Meanwhile Back at the Morgue

by Michael Avallone

  “I’m still listening,” I reminded her.

  Her shoulders in the flaming red dress arched. The silver fox came to life with a wiggle and slipped to one side. I blinked. Her breasts were mountainous.

  “Yes—I shot Marcus. He laugh at me. I love him but he no think I be good in his show. I did not hit him. And I did not hurt his ear. Miss Carmody, his secretary, tell me what happen to Marcus’ ear. I rush to hospital. I see you. I remember he tell me about you yesterday. I follow you … to talk. I do not know how to approach you. Forgive me. I never can get use to America.”

  I was beginning to get an earache. Her grammar was impossible. Every nation in the world sprang out at you in her speech, including Charlie Chan English. It didn’t add up. I fished for my Camels and offered her one but she daintily demurred.

  “Must take care of my throat,” she said huskily. “Catching cold.” I nodded as if I understood, and checked the terrain. We were swinging off the avenue at Seventy-ninth and winging toward the Hudson. Right turn on West End and into the Drive. The blocks fell away in rapid order.

  “Do you know anybody else who’d want to kill Marcus?” I didn’t know what tack to hit with her. I felt as if I was just making conversation.

  “Nooooo,” she said vehemently. Now she looked at me, her wide eyes, deep brown pools, shaming me. “Everybody love Marcus. He best friend to everybody.”

  I grinned in memory. “Do you know what a tarantula is?”

  Her long black lashes fluttered. “Ta-ran—” Her tongue fumbled the word.

  “Skip it. Well, we’re almost there.”

  We were. Almost. A long line of parked cars jammed the Drive as far as the eye could see. The Hudson lay bright and lazy in the dying afternoon sun. The cab slowed. I groped for my wallet.

  “Where were you born, Miss de Milo?”

  I saw her first smile. It outdid the sun for sheer dazzle.

  “Latvia. Mother was Italian, father Hungarian. First mother die, father remarry. A French dancer. She dance for me all the time. I go to school in Germany, France and Switzerland. My husbands Russian, Polish and Irish.” She laughed for the first time then. Like jingle bells and Christmas. “I am an international girl. Like the UN Building. Maybe that explain my voice. Either that or I am stupid. Too stupid to speak English plain.”

  I didn’t argue with her. The cab had stopped at the de Milo address. I paid the cabbie and helped her to the front door. You had a swell view of the Hudson River from Lisa de Milo’s doorstep. Right over the low-lying trees and the highway the river swept by.

  The Lady with the Voice paused on her doorstep and looked at me. Her long, ivory fingers poked into a jeweled handbag for her keys.

  “You must help, Mr. Noon. Marcus say you can help.”

  “Sure,” I said. “We’ll talk about it inside.”

  I guess she couldn’t wait, because she suddenly showed me the shining end of a .38 and her flashing white teeth.

  “Please do not move. Go inside and do not think I am funny.”

  My mouth dropped about six feet, into my shoes.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The picture always changes in this business. First, everything is right where you can see it or lay your hands on it. Then, bingo! Something in the picture moves and everything is out of focus. Like English-twisting Lisa de Milo suddenly becoming a pistol-packing mamma.

  I tried not to laugh. Helpless Lisa sure had the horse laugh on me. I eased into the dim foyer.

  “Okay, I’m inside,” I said. “But what’s this gun routine? I thought you needed help.”

  I heard her swish in behind me with a rustle of all the soft, silky things she had on. The door thudded shut. A switch clicked and Lisa de Milo’s home flooded with lights. And not just hallway lights. The whole damn place lit up like a birthday cake. With all the trimmings.

  The trimmings were everything money could buy: Etruscan vases, Renoir paintings, hip-deep rugs, gleaming candelabra hanging from high ceilings. It was a hard home to describe.

  “I like this,” I said. “Early something.”

  The prodding .38 dislocated a few disks in my spine.

  “Go sit down,” she said. “I’m very nervous. I will shoot.”

  I believed her. A file of fear and worry was shaving her voice down to nothing. You respect a frightened woman with a gun ten times more than the most accomplished gunslinger. Because you don’t know what she is going to do next and especially because she is liable to do anything.

