Was he going to walk out? What was the next move?
An unreasoning anger took hold of him, and his mouth set in outraged righteousness. What the hell!
He
hadn’t shot the girl.
He
hadn’t killed her. But he was an addict, that was it. Give the police a juicy addict to play with and they’d blame him for every nickel ever stolen from a blind man’s cup. Well this was one goddam addict they weren’t going to decorate with the Purple Shaft. Some lousy bastard had put two slugs in Eileen Chalmers’s stomach, and that same lousy bastard was keeping him away from Louie and the H he needed so desperately.
The answer seemed logical and simple to him: find that bastard. Find him, and the pressure would be off. The cops would have a new sucker to toy with. And then Ray Stone could contact Louie or any other damned pusher in the city.
He rolled down his sleeves, fastened his cuff links.
All right, he’d find the murderer.
He almost laughed out loud at this. Sherlock Stone Holmes, hophead. How does a hophead go about finding a murderer in a city like New York? In fact, how does anybody find anybody in New York? He grinned at his own predicament, realizing it wasn’t at all funny.
And the old thought came back, the bittersweet thought, the thought that quickened his blood and tightened his muscles: how could he get another shot? And soon?
He put this out of his mind, convinced he could get all the heroin he needed if he could clear himself. He had to shake the monkey, and to do that he had to shake the cops. He remembered the newspaper clipping and the picture of Eileen with her husband. Dale Kramer, a name familiar to Ray. Kramer had once fronted a society outfit, sweet music with a
boop-boop-be-doop
beat. Strictly crow material, with muted horns and groaning saxes. He’d traded this in for a new combo when bop came into fashion, and had managed to keep up with the better bands, pulling in the kids all over the country on his personal-appearance tours.
If Ray had some questions to ask, Dale Kramer would be a good place to start.
Ray put on his jacket, locked his room, and buzzed for the elevator. When the car stopped at his floor, the elevator boy didn’t seem to notice the changed color of his hair. The elevator stopped, and Ray walked across the lobby, avoiding the desk and heading straight for a phone booth.
He looked up the number of the Trade Winds, then rapidly dialed it. It was too early for Kramer to be at the club, but perhaps he could get his home number. At any rate, it wouldn’t hurt to—
“Trade Winds, good afternoon.”
“Hello—ah—I wonder if you could give me some information?”
“What kind of information, sir?”
Ray hesitated. In the background, he heard a trumpet reaching for a high note. He listened as saxes joined the blaring brass. Then the entire ensemble came to an abrupt stop.
“Hello?”
“Yes,” Ray said. “I’m still here.”
“What kind of information did you wish, sir?”
The band started again, in the middle of a number, and the trumpet hit the upper register, with the saxes joining in again. This time they kept playing.
“I was wondering if you could let me have Dale Kramer’s home number?”
There was a discreet cough on the other end of the wire.
“I’m sorry, sir. We’re not allowed—”
“That’s all right. Thanks.”
He replaced the phone on its hook. That had been a rehearsal, all right. He’d been to enough of them to know what they sounded like. That meant that Dale Kramer was now at the Trade Winds. Ray nodded, and stepped out of the booth.
A pain sliced into his stomach, ripped across his gut. God, oh God, holy mother of— He gripped the door of the booth, held tightly, while the wave of pain looped over and then subsided. The hell with Kramer, the hell with Eileen, the hell with everybody. He had to get a shot. He’d die; he’d drop dead right here on the floor if he didn’t get one.
You can’t get one, his mind mocked. The cops are looking for you, you stupid bastard.
He shook his head, wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Outside, he hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to the Trade Winds.
* * *
The sounds came to him as he stood at the bar, the old familiar rehearsal sounds. They came from behind a closed door at the other end of the room, and a bouncer sat in front of that door, his heavy legs straddling a chair. Ray downed his drink hastily, put his trembling hands into his pockets, and walked across the room.
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.”