Homicide at Yuletide (4 page)

I held her and now both of us were swaying. She was full in front but her shoulders were thin and as my hand went down I could feel her ribs.

“You’re tall,” she said.

“Six two.”

“Nice and tall. And skinny. I love that.”

“Sheldon Talbot, wasn’t it?”

“What?”

“Thirteenth Street. The guy with the beard.”

“That’s what I think.”

“You think. Was it Fred Thompson?”

“Oh, no.”

“Sheldon Talbot?”

“It was supposed to be.”

“Well, was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who’s Fred Thompson?”

“Nobody. Just a name.”

“And Sheldon Talbot?”

“He was my father.”

It didn’t take for a second. Then my hands dropped. “Let’s get this straightened away, huh, once and for all,
before
the company comes.”

“Whatever you say. But you’re not going to duck, believe me.”

“You’re tight.”

“Damn right I am. Sober, I’ll be more coy. But it won’t make any difference. You’re not going to duck.”

“Duck what?”

“Guess.”

“I don’t want to duck. But right now—Talbot—your father—I don’t get it.”

“I hardly knew him. Let’s go back in the living-room. I talk better in a living-room. Talk, I said.”

“I heard you.”

In the living-room, we sat across from each other, she in a silver fan-back chair, and I in my corner of the dark blue couch. She waved at the bar. I disregarded it.

“Would you like me to help?” I said.

“Help? Help what?”

“You.”

“Me? Why?”

“I’m a shamus. A private richard. A caper-kid. A wise-guy private eye. Talks hard with the tough guys, purrs with the ladies. All the girls fall for him. You know, like what you read about.”

“Look, caper-kid. I don’t need any help. I don’t know what it’s all about. I’m not mixed up with it. It makes no difference to me who did it. And to me, it’s strictly a police matter.”

“Then why didn’t you give them a chance?”

“What does that mean?”

“Why haven’t you called them?”

“Called whom?”

“The police.”

“I would have, after the shock wore off, after I’d have gotten out of there. I was petrified. Then you came. And you took the gun, and I didn’t know who you were, and what you were doing there, and I was involved in something that was over my head. So I waited. For you. Should we do it now?”

“You’d be in it. Right up to your neck.”

“Oh, I can explain my end. How about you?”

“I can explain mine too.”

“So … let’s call the cops.” There was a tinkle of derision in her voice.

“Really want to?”

“I don’t know. You’re the shamus. Plus I like you. Whatever you say—I do.”

“Then, for the nonce, I’d say, leave it alone.”

“Nonce, very fancy. We’ve got a nonce downstairs, real cute, handles the switchboard. Why, for the nonce, would you leave it alone? Just curious, understand.”

“Because there are others involved.”

“Who?”

“That’s confidential. Look, would you please let
me
ask the questions?”

She smiled, then. “Any questions you ask, I’ve got an answer. And, brother, if you ask the right questions, boy, will you get answered, company or no company.”

“One subject at a time. Ever hear of Barney Bernandino?”

“No.”

“Gene Tiny?”

“Yes, I know Gene Tiny. Beautiful, isn’t she? Tall, with lovely black hair.”

“Black eyes, too.”

“Like mine?”

“Nobody has eyes like yours.”

“You’re improving.”

“One subject at a time. What about this Gene Tiny?”

“I don’t know her well. She’s a friend of one of my stepmothers.”

“One of your
what?”

“Stepmothers.”

“One
of your stepmothers? What’s Theresa?”

“She’s my mother.”

“So what’s with the stepmothers?”

“There are two.”

“Hold it. There’s Theresa, who is your mother, and there are two stepmothers. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Would you sort of chop it up for me?”

She crossed her legs in the rustling slacks. “Theresa was my father’s first wife. They were divorced. Then he married Gay Clive, you know, the wild black sheep of the Newport-New York-Cannes Clives, lots of society, no money.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Then they were divorced, and he married Evelyn Dru. And then they were divorced. You want me to continue this?”

“Yes, please.”

“Mother remains unmarried. Gay has since married Noah Cochrane.”

“The Cremation King? That the guy? Has that crematorium out on Long Island?”

