Don't Call Me Madame Page 10
“I’m depending on you, Peter.”
“Depend, Mr. Starr.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“Don’t mention it.” (For sixteen thou, I’ll come whenever you want.)
Starr took him to the door.
“You’ll keep in touch.”
“Yes, sir.”
Three locks snapped open.
Three locks snapped closed.
Chambers went home.
THIRTEEN
MONDAY’S papers had the story. The Times, of course, was conservative, with a dainty caption in thin print on the sixteenth page: Model Slain in Motel. But there was nothing dainty about The News: the entire front page was emblazoned in big thick black letters: MANIAC AT LARGE. And the lead editorial in The News had to do with the story. Hyperbole, of course. It warned that the police must mass their forces and quickly capture this killer or the city would be running in rivers of blood.
Tony Starr in his cool apartment read the newspapers with mixed emotions. As usual in these matters, his reaction was schizoid, divided, dichotomous. One part of him condemned the killer and deeply sympathized with the victim, but the other part of him deeply sympathized with the killer because he knew the killer was himself a victim of tortuous, inexplicable, undesired but irresistible compulsion. But he was shrewd. That part of him was shrewd, careful, protective, or else long ago he would have entrapped himself into the snare of the forces of law and order.
Lie low, he thought. Hold back, he thought. But how could he? When the moment came, when the need came, he was beyond control. But he would have to vary the pattern. These two had happened too quickly together, the city was aroused, the police on their mettle. Investigation into the background of the victims would disclose they were denizens of hooker bars. Therefore — no more hooker bars. When and if the obsession overcame him — no more hooker bars.
Satisfied, he laid away the papers.
He made a pot of coffee. He did not touch the white stuff.
And on Monday afternoon Peter Chambers began his operation for free on behalf of Goldie Dorn. His operation for pay was in the capable hands of Felix Budd (although so far he was doing the paying: two-fifty a week to keep Budd in bud). But until Budd got trace of Tony Starr, Chambers was free for the free-of-fee for Goldie.
The operation was simple: a tail-job on the playwright. Monk Montague peddled the stuff and Barry Burnett was a buyer. And starting today, Barry figured to be back in town, and it was nighttime work, starting at five, so Chambers could daytime attend to office duties.
Nighttime work. The playwright pounded away at his plays during the day and pounded at peddling junk to his expensive customers during the night, and Barry Burnett was, of course, strictly a nighttime bird.
Operation Simple.
Stay along with Mark, and he’ll lead you to Barry.
And so at five o’clock this Monday afternoon Chambers parked his black, battered, inconspicuous Volvo near Mark Montague’s gaudy Caddy, and base of operations became the Volvo and also a window seat in a quiet neighborhood pub called Cafe Veda which was across the street from the Montague apartment at 440 East 77th, and at eight o’clock Mark Montague came out and Chambers stayed on his tail — no Barry Burnett — but by one o’clock, he became aware that he was being tailed.
So he did the switch, pulled out, turned the action around and tailed the tailer, and then realized that the tailer had not been tailing him, but, like him, was tailing Mark Montague, and so, by tailing the tailer, he was still working on his job for free for Goldie. It was a pleasant ring-around-the-rosy, but it did not develop a Barry Burnett.
Mark Montague went home at three o’clock and his tailor went into Cafe Veda for a bit of libation and Chambers joined him.
“Hi, Bobby.”
“Peter! Peter Chambers! What the hell you doing here!”
“Same as you, I think. What are you drinking, Bobby! I’m buying.”
“Oh, these eyes, these rich private eyes, always buying. Double Scotch on the rocks.”
“Two double Scotch on the rocks,” Chambers said to the bartender who served and discreetly went away.
Bobby was Robert P. Miller, Lieutenant Miller of the Narcotics Squad. “Same as me?” he said.
They clinked glasses and drank.
“Only I’m on the guy’s ass,” Chambers said, “because I think he can lead me to another guy.”
“What guy?”
“Which guy do you mean? The first guy or the second guy?”
Miller didn’t give. “Any guy.” He smiled.
