I had to shove her away roughly before everything else was forgotten. We stood there, two feet apart, and my voice didn’t want to come. When it did I said, “Save it for me, Lola, just me.”
“Just you, Mike,” she repeated.
She was still there in the middle of the room, tall and beautiful, her breasts alternately rising and falling with a craving neither of us could afford, when I went out the door.
The Zero Zero Club was a cellar joint off Sixth Avenue that buried itself among the maze of other night spots with nothing more than two aughts done in red neon to proclaim its location. But it was doing a lively business. It had atmosphere; plenty of it ... that’s why they called it the Zero Zero. Both visibility and ceiling were wiped out with cigar smoke.
Down the stairs a cauliflower-eared gent played doorman with a nod, a grunt and an open palm. I gave him a quarter so he wouldn’t remember me as a piker. The clock on the wall read eleven-fifteen and the place was packed. It wasn’t a cheap crowd because half of them were in evening clothes. Unlike most joints, there was no tinsel or chromium. The bar was an old solid mahogany job set along one wall and the tables were grouped around a dance floor that actually had room for dancing. The orchestra was set into a niche that could double as a stage for the floor show if necessary.
The faces around me weren’t those of New Yorkers. At least those of the men. Most could be spotted as out-of-towners looking for a good time. You could tell those who had their wives along. They sat at the bar and tables sipping drinks with one eye on the wife and the other on the stray babes, wondering why they had been talked into taking the little woman along.
Yeah, the atmosphere was great, what you could see of it. The Zero Zero Club took you right back to the saloons of a Western mining camp and the patrons loved it. Scattered throughout the crowd were half a dozen hostesses that saw to it that everyone had a good time. I got a table back in one corner that was partially screened by a group of potted plants and waited. When the waiter came over I ordered a highball, got it and waited some more.
Five minutes later a vat-dyed blonde hostess saw me there and undulated over to my table.
She gave me a big smile from too-red lips and said, “Having fun?”
“Not so much.”
I leaned over and pulled out a chair for her. She looked around once and sat down with a sigh, using me as a breather between courses. I signaled the waiter and he brought her a Manhattan without asking. She said, “It isn’t tea, friend. You’re paying for good whiskey.”
“Why tell me?”
“The farmers out there have read too much about hostesses drinking cold tea. They always want to taste it. So we don’t drink at all, or have a small cola.”
There wasn’t much sense fooling around with chitchat here. I finished my drink, called for another, and while I waited I asked, “Where’s Murray?”
The blonde squinted her eyes at me a moment, checked her watch and shook her head. “Beats me. He hardly ever gets here before midnight. You a friend of his?”
“Not exactly. I wanted to see him about something.”
“Maybe Bucky can help you. He’s the manager when Murray’s away.”
“No, he couldn’t help me. You remember Nancy Sanford, don’t you?”
She set her glass down easily and made little rings on the table with the wet bottom. She was looking at me curiously. “Yes, I remember her. She’s dead, you know.”
“I know. I want to find out where she lived.”
“Why?”
“Look, honey, I’m an insurance investigator. We have reasons to believe that Nancy Sanford was actually somebody else. She was using a phony name. Oh, we know all about her, all right. But if she was this somebody else, we have a policy on her we’d like to clear up. The beneficiaries stand to collect five thousand dollars.”
“But why come here?”
“Because we heard she used to work here.”
There was a sad look in the blonde’s eyes this time. “She was working in a house....”
“It burned down,” I interrupted.
“Then she moved over to an apartment, I think. I don’t know where, but ...”
“We checked there. That’s where she lived before she died. Where was she before either one?”
“I don’t know. I lost track of her after she checked out of here. Once in a while someone would mention seeing her, but I never did. I’m afraid I can’t help you at all. Perhaps Murray could tell you.”
“I’ll ask him,” I said. “Incidentally, there’s a reward that goes with finding the place. Five hundred bucks.”
Her face brightened at that. “I don’t get it, Mac. Five bills to find out where she lived and not who she was. What’s the angle?”