  I walked slowly into the living room, my heels making no noise on the rug. I sat down. The divan was so soft I felt as if I were sinking out of sight. Then the springs settled and buoyed me up again. I looked at Lisa, hiding the smile that was trying to tug my lips apart.

  She had moved, jerkily, to the far side of the room, flung the silver fox off and positioned herself in another deep chair. She leaned across her rounded knees and quite seriously and deliberately pointed the .38 at me, with both beautiful hands curled around the butt.

  “You’re all mixed up, Lisa,” I said easily. “You invited me here to talk about you and Marcus, remember? Now you’re acting as if I came to steal the family jewels. I don’t get it.”

  Her lips curved in a bow of sarcastic beauty and her eyes danced for me.

  “You funny.” She managed a sneer. “Sure—I follow you—you catch me. But you don’t fool Lisa. You not going to kill my Marcus.”

  This time I stared. “Wait a minute. Let’s go through that one again. I’m Marcus Manton’s bodyguard. He hired me to take care of him. Get that? Hired me. That’s important. That means it means money to me—big money—to take care of him.”

  She shook her head. “You lie.”

  I got irritated. “Look, you took a shot at him, not me.”

  “That was different. I am in love with him. I am jealous.”

  “And what does that make me?”

  “We find out. Soon. Real soon. You work for people who try to hurt Marcus and spoil his show. I fix you. I make you talk. You tell everything. Then I catch these bad people. Make them stop bothering Marcus,”

  “You’re killing me, lady. And how are you going to fix me?” That was the only thing bothering me at that point. Besides her ear-hurting dialogue.

  Her eyes glinted. Her breasts strained at their moorings.

  “Bud will come to make you talk. Bud Tremont. Very rough. You know him?”

  I stirred a little.

  “The boxer? Bud Tremont—fighter? You know, with his hands?” Damn, now she had me doing it. I started to get up reflexively.

  She jumped up too and the .38 wavered in her fingers. I sat down again. She sat down too, a new excitement making her wonderful shape gyrate.

  “See—you are scared. You talk. Bud fix you. He will smash you with one punch.”

  I nodded. “I hear you talking. So what do we do, sit and wait for him? Or are you going to sing to me to while away the hours?”

  Her eyes shone. “He will be here—five minutes. Bud Tremont always on time for Lisa.”

  “I’ll bet.” I didn’t say anything else. I was thinking of Bud Tremont now. Retired Bud Tremont. Six feet of solid bone and muscle that had ploughed up the heavyweight trail with twenty-two consecutive knockouts before a tricky heart and the Boxing Commission ended it all with an official no-more-fights-for-you verdict. Bud Tremont. A bull head and a bashed nose, but still young. I racked my memory. The Malloy fight had been only two years ago. Tremont couldn’t be older than thirty. I’d sometimes wondered what had happened to him. Now I knew. He was Lisa de Milo’s errand boy. Or more. I wondered if Marcus Manton knew he was alive.

  “Lisa,” I began wearily, “this is nuts. I’m Marcus’ friend. I’m trying to help him. I can help you, but you’re making a big goof here. You’re going at it all wrong. We’re starting off with complications. Now look, put that cap pistol down. I’d like to meet Bud Tremont, all right. But not under these conditions. He’s liable to think I’m one of the bad guys and s
tart re-upholstering the living room with my flesh and blood. Lisa, for crying out loud, pay attention. You’re not listening—”

  She wasn’t. Her ears, attuned to the sounds of her own home, had picked up a noise mine hadn’t. Her eyes swung toward the hallway with expectation. I heard the front door ease shut and heavy footfalls thunder, getting louder as they came closer. I sighed and stood up. Lisa was too concerned about the new visitor to order me down again.

  “Bud—” Lisa de Milo shrilled. “Here. In here. I hold him for you.”

  He came into view. And filled the entranceway as only a big man can. He was about four feet across in the shoulders and the ugly set of his fight-scarred handsomeness didn’t make you feel any better. He smiled obliquely at Lisa, like a Capone torpedo, and fastened his cold-killer eyes on me. A faint smile played around his tight mouth. He put his right hand into his left palm and ground, slowly.

  Lisa de Milo trembled with excitement.