“It pays to advertise, doesn’t it?
A Niche Is Better Than a Hole in the Ground. From Creation to Cremation. Earn for an Urn. Cremation Plus Without a Fuss.
That’s my Noah Cochrane, and a very nice man he is. Thus, Gay became Mrs. Noah Cochrane.”

“And Evelyn Dru?”

“She’s still Evelyn Dru. Back to the maiden name.”

“Very edifying. Now what’s all this got to do with Gene Tiny?”

“Gene is a friend of Evelyn’s. They both worked in the same model agency. Mamma and Gene and Evelyn and Noah and Gay, they’re all great friends. That’s who is coming to pick me up, Mr. and Mrs. Cochrane, and Evelyn. And you—you keep away from Evelyn.”

“Evelyn Dru?”

“Evelyn Dru. A blue-eyed blonde with a voice. The sultry, slow-talking kind.”

“Is there any other kind?”

“You wouldn’t know. What’s Gene Tiny got to do with this?”

“Nothing. She’s a friend of Barney Bernandino, and I was asked, on behalf of Mr. Bernandino, to deliver a message to Sheldon Talbot, and when I arrive, you’re there, and there’s a gun in your hands, and Talbot is dead, and now he turns out to be your father, and if you’re a bereaved daughter, I’m nuts. Talk some more, huh?”

She stood up, sighing in the sweater. Immediately I reached for a cigarette. She went to the bar. “Two little ones,” she said. “It’s going to be a long evening.”

She brought me the drink and I gave her a cigarette and we smoked and sipped our highballs and looked at each other.

“Let’s talk,” I said.

“Much rather, I wouldn’t.”

“Let’s, for now. Let’s get it cleaned up and out of the way.”

“Why you so interested?”

“Habit. I’m inquisitive about murdered people, and that guy was murdered, no matter how lightly you insist on taking it. Furthermore, there might be a fee lurking somewhere
—if
I collect enough facts. You wouldn’t want to do me out of a fee, would you?”

“I wouldn’t want to do you out of anything.”

“Sweet of you.”

“Would you me?”

“Would I you what? God, that sounds like pigeon English.”

“Want to do
me
out of anything?”

Irritably I said, “Will you please get back to what we were talking about.”

She sighed, swelling the sweater. “I hardly knew him. He was my father, but I hardly knew him. I went to school in Switzerland. I hardly knew her either, Theresa, my mother. And when I got back for good, they were divorced. Oh, I used to come home summers, but Mamma would be in Europe then, or somewhere, and Papa would be somewhere else. I really became acquainted with Mamma—and Gay and Evelyn—after I grew up.”

“Do it easy.”

“What?”

“This getting acquainted—with Mamma and Gay and Evelyn.”

“They’re all good friends. Here, like this. Mamma was married to Papa for a long time. They were divorced, but it was friendly. He always had a great regard for her—her brains, intellect. They broke it up, but they stayed friendly. The others were two quick marriages and two quick divorces, but the three women knew each other, and liked each other, and they all liked me—and they all liked Papa too, for that matter—and so everybody was friendly. I attended both weddings—when he married Gay, and then when he married Evelyn. So did Mamma. So did Gay, too. Once as a bride, and once as an ex-wife at Evelyn’s wedding.”

“A character, Papa.”

“Papa managed. It sounds strange, telling it, but I’m used to it, and it isn’t strange at all. Papa was liberal with money. There was a trust fund settled on me when I was born, not big, but enough to get along on. And the girls, too, some sort of trust fund for each. The point is—I hardly knew him. He was my father, a man I heard a lot about when the girls discussed him, but a man for whom I had no real feeling. Can you understand that?”

“Sure.”

“He’s dead, and I don’t like it, but I have no real feeling about it. I can’t help that.”

“Cold-blooded, isn’t it?”

“No. No, it isn’t. Do you have any feeling about it?”

“He wasn’t my father.”

“He wasn’t mine either, in the true sense. He—”

“All right. I get it. I’m the sensitive sort. You’ve got to hit me in the head with a rock before I get a glimmer. Now let’s bring it up to date.”

She gave me her glass and I took it to the bar and I settled back in a red leather chair and I watched her as she talked. Three sets of black eyes, now, including the dashing Theresa of the white hair, and thus far I had rubbed two fur coats, swigged whisky, and worried about company coming. “Yes?” I said.

“He called me last night.”

“When?”

