Don't Call Me Madame Page 11

  “What’s it mean, Vinnie Two? A person? A group? An organization?”

  “I don’ know! When I talk Vinnie Two — I talk like it’s a person.”

  “Where’s Goldie Dorn fit into this?”

  “I’m humpin’ this broad, this Dorothy Steel. Hal comes to me with orders from Vinnie Two. This Steel, he tells me, is a part-time hook, works for a madame called Goldie Dorn. This Hal, he ain’t nothin’ — an errand-boy, a pickup-boy, a messenger-boy for the Vinnie Two. Shapes me up on the Goldie Dorn. Vinnie Two wants fifteen hunnert a week off this Goldie Dorn. I do it any way I like, but I gotta produce fifteen hunnert a week off this Goldie Dorn. That’s why I can’t promise you to take the arm off. It ain’t my arm, man. It’s orders from upstairs.” His chin sank down. There was a froth on his lips. “Jesus, I’m begging you. Lemme up.”

  Chambers rose, drunkenly. He stripped away the tapes and let the man up. Barry went away to another room, and Chambers depended on his brains. The guy was a hot pistol but he was a brain. He could come back with a gun and ventilate the private eye — if he didn’t believe the story of the film in the vault. If he did — then his brain would work for his own self-preservation.

  Chambers drank nervously.

  Barry came back without a gun.

  And Chambers drank gratefully.

  How quickly the medicine works! Barry Burnett was revived. The twitches were gone, the eyes were clear, the expression on the countenance as livery as a gypsy dance. He had showered, and no longer stank, and was no longer naked. He was wearing a pair of gray, custom-tailored, doeskin slacks. No cuffs, but pleats.

  “This film in the vault,” he said.

  Barry Burnett was on this side of the Rubicon.

  Barry was an ally. Chambers grinned. And drank.

  “Play along with me, Barry, and that’s where it stays. In the vault. After a while — a good long while — I’ll turn it over to you. And it’ll be the only copy. No duplicate. What in hell would I need a duplicate? Once you prove out — then we’re friends. For a proved friend, you don’t hold a club over the head. I wouldn’t need the film, would I?”

  “Prove out? Jesus, how?”

  “The arm off Goldie,” Chambers said. “And one other thing.”

  “Okay, I’ll try. I can’t promise that it’ll work, but I’ll try.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll pass along the word that she’s playing big ice. I’ll say I got a visit from important fuzz, and was told to lay off.”

  Think it’ll work?”

  Barry shrugged hairy shoulders. “That’ll be up to the Vinnie Two.”

  “That’s the other thing,” Chambers said.

  “What?”

  “A line on Vinnie Two.”

  “You’re pushing me, baby.” Barry was surly again. “Don’ push too hard.”

  “I’m not asking you to go out on a limb, Bar. What I’m asking is that maybe you’ll kind of make some discreet inquiries, maybe work out a hint or two for me. I’ll take it from there.”

  “Why?”

  “If your angle doesn’t work, then I’ll climb over you to the top of the heap. That’s why.”

  “That Goldie must be paying you plenny.”

  “Paying me nothing. She’s a friend, and I like to do favors for friends. Wanna be my friend, Barry?”

  “My angle’ll work. There’s enough money around not to hafta tangle with fuzz. Gimme a couple of days, and I’ll be able to give you the word definite.”

  “Right. I’ll call you Friday.”

  “No, don’ call.” Barry was smiling. The medicine was working. Two medicines were working. A load of H in the bloodstream, and a phantom film in a vault. “The Vinne Two. Wouldn’t put it past, there’s a tap on the wire. Don’ call. Come here Friday. Like four o’clock.”

  “And if you’re not here? I don’t like waiting around in the lobby like a lobby-boy.”

  Barry lumbered away and came back with a key and gave it to Chambers. “If I ain’ here, come right in. Make yourself to home, buy yourself a drink. How’m I doin’ on the friendship bit? How’m I doin’ on the film?”

  “You’re accelerating the return.”

  Barry squinted. “Come again, friend.”

  “You’re cutting down the time period that I’ll be holding it. You’re beginning to prove out. Thanks for the key. I’ll see you Friday at four and give it back to you. G’bye, friend.”

