Death of a Flack Page 3

  We arrived at our seats before the others returned, and when they did I had to stand to let some of them through. When Sophia Patri passed in front of me I pressed forward and touched my hands to her hips, lightly. Heat and the resilient softness of firm flesh came through. I was not surprised that she was wearing nothing beneath the topless black sheath gown. Anything, even panties, would have spoiled the classic lines, and, brother, the lines of Sophia Patri were classic (and classy). She went by me and then she too had to stand to permit Clayton to go through. As he passed me I pressed back but my hands touched him as they had touched Sophia, albeit without the same purpose or pleasure. My touch to Sophia brought no surprise: my touch to Jefferson Clayton did.

  The guy was wearing a gun.

  THREE

  The party was in Sherry Greco’s upstairs apartment, mostly in her massive living-room which had a smooth marble floor which was excellent for dancing. There were buffet snacks in one corner, a four-piece band in another, a bar with a bartender in another, and at least sixty people thrashing about in party pleasure. The lights were as dim as Clayton’s chances with Lori and the smoke hung heavy in the room, some of it with the scent of marijuana. A sampling of Sherry’s belly-dancers from downstairs doubled upstairs to glittering-eyed approval and vociferous applause. Everybody nipped, especially Jefferson Clayton, and once he tangled with Henry Martell and had to be dragged off by Sherry and Cobb Gilmore. Battlers and peacemakers went off to another room, a pink-lighted bedroom, and there, as I peeked, they deployed into two groups: Cobb Gilmore sat down with Henry Martell, talking quietly, and Sherry, Lori, and Clayton stood up, talking excitedly. All the members of my party being engaged except myself and one other, I went off looking for that other. I found her at the bar, sipping sherry, and parrying four panting young men. I clawed my way through and said, “May I buy you a drink?”

  “It is about time,” she said. She had a voice, a combination of whisper and sigh, that had an effect like adrenalin.

  “Time I bought you a drink?” I said.

  “Time,” she said softly, “that you came to me.”

  Her faint accent was Italian or Yugoslavian or Egyptian or Spanish or a conglomeration of all. She put her sherry down upon the bar and we fought our way out of the phalanx of panting young men. The music was rhythmic and schmaltzy, a French tune, and immediately we were dancing. The floor was crowded, for which I was thankful. An un-crowded floor and we would have been as much of an exhibition as the belly dancers: ours was a belly dance in tandem. She clung to me, the soft warm pliant curves of her body impressed upon me, and I clung to her, happily though defensively. The faint wriggle of her pelvic region had my knees trembling: the sweet smell of sherry from her lips comingling with the sweet-musk odor of her body was an invitation to vertigo. Then her hot cheek was against my hot cheek, her lips at my ear, mine at hers. “Do you understand it of love?” she said in that whisper-sigh voice that caused me to hold on more tightly, which caused a slightly increased movement in her subtle below-decks gyrations, which caused me to hold on still more tightly. Ah, the strange stolen pleasure of fully clothed, vertical fornication. “Do you understand it of love?” she repeated.

  “Well, natch,” I replied flip as a lid.

  “There can be of love between strangers, completely strangers. You know?”

  “I’ve heard,” I said, fighting all the way.

  “I do not speak of love, like love for marriage, like love in America.”

  “Love in Europe is different?”

  “Please do not make fun.”

  “Honey, something is sticking me,” I said.

  “Where?” she said, and she giggled.

  “Please do not make fun,” I said. “In my spine.”

  It was her little, beaded evening bag. We broke for a moment, she opened and closed the bag, and then we were dancing again, but a cold object was being pressed into my left palm. “You will come to me?” she said.

  “Where?”

  “Sixty-one East 65. Apartment 2B. The key opens downstairs and upstairs.”

  “How will you get in?”

  “Mr. Gilmore takes me home. He has it a key. I shall tell him my key was left inside.”

  “And I’m to join this charming twosome?”

  “Not at all. Not ever. He will go to home.”

  “I’ve got a date for one o’clock.”

  For the first time, her body moved from mine. “With a woman?”

  “With a man.”

  Her body was back. “There is all night,” she said. “When it is with love, there are no hours.”

  “Love,” I said.

