THESE CLOTHES REALLY DID STINK. He checked again in the wardrobe. Both the pale linen suits hanging there were almost equally crumpled. So were the shirts. But at least they were fresh. He stripped down to his undershorts, pulled off the socks. Then, seeing as there were also some fresh undershorts inside the wardrobe, he pulled those off as well.
He took off the glasses and washed in the rickety sink, and risked checking his face again in the mirror, which was now nothing more than a grubby sheet of silvered glass held to the wall by rusty screws in three of its four corners showing a face something like his own. He searched briefly for a razor, then remembered Daniel Lamotte’s straggly beard.
He shifted the keys, billfold and identity papers from the old suit coat to the new, hooked the Ray-Bans into the top breast pocket, and pocketed the remaining Lucky Strikes, and matches as well. He stared at the Colt for a long moment. Then he checked the safety, and slid it into his outside suit coat pocket.
He could hear the click of a typewriter coming from one of the other rooms as he headed out through the old house. He thought of that girl Barbara Eshel in room 3A and her talk of friendly ghosts. On the front stoop he checked the Longines watch. Just past ten o-clock. Then he felt in his top pocket for the tortoiseshell glasses, only to discover he’d already put them on.
It wouldn’t be true to say that Blixden Avenue had exactly come to life this morning, but it wasn’t entirely dead. An ice-vendor’s old carthorse nosed its feedbag. A guy had his head buried under the hood of a rusty old car up on bricks. And some kids were around kicking a can. They looked about as feral as the cats he’d seen earlier.
There was a phone booth beneath the shade of some overgrown willows about halfway along the street. He walked down to it, worked the door open. The way the air smelled inside, he left it open. Miracle of miracles, this year’s city telephone directory still hung from its chain. He hefted it up, flicked through to the Gs. It was no great surprise to find that there was no listing for a company called Gladmont Securities.
He fumbled in his pockets for change, lifted the receiver, fed the slot, asked to be put through to the Venice exchange, then gave the number for the communal phone at the Doge’s Apartments. He waited several rings. Then several more. He pictured Glory scowling in her cubbyhole. Finally, on about the twentieth ring, there was a breathy clatter as the receiver was lifted.
“’Lo?”
“It’s Clark here.”
“What you want?”
“Just to let you know I’m okay.”
“’S’if I care.”
“Anyone been around? Any visitors? Messages?”
The pause seemed to last almost as long as the ringing tone. “Come on, Glory.”
“That woman. She call again. Say she don’t trust her husband.”
“Any number?”
“I think maybe.”
“Have you got it?”
“I’m no answering service.”
“Glory…”
He waited as she tromped off, and had to feed the phone some more nickels before she came back again. He ripped a page out of the directory, scrawled down the number she gave him, balled it into his pocket and promised that, sure, yes, absolutely, he’d call.
“And nothing else? No callers, no one asking questions?”
“Only question I ask is why you think I do this for you.”
He thanked Glory and hung up. A can thwanged off the Delahaye’s front wing as he headed back up the street.
“Hey, hey!” He shouted. “What the hell d’you think you’re doing?”
The kids just eyed him. Then one of them—not the largest, but obviously the leader—swaggered over with the manner of someone who wouldn’t normally cross a street for anyone or anything, but was prepared to make a rare exception this morning. Squinting through crusted eyes, the kid gave Clark the up and down. He was in short pants and a holed gray jumper which showed even grayer bits of bare rib beneath. He wore pumps with flapping soles, without socks. He was roughly five feet tall. Clark guessed him to be about twelve years old.
“That’s an expensive car, you know.”
The kid, making the same kind of effort he had to cross the road, just about managed a shrug. “Pity about that broken window. All it takes is one person to take a piss inside it and all them fancy carpets are ruined.”
“You got any idea,” Clark asked, “who I am?”
“If you don’t know that yourself, pal, you got problems.” The kid had a quick, crackly voice. “Alls I know is you’re just come out of that termite hotel.” The kid gestured. “My da says there’s nothing in there but fags and queens.”
”You got a name, kid?” “You got one?”
Clark hesitated only fractionally. “I’m Daniel Lamotte. Used to have a beard before I shaved it off. Maybe you’ve seen me around… ?”
“You mean the guy who goes out late evenings in a grubby ice cream suit, then comes back with a whole load of bottles? Ain’t been around for a few days… Although you don’t look much the same.”
Clark fingered his jaw. “Like I say, it’s the beard. Say, shouldn’t you be at school?”
“Shouldn’t you be at work?”
He had to smile. “You know my name, kid, but I still don’t know yours.”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Why not?”
The kid considered. His mates were still watching. “Name’s Roger Preston,” he eventually drawled. “Next time you have ze questions, you vill know vhere to go.” He was putting on one of those crappy German accents Clark had heard in radio trailers for the latest feelies.
“Sounds like a deal. Here, Roger…” Reaching into his jacket, he produced a dime. “Maybe this’ll help, now we both know who we are?”
“Won’t do any harm.” All in one swift motion, the kid had pocketed the coin.
“Oh. One last question.”
“Fire away.”
“You say I haven’t been around for a few days. D’you know exactly what day it was that I left?”
“Like I say, if you can’t—”
“Okay, okay. But did you happen to see anything unusual around that time?”
Roger scratched at his belly through a hole in his jumper. “What kind of unusual?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Cars. People. Maybe an ambulance. Perhaps the police. Any kind of thing.”
“Oh, I get it! You were so soused you can’t remember—like my da?”
“Well, maybe.”
“Can’t say as I did. Like I say, you’re around getting boozed in that faggot hole, and then you’re not.”
“Well thanks, Roger. See you around.”
“Not if I see you first.”
Working open the Delahaye’s door, Clark started up the engine. The kids stood and stared. Even the old carthorse seemed to be watching as he reversed out of the dead end and drove off down the street.