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  Kiki Kalmer was attired in tight-clinging white lastex toreador pants and white high-spiked shoes and was attired in nothing else. Her firm, enormous, pink-nippled breasts seemed to quiver with far more, if involuntary, inquisitiveness than her green shockproof eyes.

  “You?” she said.

  “Were you expecting someone else?”

  “As a matter of fact I was. But come in, come in; just don’t stand there glaring.”

  I came in but I did not stop glaring.

  “What is it with you? Haven’t you ever seen a broad without a bra?”

  “Yes, but let’s say not quite so casually.”

  But there was a lot that wasn’t casual in Kiki Kalmer.

  Somewhere along the line, Kiki had met a murderer. A person or persons unknown, who would kill again with no hesitation unless Peter Chambers could get to the heart of the mystery first.

  And if he didn’t make it he would be forced to solve the DEATH OF A HOOKER! With his own death slated close after!

  Death of a Hooker

  HENRY KANE

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Death of a Flack

  Also Available

  Copyright

  ONE

  A hooker is many different things to many different people in many different places. In Holland, a hooker is a frigate, two-masted. In Ireland, a hooker is a fishing smack, one-masted. In England, a hooker is the individual who hooks the hoisting chain to the bucket in a coal mine. In the United States, a hooker is a prostitute.

  A prostitute is a female who practices the world’s second oldest profession. (Quick now!—what is the world’s oldest profession?) In Broadway plays, a prostitute is respectful, reliable, insouciant, winsome, empathetic, and semi-respectable. In the fat-bellied books of old (Dostoyevsky) and the fat-bellied books of new (O’Hara), a prostitute is a soulful and sympathetic creature of circumstance with caustic wit, brackish humor, and heart of gold. In my book, a professional prostitute is a vicious harpy, without moral or scruple, closely akin to a psychopath.

  If my opinion strikes you as being particularly harsh, I agree; but permit me to add that in my business, perforce, I have met more prostitutes than you have in your business, perforce, unless you are a pimp. Again, please understand, I am passing an opinion—I am not passing judgment; I am making a flat statement of opinion and a rather unpopular statement in this era of the willful coddling of the wicked. A hooker is not good, is not sweet, is not kind, is not trustworthy, is not true-blue, and she does not have a heart of gold. She has a heart in the mold of a cash register, and any gold involved is any gold she can grasp. Inquire, if you please. Ask of those who must deal with them. Ask a policeman. Ask a social worker. Ask a welfare investigator. Ask a probation officer. Do not ask a psychiatrist because a psychiatrist by profession bleeds for all humanity (except his relatives), has compassion for all youngsters (except his children), and understands the transgressions of all women (except his wife’s). I am attempting to set the scales straight. I am attempting to subtract some of the glamour that has been wrapped around our strumpets by naive playwrights and fat-bellied novelists. A woman must be of a certain stripe—bad—to be able to enter into the most intimate of physical relations with a constant succession of men, each a paying customer. I am not talking about the chick who needs loot and flips for a guy with money. I am not talking about the casual gal who accepts cab fare from her boy friend (though where the devil can she live when the “cab fare” has a spread of anywhere from twenty to fifty dollars)? I am not talking about the demure little flower who shyly accepts gifts (ranging from clothes and confections to cars and cottages) from her benificent, elderly, and slightly-impotent heart-of-hearts. Nor am I talking about the rapacious, tempestuous mistress to a single (though married) man. Nor even about the haughty lady who weds the man of great wealth for whom she does not give one whit and takes unto herself a lover or two, or three or four, or five or six, and fits them in among her other activities such as churchgoing, antique-buying, poetry seminars, and PTA meetings.

  I am talking about the professional prostitute whom, as a class, and despite the trumpetings of the couch-washed playwrights and analysis-drenched novelists, I would not trust as far as I could throw a ton of wet cement. So how did it come about—you have the right to ask—that I lent $6,000, cold cash, without chit or collateral, to a hooker named Beverly Crystal whom I knew to be all whore?

  You have a right to ask, which gives me the opportunity to answer.

  Bend an ear, fellow human. In a sense, we all suffer together.

  It was eleven o’clock of a sunsplashed Tuesday of a warm September in my office in the City of New York. I was engaged in preliminary conversation with a client of long standing. My client was 46 years of age. My client had red hair, white skin, a good figure, and cold grey eyes. By dint of diet, exercise, cosmetics, and the best of beauty salons (she could afford the best), my client made a stern attempt to look younger than her 46 years of age, and she just about succeeded. She looked like a well-kept, well-coiffed, well-boffed forty-five. Her name was Mrs. Astrid Kalmar Lund, but the Mrs. was somewhat of an honorary title because her husband, Leopold Lund, was dead for the past twenty years and she had never remarried. I had met her, years ago, through her brother, Olaf Kalmar, whom I respected and admired. She lived with her mother-in-law, Mrs. Barbara Lund, whom I also respected and admired. Mrs. Barbara Lund, now a childless widow, was very old and very ill with an inoperable malignancy, but she staunchly disregarded age and illness; she was ambulatory, active, ever-smiling, busy, and fighting all the way. Mrs. Barbara Lund was extremely wealthy, a millionairess many times over, which did no harm to the only living relative left to her, albeit a relative by marriage, her daughter-in-law Astrid, and which perhaps explains why the said daughter-in-law never remarried. However, although I admired and respected Mr. Olaf Kalmar, and I admired and respected Mrs. Barbara Lund, it does not necessarily follow, of course, that I admired and respected Mrs. Astrid Kalmar Lund. As a matter of fact, I did not. Astrid Kalmar Lund was a client and, since she lived for kicks and dwelt along the edges of forbidden excitement, she constantly fell into scrapes, which made her frequent fodder for the private richard, and I was her choice in that category.

