TWENTY-EIGHT
T
here were lotsa police cars with their lights flashing, uniforms on foot, and the usual gawkers. Also the ambulance to take the body to the morgue. I was glad it was still there so I could see the corpse. I needed to get behind Schwartz’s but flashing my PI license to any of these mugs wasn’t gonna do the trick. I needed Marty. I went up to a beefy cop.
“Excuse me. I need to see Detective Mitchum.”
“Look, girlie, everybody needs somethin, but I can’t always give it to them. Now step back.”
Wrong cop.
I made my way around the cops looking at their faces. I finally chose one because he reminded me of my uncle Dan, except for a nose that looked like it could light up a room. Very scientific process. I went through the same routine with him.
“And whaddaya want to see the detective for, honey?”
“He’s expectin me.”
“Is that right? What for?”
I decided I might as well try it so I took out my license and showed it to him.
He looked at it, then back at me. I watched while his mouth turned up and into a smile and I knew before the bottomless laugh that I’d played the wrong card.
I snatched my license from his mitts and he stopped laughing.
“Sorry. I just never knew a twist who was a dick.”
“Now ya do.”
“Who’d ya say ya wanted to see?”
I told him.
“Ya sure he’s here?”
“He called me to come up.”
“Maybe he just wanted ya to have Out of This World chocolate-covered marshmallows.” He pointed to Schwartz’s shop.
“I need to get through to the yard.”
“Ya seen a dead body before?”
“What’s yer name, Officer?”
“Why?”
“I like to know who I’m talkin to.”
“Officer Lundigan.”
I took out a pad and pencil and wrote it down.
“Whatcha writin it in that for?”
“Reference.”
“Huh?”
“Look. There he is.”
Marty stepped through the doorway of Schwartz’s, held a hand under his brow, and eyeballed the crowd.
“Marty,” I yelled. “Over here.”
He heard and gestured for me to join him.
“See that, Lundigan?”
“Get outta my sight.”
I pushed through the crowd feeling hot and angry, smelling stale breath and BO, and finally got to Marty.
“Faye. I’ve been holdin things up here waitin for ya.”
“Came as fast as I could and then no cops would let me past them.”
“Numbskulls. C’mon.”
“Why’d ya call me, Marty?”
He stopped. “I got a gut feelin. Never met yer Claire Turner, but somethin tells me . . . well, let’s go and see.”
He led me through the store where the smell was overwhelmingly sweet. Not that it bothered me. Two salesgirls huddled together behind a counter. We went out a back door into what passed for a yard. A rusted chain-link fence surrounded it except for one side, which was pushed down.
Detectives were standing around, smoking. I wanted a cig myself, but I thought I should wait. Glenn Madison was there and gave me a nod. He’d met Claire. This gave me hope. Wouldn’t he have identified her if it was Claire? In a space between two guys I saw a body lying on the ground.
Marty took my hand and moved me past some detectives.
“This is Faye Quick, fellas. I think she might ID the victim.”
Suddenly I felt queasy and my knees were like pudding. I didn’t like being on this stage. What if I couldn’t ID her? But when I got closer I saw right away that it was Claire.
She was wearing the same dress she’d had on when we met the day before. She was on her back, her arms above her head and her legs bent at the knees. A rope was tight around her neck and her face had a purple cast to it. Eyes open, she looked like she’d never been so surprised.
“Yes,” I said.
“No doubt?” Glenn asked.
“None.”
“Thanks.”
“Didn’t ya recognize her, Glenn? It was only last week that ya met her.”
“She looked familiar but I couldn’t put a name to the face.” His usual deadpan crumpled a little.
“How long d’ya think she’s been dead?”
He cleared his throat. “Approximately ten to twelve hours. She’s been moved. She died somewhere else.”
“Why was she dumped here?” Marty asked.
He shrugged. “That’s for you guys to find out.”
“You got any more questions, Faye?” Marty said.
“No.”
