This Dame for Hire (23 page)

I could see the outline of my gun through the piece of old white sheet I’d wrapped it in. It wasn’t loaded, so I took one end and pulled until the thing rolled onto my bed.

Ugly. That’s how it looked. Woody’d told me it was a Colt .38 pistol. I picked it up by the trigger guard and dropped it into my pocketbook. And then I heard his voice just like he was in the room.

“So what good is an unloaded rod gonna do for ya, Faye?”

I knew he was right. If I was gonna take this thing with me, it better be loaded. I opened the top left drawer of my dresser and reached all the way in the back under my panties. Stashed there were what Woody called the magazines. I don’t know why the name, I didn’t ask and I didn’t particularly care.

I got the gun outta my pocketbook, opened it up, dropped in a magazine, then slid it closed. I didn’t take the extra with me cause if I used up the one in my gun I’d probably be dead.

I thought I’d better empty my handbag before I dropped the pistol back in. A mountain of stuff spilled onto the bed. There was:

A compact (that wouldn’t close)

Two lipsticks

A wallet and change purse

One fresh handkerchief

Two crumpled handkerchiefs

The laundry bill

Three tickets from the dry cleaner

One address book

One pack of opened cigarettes

Three packs of matches

Lots of ration books (including expired ones)

Two scraps of paper with telephone numbers and no names

One hairnet

One bottle of vitamins

One fountain pen

Two pencils

One parcel of V-mail letters from Woody covering several months, held by a rubber band

And an old nylon stocking with ladders up and down it that I couldn’t face chucking

I left most of the stuff on my bed and carefully laid the gun inside my pocketbook like it was a corpse in a casket. In the living room I grabbed my coat and left the apartment, toting a gat.

TWENTY-FIVE

I took the subway and got off at Forty-second and Seventh and walked west. Hubert’s dime museum was one of my favorite places in Times Square. I never passed without going in, but today I didn’t have time. Still, I knew what it felt like to be inside.

You paid your dime at a booth in the back then went down some rickety stairs and sat waiting with the other customers, a lot of sailors and soldiers lately, and tourists. Sooner or later, the worn curtain would open and there, one after the other, appeared the freaks. My favorite was Albert-Alberta, half man, half woman. He/she was a hideous-looking person with long hair on one side and short on the other. The rest of the body was done the same way: stocking on one leg, trouser on the other. Then, if you were of a mind to pay twenty-five cents more, Albert-Alberta was willing to show ya his/her privates.

I knew it was all a fake even while Albert-Alberta told us about his/her life in a croaky voice that was supposed to be a cross between the two sexes. And I did wonder how he/she pulled off the most amazing part of the act, but I still wasn’t ready to find out for myself.

The museum’s main attraction was Professor Leroy Heckler, who proudly presented his flea circus. The fleas made a carousel go round and round, raced chariots, juggled teeny, tiny balls, and did other amazing tricks. The problem was I could never actually see the fleas, just the objects moving around. I believed in the flea circus anyway. I hated missing it today, but I had other fish to fry.

I passed the many movie theaters, crossed Eighth Avenue, turned uptown to Forty-third, where I hung a left and started into the heart of Hell’s Kitchen.

By and large it was a pretty poor neighborhood, a place with a long history and a big bad reputation. The grisly stuff was mostly in the past, although the area still had some active gangs. But I knew it wouldn’t be smart to walk along these streets at night, even with an escort.

I found Garfield’s tenement, but there were no names listed by the door, no bells. Beyond the front door was a small vestibule with mailboxes along one wall. Garfield’s was near the left end. But it didn’t tell me what floor he was on or what number his apartment was.

The inside door was unlocked, and I knew I had two choices. Either knock on every door or find the super, if there was one. The looks of the hallway made me suspect the job was going begging. So I started knocking. First apartment no one answered, second someone did.

“Yeah?”

He was big. Big head, big shoulders, big chest. He wore a not-too-clean undershirt and brown trousers. His head of black hair was big, too. He had a face like a Model T Ford.