  “Yes. It happens sometimes, of a sudden, even without speaking. It goes with certain of people, flows with people. You do not feel it?”

  “I feel it, I feel it,” I said. “Do you feel it?”

  “I feel it,” she said, and giggled her delightful giggle again.

  “Do you love Mr. Gilmore too?” I said.

  She was indignant. “I do not love old men.”

  “But the old man has a key to your apartment.”

  “I am sorry for old men.”

  “Especially when they’re rich.”

  “Only when they are rich.”

  You can’t fight that. “Check,” I said.

  “Do not be jealous. You must not be jealous. We will talk of all of that later, if you wish. Only remember, please, this. You are the first man who I have desired since I am in America, which is not too long a time, but long enough. Please be happy, flattered. Please do not think bad of Sophia.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Six months.”

  “How long have you had your apartment?”

  “Two months.”

  “How long do you know Mr. Gilmore?”

  “Two months.”

  “I dig.”

  “Please,” she said, “we will talk of all later. Not now. Please, not now. There is much to talk, so much, so much.”

  Sherry came out of the bedroom; Lori came out of the bedroom; Clayton came out of the bedroom. Lightly, I kissed my lady’s ear to break it up, but she misunderstood. There was no shift of movement, no change of stance, but her motor jogged: the mound of Venus performed as though it had a life of its own. The boys in the corner stopped the music just in time.

  As though by prearrangement we parted, going different ways. I was limping toward the bar when the music blared again and Sherry caught my hand and we danced.

  “You’re all wet,” she said.

  “Hot in here,” I said.

  “Is it?” she said.

  “You’re lovely,” I said.

  “Am I?” she said, and then over her shoulder I saw Barry Miller and I saw him go to Lori Gilmore and I saw them sit down on a couch together. I danced very carefully with Sherry Greco after that: I danced so that I was facing that duo on the couch.

  Barry Miller belonged with Lori Gilmore as a known sex offender belongs alone with a female child. There are weasels in every profession and Barry Miller was a weasel in mine. Barry Miller was small, thin, bald, old, wizened, and crooked as an arthritic limb. He spoke rapidly to Lori Gilmore, and she rose and went off, while he lit a cigarette with brown-stained shaking fingers. Nobody noticed Barry Miller. Nobody ever noticed Barry Miller. Barry Miller faded into background like unobtrusive wallpaper. Then Lori came back, with her handbag over her arm. They talked again, then Miller produced a pen, and Lori opened her bag and produced a folding checkbook. She unfolded it, took Miller’s pen, wrote, tore out a check, and gave that and the pen to Miller. In return, he handed her a small letter-type envelope. She opened it, took out a sheet, and read its contents. The joint was dim, but even in the dimness, you could see the lights go out in that girl’s face. Her eyes bulged, her mouth opened, and her complexion made a good try for the color of ashes. She reinserted the sheet into the envelope, put that into the dangling-type evening bag, snapped shut the bag. Barry Miller rose, bowed, looked off,
and stiffened, I looked in the direction of his gaze. Henry Martell stood in the bedroom doorway, squinting in the direction of Miller and Lori. Miller scurried like a weasel at the sight of a beagle. He was out of the room and gone. Martell made for Lori, but I had a shorter distance to go, and I got there before him.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Sherry and abandoned her and grasped at Lori’s hand and practically yanked her off the couch and said, “My dance, my dear,” and she mouthed something like, “Yes, yes, of course,” and we were dancing, and she hung on me like a sack, but you could feel her relief at being supported, at moving, at doing something. She danced, slack-jawed, silent, and uninterested, the handbag dangling by its strap from the crook of her elbow.

  I had not been formally retained by Cobb Gilmore but Cobb Gilmore had taken me into his confidence and any move I now made was made in behalf of Cobb Gilmore in advance of his retaining me: that was my rationalization. Barry Miller and Lori Gilmore, Martell’s reaction to Barry Miller and Lori Gilmore, and Miller’s reaction to Henry Martell—all of that fused into provocation for my next step, and I don’t mean dancing step. Picking pockets is elementary-school stuff in the education of a private detective. Picking a dangling bag is kindergarten stuff. I danced her into a crowd of dancers, opened her bag, took the letter, closed the bag, danced her near to the door, and waited for the music to stop. When it stopped, I looked at my watch. It was five minutes after one in the morning.

