Give the Boys a Great Big Hand Page 11

  “I might do that,” Hawes said. “Who was this person who called Barbara a lot?”

  “Oh, what was his name? He sounded like a Russian or something. Just a minute,” she said, “I’ll think of it.” She opened a drawer, took a black purse from it, and hastily filled it with lipstick, mascara, change, and a small woman’s wallet. “There, that’s that,” she said. “Do I have the address? Yes.” She paused. “Androvich, that was the name. Karl Androvich. A sailor or something. Look, Cotton, will you call me sometime? You’re not married or anything, are you?”

  “No. Did you say Androvich?”

  “Yes. Karl Androvich. Will you call me? I think it might be fun. I’m not always in such a crazy rush.”

  “Well, sure, but—”

  “Come on, I’ve got to go. You can stay if you want to, just slam the door on the way out, it locks itself.”

  “No, I’ll come with you.”

  “Are you going uptown?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, we can share a cab. Come on, hurry. Would you like to come to the sitting? No, don’t, I’ll get self-conscious. Come on, come on. Slam the door! Slam the door, Cotton!”

  He slammed the door.

  “I’m wearing this black stuff that’s supposed to be imported from France. The bra is practically nonexistent. These pictures ought to—”

  “When did Androvich last call her?” Hawes asked.

  “A few days before she took off,” Marla said. “There’s a cab. Can you whistle?”

  “Yes, sure, but—”

  “Whistle!”

  Hawes whistled. They got into the cab together.

  “Oh, where the hell did I put that address?” Marla said. “Just a minute,” she told the cabbie. “Start driving uptown on Hall, I’ll have the address for you in a minute. Do you think she ran off with Androvich? Is that possible, Cotton?”

  “I doubt it. Androvich is home. Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to talk to Androvich.”

  “Here’s the address,” Marla said to the cabbie, “695 Hall Avenue. Would you hurry, please? I’m terribly late.”

  “Lady,” the cabbie answered. “I have never carried a passenger in this vehicle who wasn’t terribly late.”

  At the squadroom, Hawes told Carella, “I found out the drummer’s name.”

  “So did I. I got Chambers’s number from the union, and I called him. Drummer’s name is Mike Chirapadano. I called the union back and got an address and telephone number for him, too.”

  “Call him yet?” Hawes asked.

  “Yes. No answer. I’d like to stop by there later this afternoon. Have you had lunch yet?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s.”

  “Okay. We’ve got another stop to make, too.”

  “Where?”

  “Androvich.”

  “What for? Lover Boy is back, isn’t he?”

  “Sure. But Bubbles’s roommate told me Androvich was in the habit of calling her.”

  “The roommate?”

  “No. Bubbles.”

  “Androvich? Androvich was calling Bubbles Caesar?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So he’s back in it again, huh?”

  “It looks that way. He called her a few days before she vanished, Steve.”

  “Mmm. So what does that mean?”

  “He’s the only guy who would know, it seems to me.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Lunch first, then Chirapadano—Jesus, that is a tongue twister—and then our amorous sailor friend. Cotton, there are times when I get very very weary.”

  “Have you ever tried running a footrace with a stripper?” Hawes asked.

  Mike Chirapadano lived in a furnished room on North Sixth. He was not in when the detectives dropped by, and his landlady told them he had not been around for the past month.

  The landlady was a thin bird of a woman in a flowered housedress. She kept dusting the hallway while they spoke to her.

  “He owes me almost two months’ rent,” she said. “Is he in some trouble?”

  “When did you last see him, Mrs. Marsten?” Hawes asked.

  “In Feb-uary,” she answered. “He owes me for Feb-uary, and he also owes me for March, if he’s still living here. The way it looks to me, he ain’t living here no more. Don’t it look that way to you?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I wonder if we could take a look at his room.”

  “Sure. Don’t make no nevermind to me. What’s he done? He a dope fiend? All these musicians are dope fiends, you know.”

  “Is that right?” Carella asked as they walked upstairs.

  “Sure. Main-liners. That means they shoot it right into their veins.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Sure. It’s poison, you know. That heroin they shoot into their veins. That stuff. It’s poison. His room is on the third floor. I was up there cleaning only yesterday.”

  “Is his stuff still up there?”

  “Yep, his clothes and his drums, too. Now why would a man take off like that and leave his belongs behind? He must be a dope fiend is the only way I can figure it. Here, it’s down the end of the hall. What did you say he done?”

  “Would you know exactly when in February he left, Mrs. Marsten?”

  “I would know exactly to the day,” the landlady said, but she did not offer the information.

  “Well, when?” Hawes asked.

  “February twelfth. It was the day before Friday the thirteenth, and that’s how I remember. Friday the thirteenth, that’s a hoodoo day if ever there was one. Here’s his room. Just a second now, while I unlock the door.”