  Downstairs a little wind made the night cool. He walked for a cab, his equilibrium bad. Looked at his watch. Twenty to ten. He had been drinking steadily for three hours. He was loaded like an elephant gun, stoned like a goddamn stucco wall.

  A cab came, and he spilled into it.

  “Nine-oh-five Fifth Avenue,” he said.

  He was bringing good news. Glad tidings for Goldie Dorn. She was off the hook, no question. Protection boys don’t tangle with cops who are taking protection money. Cops are on top in the pecking order. Where the fuzz is on the take, the hoods look elsewhere. Barry’s report to his higher-ups would scrub Goldie from their lists. The one remaining problem would be the phantom film in the vault. No problem there either. He could easily stall Barry for a year or more, a Barry committed to lay off Goldie by his own protective lie to his bosses, and by then he and Barry would be fast friends. Then he’d produce a roll of over-exposed film and they’d both laugh it off, and Barry’s laugh would be better than his because Barry would be clean out from under on a murder rap. Only one thing rankled: Vinnie Two. It was a blow to ego and bad for business that there was something going on in his own town that he didn’t know about, but business was business, and it was necessary business, although none of his business, to find out, however discreetly, who or what was Vinnie Two.

  The cab stopped. “Nine-oh-five,” the driver said.

  Goldie peeped through the peephole, opened the door, and gave him an exuberant welcome and a big fat kiss on the mouth which included a naughty tickle of tongue.

  “Sweetie, lover, do you taste of booze!”

  He made a little bow. “That figures, madame.”

  “Don’t call me madame, mother.”

  She was clad in silver slippers and a silver-sequinned housecoat open all the way down in front, the huge breasts protruding like cannon from a rampart. But you had to hand it to the old bitch, the figure was excellent, the stomach flat, the rough thighs gracefully tapered.

  “What brings you, sweetie?”

  “Barry Burnett.”

  The phone rang.

  “Shit,” she said. “Sit down, lover. Be with you in a minute.”

  He found a chair, sat, and dozed. She went to the phone.

  It was Larry Raymond calling all the way from Las Vegas.

  “Hi, Larry.”

  “How are you, mama?”

  “Fit as a fiddle, luv.”

  “Goldie, I’m coming to New York for the weekend. Friday, Saturday, fly home Sunday. Attending an opening Friday night, and a society party Saturday night. I want a real lady on my arm. Dig?”

  “Diggeroo,” Goldie said and laughed. Was it not to laugh? Larry Raymond owned the Red Robin Hotel in Vegas, and the Red Robin featured a show with fifty nudies hand-picked from all over the world — yet he was calling Goldie. Because Larry was bugged on culture. They had to be beautiful, but they had to be educated. “Got,” Goldie said. “A Wellesley graduate with a master’s in psychology. She don’t figure to go cheap, and she doesn’t Five hundred a night. Two nights, that’ll be a thou, plus whatever you want to add like a gratuity.”

  “She’ll be satisfied, I assure you.”

  “Of course she will, Larry.”

  “What’s she look like?”

  “Red hair, green eyes. Gorgeous. Have I ever failed you, baby?”

  “No. What’s her name?”

  “Belle Knight.”

  “Sure you can get her?”

  “Call you back.”

  “Private number.”

  “Right.”


  She hung up and called Belle Knight. “Free for the weekend, sweetie?”

  “Depends,” said Belle Knight.

  “A gentleman coming in from Vegas. Larry Raymond, owns the Red Robin Hotel. Tall, slim, handsome, white hair. You dig white hair. Like your boss, you know? Friday night — there’s a show opening. Saturday night — some kind of society party. Two nights, that’s a thousand bucks on the line, plus he figures to go big on extra bread because he’s only a millionaire. You free for the weekend, sweetie?”

  “Free as a bird, mama.”

  “Call you tomorrow in the office. Fill you in on details.”

  “Right.”

  “Right.”

  Goldie hung up and called Larry in Vegas.

  “In like Flynn,” she said.

  “I’ll be stopping at the Carlyle. Like to have her for dinner on Friday.”

  “She’ll be there, sir.”

  Thank you, madame.”