  “Thank you,” I said, “it was grand.”

  And I departed without saying good-bye—to anyone.

  FOUR

  Downstairs the joint was packed and jumping. A beatnik with a beard was on the dais bleating a cacaphony of meaningless words, a faraway look in his reefered eyes. He must have been funny because he was getting laughs. Howls. I was unencumbered. I had no topcoat and I never wear a hat. I had a strange key in one pocket, and a strange letter in another pocket, and, somewhere, as I cut my way through accumulated blue smoke, there was a strange client awaiting my ministrations. Toward the front, I hooked the maitre d’. “My name is Chambers,” I said. “There should be a man, I think his name is Skahnos, asking for me. If he shows up—”

  “He has shown up, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “He wanted a table. There are no tables.”

  “Where?”

  “He is at the bar, sir. The man with the gray hair and the Van Dyke.”

  “Thank you.”

  He was broad-shouldered in a well-tailored suit of clothes. He was tall and slender and there was a distinguished air about him. He was a man in his middle fifties with coarse, curly grey hair, worn long, and a trim pepper-and-salt Van Dyke beard. I tapped his shoulder and he turned to me.

  “Mr. Skahnos?” I said.

  “Peter Chambers?” he asked. His voice was hearty, a boom. His enunciation was clipped and clear, British-tinged, but with a faint foreign burr. His eyes were black, lapped by humorous crinkles. He was smoking a long, thin aromatic cigar.

  “I’m Chambers,” I said.

  “How do you do?” We shook hands. “It is very crowded in here,” he said.

  “Damned crowded,” I said. “This is no place to talk.”

  “There isn’t much to talk, but certainly this isn’t the place.”

  “Do you like coffee?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about some coffee?”

  “Sure. Where?”

  “The Village is lousy with coffee joints. Let’s go. Have you paid for your drink?”

  “Paid and tipped, Mr. Chambers. I’m ready whenever you are.”

  “Ready and willing,” I said.

  He walked on long legs with a light, strong tread. Outside, it had grown misty, a thin drizzle in the air. We hit a nearby expresso parlor, found a secluded table, ordered, were served, sipped coffee, smoked. I sat back and waited.

  “There is not much to talk about this evening, Mr. Chambers,” he said. “I had an appointment with you, and I kept it.”

  “You needn’t have bothered,” I said.

  “I always keep my appointments. Even with myself.”

  “You enjoy talking in riddles, Mr. Skahnos?”

  He laughed. His teeth were strong. “Perhaps the word should have been commitments, rather than appointments. One does have commitments with one’s self, does one not?”

  “I suppose one does.”

  “Sometimes even unpleasant commitments with one’s self.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “There have been vendettas, commitments of revenge, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “But let us get back to you, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Were we with me, Mr. Skahnos?”

  He puffed on his cigar, smiled. “You are a man with a wry sense of humor. That in itself is a recommendation.”

  “Recommendation, if you will pardon me, for what?”

  “For what I have in mind for you, Mr. Chambers.”

  “And what in hell do you have in mind for me. Mr. Skahnos?”

  “Not yet, Mr. Chambers.”

  “When, Mr. Skahnos?”

  “Tomorrow, probably.”

  “And why tomorrow, Mr. Skahnos?”

  “Because by then my investigation of you shall be complete.”

  “Investigation of me?”

  “I hope to retain you on a very important matter. I wish to be certain you are my man.”

  “Oh.”

  “Thus far, you have met every qualification.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Please, Mr. Chambers, do not be offended. I have already checked you, and the word is excellent. Tomorrow, I have an appointment with a Deputy Police Commissioner and with the District Attorney. You shall be the subject of our talks. Those shall be the final checks. If you pass muster, you are my man.”

  “For what?”

  “For that which I wish to retain you.”

  “You want to give me a hint, Mr. Skahnos?”

  He laughed again. “No.”

  “You want to give me a hint about yourself, Mr. Skahnos?”