  She took a key from the pocket of her dress and fitted it into the keyhole. “There’s something wrong with this lock; I have to get it fixed. There, that does it.” She threw open the door. “Spic and span; I just cleaned it yesterday. Even picked up his socks and underwear from all over the floor. One thing I can’t stand it’s a sloppy-looking room.”

  They went into the room together.

  “There’s his drums over there by the window. The big one is the bass drum, and that round black case is what they call the snare. The other thing there is the high hat. All his clothes is still in the closet and his shaving stuff is in the bathroom, just the way he left them. I can’t figure it, can you? What’d you say it was that he done?”

  “Did you see him when he left, Mrs. Marsten?”

  “No.”

  “How old a man is he?”

  “He’s just a young fellow, it’s a shame the way these young fellows get to be main-liners and dope fiends, shooting all that there heroin poison into their systems.”

  “How young, Mrs. Marten?”

  “Twenty-four, twenty-five, no older than that.”

  “A big man?”

  “More than six feet, I guess.”

  “Big hands?”

  “What?”

  “His hands. Were they big, did you notice?”

  “I never noticed. Who looks at a man’s hands?”

  “Well, some women do,” Carella said.

  “All I know is he owes me almost two months’ rent,” Mrs. Marsten said, shrugging.

  “Would you know whether or not he had a lot of girl friends, Mrs. Marsten? Did he ever bring a girl here?”

  “Not to my house,” the landlady said. “Not to my house, mister! I don’t allow any of that kind of stuff here. No, sir. If he had girl friends, he wasn’t fooling around with them under my roof. I keep a clean house. Both the rooms and the roomers.”

  “I see,” Carella said. “You mind if we look around a little?”

  “Go right ahead. Call me when you’re done, and I’ll lock the room. Don’t make a mess. I just cleaned it yesterday.”

  She went out. Carella and Hawes stared at each other.

  “Do you suppose they went to Kansas City, maybe?” Hawes asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m beginning to wish both of them went to hell. Le
t’s shake down the room. Maybe he left a clue.”

  He hadn’t.

  Karl Androvich was a mustached giant who could have been a breathing endorsement for Marlboro cigarettes. He sat in a T-shirt at the kitchen table, his muscles bulging bronze against the clean white, the tattoo showing on his left biceps, “Meg” in a heart. His hair was a reddish brown, and his mustache was a curious mixture of red, brown, and blond hairs, a carefully trimmed, very elegant mustache that—reflecting its owner’s pride—was constantly touched by Androvich during the course of the conversation. His hands were immense. Every time they moved up to stroke the mustache, Carella flinched as if he were about to be hit. Meg Androvich hovered about the kitchen, preparing dinner, her ears glued to the conversation.

  “There are a few things we’d like to know, Mr. Androvich,” Carella said.

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “To begin with, where were you between February fourteenth and Monday when you came back to this house?”

  “That’s my business,” Androvich said. “Next question.”

  Carella was silent for a moment.

  “Are you going to answer our questions here, Mr. Androvich, or shall we go up to the squadroom where you might become a little more talkative?”

  “You going to use a rubber hose on me? Man, I’ve been worked over with a hose before. You don’t scare me.”

  “You going to tell us where you were?”

  “I told you that’s my business.”

  “Okay, get dressed.”

  “What the hell for? You can’t arrest me without a charge.”

  “I’ve got a whole bagful of charges. You’re withholding information from the police. You’re an accessory before a murder. You’re—”

  “A what? A murder? Are you out of your bloody mind?”

  “Get dressed Androvich. I don’t want to play around.”

  “Okay,” Androvich said angrily. “I was on the town.”

  “On the town where?”

  “Everywhere. Bars. I was drinking.”

  “Why?”

  “I felt like it.”

  “Did you know your wife had reported you missing?”

  “No. How the hell was I supposed to have known that?”

  “Why didn’t you call her?”

  “What are you, a marriage counselor? I didn’t feel like calling her, okay?”

  “He didn’t have to call me if he didn’t feel like it,” Meg said from the stove. “He’s home now. Why don’t you all leave him alone?”

  “Keep out of this, Meg,” Androvich warned.

  “Which bars did you go to?” Hawes asked.

  “I went all over the city. I don’t remember the names of the bars.”

  “Did you go to a place called The King and Queen?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you didn’t remember the names.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then how do you know you didn’t go to The King and Queen?”

  “It doesn’t sound familiar.” A slight tic had begun in Androvich’s left eye.

  “Does the name Bubbles Caesar sound familiar?”

  “No.”

  “Or Barbara Cesare?”

  “No,” Androvich answered, the muscle of his eye jerking.

  “How about Marla Phillips?”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “How about this phone number, Androvich? Sperling 7-0200. Mean anything to you?”

  “No.” The eye muscle was twitching wildly now.

  “Mrs. Androvich,” Carella said, “I think you’d better leave the room.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re about to pull out a few skeletons. Go on in the other room.”

  “My wife can hear anything you’ve got to say,” Androvich said.

