So Nude, So Dead Read online

  He stood up. “Well—”

  “Leaving so soon?” She rose with him, put one hand on his arm.

  He thought of the pickup again, of Eileen’s hotel room, of the heroin. He fought the desire that was climbing up into his throat, the need for the drug.

  She moved close to him, leaning backward slightly.

  “Let’s dance some more, policeman.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  Her eyes met his, held them in a solid grip. Her fingers tightened on his arms.

  “Because I like the way you tremble when you dance.”

  “Trem—” He realized then that she’d mistaken his need for the drug as—

  “Yes,” she said softly. Her hands moved up behind his neck. “You tremble beautifully.”

  He found her lips against his, warm and moist. She dropped her hands to the small of his back, pulled him forward.

  But he wasn’t with it. He wasn’t with it, and he knew he wouldn’t be with it unless he could get a fix. Or unless he knew there would be a fix waiting when this was all over.

  “Look,” he said, moving his mouth away from hers. Her eyes had become smoky, and her heavy lashes almost touched now. She stared up at him in confusion. “This is no good,” he said softly.

  She tried to move close again, but he held her away. How many times, he wondered, had he left Jeannie while he’d gone in search of a needle? Poor kid, what he’d put her through.

  He shook his head. “It’s just no good,” he said.

  Her voice was husky when she answered. “I thought it was pretty damn good, myself.”

  “I mean—” he fumbled for an excuse. “I’ve got to be back at the station in ten minutes.”

  “Oh!” She smiled and moved up against him again. “For a minute there, I thought I was slipping.”

  She brought his mouth down against hers and her lips moved expertly. And then she pulled away, held him at arm’s length, and looked up into his eyes.

  “I just wanted to make sure you’d be back, policeman.” She turned him around and started him for the door.

  “Now go punch your clock.”

  Chapter Six

  Massine, Alfonso

  Massine, Alfred

  Massine, Bartholomew

  Massine, Carol

  Massine, Charles

  He fumbled in his jacket pocket for a pencil, annoyed when he could find none. He glanced over toward the drug counter, saw that the clerk was busy, and hastily ripped the page from the phone book. He left the drugstore, paused outside to look at the address again. He folded the page and stuffed it into his side pocket. The large clock outside the jeweler’s across the street said six-eighteen.

  * * *

  Ray knocked on the door and waited.

  He was getting nervous again. He didn’t like this kind of work. It made him sweat. And he didn’t like the idea of being hunted. He’d passed three cops on the way to Charlie Massine’s apartment, and each time his spine had curled up into his skull.

  Impatiently, he knocked again.

  “Hey, you want to break the door down?” The voice was deep and harsh. Ray took a deep breath as he heard heavy footsteps approaching the door. He steadied his hands by putting them into his pockets, then hastily withdrew them when the door began to open.

  It opened wide, revealing a man almost as tall as Ray, with broad shoulders that tapered sharply to a narrow waist. He was wearing an undershirt and the curly black hair on his chest showed dark against the white of the cotton. He was clean-shaven, but there was a blue cast to his chin and cheeks. He eyed Ray with open distaste, studying his features.

  “What college are you working your way through?” he asked. The irritated tone was still in his voice.

  “I want to ask a few questions about Eileen Chalmers,” Ray said.

  Massine’s face remained expressionless. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  A flicker of recognition sparked in Massine’s eyes. “Hey! You’re the guy who broke up the rehearsal this after—”

  Ray shoved his way into the room, slammed the door shut behind him. “That’s right,” he said. He was amazed by his own calmness. Maybe he’d licked the desire part. Maybe he wouldn’t need it again for a while.

  Massine walked over to a table, picked up a package of cigarettes. He speared one and hung it on his lower lip. Calmly, he lighted a match and held it to the tip.

  “So now you’re in,” he said, blowing out smoke. “So now what?”

  “What do you know about Eileen Chalmers?”

  “Nothing.”

  Ray stepped closer to Massine. The drummer blew out more smoke. “Barbara Cole says you knew her.”