  We had talked about the weather, we had made desultory inquiries about the respective states of our health, we had exchanged some titillating tidbits of gossip, and she was just about girding for the recital of whatever her emergency, when the telephone rang. Since I had made no request of my secretary not to be disturbed, I was angry at no one but myself. I said “Excuse me” to my client and “Hello” to the telephone.

  “Beverly here,” said the voice.

  “Who?” I said.

  “Is this Mr. Chambers?”

  “This is Mr. Chambers.”

  “Peter Chambers?”

  “Peter Chambers.”

  “Don’t sound so cranky. I just wanted to be sure.”

  “Beverly who?” I said.

  “Beverly Crystal.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  Beverly Crystal was a prostitute. Prostitutes are peopl
e. There are gradations in people. Beverly Crystal was Grade A. I am not referring to her skill of performance. I would not know. I am constitutionally incapable of engaging in love by purchase. Beverly Crystal was a call girl. Her minimum price was one hundred dollars per engagement. She would not venture out for less, even if it meant shoplifting for a living, and that made her Grade A. She was a beautiful girl. She was probably bright. She was hip, wise, sophisticated. She had a veneer of culture, she had poise, she knew how to dress, and her customers were of the highest calibre. At a minimum of a hundred bucks a throw, her customers, naturally, figured to be. Beverly Crystal was a client of mine: a private detective does not screen his clients in matters of moral turpitude (or he would be out of business). The sex, color, creed, politics, religion, profession, or ethics of his clients are no concern of his; only his own ethics do, or should concern him.

  “So?” I said into the telephone.

  “I want to see you,” said Beverly Crystal.

  “For how much?”

  “Oh, now, you’re always talking money.”

  “Aren’t you?” I said.

  “Ha, ha. Funny fella. It’s a favor, Peter. Please.”

  “I have a client now, Miss Crystal.”

  “Oh, it’s with the Miss Crystal, is it? Fancy client?”

  “No more fancy than you.”

  “That’s fancy.”

  “Okay. Fancy.”

  “Look,” she said. “Please. I want to talk to you. You’ll be doing me a real favor. I’ve done favors for you, haven’t I?”

  “Like what?”

  “Entertained friends of yours from out of town. Recommended clients. Plenty of favors.”

  “Oh. I thought you meant personal.”

  “Personal, you can have it any time you ask, man. For you, it’s for free.”

  “Thanks. I pass.”

  “Look. I’m home. Will you come over?”

  “When?”

  “The sooner the better. As soon as you’re finished with your fancy client. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. I hung up. I lit a cigarette. I sighed and said to my client, “So?”

  “Where were we?” said Astrid Lund.

  “Nowhere. Just talking around.”

  She opened her bag and took a cigarette from a silver case. I made no move to light it for her. She lit it herself and blew smoke at my face. “You don’t approve of me,” she said. “Do you?”

  “Neither approve nor disapprove.”

  “You think I live too high, spend too much, burn the candle at too many goddamn ends, don’t you?”

  “Maybe I do, and if I do, it’s none of my business, is it; so why are you bugging me, Astrid?”

  “I hate the way you look at me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Maybe I deserve it.” She shrugged. She sucked on her cigarette and blew smoke at my face again. “What do you expect? I’m an unhappy bitch. I live with that old lady like a paid companion—limited to an allowance.”

  “Limited?” I said. “Like at three thousand bucks a month—I’d like to be limited.”

  “Three thousand bucks a month—hell. People in my station of life find it hard to get along at three thousand dollars a week.”

  “Ah, come on.”

  “I was a beautiful young girl who married a very rich young man—only I didn’t know that he didn’t have a sou; that he lived with, and on, his sickeningly rich mother. He died, and he left me nothing, because he had nothing to leave. And I moved in with that old bitch, and I’ve lived with her since—like a glorified paid companion.”

  I stubbed out my cigarette. “She has a paid companion—her personal maid. She also has a cook, a butler, and a chauffeur. You’re her daughter-in-law, she has a great regard for you—she seems to love you dearly—and you’re far from a paid companion because you’re hardly ever home. So what’s the beef?”

  “She won’t die,” she said bitterly. “That’s the beef. She’s seventy-eight, if she’s a day—and she won’t die.”

  “She’s a sick woman,” I said. “She’s dying.”

