Better Dead

by Max Allan Collins

  Okay. So a call girl helped get the goods on somebody in this setup—a politician? A Soviet spy who needed turning? Could be anything or anybody of that sort. And right now I didn’t really give a damn.

  What mattered was that two men were in that adjacent apartment, and Bettie was in there with them, as their unwilling guest. That was my guess, anyway—and I was counting on being right, because I had nowhere else to look.

  But they, and for that matter she, were not in either bedroom that the two-way mirrors revealed.

  A small knob in the carpeted wall opened the hidden door that let me into the bathroom off the 2A bedroom, which was identical to 2B’s—booze bottles lined up like soldiers on a dresser just in front of the mirror, a bed with its own black silk sheets and collection of obscene statuettes, and nightstand drawers again filled with rubbers and bondage gear.

  The door here onto 2A’s living room was slightly ajar, making the conversation of the two men audible. So was the music—sounded like the radio to me, Tony Bennett doing “Stranger in Paradise.”

  Nine-millimeter in hand, barrel up, I leaned ever so gently against the door and took advantage of the two-inch view it provided.

  Not surprisingly, I was looking into another gaudy sexed-up living room with framed French posters and nude lamps and heart-shaped pillows. But this layout had something the other one didn’t …

  … the one and only Queen of the Pinups, Bettie Page in the flesh, in black bra and panties with garter belt and sheer black stockings and leather high-heel boots, rope-tied at the ankles and wrists and elbows and above and below her breasts into a red vinyl open-arm armchair.

  All that separated this from an Irving Klaw photo shoot was the lack of a ball gag, but then they hadn’t needed to gag her at all, at least not yet—she appeared dazed, groggy, the sky-blue eyes open but unfocused, her head lolling slightly, the black shoulder-brushing pageboy moving as if in slow motion.

  The bastards had drugged her—had they used that same LSD-25 junk? The stuff at Deep Creek Lake that had started the chain of events that led to Frank Olson’s exit out a thirteenth-floor window?

  They were talking, over Tony Bennett’s vocals, and one male voice, mid-register, said, “If we do that, you know what that means.”

  A raspy, lower-register male voice responded: “We’re over the fuckin’ line already, Johnny boy.”

  “Sid wouldn’t like it.” The voice on the phone from Bettie’s. “He’s already put out with us.”

  Bettie’s eyelashes were fluttering like loopy butterflies as she gently rocked in the chair, apparently hearing none of it.

  “What!” the raspy voice came back derisively. “You think the mad doc’ll really give the bimbo back to Heller? And, what, let them two go skippin’ off like Jack and Jill up the hill? Not before breakin’ their fuckin’ crowns he won’t.”

  “Who can say? Not our call.”

  The voice on the phone walked past their woozy captive, who still showed no sign of any awareness. He headed toward what I figured was the apartment’s bar setup, which should be over to my left, giving me a good look at him.

  “Him” being John Martin, the security man at the Statler, still in his damn blue blazer with the hotel’s crest, though his tie was off and the jacket hung open so that the .45 Colt stuffed in his waistband could be easily accessed.

  I knew I’d seen that sharp-featured punk somewhere!

  He’d been one of the CIA bunch who’d rushed into the Morton Street art gallery when the shit hit the fan. Not the blond guy in charge who I mostly dealt with, but the one who knelt over Natalie Ash’s body, checking for signs of life that weren’t there to be found.

  Martin called from the bar, “Can I get you anything, Vince?”

  And Vince, the raspy-voice guy, stepped past Bettie and into my line of vision …

  … and him I’d seen before, too!

  He was big and bullnecked with neatly slicked-back black hair and scar tissue over one eye that gave it a distinctive droop. In a white shirt with no tie, collar open, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a pair of dark trousers, he clutched in his right fist a .38 Smith & Wesson that was probably the same gun I’d taken off him months ago at the Waldorf.

  Vince had been the spokesman of the pair of thugs that Frank Costello had sent to my Waldorf suite at Roy Cohn’s bidding, once upon a time. But what the hell could he be doing here? How could the CIA be in bed with the mob? What lunacy was this?

