25
I was getting nowhere with the desk sergeant, who said that they didn't let just anyone walk in off the street and see a perp who was in custody. I told him that I was a private investigator. That got me less than nowhere, and he told me to beat it or I'd be enjoying a nice comfy-cozy cell compliments of the taxpayers. Then I told him to call my good friend Phil Mazurki, who'd vouch for me.
“So why didn't youse say so in da foist place? Any pal of da Polack is all right in my books.” Then he called to another uniform and told him to take me to the visitor's room and haul Mona Tuvachevsky-Smith's skinny ass to see the Polack's friend. I was amazed at Phil's clout. Maybe he should run for mayor.
I didn't have to wait long before Mona arrived. I expected to see her dribbling a basketball, but it would have been hard to do while wearing handcuffs. I guess the guards got sick of her dribbling the ball, or maybe the perps in the nearby cells complained. She had lost some weight and looked uglier than ever, especially wearing her prisoner's drab garb. I wondered not for the first time what Baker saw in her. Oh well, they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and he's the one who's got to hold her.
“You're looking good, Mona.”
“Up yours, DeWitt.”
She had a way with words. The good nuns at the Sisters of Pleurisy Convent School had taught her well.
“Listen, Mona, I know you're not nuts about me, but I need a favor.”
She laughed so hard that my ears ached. A guard came in and asked if there was any trouble. I couldn't hear him at first but told him “no” once my ears cleared.
“Why should I help you, DeWitt? You got me here in the first place.”
“No, Mona, the Black Llama got you here, and you know it. How did a semi-nice convent school gal like you ever get mixed up with a crumb like him?”
She put her head down on the table. I thought she was taking a nap but she soon looked up and glared at me.
“I might as well tell you,” she said. “Why not? I'm getting out of the slammer in a couple of days anyway.”
She proceeded to tell me that she had met him at a basketball game when her team, the Sisters of Pleurisy Shooters, was playing the Daughters of Sister Deirdre Dribblers. The Llama went up to her after the game and informed her that he was a scout from the Inca-Dinka Dunkers of the Pan-American Basketball Association and that he could get her “mucho dineros” for signing with him. She said he was real handsome, too, and that she was impressed that he spoke Spanish with a high-class Castilian lisp. Of course, she admitted, it turned out that he also spoke English with a lisp. He had heard about her from a former convent school classmate of hers, a girl named Gertrude who had a thing for gardenias.
“He told me that he gave this Gertrude some expensive gifts, but what she gave him in return he didn't care to mention in front of ladies. Anyway, DeWitt, that's the way it started, and you pretty much know how it ended. Some time after we'd met, the Llama came up with a scheme to fleece this mug I was dating, a dumb baker who doted on me, filled me with pastries, and promised me the moon. That should have been enough, but I got greedy. I wouldn't settle for the moon and the pastries. I wanted the planets and all of the stars, and that's what the Llama said that we could have. Period. End of story.”
Maybe I had got it wrong. Maybe Mona Tuvachevsky-Smith was just your normal, everyday, six-five basketball-dribbling dame who had gone wrong, had been suckered by a sweet-talking scumbag from south of the border. I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. At least for now.
I told her that she was really a good kid who traveled in bad company and that she could help me catch that bad company by telling me where the Llama and his pals were last residing.
She thought for a minute. “That'll cost you, gumshoe.”
I wanted to reach across the table and smack her with the blackjack I was carrying. That lousy, good-for-nothing tramp. I had had enough. No more Mr. Nice Guy.
“Mona, the way I see it you have two choices. First, I can tell Mr. Baker, who's waiting for you like a pathetic puppy, that you've been screwing a couple of the guards here. Or–and I think I like this one better–I can arrange to have both of your kneecaps remodeled so that you can say so-long to your basketball dreams. Take your time and think it over. You got thirty seconds.”
She spat in my face but gave me the address of the hotel where the Llama had been staying. I got up and left. I didn't bother saying good-bye, but then neither did she. I wouldn't expect a wedding invitation if Mona Sleaza and the baker tied the knot.