  “How long can I wait?” She broke her cigarette in an ashtray. “Twenty years I’m waiting, like a vulture, like a scavenger. Growing old, getting old, I’m waiting, waiting. Two years ago the doctors told me she wouldn’t last six months. But she’s still around, stronger than I am, strong as a horse. She’s still around, isn’t she?” But she took her eyes from mine. She looked away, as though in shame.

  I said, “Why are you here, Astrid?”

  The cold grey eyes returned to mine. There was no shame in the eyes. There was fury. “Bored with my chitchat, aren’t you? Bored with my complaints, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You don’t like me, do you?”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “But you take my money.”

  “That’s business,” I said.

  “And you’ve attended my parties, haven’t you?”

  “Maybe I like your guests.”

  “You can go and drop dead.”

  “Is that all?” I said. I stood up and came around my desk. I went to the window and looked out. “You just want to get rid of some venom? Is that it?”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “Well, come to the point, please. Or get the hell out of here.”

  That was the kind of treatment she liked. I turned to face her. She was smiling now, savagely.

  “You’re scum,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “But you’re efficient.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Let’s get to the point.”

  She opened her bag again, and placed two hundred dollars on my desk. “Remember I was in Vegas during May and June?”

  “So?”

  “I went for a bundle.”

  “Naturally.”

  “But a big bundle. Tremendous.”

  “Oh?” I came back to my desk and sat down.

  “I was Mrs. Astrid Kalmar Lund. They took my markers. But then when I wanted to go home—they wouldn’t let me.”

  “How much?” I said.

  “A lot.”

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred thousand.”

  My lips formed in a whistle but no sound came because my breath was intake rather than outgo. “But you came home,” I said.

  “I called Mickey. He bailed me out.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t buy. Sorry. Not Mickey. Mickey can’t handle two hundred thousand.” Mickey was her sweetheart. Mickey was ten years younger than she. Mickey was Mickey Bokino, front man in one of the offices of Gotham Loan Association, (one of many throughout the city) located at 500 Fifth Avenue. Gotham Loan Association was in the business of check cashing, making small legitimate loans, and large illegitimate loans. The power behind the wicker of the Gotham Loan enterprises was Vincent (Vinnie) Veneto, a distinguished don of the Mafia from way back. But not Mickey. Mickey was no power. Mickey was an employee earning an extraordinary salary, but nonetheless a lackey; well-dressed, perfumed, pomaded, and silk-shirted, Mickey Bokino swaggered about with an air of bravado, but Mickey, actually, was a small-time hood affixed to a rather big-time job, a loan shark with stature, but his stature evolved from Vinnie Veneto, and to such as the quiet, polite, dangerous Vinnie Veneto the likes of the showy, boisterous Mickey Bokino compare as the parasitic louse to a full head of hair. Mickey Bokino was tall, dark, strong, handsome, and a junkie in full control of his habit (that is, he could afford the luxury). I suspected that dear Astrid Kalmar Lund was also a full-blown junkie but I could not state for certain because no one had ever told me and I had never asked.

  “Mickey helped to bail me out,” said Astrid Lund.

  “Like how?” I said.

  “He communicated with Veneto. Veneto said okay. Mickey flew out with the loot, I paid off, and we came home together.”

  “For how much?” I said.

  “It’s costing me two thousand a month.
I signed legitimate notes, of course, to Gotham Loan.”

  “So what’s your problem?” I said.

  “You’re a friend of Veneto’s,” she said.

  “Let’s be precise,” I said. “Acquaintance. I choose my friends.”

  “He thinks you’re a terrific guy.”

  “He’s entitled to his opinion.” I was beginning to get impatient. “Now what’s your problem? And what’s with the large stipend of two hundred dollars on my desk?”

  “I want an extension,” she said.

  “What do you mean by extension?” I said.

  “Extension of time. I started paying my interest—for want of a better word—on July first. I missed my payment on August first. And now I can’t make this payment either, the September payment. I want an extension of time.”

  “For how long?”

  “A month. Two months. Then I’ll return the entire principal.”

  “Honey, these babies are not as much interested in the principal as they are in the interest.”

  “If he gives me two months—I’ll return the principal with six month’s interest. Tell him that.”

  “Why me?” I said.

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “You want a favor from Veneto—why don’t you have Mickey ask him? Why me?”

  “First, because I’ve heard you carry weight with him. And second, I prefer that he doesn’t know that there’s anything personal between Mickey and me.”

  “And when do you want me to do this?”

  “Today. Now. As quickly as possible. That two hundred bucks is your retaining fee. If you swing it, there’s three hundred more for you.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. I want you to report to me at eleven o’clock at home.”

  “Which home?” I said. She lived with her mother-in-law in a penthouse at 700 Park Avenue, but she had a lavish four-room hideaway in a walkup without a doorman at 12 East 72nd to which no one else had a key but Mickey Bokino.

  Icily she said, “I have only one home. The apartment—that’s for laughs.”

  “But real yaks,” I said. “Belly laughs.”

  She stood up. “Eleven o’clock, then?”