Meanwhile Back at the Morgue

by Michael Avallone

  I put my hands on my hips and did some glaring of my own just to show them I wasn’t kidding. All of the glaring wasn’t manufactured. Kids with guns and knives acting like hoods don’t sit too well with me.

  There was an uncomfortable silence. The gun wielder bit his lip and kept staring at me. The knife boy fidgeted, first looking at me, then at his partner. He cracked first.

  “C’mon, Artie. Spit in his eye. Tell him to go to hell. We don’t know nothin’.”

  Artie’s head shot around as if tugged by a string. “You telling me what to do, Tip? Shut your yap before I shut it for you.”

  Tip lowered his head and counted the cracks in my floor, trying to hide the red that started to mount in his face. Artie ran his tongue around his teeth and smiled coldly at me.

  “You got a deal, mister,” he said. “We’ll trade. A story for a walk out of here without you turning us in.”

  “Deal,” I said. “Start someplace.”

  Tip made a noise in his throat but Artie ignored him. He tapped his nose with his forefinger and pitched right into his story.

  “We hang out around the corner. Blue Mill Bar. Our outfit’s the Hawks. Well, tonight we were sopping up some beer, Tip and me, when this fellow come over to us with a deal. A pretty good proposition in any man’s league. A hundred bucks to come up here and strong-arm the guy who lives here. Guy didn’t give any names. Just said to hang around and rough up the guy who showed up. You know, wait in the hallway and bang!” He demonstrated for me by banging his right fist into his left palm. Then he shrugged. “Well, we got here and there was a light on in the place so we just walked in and found this big deal here sitting in a chair. So we figured he was our man and went into our act.” He looked at me with some respect. “I see we picked the wrong guy. Though you probably woulda been a helluva lot harder to handle.”

  Tip sneered, trying to recover some lost bluster. “He ain’t so much without a .45, I bet.”

  I stared him down. “Later on you can try me, big mouth.” I looked back at Artie. “Is that the whole pie? Or are you leaving a piece out?”

  Artie’s sense of honor shone in his outraged eyes.

  “We made a deal, didn’t we? Think I’d go back on a deal? That’s all there is to it, so help me!”

  I nodded to show him I believed him. It was that simple, really. Crazy kids, out to turn a fast buck, would leap at a chance to make a hundred in movie-gangster style. Their energies, like their fists and their guns and their knives, need exercise.

  Tip made a move toward the door.

  “Okay, mister? Let’s get out of here, Artie.”

  I held up a hand. “Just five minutes more, huh? If you please.” I flung a glance at Marcus, who was beginning to groan and come awake in earnest. “Artie, what did this guy who gave you the job look like? And did you collect the C note in advance?”

  Artie smiled. A natural smile.

  “Think I’m easy? It was dough first or no deal. I hold the bag for nobody.” He shrugged his shoulders eloquently. “What did he look like? Big guy. Tough-looking. Fact is, he looked like he coulda handled the job himself. ’Bout your size, but heavier all around. You know what I mean? Wore a hat down over his eyes so you couldn’t spot much of his face.”

  Tip’s eyes lit up, which altered the dullness of his unwashed face considerably.

  “Cauliflower ear.” He snapped his fingers. “He had a mashed ear. Made me think he was an ex-pug. But he looked too young to be an ex-pug. You remember his ear, Artie?”

  Artie bit his lip, his eyes gone cold. “I remember, Tip. And you talk too much.”

  Somebody had hired two wild ones to work me over. But they had walked in on Marcus Manton, who had left his bed to come to my office. How he’d ever got in was beyond me, but it was as simple as that. Bud Tremont couldn’t do the job himself. I’d left him with the cops for company.

  I frowned. “Are the gun and knife your own equipment? Or did your benefactor arm you for the job?”

  Now Artie frowned. “Sure they’re ours. You think we’re squares or something? I got my own organization, pal.”

  “Yeah,” Tip chorused. “You let us go or we can make it real hot for you.”

  “No threats, please,” I begged him. “I’ve got a weak heart.” Artie laughed. He liked that.

