Then play them all together in a violent, sombre dance of death touched lightly with sixteen ounces of heroin. Move your fingers furiously, and try to find the key.
If you’re the police, add a single note, and keep pounding at it with one finger. The note is Ray Stone, hophead. That’s the key.
If you’re not the police, then try, just try to pin down the elusive key among the jumbled counterpoints, the erratic rhythms, the subtle melodies. Especially when you’re playing a tune called “Cold Turkey,” or “A Variation on Desire.”
Ray sat in the back of the speeding bus, the spires of Manhattan scratching at the sky in the distance. He’d be off the bridge soon, back in the Bronx, and Peter Chalmers would be nothing more than a memory.
A memory and a new melody for the intricate composition. Eileen pregnant! Who shoots pregnant women? Cuckolds: Dale Kramer? Irate parents: Peter Chalmers?
No, the symphony was unfinished. There were notes missing. Without those important notes… Ray shrugged, wondering if there were time before the police played the last bar.
* * *
“You’ll find him at the Stockton Baths,” the voice on the phone had said. “Scat goes there every day about this time.”
Ray stood downstairs, looked up at the big sign across the second floor of the hotel.
STOCKTON BATHS
Turkish Steam—Whirlpool—Galvanic—Cabinet
Separate Physiotherapy Depts. for Men and Women
He walked up the long flight of steps, stopped at the desk in the lobby. A clerk, his face a bloom of livid acne, glanced up from a cheesecake magazine.
“Yes?” His voice twanged out through his long nose.
“I’m looking for Mr. Lewis. They said I would find him here.”
“Mr. Lewis?” The clerk’s pale-blue eyes settled on Ray’s face, rested there for a moment. Apprehension clutched Ray again. He took in a deep breath now and waited.
“Yes,” the clerk went on, “Mr. Lewis is in Four. Down at the end of the hall.”
Ray nodded.
“You’ll need a towel,” the clerk said. “Three dollars, please.”
Ray fished into his wallet, grimaced as he handed over the three bills. His money was going too fast. At this rate, he’d have nothing left when and if he
could
get a fix.
The clerk passed him a large towel. “Want to check your valuables?”
“Yes, I guess so. Just the wallet.”
The clerk glanced at his stubble. “You can rent a razor in the shower room,” he said. He yanked an envelope from a nest of cubbyholes, shoved it across the counter. “Just fill this out.”
Ray signed the name “Ray Davis,” stuffed his wallet into the envelope, then thought about the razor. It mightn’t be a bad idea at that. “How much for the razor?” he asked.
“Fifty cents.” Ray took a dollar from the wallet, then sealed the envelope.
“Lockers are on your right,” the clerk said.
“Thanks.”
Ray took the closest locker, undressed quickly, and draped the towel around his waist. He started off down the hall then, the subtle hiss of steam reaching his ears. On either side of the hallway, yawning tile doorways belched great clouds of steam. He stopped outside the first open doorway, wiped the moisture from the numeral set in the tile. Two.
He shrugged and kept walking. The heat was beginning to get him. He wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, pleased when he saw the numeral four outside the last door in the hall. Quickly, he stepped inside.
It was hotter here. The steam shifted about the room, swirling over the tile floor, sweeping up over the walls, hanging from the ceiling. He was beginning to sweat profusely. He felt his pores open, felt the moisture break out all over his body. Christ, it was hot!
“Mr. Lewis?” he called.
From somewhere beyond the shifting screen of steam, he heard a voice answer, “Yeah?” The voice was low, rasping.
He pushed his way through the steam, which was closing in on him like a powerful physical force now. The sweat ran down his neck, flowed from under his armpits, streaked his arms. His beard felt itchy.
Seated in the corner formed by the two tile walls, one leg stretched out on the tile bench, the other resting on the floor, was what appeared to be a large white statue at first. Ray squinted through the steam, cleared his throat.
“Mr. Lewis?”
“That’s me, man.”
He seemed utterly exhausted, almost limp. His head rested against the tiles. His hands were folded across the layers of fat on his enormous stomach. The fat hung down from his arms, skin that must have been muscle once. A towel rested across his middle, and two chunky legs jutted out from its fuzzy edge.
He blinked his eyes, let his mouth fall open. The sweat streamed down his face, putting a high sheen on the flat nose and the full, flabby lips.
