Masters Of Noir Vol Iii Part 9

"About Trina Greco, Lieutenant."

"Yes?"

"She's a friend of mine."

"So?"

"Treat her nice."

"Okay. She's a friend of yours. I'll treat her nice. Now, will you please go home?"

So you go home. You're a good little boy and you've listened to Papa. You sit around like an old lady with lumbago ... but you sit. You do some home cooking, and some home eating, and some home drinking ... but you sit. You get sick and tired of sitting ... but you sit. Day melts into night, and night is getting wearisome, and you're still sitting. Finally, at twelve-thirty in the morning, Parker shows up, perspired and tired-looking.

"Hi," he said. "How you doing?"

"Been sitting. Been sitting real good. How you you doing?" doing?"

"Pretty bad."

I went to the liquor cabinet. "A bit of the potables, Lieutenant?"

"Thanks. I can use a drink."

He used a couple.

I said, "Let's get down to cases, Lieutenant."

"That's my boy. Always in there pitching."

"Cases, Lieutenant."

"Well, sir, that gun on the floor was the murder gun. And we were able to garner a gorgeous set of fingerprints off it. Only prints on it, as a matter of fact. Gun's an old one. Couldn't do any tracing from the serial number. Dead end on that phase."

"How much luck do you want, pal? Gorgeous fingerprints, you said."

"There's a catch."

"As my Greek philosopher would say-isn't there always?"

"Who's your Greek philosopher?"

"Skip it. Where's the catch?"

"Gorgeous set of prints, but they match nothing we've got on file. And don't match anything out of Washington either. Where's that leave us?"

"Way out in left field on a rainy day, and there is no ball game."

"Very aptly put, me lad. I'll have another drink."

I served him another drink. I said, "You check her friends?"

"I've got forty men working on this. We've checked everybody that's ever had the remotest connection with her. No prints fit the prints on that gun."

"You couldn't know everybody ... everybody ... that had the that had the remotest remotest connection." connection."

"We're only human, pal. We've run down every single possible lead, and we're no place. We've got fingerprints, but they match nothing. Stinks pretty good, eh, pal?"

My conscience reared up on its hind legs and pawed at me. Nickie Darrow was a careful guy and he rarely left traces of his friendships. Casually I said, "You guys got Nickie Darrow's prints on file?"

"Nickie Darrow? He got any connection with this?"

"I'm not saying he has, Lieutenant. Let's say I got a personal hate for the guy, and I'm trying to implicate him. All I'm asking-have you got his prints on file?"

"You bet we have."

"Then routine would have put him on the spot if the prints on the gun were his."

"Definitely."

"Okay, Lieutenant. Don't glare at me like that. You get anything special on that Sandra Mantell?"

"Nothing, except she was a looker with a real upholstered torso. Knew a lot of the best people, and a lot of the worst. A burlesque dancer, and a top-notcher. Used to live in New York, then moved to Jersey when she got work permanent in Union City. Played in New York though, and played plenty. There's a lot we don't know about her, that's for sure, and there's a lot of people that knew her that we don't know a thing about." He stood up and sighed. "But we keep plugging. We're cops and we keep plugging. We're not brilliant private eyes that sneak around, and fast-talk all the girls, and slug a few people, and come up with all the right answers. We're only cops, and we plug, and a good deal of the time we solve our cases. Without fanfare, and without getting paid by publishers and TV sponsors to tell our stories. Good night, sonny. I'm tired. I'm going to sleep. You ought to do the same."

You close the door behind him and you hit the horn. You dial the Club Trippa, Club Trippa, and you ask for Nick Darrow, and they ask who's calling, and you tell them, and you get the same old answer: not in. This time you leave a message. You say that Sandra Mantell has been murdered, and that you've been investigating it, and that you left out the name of Nickie Darrow when you made your report to the police. You say you'll be home the rest of the night and you give them your phone number. Then you hang up and make yourself some frozen blintzes out of the freezer, with sugar and sour cream, a dish you learned from one of Lindy's chefs, and you're in the midst of enjoying it, when the phone tinkles, and guess who ... ? and you ask for Nick Darrow, and they ask who's calling, and you tell them, and you get the same old answer: not in. This time you leave a message. You say that Sandra Mantell has been murdered, and that you've been investigating it, and that you left out the name of Nickie Darrow when you made your report to the police. You say you'll be home the rest of the night and you give them your phone number. Then you hang up and make yourself some frozen blintzes out of the freezer, with sugar and sour cream, a dish you learned from one of Lindy's chefs, and you're in the midst of enjoying it, when the phone tinkles, and guess who ... ?

Nickie Darrow's voice, over the phone, was smoother than my sour cream. "How are you, Pete? Where you been keeping yourself? My club too lowdown for a high-hat guy like yourself?"

"Been busy, Nickie. Haven't had time for night clubs. Haven't even had time to call you on the phone, a nice old friend like you."

"You really ought to call sometime."

"Yeah, I really ought."

"Why don't you drop in tonight, Pete? You free tonight?"