  Massine took a deep drag. “Oh sure, I knew her.”

  “Well, what about her?”

  “I don’t have to tell you nothing, bud. There’s probably a million cops on your tail right now. All I have to do—”

  Ray’s voice was louder now. “Don’t give me any crap, Massine. I’d break you in two before you picked up the phone. What do you know about Eileen?”

  “You scare me, hophead.”

  “Don’t get me sore, Massine.”

  The drummer recognized the threatening tone in Ray’s voice. His hand paused on his cigarette, then he slowly removed it from his mouth. “I knew her on Kramer’s band,” he said. “She was Kramer’s wife. That’s all.” He paused, saw that Ray was waiting for more. “What the hell do you want? I just knew her to say hello.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Look, hophead, I told you I don’t have to—”

  “You’re lying, you son of a bitch. You saw Eileen every day.”

  “Sure, while she was on the band. Hell, I—”

  “Even after she left the band. Even after she joined up with Scat Lewis. You saw her every day. Why?”

  “I didn’t see—”

  Ray reached out suddenly, wrapped his massive fist in Massine’s undershirt. He felt the give of the cotton as he yanked the drummer forward.

  “Start talking, Massine.”

  “I ain’t got nothing to—”

  Ray’s hand flicked out, slapping Massine across the cheek backhanded. “Talk!”

  “You wanna play rough, hophead, I can play just as—”

  The hand lashed out again, harder this time. Massine’s head snapped back, and his lips tightened over his teeth. “Look, you bastard,” Ray said. “I’m getting sick and tired of being the fall guy, understand? I want to know what you and Eileen did every day, and I want to know fast. I’m an impatient man, so talk. Talk now!”

  “Make me, you—”

  Ray bunched his fist and threw it, all in one liquid motion. He felt his knuckles collide with Massine’s cheekbone, saw the red gash appear magically on the drummer’s skin. Massine drew back his head, ready to spit, and Ray gave it to him again, hard, square in the mouth this time. The blood splashed over his knuckles. Massine’s lip split open like a punctured balloon. The blood ran over his teeth, and spilled down onto his chin.

  “You ready, Massine?” Ray drew back his fist again.

  “I only saw her on the band, that’s all. I only saw—”

  The fist cut him short again. It was hard and bunched like a solid iron ball. It rattled into Massine’s teeth and Ray felt the skin rip back off his knuckles. Massine’s mouth was a pomegranate now, pulpy and red.

  Ray pulled back his fist.

  “All right, all right!” Massine shrieked. “I saw her. Damn you, I saw her.”

  “Every day?”

  “Every day, yes, every day.”

  “Why?”

  Massine didn’t answer. He leaned against the fist bunched in his undershirt, his breath ragged and uneven.

  “Why?” Ray shouted.

  “She—she—was an addict.”

  “I know that.” He tightened his fist in the undershirt. He was sweating, and he didn’t like this. There was an insistent pounding in his head. His mouth was dry. “Come on, come on. Ta
lk, Massine.”

  “I was getting her the stuff.” Massine let out a tortured sigh. “Heroin. I was supplying her.”

  Ray’s mind flicked to the sixteen ounces of heroin Eileen had shown him. His brows pulled together, and his mouth hardened.

  “You’re lying again, Massine. I’m going to break every tooth in your mouth unless—”

  “I’m not lying,” Massine screamed. He lowered his voice. “I’m not lying. Why would I lie? She was a junkie. I got the stuff for her. That’s the truth. Why should I lie?”

  “How much stuff? How much each day?”

  “An eighth, a quarter. It varied.”

  Ray unleashed his right fist again. Massine’s head shook with the blow, and his eyes were pleading and surprised.

  “That’s the truth! Holy God, it’s the truth.”

  “Eileen Chalmers had sixteen ounces of pure heroin with her when she was killed,” Ray said.

  “No!” Massine’s eyes were wide. Shock registered on his face.

  “I saw it,” Ray said. “Sixteen goddam ounces. What would she need a punk like you for?”