  He sipped coffee, touched a light to the cigar which had become extinguished. “My name is Aristotle Skahnos. I live and transact my business from Paris, France. I have been here, in your beautiful country, for one week. I am staying at the Sheraton-Ambassador on Park Avenue—Suite 704. It is my hope to complete my business here as quickly as possible and return to my own country. There you have it, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Have I?” I said. “And what brought you, pray, to Club Athena?”

  “Nothing more than the normal, perpetual search for amusement.”

  “I was told you were asking for a private detective.”

  “It didn’t happen quite that way, Mr. Chambers.”

  “In quite what way did it happen, Mr. Skahnos?”

  “I met Miss Sherry Greco.”

  “Great,” I said. “So?”

  “I found in Miss Greco wit, intelligence, and a clear sharp mind.”

  “If that’s all you found in Miss Greco, brother, maybe you ought to go back for another look.”

  The black eyes smiled but his tone was serious. “The purpose of my visit to this country requires, first and foremost, the retention of a private detective of the highest caliber. Since that was in back of my mind, it came up during my conversation with Miss Greco. We were chatting—in Greek. Are you aware that Miss Greco is quite proficient in Greek?”

  “I was not aware,” I said, “but I have a hunch that Miss Greco has certain other proficiencies of which I’m not yet aware.”

  “Your name came up. I am a man who follows his impulses. I have need of an individual who is clever, resourceful, sophisticated, and trustworthy—trustworthy, above all. So, as I said, I checked on you.”

  “How’d I make out,” I said, “so far?”

  “Clever, resourceful, sophisticated were all verified. In fact, another adjective was added—brilliant. Tomorrow, I hope�
�and I’m rather certain it will turn out that way—the last requisite shall be established: trustworthy. And now, Mr. Chambers, I’m rather tired… .” He called for the check and paid it. He puffed upon his cigar, his eyes half closed. “Let me see now. This is Monday, isn’t it? How about tomorrow? Tuesday at three? Will you come to my hotel suite tomorrow at three?”

  “Why not?” I said as we quit the joint. Outside in the skinny drizzle I said: “Suppose the Deputy and the D.A. brand me as a lousy crook?”

  He waved his hand for a cab which pulled up to us. “I’m sure they will not, but if they do, I shall pay you for your time nonetheless. And now, may I drop you somewhere, sir?”

  “I’m not going your way, Mr. Skahnos.” He climbed into the cab. I stuck my head through the frame of the rolled-down window. “You told me you transacted your business from Paris, France. What business?”

  There was a chuckle from the dim recess of the back seat. “Pardon?”

  “What’s your business, Mr. Skahnos?”

  “Somewhat similar to yours, Mr. Chambers. I’m a private detective.”

  FIVE

  I went home. I showered, shaved, bought myself a drink for free, and sat down, comfortably nude, to read my purloined letter. I need not have sat. The letter was short, succinct, and cryptic. The envelope was addressed to Miss Lori Gilmore, 17 MacDougal Street, New York, N.Y. It was faintly typed through a worn ribbon by a typewriter with crooked keys. It was stamped, but the stamp had not been cancelled and it was not sealed. The upper left hand corner bore the legend in cheap printer’s ink: B. Miller, 247 West 47th Street, New York, N.Y. I extracted the letter. Similar legend, in similar printer’s ink, occupied top center. Down below, after formal salutation to Miss Lori Gilmore in erratic, crooked-key type, the letter stated: “Name: Hector Maloney. Married two years. Wife: Ellen. Born Ellen O’Brien, in Toledo, Ohio. One kid, Dennis, one year old. Residence: 10 Maple Street, Greenwich, Connecticut. Yours.” “Barry Miller” was scrawled in green ink.

  I put the letter back into the envelope and put that into a drawer. I had no mind for the deciphering of cryptograms. My mind was on other things, all lovely, all soft and lush-smelling and provocatively curved, and all belonging to the secret-eyed whisper-voiced Sophia Patri. I combed my hair, dabbed perfume in appropriate hollows of my body, donned my most expensive rendezvous-type underwear, pulled on a conservative blue suit, white shirt and unconservative sexy tie, grabbed an umbrella, locked up, and delivered myself into a cab which delivered me to 61 East 65th Street.