Fever: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) (11 page)

“Yeah, well, I don’t know where she is.”

“When did you see her last?”

“Few days ago. Friday.”

“Heard from her since?”

“No.”

“Not even curious why she disappeared all of a sudden?”

“None of my business. I got enough troubles of my own.”

“The two of you didn’t get along, is that it?”

“We got along. She was just crashing with me for a while, okay? Now why don’t you leave me alone, let me do my job?”

“Somebody beat her up on the weekend,” I said.

The words stung her enough to make her head jerk, her eyes widen. “Beat her up?”

“That’s right. Badly enough to send her back home for a couple of days. Only now she’s disappeared again, under suspicious circumstances.”

“… What’s that mean, suspicious circumstances?”

“You have any idea who smacked her around?”

“No. How would I know?”

“Or where she might be now?”

“No.”

“Friends of hers, people she might go to?”

“We didn’t talk much. Didn’t see each other much.”

“What did she do when she wasn’t staying in your apartment?”

Shrug. “Her business, not mine.”

“You ever do anything together?”

“Like what? Double dates? No.”

“How about gambling?”

“Her thing, not mine. I don’t gamble.” The shape of her mouth around the word was bitter. “I hate gambling.”

“But you took in a compulsive gambler as a roommate.”

“I told you—Never mind, forget it. You all done taking up my time now?”

“Not yet.” I made a little show of opening my wallet, taking out a twenty, letting her see it before I creased it down the middle lengthwise. “A few more questions.”

She licked her lips, her eyes fixed on the creased bill. Waitresses in places like this don’t make much money, rely heavily on tips. Call girls don’t get to keep a large
percentage of their fees, either, unless they run their own service, and Ginger Benn didn’t look shrewd enough for that. She wanted that twenty. What she didn’t want was to get herself in trouble by talking too much to a stranger.

“I told you, man,” she said, “I don’t know anything about Janice getting beat up.”

“I believe you. But you didn’t answer my question about her being your roommate. How’d that come about, if you’re not friends?”

“Oh, shit. Okay. A favor, okay?”

“But not to her.”

“A friend. A favor for somebody we both know.”

“What’s the friend’s name?”

“Hey, Ginger.” That was the bartender; he’d moved down and was leaning across the bar. “Drinks waiting, customers waiting. Shag your ass.”

“Yeah, I’m on it.” She didn’t look at him; her eyes were still coveting the twenty. “Wait here,” she said to me. “I’ll be right back.”

I waited while she put a pair of drinks on her tray, delivered them to one of the tables. The bartender glared at me. So did a young, beefy type with a shaved head at the far end of the bar. Bouncer. I ignored both of them.

Ginger came back with a clutch of bills, handed them over to the bartender. Nobody was allowed to run a tab in a place like this. She hesitated before she came back to where I half-sat on one of the stools. Reluctant, but unable to resist the lure of the twenty dollars.

Her eyes made sure I still had the bill in my hand. Then she moved around so that her back was to the bartender and the bouncer. “You going to give me that? Better do it now if you are.”

I dropped it onto her tray. She made it disappear into the shadow between her breasts in a movement as quick and deft as a magician’s.

“Okay. But make it quick.”

“You were going to tell me the name of the friend of yours and Janice’s you did the favor for.”

“No, I wasn’t. It’s none of your business.”

“It might be if he knows something about what happened to her.”

“What makes you think it was a guy? It wasn’t.”

A lie. I said, “Carl Lassiter?”

“I don’t know any Carl Lassiter.” That came out fast—too fast. He was somebody she knew, all right. And the tightening of muscles around her mouth, the flicker of emotion in her eyes, said he was somebody she was afraid of.

“How about a man named Quilmes, Jorge Quilmes?”

“Who?” The puzzlement sounded genuine. “Never heard of him.”

“Like you never heard of Carl Lassiter.”

“That’s right.”

“How about QCL, Inc.?”

She couldn’t quite stop herself from flinching. QCL, Inc. was something else she was afraid of. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do,” I said. “Lassiter, Janice, you—all connected to QCL.”

