around. I found the stuff from the Clean Government League and the reports from the private detective. Moss gave me a bonus for that. He paid me more money to go back and copy some of that stuff, and to see what new documents you were getting.”

  “Moss ever tell you why he wanted this information?”

  “No. Only that some very important people wanted to keep an eye on you. For business reasons. I got scared after a while, but Moss wouldn’t let me quit…”

  “Okay, Tony.” I rose. “I’ll keep my part of the bargain. What you do with your life is your affair, but if you’ll take my advice, you’ll never get mixed up in a mess like this again.”

  “Can I keep the picture?”

  “No.” I dropped it into my attaché case. “It’s mine. You can ask Betsy for another one in the same pose if you like. But if you do and I hear about it, I’ll break your neck.”

  Martin Moss nodded to me and went on talking into his telephone. His big face was haggard and drawn. Papers littered his desk. A cigar smoldered forgotten in an overflowing ash tray.

  I pulled up a chair. Moss’s office was in the front room of a first-floor apartment in a three-story walk-up building. A sign in the window said MOSS AND ASSOCIATES: ADVERTISING, PUBLIC RELATIONS, COMMUNICATIONS. The rear of the apartment was occupied by an old lady who made and sold ceramic coffee tables and ash trays.

  “Didn’t you get the release?” Moss demanded. Apparently, he was trying to plant a handout for one of his clients in one of the city’s newspapers. “I sent it to your financial editor a week ago. I know you get a lot of releases down there, but this one was about Clay Street Home Improvement Corporation. How they’re gonna give trading stamps to anyone ordering a new siding job, a kitchen or remodeling job, or a jalousie room addition. That’s a good story, ain’t it? Whaddya mean, it don’t sound like financial news? Who else gives trading stamps? Do the big lumber companies give ’em? The suburban contractors? Hell, no. But Clay Street Home Improvement does. It’s a first. Okay, so don’t write a big story, just a paragraph or two. Would that kill you? We take ads in your newspaper, you know. We have good friends in your business office. I…”

  The man at the other end of the line hung up. Angrily M
oss looked at the receiver. He dumped it back on the hook. He shrugged.

  “The bastard. But that’s public relations for you.”

  “That,” I said, “is a travesty on public relations. You’re a living, breathing insult to every guy who ever made an honest buck in public relations. You’re no more qualified to call yourself a public relations man or an advertising man than you are to become an astronaut.”

  “What brought that on?”

  Moss sincerely wanted to know. My insult didn’t bother him in the least. With a skin that thick, he was bound to succeed at one enterprise or another, sooner or later. Even now, I found myself unable to entirely dislike Moss.

  “Marty boy,” I said, “I have just had a long talk with Tony. He told me you paid him to spy on me. Don’t bother denying it. I’ll make you the same offer I made him. Either you tell me a straight story or I’ll ruin you professionally.”

  Moss picked up his cigar. He avoided my eyes. “Whaddya mean, ruin?”

  “Just that. I’ll call my friend Bill Totten at the Beacon. I’ll tell him what Tony told me. Then I’ll call Doyle at the Clay Street Precinct. I’ll tell him what Tony told me. I don’t know what kind of a law you violated, but you must have violated some law, bribing Tony to prowl my apartment. And I still have some news value, my charges will get into the newspapers. Then everyone will know how you took advantage of your role as a public relations and advertising man to spy on one of your client’s tenants. You’ll have a hard time keeping old clients and finding new ones. Your releases will also be blacklisted at city desks. It’ll be a dirty trick on Tony. He doesn’t think I’m going to tell anyone else what he told me. But if you want to drag him down with you, that’s okay. And when the pressure’s on, I think Tony will repeat his story to Lieutenant Doyle.”

  “Maybe he won’t.”

  “Oh, yes, he will.” I held up my attaché case. “You know what’s in here? A tape recorder. I made a trip uptown to rent this rig before I visited Tony. I’ve got a tape of everything Tony said to me. I dropped the tape into a mailbox before I came to see you. Any more questions?”