I waved farewell to the front desk officer, who told me to give Phil his regards and let him know if something good was coming up. I didn't ask what that might be.
The Hotel Buena Vista had seen better days, better months, and, as I viewed the broken stones and debris that littered its sidewalk and torn canopy, perhaps better years. It looked seedier than an Iowa cornfield at planting time. There wasn't much “buena” about the “vista” either. It fronted a firehouse and was flanked by an empty lot strewn with garbage on one side and a bowling alley on the other. From my analysis, my years as a tec led me to believe that few dignitaries stayed there. The Llama, of course, was not a dignitary, at least not in my book.
I pushed through a revolving door, which revolved with much difficulty. The small lobby complemented the hotel's exterior: shabby and depressing. The few chairs that failed to invite anyone other than moths looked like they had gone out of style with the sinking of the Maine. The hotel clerk looked as though he had been aboard that ship and had been one of the fatalities. He was nearly as pale as snow, one eye drooped sadly, and a scar marked the route from his right ear to his jaw.
“Hey, pal,” I said, “I'm looking for some information.”
He looked at me. “We got rooms here, not information. You want a room?”
I could have busted his chops, but it looked like someone had beaten me to it. I decided to play nice with him.
“Look, pal, if you fork over a little info then I can fork over some simoleons, if you catch my drift.”
His eyes, or at least the one that didn't droop, brightened. “Say no more. What do you want to know?”
“I want to know if two Spanish-looking characters, one fairly tall and good-looking, the other average height with a real thin mustache, registered and are still frequenting this flea-bitten dump.” I peeled off a couple of Washingtons.
“That's not much to go on,” he said, looking contemptuously at the bills. “A lot of Spanish-looking gents frequent this dump, which, by the way, doesn't have fleas, only roaches. There are no pets allowed. This is a one-star hotel, for your information.”
Yeah, and you're going to be seeing stars, I thought, if you don't give with the goods.
“Do you know that Washington's birthday is only a couple of months away? Here are some more pretty pictures of him,” I said, tossing two more bills on the counter. He reached for them, but I whacked his fingers with my trusty blackjack before he could carry the moola to his pocket.
He cried out in pain and asked what I had to go and do that for.
I told him I was trying out for the U.S. Olympics blackjack team and needed to stay in shape. I added that this was my week for vigorous practice. He got the hint but not the latest installment of talk-for-pay.
I pocketed the Washingtons.
“There were these two greasers and a real tall broad who registered for a couple of rooms the week before last. The greasers were pretty quiet, but I had a helluva time with the broad. Other guests kept bitching that she was making too much noise bouncing a basketball, or some daffy thing like that. Since we don't have phones or elevators in this place, I had to take the stairs all the way up to the fifth floor night after night to tell her to cut out the noise. And me with my sciatica! I finally had it and was all set to boot her out, when I discovered that she was gone. Left all her things, too. I guess it was about the same time that those two guys also left, and without their things. They all must have slipped out at n
ight because they never paid their bill. The bastards stiffed me.”
I asked him if their belongings were still in their rooms. He said that the cops had come for them, although how they knew about the two men and the girl he couldn't fathom. Swell, I thought. Another dead end, and time was drawing shorter than my short hairs.
The clerk was tenderly rubbing his hand, which already was swelling and showing signs of discoloration. I felt a little bad that maybe I had overreacted. I reached in my pocket to give him those two bucks I had taken back. Then I thought of the five-thousand-dollar ransom the Llama was demanding. I couldn't see how I was going to raise that kind of money, but I knew there was no way in hell I could raise five thousand and two. I did give the clerk my card, however, and told him that if he ever needed a good gumshoe, just give a holler. He gave out a holler, but I don't think it was because he needed me.
26
Time was running out and so was my patience. The hotel lead had proved as disappointing as most of the broads I'd met since the ex and I had split. And that was pretty disappointing. It was a long way back to the office, but I decided to walk. Maybe that would stir some fresh thoughts. At the least it would save cab fare. I stopped for a quick lunch halfway back and had a liverwurst and mayo on rye, washed down by coffee so bad that even the patrons at Ma's would wince. That didn't bring any fresh thoughts either. My mood was so rotten that I told a Salvation Army Santa what he could do with his lousy bell. When some old busybody told me that I should be ashamed saying that to a Santa, and in public at that, I gave her worse.