“Late.”

“How late?”

“I don’t know. It was after one in the morning. I was in bed. He woke me.”

“There was no phone in that furnished room.”

“He called me from a night club.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me.”

“What night club?”

“He didn’t say.”

“They never do, do they?”

“I was frightened stiff.”

I put a hand up, fingers open. “Hold it. Frightened stiff? Why? Haven’t you ever been awakened by a phone before?”

“Phone, yes. Ghost, no.”

“The guy called from a night club. Where’s the ghost-type fit in?”

“He was dead. My father was dead. No. You wouldn’t know that. He was dead—supposed to have been dead. Please. Wait a minute.”

I waited.

“My father was supposed to have been killed in an accident in Chicago. As far as I knew, he was dead. Now, at one o’clock in the morning, six months later, he calls me. That’s why I was frightened stiff.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was his voice. It was Papa. I almost dropped the phone. He wanted to see me. He told me that he had had a good deal of trouble, that he was back now trying to straighten out a lot of things. He told me that he had been in town for three days, that he had seen Terry, and Gay, and Evelyn, and that now he wanted to see me. He told me not to mention that he had called, not to say anything to anyone.”

“Right.” I got up and prowled while she talked.

“He told me that there might possibly be some trouble, and that there were many things he wanted to talk to me about. He said he was seeing Terry again in the morning, and he told me to come this afternoon at about half past two. He told me his name was Fred Thompson for the time being, and he gave me the address. Then he hung up.”

“Okay. So you went.”

“Yes.”

“And you found him like that?”

“Yes. And what he looked like—it—it—”

“That slug cut a big piece out of him. I know—”

“No. No. His appearance—”

“You mean when you’re dead, you look different?”

“No. That red beard. That awful red hair. Papa never had a beard, and his hair was silver white as long as I remember. I’ll tell you the truth—I don’t know who that man was. It may have been my father, but—”

“Take it easy. You talk of this to Theresa?”

“No. Nobody.” She was biting at the fingernail of her thumb.

I got off the subject. I walked, watching my shoes make marks on the red carpet. “Theresa of the white hair, she looks strangely young.”

“She
is
young. Mamma’s thirty-seven.”

“Thirty-seven?
How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

Heelprints ceased on the carpet. I snatched a drink and folded into the silver fan chair.

“What’s the matter, Peter?”

“You ought to start dressing. It’s dark out.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.”

Somewhere along the stumble to maturity, I had picked up a prohibition against eighteen-year-olds. I am not saying how. Even a private richard with literary leanings seals up certain sections of the book. Eighteen is delectable, unpredictable, devastating, prim, carnal, wistful, ribald, modest, bawdy, constant, fickle, shy, bold—wrapped together and flung at you all at once: trouble. Eighteen is wonderful. I rear up at eighteen like a racehorse against a flying sheet of newspaper. I shy off.

“What’s the matter?” she said, bending over me, touching my hair. “Most people love it.”

“Sure.”

“Cleopatra was Queen of Egypt at seventeen.”

“Sure.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I tapped my wrist watch. “People are coming.”

“I look older, and I act older, and you know it. I’ve lived all over the world. I’ve always been on my own. Be flexible, sonny. There are all kinds of eighteens.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll go get dressed.”

She went. I sat.

Eighteen with a gun in her hands. Eighteen with a casual story about being frightened. Eighteen with wise words and a white sweater. Eighteen with ageless eyes. Eighteen, all woman, with a glistening mouth. Eighteen, living alone and loving it. Eighteen, and enticing.

I scrabbled out of the fan chair and headed for the bar.

The rasp of the bell interfered with my journey.

“You get it,” she sang from the bedroom.

I got it.

T
HERE WAS
a tall mink coat.

And a top hat over a round red face.

And an ermine wrap under a blond head.

“New butler?” said the ermine wrap.

“Yes, madam.”

“Got a friend?” said the mink coat.

“I’m your friend,” said the top hat.

“Husbands,” said the mink coat, “and friends—dear ex-love—they come in separate bins.”

“Bin?” said the ermine wrap. “I’ve only bin once, and that was of such short duration, I wouldn’t know. Cute idea, the butler. Isn’t he?”

“You like that?” said the top hat.

“What?” I said.

“Being called cute.”

