So Nude, So Dead Page 5

  He stopped directly in front of the bouncer. The man had a wide face with heavy black eyebrows and cauliflower ears. His nose had been broken more than once.

  Ray tried to look bored as he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He flipped it open to his driver’s license, closed it again before the bouncer took a good look.

  “Police,” he said tonelessly. “Dale Kramer in there?”

  The bouncer licked his lips, then wiped away the wetness with the back of his hand. “He ain’t gonna like you, Mac.”

  “I’m not interested in his likes or dislikes,” Ray said coldly, his heart hammering in his chest. “His wife was murdered. I want to ask him a few questions.”

  The bouncer swung his leg over the chair, stood up, his shoulders wide against the door. “You and every other cop in New York,” he said. He reached behind him, twisted the door knob, flicked open the door with a hair-covered hand. “He’s the short one in the blue jacket.”

  “Thanks,” Ray said. He stepped through the door, started walking quickly toward the bandstand. It had been too easy, too easy. There’d been nothing to worry about at all. He hadn’t even needed the fortifying drink, and he began to regret the money he had paid for it, money that could have gone toward another shot. He heard the door close behind him, glanced over his shoulder to make sure the gorilla was on the other side of it. He was.

  The boys in the band were lounging around the room, and Dale Kramer was penciling some marks onto a music sheet when Ray came up to him.

  “Mr. Kramer?”

  Kramer looked up. He was thin-faced, with high, protruding cheekbones and arching eyebrows. His eyes were green, and they went well with his slightly curving, feminine nose. A pencil-line mustache was sketched in over his upper lip, and his mouth opened now in surprise.

  “Yes?” His voice was wary. He put the pencil down on the sheet, ran his hand over his thinning, black hair.

  “Police,” Ray said, giving the word as much conviction as he could.

  Kramer screwed up his face. “Aren’t you boys working overtime? You’re the third one today. First there was Monaghan, and then—I forget his name. Big beefy guy with red hair.” He lifted his eyebrows inquiringly. “Know who I mean?”

  “Sure,” Ray lied. “I won’t take up much of your time, Mr. Kramer.”

  “That’s what the other two said.” He stood up, put his foot on the seat of the chair, carefully preserving the crease in his gabardine slacks. He rested his arms on the raised knee, hunched slightly forward. “All right, fire away,” he said.

  “I understand your wife was a singer,” Ray said, not knowing exactly where to start.

  “That’s right, Mr.— I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “David. Lieutenant David.”

  “Mmmm. Yes, my wife was a singer.”

  “How come she wasn’t singing with your band?”

  “You all ask the same questions, don’t you? What do you do, compare notes afterward?”

  Ray smiled. “Sometimes.” This was going fine. He was doing all right. He was beginning to feel like a cop.

  “My wife used to sing with the combo, Lieutenant. In fact, she was on the band until a few months ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “That’s right. She left to join the Scat Lewis combo. You know Scat Lewis?”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Ray said.

  “My wife was singing with him up until her death. He’s playing at the Ace High, if you’d like to check.”

  “Don’t you have a singer?” Ray asked. His eyes traveled over the men in the room.

  “Sure. Barbara Cole.” Kramer grimaced. “It gets complicated about here. Babs used to sing with Scat Lewis. She and Eileen arranged the switch. I got Babs, and Scat got Eileen, and everybody was happy.”

  “I see.” Ray found his mind beginning to wander. He clamped his jaws together. He knew he’d be thinking of a shot again, and he wanted to keep that off his mind. “How come your wife left the band? Isn’t that a little odd?”

  “Not at all. She wanted to sing with Scat, and Babs wanted to sing with us. As simple as all that.”

  “Where’s your singer now?”

  “Never rehearses with the band,” Kramer said. “You familiar at all with music?”

  “No,” Ray lied.

  “Well, she’s a bop singer, strictly ad lib. We give her a background, and she plays with it, understand? It comes out different every time. She improvises, you see. It wouldn’t pay to have her at rehearsals.”