“They told me I’d find you here,” Ray said. He felt hotter now, too hot, too damned hot. He coughed, wiped a hand over the back of his neck.
“I’m listening, man,” Lewis said. He closed his eyes, and the steam swirled up around his head.
“What do you know about Eileen Chalmers?” Ray said.
Lewis didn’t change his position. “Nice chick,” he said. “Shame.”
“Any idea who killed her?”
Lewis cleared his throat, and his lips flapped outward. “They say the junkie.” His eyes blinked and he asked, “Who are you anyway, man?”
“Reporter,” Ray said.
“What brings you here?”
“She sang for you, didn’t she?”
“Sure, sure.”
“Any good?”
“Not bad,” Lewis said. “Not a Babs Cole, but not a crow, either. She could warble when the spirit moved her.”
“Did you know she was an addict?”
Lewis blinked, shifted his position, the layers of fat vibrating. He pulled his towel higher, folded his hands again.
“Sure,” he said. “Horse, you know.” He shook his head, and his chins flapped with the motion. “Never touch the stuff, myself. A little tea every now and then—but never the big stuff. Gives me a nice sound, marijuana I mean. Makes the horn mellow.” He grinned, exposing yellowed teeth.
“Tried to talk Eileen out of it,” he went on. “Nice young kid like her. Hell, that stuff ain’t no good, man. I think she was trying to quit, too.”
“How long had she been on the band?” Ray asked.
“My band?”
“Yes.” Ray was getting impatient. He rubbed at his nose, tried to blink the sweat out of his eyes. The steam folded over them, covered them like a heavy, wet blanket.
“Five, six months. Don’t remember exactly. Babs came to me with the switcheroo. Says she had a chance for the Kramer outfit, says she had a singer to replace her.” Lewis stopped, blinked twice rapidly. “Hey, man, you won’t print what I said about the tea, will you?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“Well, I said I’d have to hear the other chick first. So Babs brings her down, and she’s okay, and the switch went through. Hell, I couldn’t hold Babs back anyway.”
“I don’t follow.”
“She can
sing
, man. A golden throat, you follow? Wouldn’t have been right to hold her back. Be different if it was the old days.” He paused, nodded his head. “You ever catch any of the old records I cut?”
“Yes,” Ray said.
“Moonglow, Basin Street Blues, Can’t Get Started.
Hell, I could really blow then. A thrush like Babs would have been right there with the old Scat Lewis combo. Ain’t the same no more. She’s better off with Kramer.”
“I see.”
“I got a stand-still band, man. We ain’t going nowhere but right where we are. Kid like Eileen, she just loved to warble, didn’t matter where, didn’t matter for who. Babs—well, she’s got drive, ambition. Better off with Kramer. You see, man, I got no illusions, you follow me? I know just what I used to be, and just what I am. So Babs wanted more than the outfit could give her. I let her go. You know?”
“Sure,” Ray said. Every muscle in his body felt lax, loose. His face felt tired, worn and still the steam persisted.
“Strictly a stand-still band, mine. You know?”
“Sure,” Ray repeated.
“Eileen was happy with us, though. And like I said, she could really warble sometimes.”
“What was your connection with Eileen?”
“I don’t dig you.” Lewis’s voice was puzzled.
“You know, what—”
“Oh, yeah, I’m with you.” Lewis began laughing, a soft chuckle that rolled upward from the layers of fat around his middle. His face was red through the steam when he answered. “Just look at me, man. There’s your answer.”
He laughed again. “Eileen was a young chick, pretty. Me, I’m nowhere, absolutely nowhere. In the old days, maybe, but not now. Nope, I was just an employer to Eileen. And a friend, I guess.”
“What makes you think she was trying a cure? You said a little while ago that—”
“Oh, yeah. Well, she kept going to see a doctor, figured that was why.”
“Which doctor? Where?”
“Doctor Leo—I think it was Leo—Simms. Got an office on East Seventy-third. You’ll find his number in the book.”
“Leo Simms,” Ray repeated.
“Yeah, I think it was Leo. Something like that anyway.”
“Leo Simms.”
“Yeah.” Lewis smiled. “Man, you look hot.”
“Christ,” Ray said. “I
am
hot!”
“Me, I could sit here all day. Really good for you, too. Gets all the bugs out of your system.”
Ray wiped his forehead again. “Gets the
system
out of your system, too,” he said wryly.