“It happens.”

“Happens to me too. I’m six feet four, weight, two hundred and thirty-eight. What’s cute about it?”

“Six two,” I said. “A hundred ninety-three. Is it cute?”

“I bet it is,” said the ermine wrap.

“Name’s Cochrane,” said the top hat, sticking his hand out. “Noah Cochrane. The lady with the husbands and friends is Gay, my wife, Mrs. Cochrane.”

“I’m Evelyn Dru,” said the ermine wrap.

“Peter Chambers,” I said. “I’ll take your things.”

The ladies unsheathed, and arms, shoulders, backs and breasts writhed into view. The ladies quickly swished to the silver bar. Cochrane helped me hang the things away. He put his top hat on the shelf of the closet and hung his coat and white scarf over a hanger. He shrugged his tails into position. “You coming to our party, Mr. Chambers?”

“Maybe, I hope.”

“Hope so too.”

He was a big boy, about fifty, with powerhouse shoulders, and a short-stepped muscular walk. He had a red, set, sandy face that looked like it needed a good deal of shaving to keep it smooth. He was round-bald on top, brown hair clipped close around it in a monk’s haircut, open slightly in front, like a squeezed-together horseshoe. He had a thick nose with round nostrils and light eyes under dark slowly moving bulbous lids. His neck was red over the stiff white collar.

“One for me too,” he said, going to the ladies.

I rubbed my hands, found a cigarette, and sat down.

Evelyn Dru wriggled raised fingers. “Peter? What about you, Peter?”

“Scotch and water for Peter,” Stella called from the bedroom. “And handed to him, straight-arm.”

“What do you expect?” Evelyn called back. “That I sit on him, and administer it in little squirts?”

“Wouldn’t put it past you, Mother dear.”

“Don’t call me Mother dear.”

“Don’t mess with my boy friend.”

“Not Mother dear. Mother dear doesn’t mess.” She brought it to me and held my arm with one hand and touched her knee to my knee and whispered, “Not much I don’t.” She smiled and left the glass in my hand and went back to the bar for her own.

“Here we go again,” said Noah Cochrane.

Evelyn Dru said, “Go where?”

“Round and round on the old carrousel. Snatching for the new man, like he was a special diamond-encrusted gold ring.”

“Stinks,” said Gay.

“What?” said Noah.

“The simile. You do much better when you write those ghoulish ads for burning people up when they’re dead.”

“Well, you get what I mean, I hope.”

“I do. Except you can dis-include me.”

“You slipping?” said Evelyn Dru.

“No. But I’m out of contention, handicapped by the presence of friend husband. Which is one handicap that, shortly, will be surmounted.”

“Now it’s friend husband,” Cochrane said. “Now we’re all tossed into the same bin. Ah, consistency. Thy name is Gay Cochrane.”

She whirled in her billowy evening gown and took a bow. Gay Cochrane. Tall. Taller because of a crown of braided up-do set in gleaming combs, dark-skinned and slender with shining white teeth. Her face was a triangle pointing to a small chin, and when she wasn’t smiling, her lips were thin and there were jumpy knots in the corners of her jaw. Her eyes were brown, quick-moving, questioning. She was a shade too slender, wide-shouldered and tapering down. The dress fixed that. It was ivory white with no top, beginning in a tight hoop over small breasts and under her armpits, body-close taut to the hips, and then swirling out in a foam of spangles.

Not Evelyn Dru. Evelyn Dru had what to show, and Evelyn Dru showed it.

Her dress was less dress than any dress I had ever seen. Pink. Pink and simple and starting nowhere and ending nowhere but blending with the pink of her flesh and showing all of her, and where it didn’t show, any imagination limping on one mongoloid cylinder could imagine, and without any imagination, that wouldn’t matter either. In back it was no dress all the way to the base of the spine, a smooth back, soft velvet over bones, and in front it was more dress, but not much more, and from there it clung like a drunk to his last drink come closing time.

Evelyn Dru was blond, bouncy, ever-smiling and arch, graceful and shapely, with a small mouth, a smaller nose, and blue eyes that lifted you out of your seat like a national anthem.

“Snow,” said Noah Cochrane at the window. “It’s really flaking.”

“White Christmas,” Gay said. “We don’t have them as frequently any more. Do you think the climate’s changing?”