  I went over to Marcus Manton’s chair and held him up while he tried to get the fog out of his eyes. He was okay. A little bruised, but Artie and Tip hadn’t had too much time to work on him. Artie and Tip looked at each other and shrugged. Then, as if by mutual consent, they started for the door. I kept on ministering to Marcus, but I had one last piece of news for them.

  “You can both go,” I said, “but the knife and gun stay here. And no arguments about it. I’m sure you’ll be able to find others. I don’t suppose I should wear out my voice giving you some good advice?” I stared at Artie because he was the one who might listen.

  He wouldn’t care for what I might say, but I did interest him. He paused in the doorway, shaking off Tip, who wanted to clear out before I changed my mind.

  “Like what, for instance?” Artie asked quietly.

  I worked my fingers into Marcus’ big shoulders to help him revive.

  “There’s only one way you can wind up, the way you two are going. There hasn’t been a wild guy yet who was smart enough to beat the hot seat or jail or death in a gutter. When you play outside the law, that’s exactly how you die. If I were in your shoes, I’d think it over. Maybe you can take care of yourselves and it’s all right with you, but if you have any kind of family at all or hope to have one, you won’t be able to watch out for them twenty-four hours a day. And that’s where the chiselers and the rats will hit you. Where it hurts. They’ll strike at somebody you love or care for. That’s all I’ve got to say. Now beat it.”

  Artie’s voice was strange. “You work a gun. What about you, wise guy?”

  I looked straight at him. “I’m an orphan. And I never got married because of the business I’m in.”

  Nobody said anything else and they left. But they closed the door quietly and I hardly heard them moving down the hallway. Another lecture, thank you. Who needs them and what good could they do?

  I was tired and hungry but Marcus Manton finally burst into pained wakefulness. I had undone the belt and was ready for him. I thrust a shot glass full of rye whisky into his hand. He put the whisky down his throat without a murmur and held out the glass for another.

  “How’s your ear?” I asked him.

  He got the second shot down with a toothsome smack of his lips. Then he winced.

  “I’ll live. Doc says the ear may come around some fine day. Anyhow, I wasn’t going to stay on my fanny. Roses is behind schedule, as it is.” His eyes narrowed. “Nice way you treat clients. Where’s your goon squad?”

  I had a drink myself before I put the bottle on the desk. I explained to him about Artie and Tip. He shuddered elaborately.

  “This is turning into a three-ring circus. What the hell is coming next?”

  I studied him. His big face was pale but otherwise he looked all right. I didn’t know whether he knew about Darlene Donegan yet, or what he had made of my pointed description of Bud Tremont. And there was still Von Arnheim’s crazy entrance into the case and Lisa de Milo’s doublecross of her mistress vows. I wondered if he could take all that. But I had to find out something else first.

  “Before I faint from hunger, Marcus, how the hell did you get into my office? I’ve got the only key and I didn’t leave the door open this morning. I distinctly remember locking up.”

  Marcus made a face. “Stop playing games, Ed. I’m a sick man. The light was on and the door was open. I walked in and those two punks jumped me.”

  I sighed. “That’s great. Somebody’s got a key to this joint and I don’t know who it is. I thought it was you at least.”

  “Keys, schmees,” Marcus snapped irritably. “So you change the lock. Look, I came over here because we gotta talk.”<
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  I had my back to him and was working my way around the desk. “Sure, Marcus. Go ahead and talk. But I’m going to order some food before I drop from malnutrition.” I had started to telephone when I happened to look up at him.

  And saw the mad set of his big face, his tangled curly locks falling down his damp forehead and the .32 clutched in one big hand. The .32 centered unwaveringly on my coat front, three buttons down from my collar. I couldn’t figure this one out. One of us had lost his marbles.

  “Marcus,” I said quietly, “you’re pointing a gun at me.”

  “That I am,” he snarled. A Marcus Manton snarl. “And unless you give me proof positive that you aren’t responsible for the hell I’ve been through this week, I’m going to blow you out of that chair!”

  I only saw one thing: the round clock on the desk facing me. It was still a long way until midnight, but somebody was sure calling the shots.