The office was lonely without Dotty. I missed all that I had come to associate with her in the several years that she had been in my employ: poor typing, bits of odd clothing strewn about, fingernail and cuticle parings on her desk and the floor, lousy coffee, mindless questions and answers, books that she read but didn't understand. Maybe it wasn't much to miss, but I missed it, and I had to find a way to save her.
Making sure that the office door was locked, I went into the small room in the back and lay down on the couch, the one that from time to time I had unsuccessfully urged Dotty to enjoy with me. Without Dotty to cajole and too tired to think of anything save getting a catnap, I fell into a deep sleep. Then the phone rang in the other room and I fell off the couch. The damn thing kept ringing while I came to, figured out where I was, and managed to answer it.
“DeWitt here,” I said in a sleepy voice.
“And it's Sadie Plotz here. How are you doing, handsome?”
“I've had better days, Sadie. What's up?”
“Besides you?” And she laughed. Sadie was always pretty good at double entenders or whatever the Frenchies call them. “Listen, sweetheart, you know the Spanish gal that works with me at the telephone office? Well, she says that two nights ago she spotted that Llama putz dancing up a storm at the Two for Tango Club over on the west side next to the meat packing district. What do you think? Should the two of us go tiptoeing through the tulips tonight and look for the lousy lowlife?”
Sadie didn't know about Dotty, and I didn't want her involved. This was something I had to handle myself, or maybe with Phil as backup. I told Sadie that I couldn't trip the light fantastic until I went to my chiropodist to have an ingrown toenail removed. I thanked her for the tip, however, and promised that I would look into it. She sounded disappointed but said she'd take a raincheck and give me private dance lessons at her apartment as soon as my ingrown toenail and I felt the urge.
I checked my watch. It was 4:10. I called Phil. No answer. I locked up, walked home, poured a Jack Daniel's, called Phil again. No answer. DeWitt, I told myself, you're on your own tonight. I had another shot of my friend Jack Daniel's—a short one this time—checked that my .38 was loaded for bear, and left. Once outside I felt a few snowflakes hit me. I went back upstairs and put on my galoshes. Who knew how much of the white stuff would be falling?
A Yellow Cab got me to Two for Tango. It was a nondescript place outside, save for a cardboard mannequin of a Valentino-looking character ogling his partner. I offered the hat check girl my coat, hat, and galoshes, and gave her a friendly shake when she extended her hand. The room was large, with a bar and a number of tables grouped around a medium-sized dance floor. Pretty good crowd for this time of evening, which said something for the place, although I don't know what. Some guy in a penguin suit asked me if I would like a table and held out his hand. This is a real friendly place, I thought, so I shook his hand, too, and headed for an unoccupied table across the way. He apparently thought I should wait for him to seat me, but I was tired and refused. When he insisted, I stepped hard on his foot, pulled at his bow tie, and told him that I'd turn his penguin suit into rags if he persisted. He got the message, and I got the table across the way.
I looked around. No sign of the Llama or Mr. Dough. A good-looking gal came up to me and asked if I'd like to buy her a drink. I said no. She wasn't that good looking. I kept trying to get the attention of various waiters so I could wet my whistle, but they seemed to be avoiding me. I wondered if Mr. Penguin Suit had anything to with that.
The small band struck up “Hey, Rio.” I was singing this catchy ditty, much to the annoyance of the couple seated next to me, when I spotted the Llama heading for the dance floor with some dame in hand. I jumped up, knocking over my table as well as the adjoining one in the process. The mug at the table shouted something not nice, so I took the time to cuff him a good one before I made a dash for the Llama.