  “I see.” A muscular spasm twitched across Ray’s face, and Kramer stared at him curiously.

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’ve got a bad tic there, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes. Yes, I have.” Ray attempted a smile, but it froze on his face. A new spasm contorted his jaw muscles, and he fought for control of his crumbling face.

  “Had a tenor man with a tic like that once,” Kramer said. His voice was conversational, but his eyes were narrow, two green slashes above his high cheekbones.

  “That right?” Ray asked. The spasm had ended, but his hands were beginning to tremble.

  “Yeah.” Kramer paused, studied Ray’s face. “You’re young for a lieutenant, aren’t you?”

  “Well—”

  “What’d you say your name was, Lieutenant?”

  Ray was beginning to sweat. He felt the cold dampness seep into his clothes. He wanted to get. out of there. Fast. “Davis,” he answered. “Lieutenant Da—”

  Kramer was on his feet, his head reaching to Ray’s shoulder. “I could have sworn you said David a minute ago.”

  “Davis,” Ray repeated, his face a ghastly white. “I’ve got to go now. Thanks for your help.” He turned, started for the door.

  “Just a second,” Kramer said.

  The old tight knot reached into Ray’s stomach. He quickened his steps. Behind him, he heard Kramer move forward a few paces, heard the hushed whispers of the musicians, a clarinet lazily sliding up a C scale.

  “Bruno!” Kramer shouted.

  Ray began to run. The door swung open as he reached for the knob, and the bouncer blocked the opening with his burly frame.

  “Stop him, Bruno,” Kramer bellowed.

  Ray ducked his head, pitched his shoulder against Bruno’s chest. The bouncer threw up his hands too late. Ray felt the solid smash of flesh against flesh, and then Bruno was stumbling backward, fighting for his balance. He lost his footing, tumbled heavily to the floor as Ray ran past.

  Bruno cursed loudly, tried to scramble to his feet. Ray heard Kramer screeching, heard the bartender shout something as his feet took him to the exit door.

  He was running again, running, running. And the pain was with him once more, the pain that knifed his insides, twisting, gouging. He reached the door, shoved aside some people entering the club, darted out to the sidewalk and continued to run.

  Chapter Five

  He stopped running somewhere along Sixth Avenue. A clock in a barbershop told him it was ten minutes to five. He walked up a few doors, stopped in the entrance of an art supply shop, pretended to be looking at the window display while he caught his breath.

  Ten minutes to five. Christ, when had the last fix been? He tried to count back over the hours, succeeded only in visualizing a full-bodied blonde with a tin of heroin in her hands.

  He’d have to contact Louie. Cops or no cops, he couldn’t go on like this any longer. Quickly, he walked to a United Cigar store on the corner, stepped into a phone booth, and dialed Louie’s number.

  He let the phone ring sixteen times, counting each ring patiently, before he finally gave up.

  He replaced the phone on the hook, sat in the booth with his hands folded in his lap. Outside the doors of the booth, outside the store, lay the city, immense and quiet in its Sunday austerity.

  Out there is the bastard, he thought. Somewhere out there.

  A consuming hatred flashed within him, and he knew he could easily strangle the son of a bitch
if he got his hands on him. But how? How do you find a murderer?

  He thought of the Ace High. Perhaps he could pick up a lead there. Or was the chance worth taking? How long would it be before Dale Kramer told the cops about the hair dye? And how soon after that would a new description of him be flashed?

  He was alone, alone against the city, alone against the cops, alone against the guy who’d torn open Eileen Chalmers’s stomach. That was the worst part, the being alone.

  Sure, feel sorry for yourself, you stupid bastard. Whose fault is it but your own? I know, he answered mentally. But—

  He caught himself abruptly. He was going psycho, having arguments with himself. He’d be talking out loud next, like a man with two heads in a heated debate.

  All right, what now? Back to the room, or over to the Ace High? He made the decision quickly, and stepped out of the booth. What the hell, he had nothing to lose, really—except his life.