He was lanky and skinny. He had sandy hair and a pointy nose and eyes like a fox.
“Remember me, Bobby”
“I remember you.” The foxlike eyes stayed wary.
“Remember who went to bat for you? Pulled strings? Got you up on the list, over the stiffs who didn’t have strings, when you made lieutenant?”
“I remember you, Pete.”
“Mark Montague,” Chambers said.
The foxlike eyes relaxed. “How are you, Pete?”
“I’m just fine, pal.”
“What the hell you doing here?”
“I was tailing you tailing Mark. I got no interest in your mark. My interest is a guy the mark can lead me to. What’s your interest, Bobby?”
“This bird’s a real-deal fucker, man.”
“I know.”
“Grew up quick. A biggie on the junk scene these days. Wheels and deals in the hundreds of thousands.”
“I figured.”
“But we got him good. Did a long job on him, but got him good. Got figures, got statistics, got evidence that can’t be budged, got a confidential-squad man working on the inside with him, we even got customers of his who’ll testify because we’ll give them immunity. We got this little wiseacre fucker wrapped up in a sealed package. When we hit him, he goes away for five years. Even with the best lawyer, even on a guilty plea — he goes away for a minimum of two.”
“When are you making the hit’?”
The foxlike eves were foxy again. “Why?”
“There’s a girl …”
“Sandi Barton.”
“Cops know everything.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m interested in this Barton …”
“So would I be if I wasn’t a faithful married man.”
“She’s clean, Bobby.”
“That’s correct, Pete.”
“An actress putting out for a playwright, you know?”
“Correct, Pete.”
“When you making the hit?”
“Why?”
“I’d like to be a part of the raiding party.”
“Why?”
“In case the chick is up there, I’d like to — off the record — get her out before you guys hit.”
“Sir Lancelot, b’gorra.”
“Fuck you, Lieutenant.”
“Wants to make time with the damsel in distress.”
“Blame me?”
The foxlike eyes grinned benevolently. “We’ll know if she’s up there.”
“Me — I want to know!”
“We hit five o’clock this Saturday. He never comes out on the junk business before six.” (So now Peter Chambers had an extra hour for office work.) “He’s got a big delivery for Saturday, thirty plump glassine packages for thirty plump-paying customers. It’ll be real nice to catch up with him with all that extra stuff as a haul. My crew meets here, right here, Cafe Veda, at four. Crew. Two of my guys and me.”
“And me?”
“Can I stop you from dropping into Cafe Veda at four o’clock Saturday afternoon?”
“Thanks, Bobby.”
“You once pulled strings, Petie.”
“Can I coax you into another drink?”
“You just coaxed me, Mr. Eye.”
“Two more double Scotches,” Chambers called to the bartender. “On the rocks.”
FOURTEEN
TUESDAY at six o’clock he picked u
p Mark Montague and was off again on the merry chase. Merry because of Bobby Miller. It had become a game with them. He knew Bobby was somewhere behind him tailing him tailing Montague, but Bobby was playing it coy now, using all his vaunted expertise, and Chambers could not get around to tailing Bobby tailing Montague. Of course, Bobby had it easy. Montague was a very visible guy, tall and bearded, and carrying a beautiful shiny-black attache case. Chambers himself was traveling light. No gun for this job. His only added equipment was a thick roll of friction tape.
The game ended early. At six-thirty Mark Montague met Barry Burnett in Washington Square Park and when Mark departed from Barry, Chambers departed from Mark (and Bobby). He became engaged with Barry, and it was a short walk. Barry entered a sparkling-new apartment house at 42 Waverly Place. Chambers gave it a little time. then examined the bell-brackets in the lobby, and there it was, concise and to the point, alongside 12 G: BURNETT. He gave it some more time, smoked a cigarette, then rode up to twelve, and squeezed the button of 12G. The shield moved from the peekaboo slot and the eye within inspected the eye without.
The door opened.
Barry was wearing his pants, period.
No shoes, no socks, no shirt, no undershirt.