“Small talk,” Evelyn said. “I hate small talk, and I hate it more when it’s about the weather.”

“Go sulk,” Gay said. “Go sulk on the blue divan. You’ll look good sulking on the blue divan.”

Noah said, “Easy, cats. Drink and you’ll get merry.” He came and sat beside me. “I wish you’d come to our party.”

“I’ll try.”

Evelyn said, “No party of your own?”

“Nobody loves me.”

“We’ll cure that,” Gay said. “If you’ve never moved in neurotic circles, mister, you’re moving now. Everybody loves everybody, but we break it up for an unattached man—we all concentrate on him.”

“Who said he’s unattached?” Stella came from the bedroom, tangy with a perfume like faint incense, in a dress that worked a multiple double-take on all of us.

“Murder,” Noah Cochrane said, nudging me.

She was a picture, built like she was built, standing there looking back at us, white of face, motionless in the black dress, an embroidered red dragon writhing across her middle like a snake. It was a chiaroscuro in venery—but she smiled right through it. She wore nothing but the black dress; a bright ring exploded off the little finger of her left hand; nothing else. It was Chinese, without a fold, enmeshing her body, every line showing, slit up the sides of her legs, bare arms, jeweled shoes, and the bright ring on her finger. Simple, straight, it was black nakedness; examining her, she was more fully clothed than either of the other women.

“Likee?” she said.

“Lovee,” Evelyn said. “Where in all hell did you capture that?”

“I made it, from a Chinese gown I bought.”

“Murder,” Noah Cochrane said.

“I’ve been saving it,” Stella pointed at me, “for him. He doesn’t like eighteen-year-olds.”

“When’d you meet him?” Evelyn said.

“Today.”

Gay said, “See? She’s been saving it.”

Stella’s smile closed down to a wet pout. “Doesn’t like eighteen-year-olds.”

“He’s crazy,” Noah said. “Or he’s a liar.”

I drank my drink in a hurry.

“Don’t blame him,” Evelyn said. “I don’t blame him in the least.”

“You
wouldn’t, Mother dear. Nobody going to make me a drink?”

Noah stood up and lumbered across to the silver bar. He mixed a drink for Stella, gave it to her, talked to me. “How about dinner? Have dinner with us, Chambers.”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

Stella said, “Coax him, please, somebody.”

“The least you can do,” Gay said, “is promise to come to our party.”

“Thanks. You’re all very nice.”

“He knows Gene Tiny,” Stella said.

“Nice?” said Evelyn. “I don’t know. There are motives behind Gay’s gay talk.”

“Anything wrong with my motive?” Gay said.

Evelyn said, “He looks pretty good to me.”

“He knows Gene Tiny,” Stella said.

Gay lifted her glass high. “Congratulations. For nothing. No wonder the lad’s reluctant. Gene Tiny. Party of your own, Mr. Chambers?”

“Not with Gene Tiny,” Noah said.

“Why not?”

“Because she’s coming to our party.”

“True. True enough. Everybody’s coming to our party. It’s going to be a wonderful party. A wonderful, wonderful party.”

Noah took the drink out of her hand. “You need food, sister.”

“Whatever I need, brother, you can’t give it to me. And even if you can, I don’t want it.”

Evelyn Dru said, “Save the family squabbles for home.”

“Got no home,” Gay said. “Got nothing. Got misery. Got emptiness.”

Stella came, mince-walked, elbows back, drink in hand. “Promise?”

I said, “I can’t be sure.”

“Please promise.”

“If I can at all, I’ll come.”

“Now that’s what I call a promise,” Gay said.

“That Stella,” Evelyn said. “When she pitches, she pitches.”

Cochrane went to the bar. “Gather round, kiddies. Last drink.”

We waited until Cochrane finished pouring. Then we clinked glasses, warm in the room, glowing, hothouse smell of perfume and sweat, shoulders shining, eyes bright within the crinkle of smiles, bright eyes telling nothing to anybody, a warm huddle in a red room clinking glasses to Christmas. Who knew of a sprawled man sleeping on an old floor, edge of broken bone sharp-white over one eye? Who knew of a man in a clean white unmussed shirt, and pressed plaid pants, and a wine-red beard, and dry blood like rust on a yellow face without a forehead?