“I’m lookin for someone,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Would ya know if a Warner Garfield lives here?”

“Why?”

“I need to talk to him.”

“What about?”

“That’s private.”

He started to shut the door.

“No. Don’t. This is important.”

“You his old lady?”

“No. I’m a private investigator.”

He laughed, but I was used to this.

“Whatcha want with Garfield?”

“I have to ask him some questions about a case I’m on.”

“Yeah? What case is that? A case a beer?”

A real wit. This time he roared with laughter, like they say.

“Can ya tell me what apartment he lives in?”

“Why should I?”

“It’s not a matter of
should.
”

“What’s it a matter of?”

“A murdered girl.”

His eyes narrowed. “And Garfield did it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What did ya say?”

“I just want to talk to him.”

“About this murdered girl?”

“Yeah.”

“How much is it worth to ya?”

Boy, was I thick. Usually I knew when they were trying to hit me up for some moola, but I hadn’t caught on.

“How much do ya think?”

“How about a sawbuck?” he said.

“How about a fin?”

He nodded.

I opened my purse and took a bill from my wallet. I handed him the five.

“He’s on the fourth. Number 402.” He slammed the door shut.

“Thanks,” I said.

I climbed the stairs, kicking papers, a crust of bread, and other garbage I couldn’t identify, out of my way. The smells coming from the different apartments were not appetizing. Whatever they were, mixed together they almost made me gag.

When I reached 402 I gave it only a fifty-fifty chance Warner Garfield was still at home. I knocked.

Nothing.

I put my ear to the door and thought I could hear running water in the distance, like it might be coming from a faucet at the other end of the place. There was no other sound.

I knocked again.

Still nothing. I did that four or five times, then like Woody had taught me to do in these situations, I turned the door handle. The place was unlocked.

This never ceased to surprise me. And if I was being honest it spooked me, too. I opened the door just a crack and again I heard Woody’s voice in my mind.

Take out the gun, Faye.

I knew it was the right thing to do even though it made me more scared than I already was. I opened my purse and carefully lifted out the gun and, like Marty showed me, held it out in front of me at arm’s length.

I wanted to laugh. If my pop could see this, he’d bust a gut, then make book on it.

Real quiet, I pushed open the door, hoping that it wouldn’t squeak. It didn’t. The sound of running water was louder. It was coming from the other end of the place. This was a railroad apartment, with all the rooms lined up one after another off a hall. The whole joint was dark except for a little light at the far end of the long hallway.

I had to make another call. I could keep sneaking down the hall, peering into rooms until I found someone or didn’t, or I could announce myself with a holler. Of course, finding me with a pointed gun might not make the tenant too happy. Even so, I chose the yell.

“Hello. Anyone home?”

Nothing. Just the running water.

I tried again, but nobody answered. So I inched in, step by step, until I came to a door on my right that was open.

Gun in front of me, I looked in. A bedroom with a mussed-up bed, a dresser, and a wooden chair, a pair of trousers and a shirt hanging over the back, an undershirt on the floor. But nobody was in there.

I inhaled, only then realizing I’d been holding my breath. My underarms were clammy, and I could feel the droplets of sweat on my forehead turning to trickles starting down my face.

I had to keep going. So I took some more baby steps, the gun sorta wavering in my wet grip like a divining rod.

“Anybody home?” My voice didn’t sound too good. It was more like a warble than a shout.

Nobody answered. I don’t know what I woulda done at that point if somebody had.

Next I came to the kitchen. It had a range, sink, ice box, and a small table with two chairs. But no one sitting there.

As I moved down the hall the sound of running water got louder and louder until I was outside the door where it was coming from. The top half of the door had pebbled glass, and through it I could see the glow of a light inside.

The water sounded like it was turned on full force in a sink. Bath water would’ve made a different sound. I stood to one side of the door. Although I couldn’t see through the glass, if anyone moved inside the room I knew I’d see a shadow.