"Matter of fact, I am. It's a good night for slumming. Thanks for the invitation, Nickie."

"Come up to the office, Pete. Say ... two o'clock, eh? Love to see you. How's two o'clock? I'll clear the decks for you, pal."

"Two o'clock. That's fine."

"See you, pal."

I showered and dressed and looked at the gun and holster and decided to leave them behind. You could get killed like that, but Nickie wasn't one to molest people, not when he's invited them. The people might leave word as to where they were going and then Nickie would be involved, and Nickie was averse to being involved. In anything. Nickie had said two o'clock, so you were there at one-thirty, just for the h.e.l.l of it.

The word was in again. In reverse.

The bartender winked and waved and said, "Long time no see."

The bouncer with the belly said, "How are you, Mr. Chambers?"

I patted the belly and I said, "What the h.e.l.l. Business is business. No hard feelings?"

"Not me, Mr. Chambers. I work for a living. I dish it out, and I take it. I got no complaints. How's for a handshake?"

"Why not, pal?"

We shook and he squeezed my hand and then he said softly, "Tell you this, pal, off the record. When I got business, I bring it to you. And so do my friends. You're a quick one, and I like a quick one. And you don't take no guff, and I like a guy don't take no guff."

"Thanks, sweetie."

He grinned a grin that was more gum than teeth. "Don't mention it, sweetie."

I went upstairs. Bonnie Laurie was on again and the customers' eyes were riveted. I repeated my dimness-and-periphery bit, and I opened the door to Nickie Darrow's office. I was early. Nickie Darrow wasn't there. But the room wasn't empty. Aunt Ethel came toward me, swaying slightly. Ethel Fleetwood, in a tight black off-the-shoulder gown that emphasized every curve and protuberance of her hour-gla.s.s figure, and let me state, once and for all, Aunt Ethel had what it takes, and more. Haul off that Bonnie Laurie, haul her off that floor, and subst.i.tute Aunt Ethel, and the customers' eyes would remain just as riveted. Aunt Ethel leaned on me, and I enjoyed every inch of her. She said, "You too? I might have known."

"Living it up, Aunt Ethel?"

"That Nick Darrow. He's a terrible man. No compa.s.sion, no soul, nothing. Want to kiss me now, honey? You're the cutest."

"Take a rain-check, Auntie-love."

"I'm in the mood." She wasn't drunk, but her eyes had more glare than a windshield on a desert.

Then the door opened and Nick Darrow came in. Quietly he said, "What the h.e.l.l is going on here?"

Nick Darrow always spoke quietly. He was, as always, perfectly dressed. He was tall and lean and broad-shouldered. His hair was black, faintly tinged with grey at the temples. He had blue eyes rimmed within long black lashes. He was always serene, always composed, but always, a muscle in his jaw kept jumping. He said, "Mrs. Fleetwood, I've told you time and again-stay out of here."

"I'm with a party, dearie, outside."

"Then stay with your party."

"Nickie dear, all I want is a small favor."

"No favors from me, Mrs. Fleetwood. Now ... out. Or I'll have you thrown out."

I clucked my tongue at him. "Is that the way to talk to a lady, Nickie dear?"

"Look, Petie dear. You keep your nose out of my affairs." He went to her and took her arm. "Out. You're a gorgeous dame, but out. Go join your party."

"Will you help me, Nickie?"

"You mean you can't find your way?"

"That's not what I mean, Nickie."

His voice roughened. "Out, Mrs. Fleetwood." He opened the door, gently shoved her through, closed the door, and locked it. Then he turned to me. "You know what she wants?"

"I've got my figure."

"Horse. Nose-candy. Heroin."

"Well, for Horse, she's come to the horse's mouth."

"Very funny, and very stupid. I run a night club here, period. Sit down, eyeball. We got talking to do."

I sat.

He sat.

He said, "Where's it tickling you, pal?"

"That kind of tickling, Nickie, I almost died died laughing." laughing."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He sounded convincing. I said, "You on my back, Nickie?"

"Like how?"

"Somebody's been blowing spitb.a.l.l.s at me, Nickie. Any idea who?"

"No. Period."

"Know a girl by name Trina Greco?"

"I've heard the name."

"Got any interest?"

"I've never even seen her."

"Has Johnny Hays ever seen her?"

"Yes. He's seen her."

"It's beginning to add up, Nickie."

"What's beginning to add up?" beginning to add up?"

"Listen. Your Johnny b.u.t.tonholed me a time back, while I was out with this Greco, and he told me to lay off that, and he told it to me-as a message from you."

Darrow stood up and walked. "That ain't the first time, the little punk. When he wants to scare a guy off ... on his personal business ... he uses my name. This on the level?"

"You ever know me not to be?"

"Okay. Thanks. That little punk is scratched from here on in. I'll put him to work in a tank town. Don't worry no more about Johnny Hays."

"I never was worried about Johnny Hays. I was worried about you. That boy wouldn't do any serious shooting unless you knew about it, would he, Nickie?"