“What the hell?” he rasped. A whiskey tenor.
“Hi, Bar,” Chambers said pleasantly.
“What the hell you want?”
“Just to rap a little, Bar.”
“What the hell I got to rap with you?”
“Important. If you invite me in, I’ll tell you.”
A flicker of curiosity — was it a flicker of fear? — showed for a moment in the dark heavily-lashed eyes. “How the hell you know to come here, peeper?”
“I know everything.”
Barry led him through a carpeted vestibule into a gorgeous living room, all walnut, rosewood and ebony, every inch of it showing the skillful hand of an artful decorator. Why not? When you’re the Big Boy in control of prostitution in all of Manhattan, you’re likely earning the kind of cabbage that can bring you the best of everything. You also likely have brains, and Chambers was depending on that.
“Wanna drink?” Barry grumbled. He gestured toward a bar. “Help yourself.”
“No, thanks.”
Barry was big, and running to flesh. Balding up there on top, but the rest of him hairy as a bear. In a way all that hair was like protective coloration: it hid the puncture-marks of the needle that delivered the heroin into the bloodstream.
“Okay, peep. So what’s so important?”
“Well, like this …”
Chambers went near, measured, drew a deep breath, and struck. It was a clean punctilious jolt, with all his weight behind it, straight to the chin. It was a haymaker, and it made hay. Barry went down and out and lay breathing stertoriously on his thick-piled carpet.
First thing, Chambers pulled the pants off the sleeping man. Underneath he was wearing jockey shorts and Chambers pulled off the jockey shorts. When you’re naked you lose your dignity, and loss of dignity loosens the tongue. Chambers had other arrows in his quiver and he intended to use them all.
He dragged Barry to a massive armchair and set him into it. Then he used the friction tape to tie him into it. Then he tested. He had him good. Barry Burnett was firmly affixed. He was as much a part of the armchair as the upholstery.
Now Chambers accepted the invitation to drink.
He opened a bottle of Chivas Regal. He put ice and water into a pitcher. He took the bottle, the pitcher, and a glass to an end table beside a chair facing the immobilized Barry. He lit a cigarette, sat, drank, smoked, and waited. Finally Barry opened his eyes.
“Well, hello there,” Chambers said cheerfully.
“Cocksucker,” replied Barry Burnett.
“Flattery will get you nowhere, chappie.”
“Oh, I’ll get you, cocksucker.”
“I don’t think so,” Chambers said. “Not after you’ve heard me out.”
Barry attempted a wrestle at his bonds and gave up. He could not move, and the armchair containing him did not move.
“Comfortable?” Chambers said.
“Cocksucker,” Barry said.
“Now about Goldie Dorn …”
“Oh, so that’s it.”
“A part of it.”
“You’re gonna be a dead eye, peeper. You’re gonna be dead like a fuckin doornail.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Man, you’re gonna hafta kill me to get away with this.”
“I don’t think I’ll have to kill you, Barry boy. I’ve got you killed already. But if you’ll be nice — nice and cooperative — could be I’ll give you back your life.”
“What the hell you talking about?”
“Dorothy Steel.”
Dark eyes slitted as a grin wreathed the dark face.
“Kid, don’t you ever try to pin that on me.”
“It’s pinned. You knocked her off exactly a week ago. Last Tuesday.”
“Shit, man. Last Tuesday I was outa town. Been outa town like the last ten days. Livin’ it up with a chick of mine in Hartford, Connecticut. She’ll swear it on a stack of Bibles. Shit, man, are you on the bias!”
“Shit, man, I’m not.”
Silence.
Dark eyes blinking.
Chambers smoking, drinking.
