“During the duration of this ordeal,” Neal pronounced, “we will continue in the education of Polly Paget. I say
we
because I am hoping that both of you other ladies will add your considerable talents to this monumental effort.”
“You’re taking a shot at me, right?” Polly asked.
“Better me than someone in a ski mask,” Neal answered.
“I have a question,” Candy said. She had washed off the makeup, done her face, and looked like her tightly wrapped self again. “What, if anything, are you planning to do about my husband? I mean, it seems like this hit man thing has put us on the defensive. I don’t know about you all, but I would like to go on the attack. When do we do that?”
Neal checked his watch.
“I think right about now,” he said. “Polly, I want you to make one more phone call.”
“What would you like to drink, sweetie?” Gloria asked. She leaned forward to let her guest see the coming attractions.
“A scotch, please,” Joe Graham said. He looked at the top of her breasts while wondering if her glasses were clean. The woman looked a little sloppy. Of course, most women who picked you up in the Blarney Stone at 1:30 on a Saturday afternoon were not going to look like Loretta Young coming downstairs.
Then again, he probably didn’t look so hot himself, having spent half the night on an airplane.
The place is a mess, Joe thought as Gloria fixed the drinks in the kitchen. The carpet needs shampooing, the coffee table needs dusting, and the faded picture of Bobby Kennedy needs a good Windexing. Plus, it’s overheated and smells of stale cigarette smoke.
Graham looked at his watch. He’d cut this a little too close. Then again, it had been a long time since he’d picked up a woman in a saloon.
“Hey, Gloria, forget the drink, huh?”
“What’s the matter, Joe? Are you in a hurry, or are you afraid it’ll wilt your asparagus?”
My asparagus? I have to get out of here.
“I was wondering if you’d heard from Walter Withers lately.”
Her hand stopped above the glass for a half second, then she relaxed, poured the drink, and smiled.
“You know Walter?” she asked.
“From the insurance business,” Joe answered. “You know, sometimes when you get a claim you think isn’t kosher, you call a guy like Walter. I know he hangs around that bar.”
She came in from the kitchen, sat down, and crossed her legs to show the maximum amount of thigh. Graham thought it looked pretty silly for a woman her age.
“I don’t think Walter’s been getting so many calls these days,” she said. “He hangs around the bar too much.”
“Yeah, well.”
“When you get to the point where you can’t handle your booze …” Gloria added, letting the point trail off.
Graham picked it up.
“So, have you heard from him?”
She opened a mock leather cigarette case, took out a filtered Winston, and waited for him to light it. When he didn’t, she shrugged and reached for a lighter in her purse. Joe saw that she sensed something was wrong, but she was trying to keep it light.
“I had a drink with him about a week ago, I guess,” Gloria said. “Are we going to talk about me and Walter or me and you.…
“When you saw Walt about a week ago,” Joe said, “did you talk about your friend Polly?”
“Who are you?”
“Did you?”
“Maybe.”
The phone rang. She lighted her cigarette and made no move to answer it.
Joe walked over to the window, opened it a foot, and stood in the fresh air. It was something he had always taught Neal—when you take over, take over. Make the space your own—little things lead to bigger things. It was the same with interrogations. Usually, your goal was to make people swallow a big ugly, so you’re better off feeding it to them in small bites.
“It’s okay with me if you don’t want to answer your own phone,” Graham said. “Anyway, your machine is on, so we can both listen.”
She leaned over to turn it off. Graham grabbed her hand and forced it to the receiver.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hi, it’s me,” Polly said.
“Kid, how are you?”
“I’m fine, but I’m scared. Someone tried to kill me.”
“Oh my God!”
She looks surprised, Graham thought.
“Gloria, look, I want you to know where I am in case something happens. I’m at the Bluebird Motel in Sparks, Nevada. Room one-oh-three.”
“Got it, kid. Listen, maybe you should call the cops.”
“No!”
“All right, kid. Stay in touch, huh?”
Gloria hung up and looked at Graham.
“I brought you up here thinking we could have a few laughs,” she said. “It isn’t too late.…”
She looked pathetic.
“You’re a very attractive woman and I’m attracted,” Graham lied, “Unfortunately, we have a problem we need to work out.…”
“What problem?” Gloria asked.