  “Don’t call me madame.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Welcome, sir.”

  She hung up. In five minutes she had earned five hundred dollars.

  “Not bad, a hundred dollars a minute,” she said.

  “Beg pardon?” said Chambers and opened his eyes.

  “Fuck’em all,” she said and went from phone to phone and turned them off. “I’m all yours, sweetie.”

  “Barry Burnett.”

  “I’m dying to hear.”

  “I came. I saw. I conquered.”

  “Beautiful,” she said.

  “Forget it forever with Barry Burnett. He’s out of your hair.”

  He stood up, tried a bow, sat down.

  “Stoned,” he groaned.

  She smiled a smile white-capped as churning surf.

  “How’d you work it?”

  “Does Macy tell Gimbel?”

  “Okay, Macy, Don’t tell Gimbel.”

  “What I’m telling — you and your hookers don’t ever again have to worry about Barry.”

  “Don’t call my hookers hookers, sir.”

  “Right you are, madame.”

  “And don’t call me madame.”

  “Jesus,” he said.

  “Celebration,” she said. “Calls for a celebration.”

  “Yes ma am.” He stood up, sat down again quickly.

  “Sweetie,” she said softly, “what you need is sleep.”

  “Mama,” he said, “I’m inclined to agree.”

  She slid out of the housecoat and it fell to the floor. What a figure the woman had! You hardly ever saw them like that, diet being the fashion these days. Not in the flesh, you didn’t see them. You saw them in the museums, on canvas, the glorious models for the Rubens paintings. Tits like watermelons, but shaped like tits. An ass like a hassock, but shaped like an ass. Thighs like tree trunks, but gracefully shaped like thighs. And the belly flat, and the waist slender, and the flesh finn. All woman. Massive like a mastiff, but all of it, all together, a shapely, flowing, firm, beautiful woman.

  She came to him, took him out of the chair, took him to the bedroom, took him to bed. She undressed him and lay down beside him, kissed him.

  “Sleepy?” she said.

  “I’m sleeping,” he said.

  Kissed him. And down, kissed him. And down there, kissing.

  “He’s not sleeping,” she said.

  “I speak for me — not him.”

  “On the house,” she said. “Celebration. From me to you, lover.”

  She was wonderful. Then he slept.

  FIFTEEN

  ON Wednesday evening Tony Starr, high on his happy drug, was a fashion plate of immoderate mod — flared-jacketed Edwardian suit with pencil stripe, sharp shaped shirt with stripes thick as thumbs, and a wild wide flowery tie. All out tonight, nothing conservative, because tonight was a night for innocent fun — no hotel room booked in advance, no slinking in and out of hooker bars. Of course he was carrying his snuffbox, because one does need an occasional lift during a night on the town. But why the knife? His boyish smile in the mirror was somehow crafty as he adjusted the Windsor knot under the stays of the spread collar. Heck, he answered himself, this town can be awfully dangerous at night and it’s good to have an item of protection at hand against the ubiquitous muggers. He smiled again, left the lights burning, locked up, went out and down and took a taxicab to The Strip on the upper East Side where he drank Scotch in the singles bars, dancing with pretty young ladies in Gorgeous George’s, Wednesday’s, Thursday’s, Harlow’s, but it was not until eleven o’clock in the Jolly Horseshoe that he saw what he wanted. She was tall, with short-cut blonde hair. She wore an elegant, clinging, yellow dress that neatly bisected the bulging nates of an admirable ass. She had slender arms, and slender shoulders, and long slender legs, and he was jealous, watching from the bar, as she danced with her date. Then the dance ended, and the guy was not her date. Tall and bald, the guy joined a group of men at a table, and she came to the crowded bar, and he quickly nudged through to her and she saw him and smiled.

  “Where’ve you been?” she said.

  “All over town. Looking for you.”

  “Well said.” The smile broadened. “Very well said indeed.”

  She had a haughty manner, a husky voice, and beautiful speech.

  He said, “What are you drinking?”

  “Were drinking. Martini. But the moment you leave, they snatch it away. I was asked to dance, and it’s been snatched.”

  “Easily remedied,” he said.

  “No,” she said.

  “Pardon.”