  * * *

  The Ace High was a carbon copy of every other club on the street. He glanced briefly at the small dance floor, the bandstand, the scattering of tables. Then he walked directly to the bar, climbing up on a stool next to a brunette. The girl had her back to him, and she didn’t turn when he sat down. Ray signaled for the bartender.

  “Yes, sir?” He was apple-cheeked with a shock of red hair that toppled over his wide forehead.

  “Police,” Ray said. The old fear nudged him again. He looked hard at the bartender’s face, wondering if this was the same man who’d served him the night he met Eileen.

  “This place is beginning to look like the Fifth Precinct,” the bartender said. “Eileen Chalmers again?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, go ahead,” the bartender said, shrugging his massive shoulders. “I can’t understand it, though. I figured you guys had it all sewed up.”

  “Sewed up?”

  “Sure. The hophead. He’s your man, all right.”

  “Maybe not,” Ray said.

  “Well, you know your own business, I guess. But I’ve seen lots of junkies, and I wouldn’t trust any of them as far as I can throw the Empire State Build—”

  “We like to consider all the angles,” Ray interrupted. He buried his face in his hands, the hot rage at being condemned simply because he was an addict flooding over him again.

  “Tired, huh?” the bartender asked.

  Ray pulled his hands away from his face. “Yes. Yes, I—”

  “You don’t have to explain. I can imagine what a chase the junkie is leading you guys.”

  “About Eileen Chalmers—” Ray started.

  “Didn’t have an enemy in the world,” the bartender said. “Sweetest kid you’d want to know.”

  “Excuse me,” a soft voice broke in.

  Ray turned to face the warmest pair of brown eyes he’d ever seen. The girl next to him had swung around on her stool and was facing him now, her lips slightly parted, a Martini glass in one hand.

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but—” She shrugged one rounded, white shoulder expressively. Ray’s eyes fled to the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. She wore a low-cut green faille dress. Her legs were crossed, the green faille molding her hips and thighs tightly, her knees sleek in their nylons.

  “That’s all right,” he said.

  “I knew her quite well. Eileen, I mean.” Her face looked apologetic. She wore her black hair short, hugging the sides of her face, a stray ebony wisp curling beneath one ear. An eyebrow was cocked against her forehead. Her nose was straight, her eyes heavily fringed. He stared at their incredible warmth.

  “My name is Barbara Cole,” she said. “I sing with Dale Kramer. He’s her—”

  “Yes, I know. Her husband.”

  In the background, Ray heard a nickel click in the juke, heard the swish of the arm, the record dropping. There was the faint murmur of brushes against a snare, the subtle thrum of a piano, and then the soaring sweep of a full sax section.

  The girl lifted her glass and sipped slowly. She stared at Ray over the edge, leaned forward slightly. A muted trumpet joined the sax section, and she jiggled her foot in time with the music.

  “Nice,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Are policemen allowed to dance on duty?” she asked. Her eyes met Ray’s with open frankness.

  “Well—”

  She swung her legs around, reached for the floor with one foot. The dress slid up over her knee as she rose. “I think they are,” she said.

  She took his hand, and he climbed down from the stool. When they reached the postage-stamp dance floor, the record stopped. Ray turned his head, saw a short, fat man put another nickel in the machine. The music started again, and he took her in his arms. She was warm; warm and alive. He held the small of her back with his right hand, and he could feel the flesh beneath her dress.

  She moved closer, pressing tight against him. He felt the swell of her breasts against him, the solidity of her thighs, the length of her legs close to his.

  Her mouth was below his ear, and when she spoke, her voice rushed against his neck in breathless spurts.

  “I arranged for Eileen to come on the Scat Lewis combo,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. We sort of switched places.”

  “I see.”

  Her fingers were widespread on the back of his neck, and they began to move idly now.

  “You dance nicely, policeman.”

  “Thank you.”

  She pressed closer to him. They danced silently for a few moments, and then she whispered, “I know a better dance floor.”