No dice. And the water kept running. I coulda walked back down the hall and out the door and nobody woulda been the wiser. I thought of the boys at Stork’s and what a laugh that would give them if they knew, which they wouldn’t. But
I’d
know, and that made me dig in my heels and tighten my grip on the gun. It was a job I had to see through to the end, no matter what.

After a couple a deep breaths I slowly turned the door’s porcelain knob until I heard the click that told me the door was ready to open. I inched it inward little by little.

The water was pounding against the sink like I’d thought, and the ceiling light was on. The bathtub curtain, streaked with mildew, was pulled closed, but not for long. I knew I had to look behind it. This was worse than going to the dentist.

With the gun in my right hand, I reached out with my left and grabbed the edge of the curtain in my fingers, then yanked them back like I’d burned myself. I felt like a horse’s ass. What was so tough about tugging a stupid bath curtain? Everything. I had the terrible feeling I’d find something I didn’t wanna find in that tub. Something I didn’t wanna see.

Okay, Quick, I told myself, you can do it. Think of Woody. I did. There he was probably in some miserable foxhole, tired and dirty, and here I was in an apartment bathroom, able-bodied, clean, water spraying on me from the sink, afraid to open a moldy old curtain. I wished I’d joined the Wacs.

Enough. Do it. I reached out again and this time I held on and pulled back the curtain, exposing the tub. And what was in it. I couldn’t stop myself. I gasped.

He was dead. That was clear. He was in his drawers. His trousers, shirt, and undershirt were missing. He was stuffed into the tub so that his legs bent at the knees. One side of his head, the side I could see, was smashed in and covered with blood. I couldn’t get a look at his face, but it didn’t matter. I was sure I didn’t know this stiff, although I had to assume he was Warner Garfield cause he was lying in Garfield’s tub. But it coulda been someone else. A guest. A neighbor. A salesman who hawked at the wrong door. No telling.

When I looked more carefully, I saw two bullet holes in his chest.

I had to call the cops. I left the bathroom and walked still farther down the hall to the living room. On a table next to a broken-down sofa was a phone. I picked up the receiver and dialed zero.

“Operator.”

“I wanna report a murder.”

“Where are you located?”

“Nine ninety-one Forty-third Street. Apartment 402.”

“I’ll connect you with the precinct in that area.”

The desk sergeant took the details and told me to sit tight, the cops were on their way.

I needed a break from Garfield’s digs, so I stood outside in the hall, lit up, and took a big drag filling my lungs, my nose, my mouth with the smell and taste of tobacco. I knew the guy in the tub hadn’t been there long cause the smell woulda driven me out sooner.

You don’t bleed after yer dead. Woody had told me that. So I figured Tub Man was kaput from the head injury by the time the killer pumped lead into him.

I hadn’t looked around the place cause I didn’t want to disturb anything or spread my fingerprints around. I knew they were on every door I touched, but that was about it.

I heard them coming like a herd of buffalo. It sounded like the whole police force as they ran up the stairs. But it was only four cops with drawn guns.

And they were all pointed at me.

“Hey,” I said, holding my hands up in front of my face like they could shield me.

“Who are you?”

“I called this in.”

“Yeah? Where’s the victim?”

“In the bathroom down the hall. In the tub.”

“Drownin?”

“No.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “Webb, you stay with her for now.”

The other two followed him.

“Name?” Webb asked.

“Faye Quick.”

“Ya know the victim?”

“No.”

“How’d ya happen to be in his bathroom?”

I knew this was just the first of many times I’d have to answer this and the first of many times I’d get the look or the laugh.

“I’m a private detective.”

Webb laughed.

TWENTY-SIX

Detective Lake didn’t laugh. He was tall and thin and wore his trilby toward the back of his head. He had a long face with deep-set brown blinkers and a nice nose and mouth. I liked the way he looked.

I figured he was about thirty. He wore a gray suit, and a short chain dipped into the small pocket of his vest where he kept his watch. His hands were in his trouser pockets as he paced back and forth on the worn rug in Garfield’s apartment.