  “Let’s be spiteful. Let’s order nothing. For spite.”

  “Well …” He shrugged, laughed.

  She had big brown limpid eyes, elegant eyebrows, a straight nose, smooth sun-tanned skin.

  “I love your suit,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  Boldly she opened his jacket and looked inside at the label.

  “Well, now. A London tailor, no less.”

  He shrugged.

  “In a way we’re even. I had this dress made in Rome. Would you say we’re … foreign-oriented?”

  He shrugged. The big brown eyes were amused.

  “I’m Liz.”

  “Tony,” he said.

  “Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Just first names.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “I say let’s get out of here, Tony. Shall we? Let’s get out of this horrible little place where they snatch away your drinks.”

  “I haven’t had a drink for them to snatch.”

  “Other places, other snatches. Gosh, that sounded obscene, didn’t it?” She laughed. High-pitched, a melodious laugh. Her teeth were very white in the sun-tanned face. “But that’s me. That’s I? I mean I can become quite profane when I’m in my cups — and I’m in my cups.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Haughtily. “Well, don’t you? So good of you. We’ll have a medal struck for tall Tony in his pin-striped London suit.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be condescending.”

  “You’re all right. You are all right! Out? Shall we? I’m all paid here.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  They went out and walked in the New York night. There was a moon. There were stars. She linked her arm through his. She said, “I’m rather stinko. When I’m on martinis, I get stinko. Does it show, Tony?”

  “No.”

  “I am.”

  “Doesn’t show.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Er?” he said.

  “Your trade. Your business. Your profession. Your racket. You know?”

  “I … uh … reporter. I work for the Times.”

  “A reporter for the Times in a custom-tailored London suit? Are you shitting me prettily, Tony? On a first-name basis, incognito? You sure you’re not slumming, looking to pick up an interesting piece of ass”

  “Reporter.” He had said it, he w
as stuck with it. “Overseas with the London office. Only got back recently.”

  “We’ve something in common.”

  “Have we?”

  “I write too. Not like you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Creative-type writing.”

  “Oh.”

  “Copy. I’m the world’s marvel. A half-ass genius. Tell you later. Want to go somewhere nice?”

  “Sure.”

  “The Vito. Chez Vito. Ever been there?”

  “No. I’ve been in London.”

  “Rosy and romantic. Violins and opera singers, and right around the corner from where I live. Want to go?”

  “To where you live?” Big joke.

  “To Chez Vito. You’ll love it.”

  “Sure.”

  A cab took them to 36 East 60th, and the maitre d’ took them, the tall, handsome, well-dressed couple, to a secluded lovers’ table. He ordered a Rob Roy and she ordered a dry martini, and then they ordered steaks, and they got their steaks juicy and succulent, and got string music juicy and succulent, and operatic voices, male and female, juicy and succulent, and then they settled down to serious drinking, he with Scotch and she with martinis.

  “I’m a career girl,” she told him. “I’m twenty-seven years old. You?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “I’m with an advertising agency, and I’m real big, a hilarious success. The reason I’m being secretive is I’m engaged to be married, first time in my life. To a Wall Street lawyer, very rich, best of family, a pompous prick, but a lovely guy. We’re getting married next month, June eleventh. He’s been away for a couple of weeks, to Paris on business, and tonight alone in my apartment I was beginning to be a bit sorry for myself. Goodbye to status as bachelor-girl, you know? Goodbye to reckless abandon and come what may, you know? I was also getting a little hot in the cunt. See what I mean about obscenity when I’m in my cups?”

  “Um,” he said.

  “Where you from?”

  “Er?” he said.

  “Born?” Jersey.

  “I’m from Michigan. Aristocrat from the best of people, top of the heap. Came to New York to conquer New York, and, ridiculously, I conquered. Talent, you know? Seems I’m a fucking bottomless well of seething talent. So. As I was saying. Sorry for myself and hot in the biscuit and my fiancé doesn’t return to the fold till Friday. Restless in the apartment, sucking martinis, so I went out to see what cooks. Bit of a fling, sort of last fling, you know? Moved around in the stupid bars and met dull people and then you came and you’re dull too, but at least you’re pretty. You are dull, aren’t you, Tony?”