“Barry, baby, you put the arm on Goldie Dorn, and Goldie consulted with yours truly. I’ve been around a long time, Barry. I know how to handle this kind of bit, and Goldie’s a friend of mine.” Chambers poured more Chivas Regal and drank. Barry wet his lips. “Dorothy Steel,” Chambers said. “She was your in, she was your contact, and Peter Chambers knows more ropes than you will ever know, big shot. So the minute you put the arm on Goldie, I put the arm on you. I rigged Dorothy Steel’s apartment with infra-red cameras that were going day and night. Last Tuesday you called Goldie for a conference in Dorothy Steel’s pad. I went along with Goldie, figuring I’d talk to you and talk you out of it. We found Dorothy like you left her for us to find her — ”
Desperately: “I got an alibi witness. She’ll swear on a stack of Bibles.”
“Barry baby, you’re no dope. Forget it with the chick with your shack of bibles. Lover boy, I’ve got a strip of film in my vault that can put you away for the rest of your life.”
“Jesus!”
Silence.
Barry blinking.
Chambers drinking.
Then: “Are we in business, Barry?”
“If I say okay, I get the film?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“It protects my life, baby.”
“Then how the hell do we do business?”
“You’re going to have to depend on me. Dorothy Steel is dead, she’s out of it, she’s through. Putting you away for the rest of your life won’t bring her back. I’m no avenging angel, I’m a guy working a job for Goldie Dorn, a lady I like. You take the arm off her and my film stays in the vault. Maybe, if all goes well for a few years, I get rid of it. You’ll be on my side. You’ll appreciate. What in hell would I want with the film? But if I get dead suddenly, before you learn to appreciate me, then my lawyers open the vault and somebody screens that film and you wind up with your ass in the pokey for the rest of your life. There’s no statute of limitations for murder. So how we doing, Bar? You with me? Is the arm off Goldie?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not the boss.”
This was out of the blue, fresh, brand-new.
“Not the boss?” Chambers frowned. “Who’s the boss?”
Silence.
Time passed. A lot of time passed.
The guy was beginning to fly distress signals. He was sweating, twitching, involuntarily nodding. His lips were dry, he was swallowing air. He was beginning to need his medicine, which was part of the plan of procedure: that was why he was taped to the armchair. Chambers drank. There was nothing else to do. The level of booze in the bottl
e was steadily depreciating. Time passed. A hell of a lot of time passed. Chambers wanted the time to pass. Part of plan. Weaken the guy. But it was also weakening him. He was getting drunk.
“Boss,” he said.
Silence. The hairy body strained against the tape. The veins of the neck bulged, jaw muscles clamped to tight knots. The eyes were filmy.
“You need a shot, Barry?”
“Jesus, bad. Lemme up, man.”
“Not yet.”
“Jesus!”
“Soon.”
“Please!”
“Who’s the boss?”
“Vinnie Two.”
It was a blurt. Barry blanched. He sucked in his lower lip and bit it.
Vinnie Two! Chambers drank. Who in hell was Vinnie Two? In all his career, that name had never cropped up. If it was a name. Was it a name?
“Who’s Vinnie Two?”
“I don’ know. Lemme up. Please!”
“Is it a person? An individual? An organization?”
“I don’ know. I swear to God, I don’ know!”
He wasn’t lying. The poor bastard was in no condition to lie.
“You’ve got to know.”
“I don’t. Jesus Christ, I just tole you. I don’t!”
“You said the boss.”
“Boss.”
“How does it work? You’re supposed to be the boss.”
“I ain’t.”
“Who? How?”
His body was quivering. He lurched against the tapes that bound him. The sweat on his body ran in rivers. Chambers could smell him.
“In my early days I pimped. Had a good stable. I did all right. Made a rep. When you make a rep, the biggies come to you. A biggie came to me.”
“Who?”
“Hal.”
“Hal who?”
“Hal Napoli.”
Hal Napoli was big. One of the biggest. Now he was talking Chambers’s language. “Okay, you’re cooking, Barry. Napoli.”
“Propositioned me. A beauty-deal. Brought me other stables, and I was in charge. All the cunt in the Borough of Manhattan, Barry Burnett is the boss. But I ain’t no boss, baby. I run the bit, but I ain’t no boss. I take my take off the top, which is plenny, and I run the works, but I deliver the cream to Hal, which he ain’t no boss neither. The one boss for cunt in this town — that’s Vinnie Two.”