“We want the place because there’s someone in the neighborhood who can positively identify her. We’re having trouble now with people putting in phony claims for the money, and we don’t want to lead them to anybody before we get there first, see?”
“In other words, keep all this under my hat until I find out. If I can find out.”
“You got it.”
“I’ll buy it. Stop back again soon and see if I learned anything. I’ll ask around.” She finished her drink and turned on her “having fun?” smile, waved to me and went back to the rest of the party. The kid wanted money, all right. She’d keep it under her hat and ask around. It wasn’t exactly what I had come for, but it might give me a lead sometime.
Five drinks and an hour and a half later Murray Candid came in. I had never seen him before, but when the waiters found something to do in a hurry and the farmers started chucking hellos over, looking for a smile of recognition that might impress the girl friend, I knew the boss had come in.
Murray Candid wasn’t the type to be in the racket at all. He was small and pudgy, with red cheeks, a few chins and a face that had honesty written all over it. He looked like somebody’s favorite uncle. Maybe he was the one to be in the racket at that. The two guys that trailed him in made like they were friends of the family, but goon was the only word that fitted them. They both were young, immaculately dressed in perfectly tailored tuxedos. They flashed smiles around, shook hands with people they knew, but the way they kept their eyes going and the boss under their wing meant they were paid watchdogs. And they were real toughies, too. Young, strong, smart, with a reckless look that said they liked their job. I bet neither one of them smoked or drank.
The band came on then, with a baby spot focused on the dance floor, and as the house lights were dimming out I saw the trio turn into an alcove over in the far corner. They were heading for the place I wanted to see ... Murray Candid’s office. I waited through the dance team and sat out a strip act, then paid my check and picked my way through the haze to the alcove and took the corridor that opened from it.
There were two doors at the far end. One was glass-paneled and barred, with EXIT written across it. The other was steel, enameled to resemble wood, and there was no doorknob. Murray’s office. I touched the button in the sill and if a bell rang somewhere I didn’t hear it, but in a few seconds the door opened and one of the boys gave me a curt nod.
I said, “I’d like to see Mr. Candid. Is he in?”
“He’s in. Your name, please?”
“Martin. Howard Martin from Des Moines.”
He reached his hand to the wall and pulled down a house phone. While he called inside I felt the door. It was about three inches thick and the interior lining was of some resilient sound-proofing material. Nice place.
The guy hung up and stepped inside. “Mr. Candid will see you.” His voice had a peculiar sound; toneless, the ability to speak without accentuating any syllable. Behind me the door closed with a soft click and we were in an anteroom that had but one decoration ... another door. This time he opened it and I stepped inside at once.
I was halfway across the room before I heard a cough and looked to see another door about to close. The place was lousy with doors, but not a sign of a window.
Murray Candid was half hidden by a huge oak desk that occupied most of the wall. Behind his head were framed pictures of his floor-show stars and studio photos of dozens of celebrities, all autographed. There was a couch, a few easy chairs and a small radio and bar combination. That was all, except for the other goon that was stretched out on the couch.
“Mr. Candid?”
He rose with a smile and stretched out his hand. I took it, expecting a moist, soft clasp. It wasn’t. “Mr. Martin from, ah, Des Moines, is that correct?”
I said it was.
“Sit down, sir. Now, what can I do for you?”
The goon on the couch hardly turned his head to look at me, but he rasped, “He’s got a gun, Murray.”
He didn’t catch me with my pants down at all. “Natch, brother,” I agreed, “I’m a cop, Des Moines police.” Just the same, it annoyed the hell out of me. The coat was cut to fit over the rod and you weren’t supposed to notice it. These guys were pros a long time.
Murray gave me a big smile. “You officers probably don’t feel dressed unless you’re armed. Now, tell me, what can I do for you?”
I sat back and lit a cigarette, taking my time. When I flicked the match into a wastebasket, I was ready to pop it. “I want a few women for a party. We’re having a convention in town next month and we want things set up for a good time.”
