“Maybe not,” Ray said.
“Well, you know your own business, I guess. But I’ve seen lots of junkies, and I wouldn’t trust any of them as far as I can throw the Empire State Build—”
“We like to consider all the angles,” Ray interrupted. He buried his face in his hands, the hot rage at being condemned simply because he was an addict flooding over him again.
“Tired, huh?” the bartender asked.
Ray pulled his hands away from his face. “Yes. Yes, I—”
“You don’t have to explain. I can imagine what a chase the junkie is leading you guys.”
“About Eileen Chalmers—” Ray started.
“Didn’t have an enemy in the world,” the bartender said. “Sweetest kid you’d want to know.”
“Excuse me,” a soft voice broke in.
Ray turned to face the warmest pair of brown eyes he’d ever seen. The girl next to him had swung around on her stool and was facing him now, her lips slightly parted, a Martini glass in one hand.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but—” She shrugged one rounded, white shoulder expressively. Ray’s eyes fled to the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. She wore a low-cut green faille dress. Her legs were crossed, the green faille molding her hips and thighs tightly, her knees sleek in their nylons.
“That’s all right,” he said.
“I knew her quite well. Eileen, I mean.” Her face looked apologetic. She wore her black hair short, hugging the sides of her face, a stray ebony wisp curling beneath one ear. An eyebrow was cocked against her forehead. Her nose was straight, her eyes heavily fringed. He stared at their incredible warmth.
“My name is Barbara Cole,” she said. “I sing with Dale Kramer. He’s her—”
“Yes, I know. Her husband.”
In the background, Ray heard a nickel click in the juke, heard the swish of the arm, the record dropping. There was the faint murmur of brushes against a snare, the subtle thrum of a piano, and then the soaring sweep of a full sax section.
The girl lifted her glass and sipped slowly. She stared at Ray over the edge, leaned forward slightly. A muted trumpet joined the sax section, and she jiggled her foot in time with the music.
“Nice,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Are policemen allowed to dance on duty?” she asked. Her eyes met Ray’s with open frankness.
“Well—”
She swung her legs around, reached for the floor with one foot. The dress slid up over her knee as she rose. “I think they are,” she said.
She took his hand, and he climbed down from the stool. When they reached the postage-stamp dance floor, the record stopped. Ray turned his head, saw a short, fat man put another nickel in the machine. The music started again, and he took her in his arms. She was warm; warm and alive. He held the small of her back with his right hand, and he could feel the flesh beneath her dress.
She moved closer, pressing tight against him. He felt the swell of her breasts against him, the solidity of her thighs, the length of her legs close to his.
Her mouth was below his ear, and when she spoke, her voice rushed against his neck in breathless spurts.
“I arranged for Eileen to come on the Scat Lewis combo,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yes. We sort of switched places.”
“I see.”
Her fingers were widespread on the back of his neck, and they began to move idly now.
“You dance nicely, policeman.”
“Thank you.”
She pressed closer to him. They danced silently for a few moments, and then she whispered, “I know a better dance floor.”
He didn’t answer. He listened to the music, and he smelled her hair, and he thought of Eileen. He thought of Eileen and the tin of heroin, and a new spasm of longing for the drug zigzagged through his body.
“Let’s get out of here, policeman,” she whispered.
* * *
The better dance floor turned out to be Barbara Cole’s apartment in the Lower Eighties on Park Avenue.
It was expensive, all right. He could tell that at a glance. The floor was covered with a thick rug that made him want to take off his shoes and stretch his toes. A handsome sectional sofa faced a bar. A quick look at the labels on the bottles substantiated the money-smell about the whole place. Ray idly wondered who was paying for this elaborate shack.
“Not much,” the girl said, “but it’s home.” She smiled at Ray, took off her short fur jacket and flipped it over the arm of an easy chair. “Like it?” she asked.
“Very nice, Miss Cole.”
“I think we can stop that right now,” she said, pouting prettily.
“Barbara?” he asked, testing the name.
“Babs will do fine, thank you.”
“Babs then.”
She walked to the bar. She began pouring whiskey into two water glasses.
“You’re supposed to tell me yours now,” she said, smiling back over her shoulder,
“Ray,” he said quickly. His eyes widened as he realized what he’d done. Suppose she’d seen his name in the paper? He watched her curving back, hoping the name hadn’t registered.
“Ray,” she said, rolling it on her tongue, as if she were tasting fine wine. “What’s the rest?”
“Ray Davis,” he lied.
“Very nice. Here’s a Scotch for Ray Davis.”
She held out the glass and he took it eagerly. Maybe this was the ticket. Maybe he could get stinking drunk and forget the other pressing desire. Substitute one stimulant for another. He remembered how he used to smirk derisively at anyone who got high on alcohol. Alcohol, that was for meatballs.
“Let’s drink to the hophead,” she said.
He looked at her suspiciously. “Why him?”
“Why not? He probably needs a drink, wherever he is.”
He needs a hell of a lot more than a drink, Ray thought.
“Sure,” he said. “To the hophead.”
They drank, and she put her glass down on the long coffee table in front of the sofa.
“Now, what can I do for you, policeman?”
“Well, what do you know about Eileen?” He sat on the sofa, and she sat down beside him.
“Nice kid,” she said. “No morals, but nice.”
“How do you know?”
“About her morals?” Babs smiled. “She’s had a few men hanging around, and I assume she was a normal, red-blooded, American girl.”
“With a normal, red-blooded, American husband.”
“Dale never paid her much mind. I mean, he didn’t like her fooling around, but he never did anything about it.”
“He may have.”
“How do you mean?”
“He may have killed her.”
“I doubt it. Dale wouldn’t touch a fly.” She grinned, reached over for her glass.
“Who were these men in her life?” Ray asked.
Babs straightened, took a pull at her drink, sighed deeply. “Well, there’s Charlie Massine. Ever hear of him?”
“No.”
“She saw him just about every day. He’s the drummer on Kramer’s band. Pretty good, too.”
“Was she—”
“Who knows? Knowing Charlie, I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment.”
“Who else?” Ray asked.
“Tony Sanders.”
The name rang a familiar bell in his head. “The playboy?”
“The very same. He’s been slumming with Eileen for quite some time now.”
“And Kramer knew about all this?”
“Sure.” She took another swallow. “And then there’s Scat Lewis, a very nice guy. I wouldn’t be surprised, though—”
“Your opinion of Eileen isn’t a very high one, is it?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t disapprove at all. I’m merely trying to give you a good picture of the situation.” She paused and eyed Ray steadily. “After all, she wasn’t a particularly discriminating person. The hophead who killed her—”
“We’re not sure of that yet,” he snapped.
“Well, at any rate, he was a pickup. And she had no scruples as far as he was concerned.” She saw the look on his face and smiled. “You still don’t understand, policeman. I’m not very moral, either.”
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.