“No. You’re wrong.” Her voice had risen. “Look, why don’t you just leave me alone?”

“Let’s talk about QCL. I’ve got another twenty in my wallet—”

“I don’t want any more of your money. I don’t want any more of
you!”

Half shriek, that last sentence. As loud as the music was in there, the bartender heard her and hand-signaled the bald-headed guy. The bouncer came our way, not too fast, in a kind of hard glide. At the same time Ginger backed off from me. I took a step toward her, saying, “Wait,” but she turned and hurried away into the section where the Asian dancer was simulating sex with the brass pole on her platform. In the next second the bouncer was between us and not quite in my face, like a wall.

“You don’t want to bother the girls,” he said, low-key.

“I wasn’t bothering her. Just a friendly conversation.”

“Didn’t look so friendly to me. Suppose you have a seat, buy yourself another beer, enjoy the show.”

“I’ve had enough warm beer.”

He said, with iron in his voice this time, “Then why don’t you go someplace else, pops.”

“Yeah, sonny, why don’t I.” I stayed put, locking gazes with him, just long enough to let him know he wasn’t intimidating me, and then took my time walking out of there.

T
he Hotel La Farge, just off Union Square, was one of the city’s more venerable hostelries, built in the twenties and renovated at least twice since. Sedate, expensive, respectable. That last, respectable, had a somewhat different meaning these days. Hotels no longer police the morals of their guests, unless something happens that forces the issue. If a guest wants to entertain a member of the opposite sex in his room at any hour, day or night, and the visitor is reasonably presentable, hotel staffs are trained to look the other way. None of their business, and that’s as it should be. The worst thing any institution, public or private, can do is to try to dictate morality on any level.

La Farge had an underground garage, valet parking only at a confiscatory fee; I turned my car over to the attendant—another item for the Krochek expense account—and went into the ornate, wood-and-marble lobby. I used one of the lobby phones to call Suite 1408. No answer. At the desk, I asked one of a brace of well-dressed clerks if he
knew when Mr. Jorge Quilmes in Suite 1408 would return.

He said, correcting me without making an issue of it, “I believe Señor Quilmes and his party are still in the Blue Room Lounge.”

“His party?”

“Two other gentlemen who came to see him a short time ago.”

The Blue Room Lounge was a fancy name for a small, not too dark lobby bar. Two couples sat apart from each other at the bar, and three men in business suits were grouped in leather chairs around one of the tables near a gas-log fireplace. It wasn’t yet four o’clock, but cocktail hour starts early in the city. I didn’t much care for the idea of bracing Jorge Quilmes in company; it looked liked a conference rather than a social situation and people don’t take kindly to being interrupted when financial matters are under discussion. But I had a business to run, too, and you do what you need to do when the opportunity presents itself.

The three of them were speaking a mixture of Spanish and English in low tones when I came up. I took the eldest to be Quilmes: mid-fifties, olive-skinned, black hair frosted with gray, mustache and Vandyke beard likewise frosted, dressed expensively and meticulously. The other two were younger, deferential, one of Latino ancestry, the other a blond American with a desultory command of Spanish.

“Excuse me for intruding,” I said, “but it’s important that I have a few words with Señor Quilmes.”

The distinguished type said, “Yes? I am Señor Quilmes,” in English with only a trace of accent.

The blond American said, “We’re having a business meeting here.”

The other Latino said, “Who are you? What is it you want?”

“It’s a private matter.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Such an impolite country, America,” Quilmes said, but without rancor; almost affectionately, in fact. He even smiled a little, in a tolerant way. “Everything is important, everything must be attended to immediately. What is it you wish to see me about?”

“An appointment you had last Saturday night.”

“Appointment?”

“Here at your hotel. At nine o’clock.”

Nothing changed in his expression. The other two men looked at him, looked at me, looked at him again. Quilmes and I locked gazes. At least fifteen seconds passed, none of us moving, before Quilmes stirred slightly and said to his companions, “If you will excuse me for a short time. Fresh drinks at the bar, perhaps?”