  As a prophecy expert, Von Arnheim was batting a thousand.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Von Arnheim notwithstanding, there was an insane look in Marcus Manton’s eyes that had everything to do with hating me, nothing to do with being a friend of mine. On top of the two juvenile delinquents and my empty stomach and everything else that had happened, it was a little too much for me. My insides flip-flopped warningly.

  But I controlled myself. “Easy, Marcus. Don’t flip your lid. Why would I want to sabotage you?”

  His snarl got wider and he gave me that most perfect of all answers: “Because!” He was like a kid in the backyard arguing his head off.

  I thought fast. But I talked faster.

  “Grab some sense, will you? I know your ear hurts and you’ve been through the wringer this past week. But before you invited me to your office this morning I didn’t know a thing about your current problems. We’re old pals, remember? I helped you get rid of a bad woman a long time ago. I’ve never been interested in money. I’m an Eagle Scout who’ll always be between drinks at one time or another. Now put that .32 away and smile at me, for God’s sake, before I really do think you intend to use it. I might try something that’ll get us both killed.”

  Something or somebody that I didn’t know about had got to him. I could see that none of what I had said had penetrated. His snarl was ghastly and the two black eyes that usually twinkled with enthusiasm and Big Business were now smoldering with hatred and revenge. It was screwy. It was as if the movie had already started and I couldn’t follow the plot.

  I saw his big fingers, wrapped around the .32, shift meaningfully. His breathing was short and raspy now. His face was as yellow as a dope addict’s. And that nutty look of his wouldn’t go away. The white swath of bandage around his ear should have been ludicrous, but it wasn’t.

  “Smart talk,” he sneered. “But none of it tells me anything. I got a call about you at the hospital. I know all about your tricks and plans, Ed. How you’re working with Lisa and her prize-fight slob to ruin me. I’m wise, Ed. Older and wiser. And unless you break down and admit it, I’ll shoot you where you sit.”

  I sat back in the swivel chair and studied him. I kept my face calm, but my brain was whirling. He wasn’t himself and I’d better do something fast or the cemetery was my next stop.

  “Darlene Donegan is dead,” I said quietly. “Did your private informer tell you that, too, Marcus?”

  His face dropped. The snarl fled. His narrow eyes popped and I could see their true brown color. The nose of the .32 lowered slightly.

  “Oh, God—no,” he whispered in a shocked voice. I followed through.

  “She was found strangled on a bed. The bed in Lisa de Milo’s apartment. If you know about Lisa and Bud Tremont, I’m glad. A guy should never be in the dark about something like that. Donegan is something else….”

  I went on from there, telling him about the cops and Lisa’s picking me up at the hospital and my tangling with Tremont. That and the smoking bedroom. All through the neat narrative his great body sagged and came apart. The anger in him had gone but the .32 was still aimed in my general direction.

  Now my trick was easier to work. I sat forward in my chair and placed my left shoe against the black buzzer jutting out from one inside corner of the desk. You can’t see the buzzer from the front of the desk. It’s a cute trick, really, silly for a grown man, but it scares the hell out of anybody who doesn’t know about it.

  Directly behind Marcus Manton, the car horn installed in the clothes closet by the sink went off with an ear-shattering honk. An old retired submarine skipper had installed it for me as payment for locating his missing daughter in the big city. It always works. You know how a sudden car horn affects you when you’re crossing the street.

  It worked this time, too. Marcus gasped with fright and whirled to ward off his invisible attacker. I was the next thing that hit him. I got around the desk in two seconds flat, wrenched the .32 from his nervous hand and shoved him away from me, hard. He stumbled, caught himself and spun around dazedly.

  I dropped the .32 in my pocket, breathing relief.

  “It’s your day for bad noises, Marcus. Sorry, but you might have killed me. Want another drink?”

  He looked at me for a long time, then nodded, went over to my leather couch by the office window and sat down heavily. He buried his face in his hands.

  “Geez, I’m outta my head. I must be losing my mind. But that voice on the phone was so positive, so sure. And it all added up. It was pat. Like a good play.”

  I gave him a water glass full of whisky this time.

  “This voice on the phone have a German accent?”