He put a hand on my back and guided me through the door as though I couldn’t see it myself. In a way it was true. My eyes were blurred from the tears they were holding and trying not to let go. But the battle was lost and they streamed down my face. I quickly wiped them away even though it was only the Schwartz’s staff looking at me. But it wouldn’t help my rep if any detectives saw me. Not even Marty.
When we got out front, he said, “Sorry to put ya through that.”
“It’s okay.”
“Ya gonna call her parents?”
I turned to look at him. “Her parents?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know who they are or where they are. They only came up once, when Claire told me they didn’t speak to her sister anymore. Claire’s a grown girl, I didn’t think to ask anything about them.”
Another hole in my procedure. Had I forgotten I was pretty new at this and let early success go to my noggin?
“What’s the sister’s name?”
“Lucille. And she’s not answerin her phone and hasn’t shown up at work for a few days. In fact, I was gonna ask ya to use yer clout with some cops in Newark to check out her house.”
“What’re ya sayin, Faye? Ya think somebody’s after this family?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I think.”
“I’ll get on the horn to Captain Novack over in Jersey. You gonna be all right? You seem a little shaky.”
“I need a smoke, is all.” I pulled one from my pack and he lit it.
“You look like ya haven’t slept in days.”
“I feel like I haven’t. How am I gonna find the parents?”
“I’ll ask Novack to look into it when his men go over to Lucille’s place. Oh, better give me that address and phone.”
I did.
“I guess you’re officially off this case now that Claire’s not pickin up the tab.”
I hadn’t thought about that. “I guess.”
“You wanna tell the parents if we find em?”
I knew I’d never be off this case until I found out who’d killed Claire. “I think I should.”
“It’s better comin from a girl,” Marty said.
I agreed. “I’m goin to my office. See ya.”
Birdie said, “Who was it?”
“Claire Turner.”
“Ah, no. That poor little gal. So the nappers iced her. And Charlie Ladd?”
“Don’t know. Before they find out from the daily rags, I hafta to tell Claire’s parents.”
“Yeah, I guess ya do.”
“One problem with that. I don’t know where they live.”
“Ya want me to start searchin, huh?”
Birdie’s eyes looked like they were gonna roll right outta their sockets.
“I don’t even have the father’s name.”
“Ya want me to dig up a Turner with no first name?”
“No. I never said ya should search. I know ya don’t have a Chinaman’s chance of findin em. I was just tellin ya what’s what. If only I could get ahold of Lucille.”
“The sister. So how come ya can’t?”
I explained.
“So yer off this case now, right?”
“Officially.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I gotta find out who killed Claire.”
“Ah, Faye, ya can’t keep doin these cases for nothin.”
“Have I missed one week of your salary?”
“Don’t insult me. You know I’m not thinkin of myself.”
“Yeah, I do. I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. I’m thinkin about you. How’re ya gonna put food on the table, ya keep doin stuff for free.”
“It wasn’t for free when it started.”
“You got a retainer from her, dincha?”
“I got a week’s pay. She was savin up for her trousseau.”
“Hell’s bells.”
“Yeah.”
“So Thursday will be a week. Whaddaya gonna do after that?”
I shrugged.
“Yeah. Right. You need a business manager.”
“I thought that’s what you were.”
“Me?”
“Oh, no. How could I make such a mistake? Yer my nag-gin secretary.”
“A real thigh slapper, Faye. So what’s next?”
I snapped my fingers. “I just thought of a guy who might know where Claire’s from. Was from.”
“I could never do that,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Snap my fingers.”
“Go back to readin yer magazine. I see it on yer lap.”
“Jeez, Louise, ya put all our other cases on hold so what else do I have to do?” She brought the magazine up to her desk.
Love Fiction,
it was called. The magazines always had a broad on the cover lookin like she never even heard the word
sex.
“I know ya don’t approve of my readin habits.”
“No, ya don’t. Just cause I don’t want to read em doesn’t mean I think
you
shouldn’t read em.”
“On the level?”
“Sure. I gotta make a call now.”
I went into my office and was surprised to see the scraps and shreds of paper all over the top of my desk, like I’d never seen it like this. I felt like crying out
Who did this?
but I knew who.