  “Okay. Sperling 7-0200 is the telephone number of three girls who share an apartment. One of them is named—”

  “Go on in the other room, M-M-Meg,” Androvich said.

  “I want to stay here.”

  “Do what I t-t-tell you to do.”

  “Why is he asking you about that phone number? What have you got to do with those three—?”

  “G-G-Get the hell in the other room, Meg, before I slap you silly. Now do what I say!”

  Meg Androvich stared at her husband sullenly, and then went out of the kitchen.

  “Damn S-S-S-Southern t-t-trash,” Androvich muttered under his breath, the stammering more marked now, the tic beating at the corner of his eye.

  “You ready to tell us a few things, Androvich?”

  “Okay. I knew her.”

  “Bubbles?”

  “Bubbles.”

  “How well did you know her?”

  “Very well.”

  “How well is that, Androvich?”

  “You want a d-d-diagram?”

  “If you’ve got one.”

  “We were making it together. Okay?”

  “Okay. When did you last see her?”

  “February twelfth.”

  “You remember the date pretty easily.”

  “I ought to.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I…look, what the hell d-d-difference does all this make? The last time I saw her was on the t-t-twelfth. Last month. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “You sure you haven’t been with her all this time?”

  “I’m sure. Man, I wish I had been with her. I was supposed—” Androvich cut himself off.

  “Supposed to do what?” Hawes asked.

  “N-N-Nothing.”

  “You called her on the twelfth after your ship docked, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you saw her afterwards?”

  “Yes, but only for about a half-hour or so.”

  “That morning?”

  “No. It was in the afternoon.”

  “Where’d you see her?”

  “At her p-p-p-place.”

  “Was anybody else there? Either of her roommates?”

  “No. I never met her roommates.”

  “But you spoke to them on the telephone?”

  “Yeah. I spoke to one of them.”

  “Marla Phillips?”

  “I d-d-don’t know which one it was.”

  “Did you speak to the roommate on the morning of the twelfth?”

  “Yeah. I spoke to her, and then she called B-B-Bubbles to the phone.”

  “And then you went to the apartment that afternoon, right?”

  “Right. For a half-hour.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then I left. One of the r-r-r-roommates was supposed to be coming back. That d-d-damn place is like the middle of Main Street.”

  “And you haven’t seen her since that afternoon?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Have you tried to contact her?”

  Androvich hesitated. Then he said, “No.”

  “How come?”

  “I just haven’t. I figure she must have gone back to Kansas City.”

  “What makes you figure that?”

  “I just figure. She isn’t around, is she?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Huh?”

  “If you haven’t tried contacting her, how do you know she isn’t around?”

  “Well, m-m-maybe I did try to reach her once or twice.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t remember. During the past few weeks.”

  “And you couldn’t reach her?”

  “No.”

  “Who did you reach?”

  “The g-g-goddamn answering service.”

  “Now, let’s go back a little, Androvich. You said you visited Miss Caesar in her apartment on the afternoon of the twelfth. All right, why?”

  “I wanted to talk to her.”

  “What about?”

  “Various things.”

  “Like what? Come on, Androvich, let�
��s stop the teeth-pulling!”

  “What d-d-difference does it make to you guys?”

  “It may make a lot of difference. Miss Caesar has disappeared. We’re trying to find her.”

  “You’re telling me she’s disappeared! Boy, has she disappeared! Well, I d-d-don’t know where she is. If I did know—” Again, he cut himself off.

  “If you did know, then what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What did you talk about that afternoon?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You spent a half-hour talking about nothing, is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you go to bed with her that afternoon?”

  “No. I told you her r-r-roommate was expected back.”

  “So you just sat and looked at each other, right?”

  “More or less.”

  “Get dressed, Androvich. We’re going to have to take a little ride.”

  “Ride, my ass! I don’t know anything about where she is, dammit! If I knew, do you think I’d—”

  “What? Finish it, Androvich! Say what you’ve got to say!”

  “Do you think I’d be here? Do you think I’d be playing hubby and wifey with that mealy-mouthed hunk of Southern garbage? Do you think I’d be listening to this molasses dribble day in and day out? Kahl, honeh, cain’t we-all go back t’Atlanta, honeh? Cain’t we, Kahl? Do you think I’d be here listening to that crap if I knew where Bubbles was?”

  “What would you be doing, Androvich?”

  “I’d be with her, goddamnit! Where do you think I spent the last month?”

  “Where?”

  “Looking for her. Searching this city, every c-c-corner of it. Do you know how big this city is?”

  “We’ve got some idea.”

  “Okay, I p-p-picked through it like somebody looking through a scalp for lice. And I didn’t find her. And if I couldn’t find her, she isn’t here, believe me, because I covered every place, every place. I went to places you guys have never even heard of, l-l-looking for that broad. She’s gone.”

  “She was that important to you, huh?”

  “Yeah, she was that important to me.”

  Androvich fell silent. Carella stared at him.

  “What did you talk about that afternoon, Karl?” he asked gently.