  “Sixteen—ounces?” Massine shook his head. “No, no—” He seemed to be trying to digest the fact. “That’s impossible.”

  “I saw it.”

  “Sixteen ounces? Pure?”

  “I said sixteen ounces. Stop stalling, Massine.”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know. She must have just got it. So help me, I sold her heroin every day.”

  “You want another fistful, Massine?”

  “I swear! Jesus, I swear. On my mother, I swear. I supplied her.”

  Ray shoved Massine backward, pulled his hand from the undershirt. “All right,” he said. He began pacing the room.

  It was with him again—all the longing, all the mounting desire. It tore at his mind and his body, threatened to shake his nerves loose from his skin, gouged at his stomach. And he’d thought it had left him. That was a laugh, all right. That was the biggest laugh today. It was still here, big as life, scratching away at his back. Goddamned monkey!

  Massine was leaning against the table, a fresh cigarette in his mouth.

  “Getting you, eh, hophead?” he asked.

  There was something familiar in the voice, the subtle urging perhaps, the superior tone, the well-known inflection of the man who held the key. Ray turned swiftly, his eyes narrowed. The sweat stood out on his brow in round, shining globules.

  “Massine,” he said softly, his voice a hiss. Massine didn’t answer. He backed against the table as Ray advanced slowly.

  “You supplied Eileen.”

  “Look, I already told you—”

  “You’re going to supply me.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” His voice was still low. It went on in an even tone, persuasively menacing. “You’re going to get me all the horse I need.”

  “You’re crazy. The cops are checking ever pusher in the city. You think I’m gonna stick out my neck for a lousy—”

  “Yes,” Ray said. “I think so.”

  “Well, you’re crazy. You think I want to spend the next five years in jail?”

  “I don’t care where you spend the next five years.”

  “Well, I do. You’re the hottest thing in the city, pal. The cops find out I’m feeding you and—”

  “But you’re going to do it.”

  “No!” Massine screamed. He stubbed out his cigarette. “No!”

  “I’d hate like hell to bust your nose, Massine. I’d hate like hell to do that.”

  “You can’t hurt me no more, Stone. You just—”

  “You know my name.” He wasn’t really surprised, but it meant that Kramer had probably told the cops about the hair dye already. Fine, just fine.

  “Everybody knows your name, Stone. That’s why I ain’t going to risk my hide getting you no—”

  “Shut up!” Ray snapped. He walked up close to Massine. “I need the stuff, Massine. I need it so damn bad that I’m liable to rip off your arms if I don’t get it. You understand? That’s how bad I need it. You going to get it for me, or do I start ripping? Make up your mind fast, Massine.”

  Massine gulped audibly, his eyes glued to Ray’s face. “Sure, Stone. Sure, I’ll get some stuff for you.”

  Ray felt a sweet pain shoot through his body. He was going to get fixed. Soon, soon. He was going to get a shot.

  “Now,” he said quickly.

  “Take it easy, Stone, take it easy.” Ray recognized the oily tones of the pusher again, and he clenched his fists. Massine said hastily, “I got to go out and get the stuff.”

  “Where?”

  “A connection.”

  “How long?”

  “About five hours.”

  “That’s too long,” Ray snapped.

  “I told you, Stone, they got the city covered like a corpse. I can’t just run out and get the stuff. It’s going to take a little time.”

  “Two hours,” Ray said. “No more.” He reconsidered quickly. “Make it an hour.”

  “Have a heart, Stone. How can I—”

  “All right, an hour and a half. No more, understand?”

  Massine nodded halfheartedly. “Okay. Christ, you must think I’m a magician.”

  “I don’t care what you are. Bring back a quarter-ounce in an hour and a half.”

  “A quarter! Stone, that’s impossible.”

  “An eighth, then.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “You’ll get it, Massine. If you don’t, I’ll be waiting here to break your arms. You’ll get it.”

  Massine nodded dully. “You better take a walk meanwhile.”

  “Why?”