  “This is him, Bud. The man who hurt Marcus. You make him talk now, yes?”

  But Tremont laughed hollowly, never taking his eyes off my face.

  “Put the heater away, Lisa doll. We won’t be needing an edge with this guy.”

  I braced myself. “That’s your story and you’re stuck with it.”

  He liked that. An honest laugh charged out of his barrel chest.

  “Nice, nice,” he said huskily, moving in toward me slowly, coming down off the steps leading into the living room like a Roman gladiator entering the arena. “I don’t like scared guys. But you can’t last fifteen seconds with me, mister. Stand out of the way, Lisa.” He kept on coming.

  I grinned. I didn’t feel like grinning.

  “I don’t suppose you’d want to talk this over first?”

  He shook his head. He was about five feet away now.

  I set myself, throwing my arms up.

  He laughed like a guy who knows the opposition is a meatball, and danced toward me. Behind his shoulder I could see Lisa de Milo hugging a seat cushion. A real bitch, mixed up with fear, excitement and the thrill of battle.

  I was watching his right hand when his left almost tore my head off.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was a good punch. One of the best kind. A five-knuckled destroyer that shot me back across the room hard. Only the ankle-deep thickness of the rug on Lisa de Milo’s living-room floor stopped me from bouncing twice.

  The room took on about eight new corners and the gleaming candelabra hung sidesaddle. Even the lighting system seemed to dance playfully. My head throbbed like an overheated jukebox. I was down on one knee, taking the nine count and shaking the cobwebs from my eyes. Dimly, I heard Lisa de Milo’s nervous giggle. I saw Bud Tremont dancing around, making a neutral corner of his side of the room. His mashed-nose handsomeness was pleased. It figured. Nothing an ex-boxer likes better than living-room boxing matches. Just like old times.

  “C’mon, mister, c’mon. I hardly touched you.” His confidence was sickening.

  There was only one way out of this mess. Bud Tremont had too many pounds on me and too many years of ring savvy. I was big enough and strong enough to drop him, but the trouble was that I’d never get close enough to him to do it unless I outfoxed him. I can handle myself, but alley fighting and scientific boxing are as far apart as the poles. A kid can toy with a guy twice his weight if he knows how and is fast enough. I took my chance. I got to my feet.

  I overdid it. I swayed and made like I’d lost my sense of direction. And I got my answer. Bud Tremont chuckled low in his throat and danced toward me for the kill. It was a low and vicious laugh. Now I knew. There was dirt on his boxing gloves. He was going to pulverize a guy he thought was on his last legs.

  His first punch had been a killer, but I’d had my chin buried in my chest so it hadn’t murdered me like it might have. Mr. Tremont never got in his second punch.

  He moved in, victory-sure. Maybe he was showing off for Lisa de Milo’s sake. Or maybe he thought he just plain owned me and there was all the time in the world to fancify the slaughter. He took his time. He shifted into gear easily and started a teasing feint with his left hand, his right shoulder starting to roll for the finishing punch—a slaughterhouse blow that could have put me in the hospital with Marcus Manton. But I was ready for him.

  Surprise exploded in his strong-boned face as I jammed my left arm, with everything I had behind it, into his exposed middle. Four buttons down from his thick brown neck. The solar-plexus punch that Tommy Loughran had demonstrated for me on a TV program once. Air flew out between Bud Tremont’s teeth. Pain and wonder caught him off balance. He barely saw the follow-up, straight-as-a-line-drive right cross that thundered home to his jaw. He had underestimated me, and it had cost him. The floor caught his falling body and spread it out gently on the rug.

  I shook my head, breathing hard. But there was more coming. Lisa de Milo suddenly shrieked in seven different languages and rushed at me, clawing and scratching, her eyes darting around for something heavier than an ash tray to crown me with.

  Feeling mean, I flicked a palm across her face. Two times. She stopped dead in her high heels, hot crimson springing into her cheeks, her eyes twin pools of bewilderment. She was a beautiful woman who’d never been treated that way before.

  “Oh!” she said. Just like the first time I’d met her.

  “Sit down and behave yourself,” I rasped. “I owe you more than a couple of slaps, as it is. Your monster boyfriend could have messed me up plenty, thanks to your doublecross.”