Now she looked scared. He sat down next to her on the couch.
“What do you owe Joey Beans?” he asked.
Yeah, that’s it, Graham thought. It’s right there in your eyes.
Gloria said, “I didn’t know he was going to kill her.”
“No, you thought he was going to have roses delivered,” Graham said. “Did Walt know about the hit?”
She laughed. “Walt! Walt thought he was getting her to pose for dirty pictures.”
“He was a decoy.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of the family,” Graham answered. “Now, are you going to do the right thing, Gloria?”
She took a short hit on the cigarette before she answered, “If I knew what the right thing was.”
Graham handed her the phone. “Make the call.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Yeah, I’m a real comedian,” Graham said. “Make the call. And remember, Joey Beans can’t protect you up here.”
She took the phone and dialed.
“Hello, Harold?” she said. “Take this down.”
After she finished giving Harold Polly’s new whereabouts, Graham said, “I’m curious. How much did you owe Joey Beans? What’s a friend’s life go for these days?”
The phone rang.
“Saved by the bell,” Gloria said as she reached for the phone.
Graham shook his head.
After the beep, they listened to Walter Withers’s plaintive voice ask Gloria to call him.
“You aren’t home when he calls,” Graham told her. “Leave him out of this now.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it.”
“Okay, okay.”
She leaned back on the couch and studied him.
“If you call Joey back, I’ll know about it,” Graham lied.
“You can trust me,” she said.
Not while your heart’s beating, Graham thought. He got up and walked out without looking back.
My informant doesn’t know which room yet,” Withers told Scarpelli. “But soon.”
“If butts were gold, baboons would be billionaires,” Ron answered.
Withers figured that Scarpelli has doubtless heard that tasteful analogy at one of those motivational seminars. He also figured that he was about at the end of his rope with the publisher of
Top Drawer,
and if he didn’t produce something soon, Scarpelli was going to start asking nasty questions about his fifty thousand dollars.
The lovely, efficient Ms. Haber rode to his rescue once again when she returned, predictably, with results.
“Heskins is in twelve-thirty-eight and twelve-thirty-nine,” she said in that cold tone that Withers found inexplicably erotic. “We owe a kid at the desk named Bobby a lifetime subscription.”
“Two rooms? What is he, fat?” Ron asked.
“He has his wife and two actresses with him,” Ms. Haber reported. “A Ms. Flame and a Ms. Desire.”
Withers saw a chance to buy a little time.
“Code names,” he said in his most professional voice.
Ron shook his head and said, “Nom de porno. A lot of the girls use them.”
Withers hung in there.
“Code names,” he repeated. “At least it’s worth checking out.”
“You got any bright ideas on how to do that?” Ron asked.
“Yes, actually I do,” Withers said.
And he actually did.
Two minutes later, Ms. Haber approached Bobby at the desk and asked him how he’d like to have a date with Miss July.
Karen sat on the edge of the bed and tapped her foot impatiently. The room-service manager finally came on the line.
“Yes,” Karen said, trying to keep her voice soft and even. “We ordered four Vesuvius burgers with everything an hour and a half ago. We were told then it would be forty minutes. The next time I called back, I was told it would be up in twenty minutes. Now your guy tells me it’ll be another half an hour. What do you have to do to get some food around here?”
The exasperated manager sighed and said, “You want the truth?”
“I can take it,” Karen said.
“It’s that adult-film convention,” he said, sounding close to tears. “The waiters go up to a room and they don’t come back.
“You’re joking.”
“Wish I was. I’ve already fired two kids, but what can I do, fire them all?”
Karen’s stomach was growling and Polly had already worked her way through the snack food in the courtesy bar.
“Don’t you have any waitresses?” Karen asked.
“I used to,” he answered. “Half of them are signing contracts as we speak. Look, I’ll tell you what. I’ll have the cook burn your burgers again and I’ll bring them up, okay? To tell you the truth, I could use the break.”
“Well, that’s nice of you.”
“Not at all,” he said. Then he spotted a waiter coming through the door. “Oops, hold on. I’ve got one of the horny bastards right here. He’ll be right up.”
Karen called into the next room, “They’re coming now!”