  “I just don’t want any cops to catch you here, that’s all.”

  Ray bunched his fists, took a step that brought him within three inches of Massine. “You planning a cross, Massine?”

  “Hell, no. Why should I—”

  “I’m just making sure. Remember this, Massine. If I get picked up in the next hour and a half, I’m going to tell the cops you’re my pusher.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I’ll tell them you’ve been supplying me for the past fifty years. How does that sound, Massine?”

  “Hell, Stone—”

  “And I’ll tell you something else. If you’re not back here in an hour and a half, I’m going to call the cops and tell them all about you, anyway.”

  Massine tried to assume the pose of a hurt little boy. “You can trust me, Stone,” he said.

  “I know.” Ray smiled. “You’ve got almost as much to lose as I have.” He looked at Massine’s wrist. “What time is it?”

  “Five to seven.”

  “I’ll be back at eight-thirty.”

  “Okay.”

  Ray started for the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, then turned, smiling.

  “You’d better have the stuff, Massine.”

  “I’ll have it.”

  “Eight-thirty.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  Ray wet his lips. An hour and a half. Ninety minutes. Ninety minutes to heaven. The thought was delicious.

  Quickly, he closed the door behind him.

  Chapter Seven

  Dusk touched the sky, streaking it with lavenders, reds, oranges as the sun dipped below the horizon. The neon flickers leaped into life, shouting their wares to Broadway. And the people began to come out of their holes, pleasure seekers, curious, indifferent, interested, bored. Men in shirt sleeves, and girls in light cotton dresses. Sailors in tight whites and tilted hats, popcorn vendors, floozies, be-boppers with beards and berets, a blind man with a dog and an accordion, and a drunken woman with sagging stockings and hennaed hair lying in the doorway of a photographer’s shop.

  Ray walked, and his eyes were bright with anticipation. One hour and thirty minutes. He wet his lips. He could almost feel the needle sinking into his arm, see the veins bulging eagerly. And then the warm spread, the sudden sock! and then everyth
ing would be all right. He’d be straight again.

  He sighed deeply, breathing in the warm night air, feeling the breeze fresh against his face. It was spring, all right.

  “Some people need so much, Ray. All I need is springtime, and dusk, and you.”

  The words rushed back involuntarily, leaping up from some shadowed corner of his mind. He could almost hear her voice, almost see the breathless way her lips had parted when she spoke the words. She had squeezed his hand tightly, and her eyes had met his for an instant. There had been honesty in those eyes, open and frank. And love. They had reached across to each other with their eyes, and their eyes alone had said everything there was to say, said it for all time.

  He shook his head violently, trying to clear it of the memory. Times, had changed, things were different. There was no place for Jeannie anymore. It was over, finished.

  But the memory persisted, and he couldn’t remove it by shaking his head. The blue eyes were still there, and the auburn hair, soft and silky under his fingers. His mind raced back over the years—was it really years?—remembering settings, half-forgotten snatches of melodies, Jeannie in an evening gown, Jeannie in a bathing suit, Jeannie in paint-streaked dungarees, Jeannie in bed. He passed a hand over his eyes. It was no good. No good at all.

  But when had he met her? His mind skirted the years. Back to a girl in a white piqué dress, with hair like living flame, and tanned legs, and blue eyes that gave a radiant look to her oval face.

  She stood by the bandstand, leaning against the rail, her breasts pressed against her folded arms. They were playing “Stardust,” he remembered, and the muted trumpets had pushed their lilting melody out onto the night air, there in the small park, with the dancers milling around on the concrete, and the stars wheeling overhead like a million diamonds on black velvet.

  He had glanced up, seen her there, seen the look in her eyes. And later, when the set ended, he’d walked over, offered her a cigarette. Her voice was young, but it came from deep within her, as if speaking were a vital part of her, the way everything about her seemed to be.

  They’d talked a little, and when the dance broke up she was waiting for him.

  “I don’t usually do this,” she’d said. She glanced at him hurriedly, anxious for a sign that he believed her.