  “Oh!” She was an actress, too. She had no answer for me, so she rushed to where Tremont lay, sat right down next to him and rolled his big head onto her ample lap. “My poor Bud—he is dead—you hurt him!”

  “Do tell.” I took a deep breath, rubbing my chin where Bud Tremont’s knuckles had left an imprint. “So you’re playing footsie behind Marcus’ back? I suppose old Marcus is paying for this fancy layout of yours. Seeing as how you are hardly working for a living, that is. No, that’s not right, either. You do work, don’t you? You have to put out to rate this kind of a showcase.”

  She stopped crooning lullabies into Tremont’s cauliflower ears and glared up at me. She glared beautifully.

  “You. I don’t understand your talk. Always you speak riddles—”

  “Can it. Those nickel accents of yours don’t kid me any more. You heard me plain. You’re two-timing Marcus Manton. You tried to kill him with milady’s .22. Hell, I’ve had it. I’m turning you over to the cops. They can beat it out of you. I haven’t got the time or the inclination.” I moved toward the phone with a bluffer’s speed.

  “Stop!” she wailed. She scrambled out from beneath Tremont’s massive shoulders, which wasn’t very considerate of her. Tremont groaned out loud as his skull thudded on the rug. Lisa de Milo lurched toward me as if I were the last man in the world. Her contours wiggled. “Do not do that. You spoil everything. This is not what it seems—”

  “I’ll bet,” I agreed. But I didn’t reach for the phone. I reached for a cigarette instead. “How about a confession, then? You know—Lisa de Milo tells all.” I threw a meaningful glance at her fallen gladiator, who was beginning to show signs of life. I was a little disappointed in my Sunday punch.

  “Yesss,” she lisped in her two-parts every-nationality voice, “I tell. I tell you what you want to know.” She shuddered and sashayed over to the divan, letting me get a rear view of just how nicely Mother Nature had put her together. She subsided wearily with old-world elegance against the soft cushions and slowly crossed one silken knee over the other. There was a slit in her dress that I hadn’t noticed before. I noticed it now. That and about a yard of superb thigh.

  I couldn’t take a continuous narration from her. Not with that voice. I decided to ask questions.

  “Are you on the level about not hurting Marcus?”

  “I love him.”

  “You said that. But women in love don’t generally use their boyfriends for target practice.”r />
  She shrugged her shoulders. “I—lose my head.”

  “I’ll buy that for now. But everything is jumping. Somebody is trying to kill Marcus. Trying to sabotage his show, keep it from ever going on. You took a shot at him, somebody sent him a deadly tarantula that could have killed him, and four nice young girls got trapped in an elevator in his building today. And as if that’s not enough, somebody called him on the telephone and set off a noise loud enough to rupture his eardrum. So now he’s in his private hospital. And he’s hired me to help him. Because this show means everything to him, his whole world. If I’m going too fast for you, hold up your hand.”

  Her eyes shone. A tired shine. “I know all that.”

  I eyed her closely. On the floor, Bud Tremont was shrugging himself into life and making noises through his nose.

  “How long have you known Marcus, Lisa?”

  She pyramided her shapely fingers and placed a thumbnail delicately on her moist red lips. “One, maybe two, years. Marcus meet me at the Metropolitan Opera. We fall in love immediately. He is good to me.”

  “Marcus is good to everybody.” I measured the information. “But I guess you don’t know much about his early life—the circus and show business, all that career stuff.”

  Her eyes were puzzled. “What you mean?”

  I grinned. “I’m trying to find out about his enemies.” I swung my attention to Bud Tremont, who had finally climbed up, staggering. He rumbled angrily in his throat and lumbered forward. I got my .45 out from its shoulder holster faster than Wyatt Earp could do.

  “Simmer down, Champ. It was a fair fight and I out-cuted you. Let it go at that. I was lucky, sure. But you should have known better. It’s only fair to tell you that I’ll use this if I have to. And I didn’t buy it in Macy’s Toy Department. It shoots real bullets.”

  He threw me a he-man glower, flung a glance at Lisa, saw her sitting with queenly serenity on the divan, and misread the whole scene. His eyes blazed.

  “What did you tell him, you dumb broad?”

  She made a face and looked down at her knees.