Lewis laughed, the layers of fat rolling and rolling.
“Well, thanks,” Ray said. “You’ve really helped a lot.”
He started for the door, anxious to take a shower and a shave. He’d need a shave if he were going to call on Dr. Simms.
He pushed through the steam, and behind him he heard Lewis shout, “You won’t print that marijuana stuff now, will you?”
Chapter Twelve
I spend my life in phone booths, he thought. Ever since Eileen was killed, I’ve been living inside a phone booth.
Someone’s acrid sweat clung to the mouthpiece. His nose twitched as he waited, listening to the buzz on the other end.
Come on, come on!
“Hello.” The voice was soft, and it rather excited him.
“Babs?”
“Ray! Darling, where are you? Are you all right? I was nearly fran—”
“I’m all right, Babs. I’m fine.”
“Darling, darling, why did you leave? I should never have let you go. I didn’t sleep all night. I—”
Ray grinned. “Neither did I, honey.”
“Where are you, Ray?”
“I’m on East Seventy-third Street. I’ve got to see a doctor.”
“A doctor? Ray, are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine, honey, considering. The doctor’s not for me.”
“Oh.”
“All right if I come up tonight?”
Her voice lowered. “Do you have to ask, Ray?”
“I’ll see you later.”
“I’ll leave the key with the doorman.”
“Won’t you be home?”
“No. I’m singing tonight. Kramer’s decided to come out of mourning, the hypocrite.”
“All right, I’ll be over.”
“Darling?”
“Yes?”
“Take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
“Goodbye, sweetheart.”
“Bye.”
He hung up, waited for the flutter in his stomach to subside. Christ, what a woman! he thought.
Dr. Leo Simms was a dignified man who looked like an older Errol Flynn. He kept his well-manicured hands in front of him, the fingers built into a small, tapering cathedral.
“And you are her brother?” he asked Ray. He cocked an eyebrow, and his face remained expressionless.
“Yes,” Ray said.
“Mmm. Well, yes, Mr. Chalmers, your sister was pregnant.”
Ray nodded, watching the doctor’s cool blue eyes. The doctor was prematurely gray, and his hair was meticulously combed back on the sides of his head.
“How far along?” Ray asked.
Dr. Simms tapped the fingers in his cathedral together, then allowed the structure to collapse as he placed his hands on the desk. “Three months, we figured.”
“When did you see her last?”
“On the morning of the day she was murdered. I was rather astonished when I saw the newspaper the next day.”
A warning signal clicked in Ray’s brain.
“Did she seem worried about the baby?”
“No, not at all. She asked the usual questions an expectant mother asks.”
“Did—did you know she was an addict?”
“Of course. I told her she’d have to quit. I was amazed she hadn’t lost the baby already. In cases like that, the mother usually miscarries between the first and third months.”
“Is it possible that— I mean, was it dangerous? Being pregnant and an addict?”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t desirable. You understand that the mother’s bloodstream supplies the baby, too. It’s rare that a child will survive under such constant exposure to stimulants. Frankly, I was anticipating a miscarriage.”
“But her death? That couldn’t—”
“Have been due to the baby? I hardly think so. The newspapers say there were two bullet holes in her stomach.”
“Yes. Of course. I—”
“Mrs. Kramer never mentioned a brother,” Dr. Simms said abruptly. “Neither did the newspapers. I’ve been following them rather closely. Sort of a personal interest, you might say.”
Ray stood up. “Well, Dr. Simms, thanks—”
“You’d better go fast, Mr. Stone,” the doctor said. “I’m going to call the police as soon as you leave this room.”
“I didn’t kill her,” Ray said, his voice half-pleading.
Dr. Simms walked to the phone, rested his hand on the cradle. “I didn’t say you did. As a matter of fact, the reason I didn’t call the police immediately was that I was curious about your visit to me.” He shrugged. “I’ll have to call them, though. Strictly to protect myself, you understand.”
“Sure.” Ray turned, walked toward the big, double white doors.
“One thing, Stone.”
“Yes?”
“Your hair. It’s blond again. Perhaps the police won’t have to know that.”
Ray looked at the doctor for a long time. The doctor was smiling gently. “Thanks,” Ray said. “Thanks.”
He closed the big doors behind him, walked past the women with bulging stomachs in the waiting room, then stepped out into the air, the sun flashing down into his eyes.