  He didn’t answer. He listened to the music, and he smelled her hair, and he thought of Eileen. He thought of Eileen and the tin of heroin, and a new spasm of longing for the drug zigzagged through his body.

  “Let’s get out of here, policeman,” she whispered.

  * * *

  The better dance floor turned out to be Barbara Cole’s apartment in the Lower Eighties on Park Avenue.

  It was expensive, all right. He could tell that at a glance. The floor was covered with a thick rug that made him want to take off his shoes and stretch his toes. A handsome sectional sofa faced a bar. A quick look at the labels on the bottles substantiated the money-smell about the whole place. Ray idly wondered who was paying for this elaborate shack.

  “Not much,” the girl said, “but it’s home.” She smiled at Ray, took off her short fur jacket and flipped it over the arm of an easy chair. “Like it?” she asked.

  “Very nice, Miss Cole.”

  “I think we can stop that right now,” she said, pouting prettily.

  “Barbara?” he asked, testing the name.

  “Babs will do fine, thank you.”

  “Babs then.”

  She walked to the bar. She began pouring whiskey into two water glasses.

  “You’re supposed to tell me yours now,” she said, smiling back over her shoulder,

  “Ray,” he said quickly. His eyes widened as he realized what he’d done. Suppose she’d seen his name in the paper? He watched her curving back, hoping the name hadn’t registered.

  “Ray,” she said, rolling it on her tongue, as if she were tasting fine wine. “What’s the rest?”

  “Ray Davis,” he lied.

  “Very nice. Here’s a Scotch for Ray Davis.”

  She held out the glass and he took it eagerly. Maybe this was the ticket. Maybe he could get stinking drunk and forget the other pressing desire. Substitute one stimulant for another. He remembered how he used to smirk derisively at anyone who got high on alcohol. Alcohol, that was for meatballs.

  “Let’s drink to the hophead,” she said.

  He looked at her suspiciously. “Why him?”

  “Why not? He probably needs a drink, wherever he is.”

  He needs a hell of a lot more than a drink, Ray thought.

  “Sure,” he said. “To the hophead.”

  They drank, and she put her glass down on the long co
ffee table in front of the sofa.

  “Now, what can I do for you, policeman?”

  “Well, what do you know about Eileen?” He sat on the sofa, and she sat down beside him.

  “Nice kid,” she said. “No morals, but nice.”

  “How do you know?”

  “About her morals?” Babs smiled. “She’s had a few men hanging around, and I assume she was a normal, red-blooded, American girl.”

  “With a normal, red-blooded, American husband.”

  “Dale never paid her much mind. I mean, he didn’t like her fooling around, but he never did anything about it.”

  “He may have.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He may have killed her.”

  “I doubt it. Dale wouldn’t touch a fly.” She grinned, reached over for her glass.

  “Who were these men in her life?” Ray asked.

  Babs straightened, took a pull at her drink, sighed deeply. “Well, there’s Charlie Massine. Ever hear of him?”

  “No.”

  “She saw him just about every day. He’s the drummer on Kramer’s band. Pretty good, too.”

  “Was she—”

  “Who knows? Knowing Charlie, I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment.”

  “Who else?” Ray asked.

  “Tony Sanders.”

  The name rang a familiar bell in his head. “The playboy?”

  “The very same. He’s been slumming with Eileen for quite some time now.”

  “And Kramer knew about all this?”

  “Sure.” She took another swallow. “And then there’s Scat Lewis, a very nice guy. I wouldn’t be surprised, though—”

  “Your opinion of Eileen isn’t a very high one, is it?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t disapprove at all. I’m merely trying to give you a good picture of the situation.” She paused and eyed Ray steadily. “After all, she wasn’t a particularly discriminating person. The hophead who killed her—”

  “We’re not sure of that yet,” he snapped.

  “Well, at any rate, he was a pickup. And she had no scruples as far as he was concerned.” She saw the look on his face and smiled. “You still don’t understand, policeman. I’m not very moral, either.”