I sat down, lit a cig, and tried to make some order outta the chaos. Well, no, that wasn’t what I was doing. I’d do that later or tomorrow. Now I was looking for a phone number. It took me about ten minutes. I dialed and his secretary answered.
“May I say who’s calling, please?”
“Faye Quick.”
“Quick?”
“Yes. Quick.”
“Is he expecting your call?”
“No.”
“Are you a client?”
“Listen, miss, I’m losin my patience here. Tell him who’s on the phone.”
“You needn’t get so vicious. I’ll ring him now.”
That girl didn’t know the meaning of
vicious.
Finally George Cummings came on. “Faye. How are you? Did you find Charlie?”
I thought of saying something about Miss Priss, but I restrained myself. “No. Charlie’s still missin. But Claire Turner’s been murdered.”
Silence.
“George? Ya there?”
“Yes. Claire murdered? Why?”
That was an odd question. Most people said how or when. “I don’t know. Thing is, George, I gotta tell her parents and I haven’t the vaguest where they live. I thought ya might know.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
I waited. “George? Ya there?”
“I’m just so shocked. About Claire. I can’t believe that happened.”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“Well, another murder. And a girl. Claire was so nice.”
“Nice doesn’t cut it when somebody wants someone outta the way.”
“But why?”
Why again.
“Why would someone want
that
girl out of the way. And out of the way of what?”
“I don’t have any of those answers. You were gonna tell me where the Turners live.”
“Charlie mentioned it. They live on Twenty-sixth Street. Charlie said at least they didn’t live on the Lower East Side.”
“You mean here? In Manhattan?”
“Yes. Over between Eighth and Ninth avenues.”
“That’s a pretty tough area.”
“I think Mr. Turner’s a longshoreman.”
“How’d Charlie feel about that?”
“Charlie didn’t care but he was worried that his parents wouldn’t like it. Still, he said he wasn’t marrying her parents, after all. And he planned to marry Claire before they met her.”
I was thinking Charlie sounded like a nice guy until I remembered what he’d done to Lucille.
“So can ya give me the exact address?”
“No. Sorry.”
“What’s Mr. Turner’s first name?”
“When Charlie’s found, he’s going to be devastated.”
If
he’s found, I thought. “First name, George?”
“Oh, yes. I don’t know it. No reason for me to.”
“Guess not.”
I thanked him and when I got off the horn I shouted for Birdie. I heard her chair scrape and then her heels clicking across the floor. She opened the door.
“Were you screamin for me, boss?”
“We have to get one of those thingamajigs,” I said for probably the hundredth time.
“I told ya I’d shop for one.”
“We don’t have time now. Find me a Turner on West Twenty-sixth Street.”
“Still no first name?”
“No. It shouldn’t be that hard, though.”
“Phone number, too?”
I told her yes, and she went back into the other room. Everything about George’s response to the news of Claire’s death seemed cockeyed to me.
The phone rang and Birdie picked it up. Then she screamed for me. It was George, calling me back.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “You have no one to pay your bills now, do you? I mean now that Claire’s gone.”
I wasn’t surprised that he knew Claire was my client. It was never much of a secret. “That’s right,” I said.
“Are you calling it quits after you talk to her parents, or are you planning to stay on this case?”
“I wanna find Charlie and I wanna find out who killed Claire,” I said.
“I had a feeling you would. Let me pay you.”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“Yes, you could and you will. I’ll put a check in the mail this afternoon.”
“But you don’t even know what I charge.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’ll work out the details later. Have to run now.”
He hung up, leaving me kinda stunned.
Birdie came in. “The father’s name is Burt.”
“Ya sure ya got the right one?”
“Only one on Twenty-sixth. Take it or leave it.”
I took it.
TWENTY-NINE
E
ven though the sun was spotless and bigger than a basketball, I decided to walk downtown. My heels were two inches high and I imagined a time in the future when women wouldn’t have to wear these uncomfortable shoes. Men had it good.