  “What you can get me,” Vince said, and his thick moist upper lip pulled back over big yellowish tobacco-stained teeth, “is some of them bedroom gimmicks—handcuffs and whips and shit. Come on, Johnny boy, it’s been a rough night! Why not reward ourselves with a little fun?”

  The Statler security man stepped back into view, a tumbler of amber liquid in his right hand, his back mostly to me.

  “No,” he said firmly. “We’re already in Dutch with Sid. We play this straight. Anyway, hell—I’m not about to force myself on some helpless girl.”

  Revolver at his side, the thug stood near Bettie, who was still out of it, head hanging a little, eyes showing as much expression as golf balls.

  “I mean, Johnny boy, look at what she had on under that dress,” he rasped, waving the .38 at her, his mouth wet. “This ain’t some innocent kid! She’s beggin’ for it! She’s one sweet piece of ass and I mean to tear some off for myself.”

  I went in and he looked at me and I shot him in the head.

  Bettie jerked a little, probably mostly at the ring of the gunshot, which slightly preceded the glop of brains and bone and blood splattering onto the glass of a framed Toulouse-Lautrec, where the stuff slid and streaked and dripped like lumpy cake batter.

  The Statler kid dropped his drink and goggled at me but put his hands up, facing me now. He looked very young and very pale.

  “Fuck,” he said. “Heller.”

  Bettie raised her head a little, frowning like she was trying to make out an impossible eye chart.

  “I knew I’d seen you,” I said. “Are you going to make me kill you, kid? Not that I’d lose sleep.”

  Tony Bennett had passed the musical ball to Johnnie Ray, who was doing “Cry.”

  Our “Johnnie” swallowed. His lower lip was quivering. Maybe he’d cry, too. “Just take her and go, will you? I was against this anyway.”

  I grinned at him. “Well, that’s nice to hear. But what about this dead hoodlum? Nice company you keep, John.”

  He was keeping those hands up nice and high. “Things got away from us tonight. Just spun out of control. You have to believe that.”

  “Oh, I believe it. I wasn’t thinking everything had gone strictly to plan. Is Gottlieb coming?”

  He swallowed thickly. “Who?”

  I kept the nine-millimeter trained on him. “That’s the ‘Sid’ you and the dead asshole were discussing.”

  Martin sucked in air, visibly trembling now. “I … I think Sid’ll be along sometime. But maybe not till morning.”

  “This is morning, John.”

  He worked up the sickliest smile I ever saw. “Why don’t you let me untie the girl, and you just take her. Just take her out of here. You said it before…”

  He nodded toward Vince, who was on his back staring at the ceiling, mouth open, the yawn of a man permanently asleep.

  “… this is just a dead hoodlum. He’ll be disposed of. Like you never did a thing here. But you do something to me, and that won’t be so easy for the Agency to forgive.”

  “Oh, and I would so like the Agency’s forgiveness. They seem to be so very understanding.”

  He ignored the sarcasm, bobbing his head toward Bettie, his expression hopeful. “So … should I? Untie her?”

  “What did you give her? That LSD-25 crap?”

  He shook his head. “No. Just a sedative to keep her quiet. She’ll be fine. I swear!”

  “Untie her then.”

  He nodded, swallowed again, and went over and knelt and undid the ropes that bo
und her ankles to the chair. She looked down at him, puzzled, as if she’d never seen a dog so big. He rose and, as he seemed about to begin work on untying her left wrist, he bolted around behind her and then the big automatic was in his hand.

  And its snout in her neck.

  The beauty in black lingerie raised her eyebrows as if she’d nodded off in class and the teacher had just called her name.

  “All right, you son of a bitch,” Martin said, a new edge in his voice, a nasty smile going, eyes tight and menacing. He suddenly didn’t seem so young. “You just back your ass on out of here. Later, I may let her go, if Dr. Gottlieb approves it. If I were you, I’d head to your hotel—the Waldorf, isn’t it?—and wait until someone contacts you. Personally, I don’t think any harm will come to either you or the girl here. But it’s not my place to decide.”