If there was supposed to be a reaction it was a flop. Murray drew his brow into a puzzled frown and tapped his fingers on the desk. “I don’t quite understand. You said ... girls?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But how can I ... ?”
I let him have a grin that was half leer. “Look, Mr. Candid, I’m a cop. The boys come back home from a big time in the city and tell us all about it; they said you were the one to see about getting some girls.”
Murray’s face seemed genuinely amazed. “Me? I admit, I cater to the tourist crowd, but I can’t see the connection. How could I supply you with girls. I’m certainly not a ... a ...”
“I’m just doing like the boys said, Mr. Candid. They told me to come to you.”
He smiled again. “Well, I’m afraid they were mistaken, Mr. Martin. I’m sorry I can’t help you.” He stood up, indicating that the conversation was over. Only this time he didn’t offer to shake hands. I told him so long and put on my hat, letting the goon open the doors for me.
The boy gave me a polite nod when I went out and let the door hiss shut behind me. I didn’t know what to think, so I went to the bar and ordered a drink. When I had it in my hand, cold and wet, I watched the bubbles fizz to the top and break.
Cold and wet. That was me all over. There wasn’t a floor or wall safe in the office, nothing, for that matter, where my nice Mr. Candid could hide any books if he kept any. But at least it was an elimination, supposing there
were
some books. If they weren’t here they were somewhere else. Good enough ... it was an angle worth playing.
When I finished the drink I got my hat and got clear of the joint. The air above ground wasn’t very clean, but it smelled like a million bucks after the fog in the Zero Zero. Directly across the street was the Clam Hut, a tiny place that specialized in sea food and had a bar where a guy could keep one eye on his beer and the other on the street. I went in and ordered a dozen of the things and a brew and started to wait.
I had it figured for a long one, but it wasn’t. Before I had half the clams down Murray Candid came out of his place alone and started walking west. His pace was more businesslike than leisurely, a cocky strut that took him up the street at a good clip. I stayed on the other side and maybe fifty feet behind him. Twice he stopped to gas with some character and I made like I was interested in a menu pasted on the window of a joint. Not that I was worried about being seen ... there were too many people making the rounds for me to be singled out.
By the time we had walked halfway across town and cut up a few streets I figured where Murray was heading. There was a parking lot down the street on my side and he jaywalked across, angling toward it, and I had to grin. Even if he
did
spot me I had the best excuse in the world. My heap was parked in the same lot, too.
I let him go in, then trailed him by twenty feet. The attendant took my ticket and handed me my car keys, trying to keep his eyes open long enough to take his tip.
My car was down in the comer and I hugged the shadows going to it. There was no sound except that of my feet in the gravel. Somewhere a door should be slamming or a car starting, but there was nothing. There was just the jungle noise of the city hanging in the air and the stillness you would find when the tiger crouches, ready to spring.
Then I heard it, a weak cry from between a row of cars. I froze, then heard it again and in a second I was pounding toward the spot.
And I ran up a dark alley of chrome and metal into the butt end of a gun that sent me flat on my face with a yell choked off in my throat. There was no time to move, no room to move before I was being smashed across the head and shoulders. Feet were plowing into my ribs with terrible force and the gun butt came down again and again.
I heard the sounds that got past my lips, low sounds of pain that bubbled and came out in jerks. I tried to reach up to grab something, anything at all, then a hard toe lashed out and into my cheek and my head slammed against metal and I couldn’t move any more at all.
It was almost nice lying there. No pain now. Just pressures and the feel of tearing flesh. There was no sight, no feeling. Somewhere a monotonous-sounding voice said, “Enough this time.”
Then another voice argued a little quietly that it wasn’t enough at all, but the first voice won and the pounding ceased, then even the hearing stopped. I lay there, knowing that I was asleep, yet awake, dreaming a real dream but not caring at all, enjoying a consciousness that was almost like being dead.
Chapter Six
IT WAS THE FIRST SLANTING RAYS of the sun that wakened me. They streaked across the rooftops and were reflected from the rows of plate-glass windows in the cars, bringing a warmth that took away the blessed numbness and replaced it with a thousand sharp pains.