I looked at Stella. Stella was looking at me.

“Merry Christmas,” everybody said.

We lunged into our coats, everybody helping everybody. Stella clicked off the lights. We crowded into the elevator, and Gay Cochrane found my hand and squeezed it behind Evelyn’s ermine, and I squeezed back, and we made love like that for eleven flights of the Tamara Towers, and then the elevator man slid his door back, his lips dry and caked with all day nips from the neighbors. “A Merry Christmas to all of yez, folks, and a good Christmas, and ‘tis a white one too.”

“White Christmas,” said the man at the switchboard.

Outside, snow fell in soft cotton flakes. A car moved up, white-patched. A chauffeur in uniform came out, holding a bear rug. “Real good snow,” he said. “White Christmas.”

They ran across to the car, and the last was Stella. “Don’t disappoint me,” she called. “It’s the Somerset. The Talbot suite.”

Cochrane stuck his head out. “Still time to change your mind. Dinner?”

“No, thanks.”

The doorman slammed the door, the chauffeur shifted gears, and they rolled. The doorman came back, opening his greatcoat to pocket his tip. “Swell snow. Can I get you a cab, sir?”

“Please.”

He used his whistle and he took my dollar (Ah, Christmas) and I climbed into the cab and I yelled White Christmas at the driver just one fragment of a second before he yelled it at me. He turned his head and grinned. “Tell you the truth, for business, it smells. Not too many people on the streets tonight.”

“Central Park South, by Sixth.”

“Coming at you.”

White Christmas. In New York it is one day of silent snow and constant comment, and days and days of slush and flood and high-laced boots and slowed traffic and broken ankles and strewn garbage and blocked roads and broken mains and photos of cops who delivered babies and tenement fires with dripping icicles and heart attacks and heightened discourtesies.

Everybody looks forward to White Christmas.

I sat back on worn leather, digesting whisky, until the driver said, “Fifty-Ninth and Sixth.”

I went up to my apartment thinking in mixed patterns of a long shower and lounging nude and listening to music and going to sleep and waking refreshed and going to a party. I put the key in my door, but my door did not need a key, and for the second time in one day, I walked into an apartment that looked like a slice of cyclone had channeled through.

I smiled politely at a small man with a weary face, waving my fingers as I went by. I disregarded the grinning man with the bent homburg on the back of his head. I went to the bedroom and then to the kitchen. My entire apartment had been given a shuffle, from the cover of the tea kettle in the kitchen to a set of books on anthropology stored in a hatbox in the bedroom closet. I came back to my tilted living-room.

“Rough guess, I’d say you guys were looking for something.”

Jocularity wailed like the end of a scream. I coughed, adjusting my voice.

“Yeah,” the man in the bent homburg said.

I pointed to the overturned television. “That’s new.”

“Yeah.”

“Was it necessary?”

“Yeah.”

“Find anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Wouldn’t you like to try some place else?”

“We tried. You ought to see your office.”

The small man with the weary face sitting on a corner of my oblique sofa looked up from the gun in his limp hands.

“We were careful, bo. Nothing’s spoiled.”

“Thanks. Wouldn’t you like to run along now?”

“Don’t take your coat off,” the weary man said.

“Fred Thompson,” I said. “The way this joint is joggled up, it reminds me of Fred Thompson.”

“I heard about that. That was two other guys. Barney wants to see you.”

“You know what Barney can do?”

“Barney?”

“Barney can go and—”

“We been waiting a long time,” the man with the bent homburg said. “Where the hell you been?”

“I was practicing at Fred Thompson’s.”

“What?”

“Setting up furniture straight.”

“A cutie, huh?” He lifted a thumb to the homburg, setting it farther back. He was very big, coming at me, grinning.

The weary man said, “Slow down, Hook.”

“A cutie,” Hook said. “Mamma, how I love a cutie.” I smelled garlic from his mouth as he stood there near me. His big teeth were yellow. His face had blond bristles. A point of flat yellow hair showed under the pushed-back homburg. His forehead was white, enamel-white, no pores, sick shiny tight-white without wrinkles.

The weary man said, “Let’s do it nice, fella. It’s Christmas time.”

“A cutie,” Hook said. “A wise-guy type cutie. Oh, how I love a cutie.”