CHAPTER 7

There were still quite a few very pretty girls lolling around in Gretchen’s den when we arrived. The party had degenerated into a blissful orgy, the noise a bit softer, the people less active, the big room much dimmer, lit only by the dull glow of small red bulbs in the room beyond Couples sat around in casual sex play, some sprawled on the bad furniture, others squatting here and there in corners, enmeshed in each other and not giving a damn. The hi-fi still bumped—odd music with a thwacking beat, drums, bongos and a particularly emotional clarinet. It was all rigged to promote the new mood at Gretchen’s, the Intimate time, the last big pitch for animal satisfaction. A handful of intellectuals still yakked at each other, paying no mind to the erotic byplay at their heels. At the bar in the other room, Gretchen still tended her bottles, pouring drinks for a few dressed-up kids from uptown, obviously down in the Village for a slumming dip into the Nowist sink.

Gretchen stroked a pair of large cats and poured cream into a saucer for them and spoke words of affection to them. She turned to me, at last, with a simpering scowl of recognition.

“You back again, man?”

“I like it here, Gretchen. Got any black coffee?”

“You’re square, cat. You want coffee, ease out to Seventh Avenue.”

“What I really want I can’t get on Seventh Avenue.”

“Something special, man?”

“Masterson.”

“Not here. And no fights in my place, understand? For a little one, you’re too loose with your fists. You don’t want to wind up on your skinny ass out on the street, cat, do you?”

“Not this lad,” said a voice at my side. “Solid and reliable, Gretchen. Vouch for him. Okay. Gone, cat, Connick.”

“Conacher,” I said and shook his hand.

It was Arthur Haddon, leaning in close to me and slapping my shoulder as he talked. Tanked again, he still retained much of his friendly charm, beaming at Gretchen, pinching her flabby cheek, laughing it up for her. She responded to him gaily—reaching at once for the drink that would please him, and pouring Scotch into a large glass.

“Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” sang Gretchen. “You’re a real syringe for a girl like me at an hour like this, hear?”

“Gretchen, I love you madly,” he burbled, swallowing a generous gulp of the liquor and watching her move down the bar to pour for the others. He nudged me in the ribs and winked at Max and pulled us toward him in a conspiratorial knot.

“Women,” he informed us. “They’ll die for a kind word, men. Have you seen Masterson, Carnick?”

“Not yet,” I said. “Now I’ll ask you one, Arthur. Have you seen the police?”

“This afternoon, the lice. Grabbed me and wrung me dry. Things like that can drive a man to drink. But Masterson is here, isn’t he?”

“Why the big yen to see Masterson?”

“You want the truth?”

“What else?”

“You read what happened to Nixon?”

“I’m with you, man.”

“Spit,” he said with bubbling malevolence. “I want to spit just once in Masterson’s eye. Die a happy man after that.”

“Why?”

“Hate. Sheer, unadulterated hate. I’m a realist, Carnock. Certain people were put on earth for other people to detest. The facts of life. Ever met a man you’d like to spit at? That’s what Masterson does to me, the cruddy phony, the cheap and preening pimp. Maybe I envy him. Maybe it’s sheer pique. The way he attracts women. The lure of the Nowist. What is it? What do they see in him? Dirt in the beard? The unwashed texture of his flesh? The cream-puff brawn? They capitulate in droves, all types, all kinds. Can you picture Helen Calabrese going for him? Can you imagine Mari Barstow—?”

He paused in his monologue, applying an obvious brake and busying himself with his glass again. I caught Max’s broad wink. Gretchen returned and Haddon pulled away from us, renewing his blandishments.

I tapped him on the shoulder.

“You were saying something about Mari Barstow?” I asked.

“Forget it, Carnock.”

“Masterson has her on the string?’

“Why not ask Masterson?”

“It’s a thought. Where does he live?”

“In a rat hole,” mumbled Haddon. “Where else?”

“You don’t know?”

“To hell with him. Another drink, Gretchen?”

“You’re out there, man,” said Gretchen. “You’re way out, cat. Maybe I shouldn’t dose you anymore.”

“A drink,” roared Haddon, thumping his fist on the bar and glaring at her. “Get these monkeys off my back, Gretchen. Tell them where Masterson can be found: They’re rodent hunters, out for a night of Nowist quarry.”

“Nobody knows,” said Gretchen. “Masterson moves around, man.”

Somebody had gunned the hi-fi back in the big room. The place exploded into noise—the din of progressive jazz, an occasional voice raised in song or hilarity, the buzz of conversation, and the beat of hands. They were crowded around a small section of open floor. There was a girl out in the closed ring, a girl alone dancing a hip-shaking, Polynesian movement. Up close, she danced without shoes, her body alive and obvious to the applauding herd. She wore only a slip and bra and her eyes were closed and her body was lost to the provocative beat of the music.

“Helen Calabrese,” I whispered to Max. She held my eye for only a flick of time. Beyond her, against the wall, a man moved off toward the door, sliding away in an obvious effort to leave the group. “Get a load of that creep on his way out,” I told Max. “Recognize him?”

“How can I miss? Grippo?”

“The same.”

“Does he matter to us, Steve?”

“Only Haddon matters right now. Stay with him and he’ll probably lead you to Masterson. Masterson is our apple for tonight.”

We were moving to cut Grippo off as we talked. He was almost at the door when I blocked him and signaled Max to stand by.

“An old face,” I said. “You like the Nowist pitch, Grippo?”

“Out of my way, punk,” he said.

“Still the tough boy, Grippo?”

“Drop dead,” he said.

“And Luigi? How is my old friend Luigi?”

“Nuts.”

The dance was over and Helen stood where it had ended, surrounded by a group of admiring Nowist huskies. The disk was flipped and there were two more girls on the floor, both naked from the waist to the ears, both swaying and bumping in a well-organized ritual slide. Helen looked my way. She slipped into her dress and joined us just as Grippo moved away.

“There goes Grippo,” I said. “Your perpetual fan club.”

“Grippo can go to hell, Steve.”

“Does Luigi know you dance here?”

“What I do is none of Luigi’s business.”

“You’ve said that before. Just what is your business, Helen? Down here, I mean. Jeff Masterson?”

“I like it here.”

“Where can I reach the great man?”

“I never asked his address.” She was watching the street door nervously. “I’m going home in a couple of minutes, Steve.”

“Want an escort?”

“I’ll make it alone, thanks.”

“A very upset girl emotionally,” said Max, shaking his head at her sadly. She was drifting away from us and asking someone to get her a drink and keeping herself well acquainted with any action that might take place near the front door. “You staying with her, Steve?”

“I’ll watch her. She was playing footie with Masterson earlier in the evening. She may lead me to him. You stay with Haddon.”

“I’ll come back to your place, Steve. My wife Esther will have a fit when I tell her I’m out for the night. Ever since I got to Lynbrook I’ve been a steady family man. But, you know something, I feel pretty good. Like old times.”

He moved slowly back to the bar and took up a position at the near end, where he could keep his eye on Haddon without any effort.

I walked toward the door and into the street and waited for Helen Calabrese to make her move.