  Marcus’ eyebrows climbed three floors. “If you know that, then what is this all about? You leveling with me?” He started to get up, ignoring his drink.

  “Simmer down and try that joy juice. I want to make a call.” I went around to the desk and used the phone, dialing Kelly’s Bar. In nothing flat, Kelly’s voice and the noises of his soft-drink emporium trickled over the receiver.

  “Kelly’s Bar. Kelly talking.”

  I chuckled. “This is your pet customer, Ed. Kelly, is the baron still sitting in your place?”

  Kelly’s snort drowned out the jukebox music.

  “Waited around about five minutes, then left. Spent another five on the sidewalk looking up at your place. I kept watching him. You know that guy is loco? He kept writing things down in a notebook or something. And laughing to himself all the time, like the cat and the canary. Then he really took off. Hailed a cab and headed east.”

  “Thanks, kid.” I thought about Von Arnheim and his book and his charts and figures. He was a nut, all right, but he wasn’t crazy. “See you around. Don’t take any wooden coppers.” I hung up and stared at the phone. Marcus was fidgeting impatiently on the couch. But when I got back to him, I noticed his glass was half empty. I had forgotten to order something to eat.

  “Ed, would you mind explaining all this? If you know who called me, spill it. Strikes me there’s a nut running around loose and we ought to protect ourselves.”

  “Finish your drink, Marcus, before you start seeing things. Let me puzzle this out a little, will you? There’s a whole mess of rats in the woodwork and we better be ready for them—”

  Somebody knocked on the door. Marcus jumped again and I jerked, instinctively. I swore under my breath. I was getting the jumps, too. Either that or I was still starving. It had been one hectic day and night.

  I pointed the .32 at the door.

  “Come in,” I sang out. “There’s nobody here but us chickens.”

  A shadow wavered on the glass. Then the door opened and she walked in. Walked into our hearts and souls forever. She brought magic with her.

  And what a she! Marcus Manton gulped audibly behind me. A mammoth gulp.

  Forget about chickens. The chick that walked into my office that cold night was designed to make men feel like roosters. She was something to crow about.

  She spoke before the impact of her looks could dissolve. A voice that
might have led armies and defeated them said, hardly above a whisper.

  “I am Annalee. I was born to play Roses in the Rain.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Take your pick. A Broadway showman is looking for the lead in his coming play. There are three, maybe four, attempts on his life. Four finalists for the role are terrorized in an elevator. A great star who wants the part for herself is mysteriously murdered. And then out of the blue, the night, and nowhere a tall, beautiful girl marches in on you and says, “I am Annalee. I was born to play Roses in the Rain.

  Wouldn’t you be suspicious? Wouldn’t you look sideways at such a pat entrance? Wouldn’t you say the plot was sickening as well as thickening? Or would you just set your teeth and study the apparition a little more closely? Sure you would, but you would also gape a bit foolishly and wonder just what planet you were really on.

  Marcus couldn’t take his eyes off the fantastic creation that had just walked into his life. “No, no, no,” he growled feebly. He buried his face in his big hands as if that would make the girl disappear.

  But she didn’t disappear. She came forward and stood in the center of my office—the most magnificent mouse that had ever graced the auditorium. Nobody said anything, but she looked at me. And I looked at her. I didn’t have to read Roses to know that she would be exactly right for the part. This girl would have been right for anything. Anything that meant “woman” or “girl” or “female.” She was fantastically feminine.

  “Will you talk to me?” she whispered in an unforgettably husky voice. “I have come a long way for this opportunity. I mean to have it. When I read for you you will see why it is impossible for anyone but me to play the heroine of Roses in the Rain. I was born for the role. Annalee is me. I am Annalee.”

  After Von Arnheim and the events of the day, anything seemed possible or normal, I guess. I smiled at her, trying to take the miracle of her apart slowly, piece by piece. First there was the calendar-girl perfection of her. White skin, a cloud of black hair framing an oval face. And height. It seemed like yards of height, but I settled for five-feet-six without heels. The voice was something out of everybody’s past. The pretty schoolteacher, lovely mother and gorgeous girlfriend. It stirred and kindled the most prosaic words into flaming Keats, Byron and Shelley.