  She was seated there, oblivious, his pale face floating above hers like a seance trick, his chin almost touching the top of her head, the .45 dimpling her throat under her ear.

  I said, “You’re new at this, aren’t you?”

  “Fuck you, Heller. Get the hell out of here. Now!”

  “I don’t think you CIA boys get the training the FBI guys do. You’re too collegiate. Too upper-crust.”

  “Shut up! Get out!”

  “Were you absent that day?”

  “What fucking day?”

  “The day they taught you what happens with a head shot.”

  “Well, it fucking kills you.”

  “Yes. Immediately.”

  I fired and a third eye appeared in his forehead that did not signal enlightenment, rather a blankness that his other eyes mimicked, the bullet going through to spiderweb a Folies Bergère poster and spray lacy petticoats a glittering red. He lingered for a moment on his dead legs and feet, as if the Statler blazer were holding him up, though his arm with the gun fell at once to his side and the weapon tumbled with a thud from fingers no longer getting signals from the brain I’d shut off, and then as if every bone in his body had melted, he fell in a pile.

  Bettie just sat there, numbly, like Ethel Rosenberg waiting for another jolt.

  I came over, holstered the nine-millimeter, and untied her wrists and elbows and removed the ropes binding her to the chair. She began to come around, shaking her head, blinking, opening her eyes wide, and her mouth, as if trying to make sure everything still worked.

  Her face swung toward me, and so did the black hair. “What … what happened? Nathan! Where am I? What’s that awful … smell?”

  “Death,” I said.

  The coppery tang of blood gave highlights to the foul bouquet of bodies evacuating waste.

  I helped her onto her feet. Normally she was good in those exaggerated heels, but she was shaky now. She looked right. She looked left. She pointed at this body. She pointed at that one.

  “Did you…? Those are the two who came to mah place and … Are they dead?”

  “Very,” I said. “They tried to kill us both.”

  She blinked several times, as if fighting dizziness. “How … how did you find me?”

  “Not important. Your dress is over in the corner. Put it on and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Her eyes went from corpse to corpse again. “Shouldn’t we call the police?”

  “No. Trust me on that. This never happened. What did they give you? They drugged you some way or another.”

  She swallowed, leaned on me. “They held a cloth near my nose and mouth. Must have been chloroform.”

  At least they hadn’t held it to that pretty face, because it would have scarred her. As if this hadn’t.…

  I walked her to the red square-dance dress. Dazed though she was, she didn’t need help slipping it on. For once, there was nothing erotic at all about it.

  I said, “Did they make you drink anything?”

  She shook her head, black hair brushing off her shoulders. “Didn’t make me. Asked if ah was thirsty, after ah came around.…”

  “Were you tied in the chair then?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Ah said ah was terrible thirsty and they gave me some Coke Cola.”

  I grunted a sigh. “It may have been spiked with a drug. How are you feeling?”

  “Better. Little off mah feed, but … better.”

  We were heading for the door when it opened and he stepped in—Dr. Sidney Gottlieb, a raincoat over his plaid shirt and blue jeans, to the top of his cowboy boots. He hadn’t had a chance to change. The absurdity of it might have made me laugh, if we weren’t sharing the living room with dead men.

  “My God,” he said, his eyes going from one corpse to another, shutting the door quietly behind him. “What have you done?”

  “What have you done, Doctor?” I asked, getting the nine-millimeter out and pointing it at him, holding Bettie to me with an arm around her slender waist.

  He raised his hands about chest-high, palms out. We were maybe six feet apart. “I have no weapon. I’m not a vuh-violent person.”

  I left Bettie to go over and pat him down. No gun. Of course, he might have a poisoned needle on his wedding ring or maybe a raincoat pocket full of poison pills. With this fucker, you never knew.

  Returning to Bettie, keeping my gun trained on him, I slipped my free arm around her waist again and said, “Let’s hear your story, Doc.”

  “No story,” he said, hands still up, but something casual about it. His short hair gave him a Julius Caesar look. “These two foul-ups killed a man tonight, a man they were supposed to help.”