I liked to walk. After six years in the city I still saw things I’d never seen before. Sometimes I’d be drawn into a store, but I didn’t have time for that now. And I liked eyeballing people as they passed me. I couldn’t understand why some people walked with their heads down, looking at the sidewalk.
Almost nobody made eye contact. It just wasn’t done and I couldn’t get used to it. If I caught someone’s eye I often smiled and they either looked at me like I was bats or they seemed scared silly.
I came even with a big window poster of Uncle Sam— I WANT YOU FOR THE U.S. ARMY!—and I stopped and faced it head-on. With his tall white hat that had a blue band and stars cut into it, his blue jacket and pointing finger, I felt a quiver of fear whenever I saw him. Maybe it was his stern expression, maybe the piercing eyes that seemed to single me out.
And now I wondered if Jeanne was right. Should I join the Wacs? But who’d run the agency? I’d made a promise to Woody and I couldn’t go back on it. I whispered, “You can’t have me,” and wheeled away from the poster.
I turned at Thirty-fourth and headed toward Herald Square. The two biggest department stores were there. Gimbel’s and Macy’s. They were archrivals but I shopped in both if I hadda shop, which was something that left me cold. Other girls found that odd. And I guess it was as if all girls were supposed to be alike. I didn’t think they were so it struck me odd that it struck them odd. One good thing about those stores was that they were air-conditioned.
When I got to the square, I was tempted to go into Macy’s to cool off. But not tempted enough, so I kept walking till I came to Eighth Avenue and then went south.
As I made my way downtown things started to get a little seedy. Lots of tenements with years of grime rubbed into their faces, people sitting on the stoops and yelling to each other, kids playing in the fire hydrant water, underwear their only clothes. I hated being a snob, but I could see how different life was here from the life in Greenwich Village a dozen blocks away.
I passed some sailors looking stunned, overwhelmed I figured by the city that never slept. It musta been something to see Manhattan for the first time. It was for me when I was a little girl and came with my aunt and uncle. But it was love at first sight and even then I knew I’d live here someday. Something got under my skin and it wasn’t dirt.
At Twenty-sixth I took a right. The Turners lived halfway down the block. Per usual, I hadn’t called ahead. There was always the chance that nobody would be home, but it was worth it for the element of surprise. Not that I wanted to surprise them about the death of their daughter. But there were other things I wanted to ask. And that was a dilemma. Which did I do first?
Was it unethical to ask them questions before I told them Claire was dead? I knew if I did it the other way around, chances of them answering any questions were slim. I’d have to play it by ear.
I found the address and went up the steps, where I said hello to the woman sitting at the top in a housedress and open-toed slippers. A strap from her slip hung below her short sleeve. Smoke curled from the butt that hung from her mouth, and in her fist was a bottle of Rheingold. I could honestly say she didn’t resemble Miss Rheingold of any month.
She didn’t say hello back. I passed her and went into the small dirty hall. Numbers but no names on the bells. Names on the mailboxes but no numbers. I came outside.
“Excuse me?”
“Who ya want?” she said.
“I’m looking for the Turners’ apartment.”
“Oh, yeah? What d’ya want with em?” She blew out smoke while the cig clung to her bottom lip.
“Can ya tell me their apartment number?”
“No.” She took the cigarette out of her mouth, had a healthy swig of beer, then smacked her lips together and let out a meaty sigh.
“Ya mean they don’t live here?”
“Did I say that? Huh? Did I?”
“This is the address I have for them.” I showed her the piece of paper I’d written on.
She batted it away. “I don’t wanna see that.”
It dawned on me that maybe she couldn’t read. “The address I have on the paper matches this one.”
“La di da.”
I was losing patience. “What’s la di da about it?”
She looked at me with eyes whose whites were speckled with red veins. “You ain’t got no business with Burt and Marj.”
“But I do.”
“Jus look at ya.” She swept a hand in my direction.
I glanced down at myself as if I didn’t know what I’d see. “What about me?”
“Nobody looks like you comes here.”
It was worth a try. “What if I told ya I’m a detective?”