“Yeah, right!” Neal answered. He turned back to Polly. “Once again: The long thing in the middle of your face is your nose. It’s for breathing and things to do with mucus we don’t need to discuss right now. The oval-shaped thing beneath it, the one crammed with chocolate at the moment, is your mouth. It’s for speaking, and, as you already know, eating. The idea is to inhale through your nose and exhale through your mouth in the form of speech. Swallow first.”
Polly swallowed a mouthful of $4.50-a-bar Toblerone, inhaled deeply, and said, “I first met Jack Landis when I was a typist in his New Yawk office.”
“Not bad. But there’s an
r
in York. Try it again.”
“I first met Jack Landis when I was a typist in his New York office.”
“Good. Breathe deeply, because that gives you the nice soft tone. When you don’t breathe, you sound tinny.”
“Cheap,” Candy suggested.
“Thank you, Mrs. Landis,” Neal said. “Go on.”
“I tought—”
“Thought,” Neal corrected.
“—thought he was handsome, and I guess he thought I was cute, and it wasn’t long befaw—”
“Before.”
“—before one thing led to another.”
“You got that
r
. Great.”
There was a knock on the door in the other room. Neal put his fingers to his lips, switched places with Karen, and shut the adjoining door. He put the pistol in his belt, at the small of his back, and slipped on his jacket.
“Room service!”
Neal opened the door and saw Walter Withers, in a white tunic and sandals, standing beside the cart.
They stared at each other for a half second, then Neal grabbed him by the front of the tunic, kicked the door shut with his foot, and shoved him down the hallway and into the alcove with the ice machine in it. Turning so he could keep an eye on the hallway, he pushed Withers against the wall and stuck the gun barrel in his face.
“You dirty lying alkie son of a bitch,” Neal said. “I should shoot you right here.”
“You stole my money,” Withers accused.
“I am going to shoot you,” Neal said. He would have cocked the hammer for effect, but he was nervous around guns, his hands had the adrenaline shakes, and he only wanted to blow Withers’s head off in fantasy. “Is that the money you took for setting Polly up?”
“It’s the front money,” Walter explained. “Neal, they’re downstairs waiting.”
“What, and you came up to warn me? How did you find us?”
“It was an accident, I swear.”
Neal pushed the barrel into Withers’s cheek.
“I know. I don’t believe it myself,” Withers said. “But I got lucky.”
“How?” Neal asked.
“You made quite a splash as a pornographer, my boy,” he answered. “I’m afraid you overplayed your cover.”
First I underplay. Now I overplay. I should have it bracketed now.
“Who are you working for?” Neal asked.
“
Top Drawer
—Ron Scarpelli. It’s his money you took. Neal, I’m in big trouble.”
“You’ve got that right.”
But I’m not in much better shape, Neal thought, and Withers knows it. He can blow the whistle and we’ll have the media around our ears in about twelve seconds. And we’re not ready for that yet.
Buy some time.
“I’ll give you ten thousand of it now to keep your mouth shut,” Neal said. “The rest goes to you in New York in two days if everything stays nice and quiet.”
“That just puts me even, Neal. I need something for my trouble.”
“You unbearable little shit …”
“My boy, I need something,” Withers said, his eyes twinkling with the joy of combat, “or I’ll have no choice but to sell this information to the media.”
You’d do it, too, Neal thought. In a heartbeat, if you had one.
“Okay, another ten for your so-called trouble,” Neal said, “In one week’s time, not before.”
“Twenty in three days.”
“Fifteen in five.”
“Done,” Withers said. “A pleasure doing business with you.”
Neal slipped the gun back under his belt and released his grip on Walt.
“I’ll go get your damn money,” he said.
“That’s wonderful, my boy, wonderful,” Withers said, straightening his tunic. “But do you suppose you might advance me, say, a thousand? I find myself fiscally embarrassed.”
“I’m giving you ten large!” Neal protested.
“Unfortunately, I have to remit that to my soon-to-be-former employer, Mr. Scarpelli. Thank you for releasing me from the clutches of that tawdry flesh peddler, my boy.”
“Wait here,” Neal said. “And quit calling me that.”
Neal went into the room, took $11,000 from the briefcase, went back out into the hall, and handed it to Withers.