  “They were supposed to help Frank Olson?”

  He nodded emphatically. “That’s right. We had scheduled him to go into a hospital, Chestnut Lodge. Near Rockville, Maryland. Earlier in the evening, Dr. Olson had agreed to take treatment there, but he’d been so … vuh-volatile of late … we were afraid, come morning, he’d be, well, a handful. I arranged for our man at the Statler … the late Mr. Martin here … and another individual to handle, you might say, the rough stuff … the late Mr. Sarito there … to make the transfer in the middle of the night. We wished to avoid the embarrassment, for all concerned, of dragging Dr. Olson through a crowded lobby in daylight. And apparently he objected to being taken from his sleep to make this unexpected departure…”

  “Apparently.”

  “… and he put up a struggle, and, well, he wound up going out the window. Absolutely unintended.”

  “For the sake of argument, let’s say I buy that. Why grab Miss Page here?”

  He swallowed. “Your puh-presence at the Statler was most unfortunate and terribly upsetting. Dr. Lashbrook was beside himself when he realized whose questions he’d been answering. I suggested … I admit it came from me … that Miss Page be brought here as a way to leverage your cooperation. Perhaps not my best notion, or finest hour.”

  “Was it your idea to drug her?”

  “Of course not! Was she drugged?”

  “I think so. It may have been that LSD-25 of yours.”

  “If so, not my doing, nor my idea.” He smiled at Bettie, who was clinging to me. “Dear, there’s nothing to worry about. The substance has a tendency to muddle the thoughts, and occasionally there are heightened sensations. But you’ll be yourself again soon, if you aren’t already.”

  I said, “Not how it worked for Frank Olson, though, was it, Doc?”

  He patted the air with his raised palms. “Let me suggest that you let me huh-handle this situation. Puh-personally. Obviously calling in the authorities would put all of us in awkward circumstances. You’ve killed two men, Mr. Heller … and I understand it isn’t the first time you’ve wandered into a CIA operation and left bodies behind.”

  Bettie glanced at me.

  “Killing me,” Gottlieb said, “wouldn’t do anyone any good.”

  “I might find it satisfying.”

  “Yes, but revenge is such a fleeting thing. Rescuing Miss Page is admirable—murdering me, in cold blood?… I doubt that’s who you are.”

  I nodded around at the gar
ish sex den. “What do you use this place for, Doc? This fraternity boy’s idea of heaven? Blackmail?”

  His eyes flared with indignation. “Heavens no! What do you take me for! I’m a scientist, Mr. Heller. And I like to think, in my way, a patriot. You won a Silver Star, I understand. Do I have to explain sacrifice?”

  And I knew.

  Just as I’d known that the figure falling from a high floor at the Statler had to be Frank Olson.

  “You’re testing that shit here,” I said. “You bring men up here, visiting businessmen, poor bastards from Des Moines and Duluth, and then some prostie or maybe CIA femme fatale spikes a drink with your LSD-25 and gives it to her gentleman friend of the moment and you watch and record and film and … Jesus, you are a fucking monster. I really should kill your ass—if there’s a God, He’ll thank me.”

  Bettie squeezed my arm. “Let’s go, Nate. Come on, sugah. Please.”

  I looked down at her. Her eyes were wide and wild with fear—as they would have been when she was bound in that chair, if she’d known what the hell was going on.

  “All right,” I said to her. “But first help me with something. I think this is a job that will come fairly easy to you.…”

  We tied Gottlieb into the chair where not long ago Bettie had sat. Maybe he was kinky enough to enjoy it, but I doubt it—I thought I saw real fear and discomfort in his eyes, much as I saw girlish pleasure in Bettie’s as she cinched the final rings of rope around his upper torso. The finishing touch was mine—I fetched a ball gag from a nightstand drawer and Bettie giggled as she stuffed it in his mouth like a roasted hog and looped the strap around the back of his head.

  And we left him there, in the den of government iniquity, in the stench of his killed colleagues, which was nearly as foul as the things he did to his unwitting human guinea pigs.