She stared for a few seconds and then whooped with a slash of laughter so loud it stopped people on the sidewalk.
“What is it, Binnie?”
“Ya wouldn’t believe it,” she said, and took another swig from her bottle, finishing it.
“C’mon, Bin, give.”
Binnie started laughing again and the beer came whooshing out of her nostrils. She wiped it away with her sleeve.
“Now see whatcha made me do, ya stupid moron.”
That was me. I waited.
“You botherin Binnie?” the man on the sidewalk said.
“I just want an apartment number for some people I need to see.”
“Yeah, that’s right, Connery. She’s a lady detective.” This sent her into another spiral of laughter.
“De-
tec
-tive? Never heard a that. No women I know would be such a thing. Yer a detective with the coppers?”
“No. I didn’t say that. I’m a private detective. And I need to see the Turners. Ya know em?”
“Burt and Marj? Sure,” the other guy said.
“You just shut him up, Connery,” Binnie said.
I hated doing it but I had no choice. “Look, I have a client who left em some money.”
They all went silent.
Binnie gave me a cocked head once-over and the two mugs came up a couple of steps.
“What kinda money?” Connery said.
“I can’t tell ya that. After they get it, ask them.”
“They don’t tell nothin,” Binnie said. “Like clams.”
“That ain’t fair, Bin. Burt tole us bout his daughter bein real successful at Wanamaker’s.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
Binnie said, “And what about Lucille? They ever tell ya bout that one?”
“Nope.”
“There ya go. Just what I’m sayin.”
“What about her?”
Binnie glanced at me then back at the two guys. “Another time, fellas.”
“You’ll forget. Why don I go get us some beers,” he said.
“Good idea.”
“Before ya go, can ya tell me which apartment is the Turners so I don’t hafta ring all the bells, bother everybody?”
“Fourth floor. Two B.”
“You bigmouth, Connery.”
“Why shouldn’t they get money if it’s due em, Bin?”
“Yeah,” the other one said.
“Ah, what’s the dif. Go on up, girlie. Girlie detective.”
I heard them all laughing as I made my way up the stairs. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d given people such a good time.
Two B was down a long dark corridor. I didn’t feel scared but I did feel a cloak of depression come over me like a bleak, cloudy day. I knocked. It’d been a timid sound, so I did it again with more beef. Nothing happened. I tried again, four loud ones instead of three. I heard a stirring, then a sound like someone mopping the floor. As it got closer it became a shuffle.
“Who is it?” A deep male voice.
“Detective Quick?”
“Who?”
I repeated it for him.
“There ain’t no girl detectives.”
“I’m private.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m public and I’m sleepin.”
I could hear that he was turning away.
“Wait. Mr. Turner, I have somethin to tell ya about Claire.”
“Claire?”
“Yeah.”
“Somethin wrong?”
“Mr. Turner, could ya let me come in?”
He turned a lock and opened the door about two inches. All I could see was his nose and one blue eye, an accordion of bags beneath it.
“What about her?”
“I’m not talkin about this in the hall.”
“Okay.” He opened the door wider and let me through. “I was sleepin,” he said and looked down at the proof, his striped pajama pants. He wore a grubby undershirt on top. His full head of black hair was sticking up at odd angles. From what I could see in the dim light his features were square, like boxes.
“Should I get my wife? We both work nights.”
“I think it would be good to get her.”
Suddenly he didn’t want to know why I’d come. He’d rather get his wife.
It was a railroad apartment, one room after another off the narrow hallway. Mr. Turner walked down it like he was navigating a plank.
The living room was dark; the one window had a blackout shade pulled down, its green color chipped. A sagging couch was against one wall, while a three-legged chair and another one with four legs were across from it. Small tables were staggered around the room.
Mr. Turner came back with his wife. He’d changed into a pair of work pants.
“Let’s get some light on the subject,” she said. Her voice was cheerful, as if she was about to kick off a party. When she raised the shade, it didn’t make that much difference, cause outside the window was another brick building. She went around the room snapping on lights. It felt like it was three in the morning.