They didn’t argue or waste any time. Both of them got up, the blond brushing past me with a narrow-eyed look, and headed straight across to the bar.

Quilmes said coldly, “You may sit down.”

I sat and we looked at each other some more. I put an end to that by producing the photostat of my license and laying the case open flat on the table between us. He leaned forward to study it, leaned back again, and picked up his drink. Still no expression on his aristocratic face.

“Yes?” he said.

“Janice. The woman you had the appointment with Saturday night.”

“How do you know I had such an appointment?”

“How I know isn’t important. Are you going to deny it?”

Silence. He sipped his drink, set the glass down again, carefully. “In my country,” he said at length, “we have laws

that carry severe penalities for attempted extortion. You

have the same laws, do you not?”

“We do,” I said. “And I support them, just as I support ethics in my profession. I’m not here for financial gain or to cause you any undue embarrassment.” “Then why are you here?” “For the answers to a few questions.” “And if I choose not to answer your questions?” “That’s your prerogative. But it would be in your best interest if you’re candid with me. The woman, Janice, has disappeared under … let’s say unusual circumstances that may involve foul play. If you refuse to talk to me, and her disappearance becomes a police matter, I’d have to tell them about your Saturday-night appointment. And that you were uncooperative when I asked you about it.”

He said nothing for maybe thirty seconds. His pupils, in the dim light, were as black as obsidian. Then, “I have a wife and two children in Buenos Aires. I love my family very much. I also have a successful business and many associates, some of whom are quite religious. Do you understand?”

“I understand. If you have nothing to hide and you don’t try to stonewall me, there’s no reason your name has to be mentioned to anyone. Stonewall means—”

“I know what it means,” he said. “Do you think I had something to do with this woman’s disappearance?”

“I have no reason to. Information is all I’m after. Provide it, and we’ll consider this conversation a private business meeting strictly between the two of us.”

I had him and he knew it. “Very well,” he said stiffly. “I will answer your questions.”

“Good. You did have a date with Janice Saturday night?”

“Yes.”

“Here in your suite.”

“Yes.”

“Had you ever seen her before that night?”

“No.”

“How was the date arranged?”

“Through a personal acquaintance.”

“His name?”

“I cannot tell you that.”

“It wouldn’t be Carl Lassiter, would it?”

The slightest hesitation before he said, “I know no one by that name.”

“Someone else connected to QCL, Incorporated?”

“Nor any such business.”

“How long did Janice stay with you?”

“Not long. One hour, perhaps.”

“For which you paid her how much?”

“No money changed hands,” Quilmes said.

“No? Who did you pay? The acquaintance who made the arrangement?”

“If you must know, yes.”

“Is that always the way it’s done?”

“You may think I make a habit of this sort of thing, but I do not. Only once in a great while. A man has needs, and when they become too great to ignore … well, we are only human. Surely you understand.”

I understood that he was another one like Mitchell Krochek—a self-justifer who relied on the old “a man has needs” wink-wink line when he got caught philandering. Krochek, at least, had some foundation for his affair with Deanne Goldman; Quilmes had none other than pure lust.

I said, “I’m sorry to have to ask this, but it’s necessary. What sort of sexual activity was involved?”

Brittle silence. The black pupils had sparklights in them now, like fire opals. He said finally, “I am a man of simple and conventional tastes.”

“No sadomasochistic games, then.”

“Of course not. I find that sort of thing repugnant.”

“Rough sex?”

“That, too.”

“So Janice was perfectly healthy when she left you.”

“Perfectly. Why do you ask these questions?”

“She was beaten up sometime late Saturday or Sunday. I’m trying to find out who did it and why.”

“I see,” Quilmes said. He didn’t sound sympathetic. “A dangerous profession, prostitution.”

“Yes, it is. But Janice isn’t strictly a prostitute.”

“No?”

“No. Are you a gambling man, Señor Quilmes?”

The question caught him off-stride. He frowned slightly, the first break in his stoic demeanor, before he said, “I do not understand.”

“It’s a simple question. Do you gamble? Poker, roulette, other games of chance?”

“I fail to see the relevance.”

“Please answer the question.”