The Llama must have heard the noise because he looked my way. His expression showed surprise. Then he flashed a mean smile full of glistening teeth, kissed his partner's hand, and rushed away. Not so fast, you punk from the Pampas, I thought. I've got you now. I kept pushing and shoving at the dancers as I pursued my quarry. He had a head start, but I was determined to catch him. By this time the place was pandemonium, and I could hear people screaming to call the cops. Mr. Penguin Suit tried to stop me and received a knee in the groin for his trouble. I gained some ground on the Llama and was finally able to reach for him. And then the lights went out.
They didn't come on again for a few hours, and when they did, I could see Sadie Plotz and a nurse standing over me. I wanted to go back to dreamland. My head throbbed and I couldn't blame the Jack Daniel's.
Sadie and the nurse were saying something to me that I couldn't understand. Finally the shifting pieces of the kaleidoscope more or less settled into place.
“Where am I?”
“Now just lie back and be still, Mr. DeWitt. You're here in St. Hieronymous the Healer Hospital. You have a nasty cut on your head and maybe a mild concussion, but Dr. Grosshandler says you're going to be fine.”
Maybe, maybe not. I looked at Sadie, who was hovering over me, and asked what she was doing there.
“I was the one who called the ambulance and brought you here, Dick. Don't you remember?”
Of course I didn't remember. I asked her how and where she found me, and she said at the Two for Tango. Sadie looked rather sheepish—unusual for someone whose features always seemed lupine to me—and related how she had just arrived at the place when she spotted me pursuing the Llama. She grabbed an empty bottle that was sitting on a table, chased after us, and bashed the Llama over his head with her weapon. Trouble was that it was my head she bashed by mistake. “If only you had listened to me and we had gone together this never would have happened,” she said.
Right, I thought. And if I hadn't been fooling around with you a few years ago this wouldn't have happened either. But I was too weak and too much the gentleman to rehash our history.
As my head increasingly cleared, my thoughts focused on saving Dotty from the clutches of the evil Black Llama. I said that I had to get out of the hospital and back to my place. The nurse and Sadie both tried to dissuade me, but I was insistent. I asked the nurse to call me a cab and refused Sadie's offer to accompany me home, where, she promised, she would make some chicken soup. I said I'd be happy to sample it on another occasion. Sh
e asked when and I told her soon. There went another lie.
The cab arrived in a quarter of an hour, and my two benefactors gingerly helped me inside. It was smaller and smellier than the usual ones, and when the cabbie asked “Where to?” I was tempted to say “Another cab.” But I didn't. We reached my address, I paid him and went upstairs. Slowly, very slowly. It was 3:30 in the morning. What a day and what a night. At least it was over, and nothing more could go wrong. It was then that I noticed I was missing my coat, hat, and galoshes.
27
A gnat was buzzing near my ear. I tried shooing it away. I tried harder but without success. Then I realized that it was the phone ringing. It was Phil.
“Hey, Dickie, where the hell have you been? I tried calling you a couple of times late last night. Did you get lucky?” he chortled.
Yeah, I sure got lucky. I told him what had transpired and reminded him that the kidnappers would be calling. Not to worry, he said. He had the money and we would be prepared for them.
“You have the money?” I was incredulous. I might as well have heard that my ex-brother-in-law had picked up the tab at a restaurant. “Where did you get it?”
“Don't ask so many questions, buddy boy. I'll only say that it's not mine and it's not real. Okay?”
“Sure it's okay,” I managed to stammer, “but what's all this about being prepared for them?”
The Polack let out a long sigh. “First you get the call from them telling you where the drop is. But make sure they let you speak with your secretary so you know she's still alive.” I gave an involuntary shudder at the thought that she might not be, knowing that this was a distinct possibility. Nobody in his right mind took a kidnapper at his word. “Once we know where the drop is, we move in.”
“Who is the 'we,' Phil?”
Another long sigh. “You'll bring the money and I'll watch your back. I'll bring along a few friends, too.”
This all sounded too easy and too good to be true, but it was the only hope, frayed though it was, to which I could cling. Phil asked where I'd be for the rest of the day if he needed to get in touch, and I said that I'd stay home rather than go to the office. Get some rest for tomorrow, he urged.
The Black Llama Caper Page 12