“There. That’s better.”
Mrs. Turner was a short scrawny woman. The back and sides of her fading blond hair were rolled up, while bobby pins kept the curls above her forehead in a straight line, and all of it was held in place with a hairnet. She was wearing a quilted bathrobe that was tattered and frayed at the cuffs. Her blue eyes looked lavender like her daughter’s.
“So what’s this about Claire?” he asked.
“Could we sit down?”
“You keep beatin around the bush. I don’t like that.”
“Now, Burt,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. He shook it off.
I sat in the chair that had all of its legs. But no springs. I felt like I was on the floor.
They stared at me, then took seats on the couch, which I could now see had a pattern of big faded flowers. He looked angry and she tried to look sunny. They both looked tired. I didn’t know how I was gonna tell em. Why hadn’t I left it up to the police? They’d probably be here soon. Did I always have to be first?
Mr. Turner tapped a cigarette out of the package on the table in front of him. He opened a box of wooden matches and lit one by scraping his thumbnail across the top. “Whatcha got to say about Claire?”
“There’s been an accident.” Why had I put it like that. It was only a delaying tactic. I lit a butt to delay a little longer.
Mrs. Turner grabbed the lapels of her robe and brought them together like she needed to get warmer. He stared at me.
“Is she in the hospital?” she said.
“No.”
“She’s dead, ain’t she?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Dead?” She moved her hand from the lapels to her mouth.
He said, “Who killed her?”
I wanted to know why he’d asked that, but I couldn’t put the questions then, I had to answer them.
“I don’t know.” I told them the rest of what I knew, leaving out details they didn’t hafta know.
They sat in front of me as though I’d punched them both in the gut. And I had. A long time passed before anyone spoke again.
Finally I broke the silence. “Why’d ya think someone had killed her, Mr. Turner?”
“I could tell she was goin down the road her sister went. Girls like that get killed. With Lucille it was somethin else, but I knew Claire would come to a bad end. I don’t get it. She was a real nice kid once.” He blew out a last spat of smoke and crushed his cig in the ashtray.
“Mr. Turner, I don’t think it was Claire’s fault.”
“Shut up.”
He startled me. I hadn’t expected that.
“Just shut up. You don’t know nothin about em, my girls.”
I had to admit he was right. I knew very little about either of them, as it turned out.
“Can I ask ya somethin?”
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Turner said.
“Has Lucille called ya recently?”
“She wouldn’t dare,” he said.
“Well, she did,” Mrs. T. said.
He looked at her, shock in his eyes. “When was this?”
“All the time.”
“Whatcha sayin, Marj?”
“I’m sayin that I never agreed with how ya handled everything with Lucille. I talked to her and I saw her every week. She’s my daughter and I love her, no matter what. Same with Claire.”
“Had ya cut off Claire, too, Mr. Turner?”
“No reason for her to leave home. She thought she was too good for us, so she had to get her own place. That’s what whores do.”
I felt angry for Claire. “She wasn’t a whore, Mr. Turner.”
“She made up like one, runnin around with sailors and soldiers and who knew what else.”
“One soldier,” Marj said.
“Ya don’t know that,” he said.
“I do.”
“How?”
“She told me about him.”
His mouth pulled back into something that he intended as a grin. “And ya believed her? You’ve always been a dimwit.”
“I don’t wanna argue, Burt. I just wanna see my girl. I wanna see both my girls. Does Lucille know?”
“No.” Now I was gonna have to tell these people that their other daughter was AWOL. “When’s the last time ya talked to Lucille, Mrs. Turner?”
“Let’s see. About a week ago. Last Wednesday to be exact. She’ll be heartbroken about this. They were such good friends. I should tell her. Should I phone her or should I go over there? Oh, I don’t know what to do.” She began to cry.
“But they hadn’t been friends for a long time, had they? I mean since Lucille . . .”
“Had a baby. Say it. She had a baby without bein married,” he said.
“And you forbid Claire to see her, didn’t ya?”
“You bet.”