Chapter Sixteen

In the cab on the way back to the speak, I tried to figure out how everything I’d learned that day fit together, and I did a damn poor job of it.

For a while, I tried to put this Oscar Apollinaire character at the center. But I didn’t know enough about him. It made sense that the picture book was promotional material for a real movie that he was planning to show at “very private screenings.” That’s what he told Daphne. But why would he use the book to put the screws to RKO for six grand? Simple, he wouldn’t. Even if Apollinaire made the book, it didn’t necessarily figure that he was involved with the extortion. Unless he had split from his “silent partner,” Peter Wilcox.

Okay, so who was the guy who killed the goat? Not Peter Wilcox. The guy I saw was too young to be Wilcox. And if Arch was right, Wilcox was in Washington for the inauguration. And if Peter Wilcox felt the urge to slaughter a goat, he’d do it someplace else. That guy hated Peter Wilcox. Could he be Wilcox’s younger brother? His twin, even his evil twin? Damn, that was a screwy thought, but why the hell not? Everything else about this was screwy. And one other thing I knew, whoever this guy was, he didn’t have much trouble getting into Peter Wilcox’s foundation office and his house. And maybe I know something else, I thought. He needs money.

But there was no reason to keep worrying over that. This was the guy who threatened to make the pictures public, and he clued Saxon Dunbar in on them, and now Dunbar wasn’t interested, and the guy had been paid off. So, I figured that part was over for now. It was time to find Oscar Apollinaire and hear what he had to say. I hoped I wouldn’t have to go far. It was late and I was getting tired.

It was a little after two Saturday morning when I got back to the speak. Things had slowed down by then. I went to the end of the bar and motioned Connie over. She gave me a look and said something to Arch. He was standing next to her and took his time walking over to me. Connie turned around and talked to Marie Therese. I started to get steamed all over again but forced myself to calm down and thought, why the hell not? Why shouldn’t Connie be as screwy as everything else today?

Arch gave that little shrug that said Women. What’re you gonna do? “Good evening, sir, I’ve been considering what you asked when you called, and I’m almost certain that I’d know if Peter Wilcox had a brother, but I cannot say with perfect certainty. I know a bit, but I’ve not made a study of the man and his family.”

“It’s all right,” I said, “but if you could find out more by tomorrow, I’ll put something extra in your pay envelope. I need to know about cousins, any close relatives, I guess, and his deceased wife.”

“I don’t have the particulars at hand, but if you could tell me why you need this research, I might be able to expend my efforts more efficiently.”

“I wish I could, Arch. Oh, yeah, and there’s something else. What does it mean when you sacrifice a goat? I mean, why would somebody do that?”

That got his interest. His eyebrows popped up, and his mustache bristled at the question.

“And one more thing, I know Connie’s still pissed at me, but tell her—no, ask her—to call up to the kitchen and have them make a couple of sandwiches and coffee for us and bring them to my office. I gotta talk to her.”

Arch said, “Go for the roast beef if there’s any left. It was a little dry but very tasty.”

“I had the steak a few hours ago.”

“Then stick with the cheese.”

“Done,” I said and went upstairs to my office.

When Connie bumped open the door with her hip a few minutes later, she had a tray with one sandwich and one cup of coffee. She set the tray on my desk and said, “You wanted to see me?”

“No, I need to talk to you.” I picked up half the cheese sandwich and dug in. “I didn’t have time to tell you this earlier, but you should know what went on today.”

She pulled up the chair and sat close to listen.

I told her about it all, including the business with the goat, which didn’t bother her as much as I thought it would since she saw a lot of that being raised on a farm in California. I finished up with the guy on Fifth Avenue and how he said he was going to kill his brother.

Connie thought about that while she finished off the sandwich and the coffee. Then she said, “That’s the craziest story I ever heard. We’ve got to talk to this Oscar Apollinaire. You said he may live in the Chelsea, right?”

In the elevator, Nelson said, “Hi, Connie. Apollinaire? Yeah, he’s on six, in 624, I think.”

It was about 3:30 in the morning then. We’d left Frenchy, Marie Therese, and Malloy to close up and gone back to the Chelsea.

Connie said, “What’s he like?”

Nelson closed the doors. “Odd fellow. Sports a fez and fancy waistcoats. Keeps even more irregular hours than you two.”

I asked if Apollinaire was in, and Nelson said he had gone up about an hour ago.

Then Nelson asked which floor. Usually we both got off on five, Connie’s floor, and then I’d take the stairs down to three later. From time to time, we’d both get off at three, but that hadn’t happened for a few weeks.

Connie said, “Five, please, Nelson. I need to freshen up.”

That made me think that maybe she’d want to change clothes and I could help her with that, but, no. As soon as I took my topcoat off, she went into the bathroom. After a time and without my assistance, she did up her hair and put on a very nice white silk blouse.

I told her she looked terrific. She smiled and nodded and didn’t say anything else. We took the center stairs up to the sixth floor and went down the hall to 624. I could hear dance music from a phonograph through the door. I rapped on the door with my stick and we waited. Connie was so jazzed and curious, she grabbed my arm tight and bounced on tiptoes. I kept the other hand in my coat pocket with the .38.

The girl who answered the door was not what I expected. She was young and dark and tall and slender. She wore gauzy harem pants and an unbuttoned gold lamé vest with nothing underneath either of them. She had a silver chain with jangly coins around her hips and silver rings on her toes. The thick smell of hashish explained her dark pupils and pleasant smile.

She said hello in a dopey kind of voice, and I said we were looking for Oscar Apollinaire.

Her brow wrinkled for a second, then she smiled and twisted around, saying, “Baby, there’s some people here to see you.”

When she turned, the vest swung open. Connie frowned and blushed and looked down.

A man’s voice came from another room. “Who is it, Honeybunch?”

Without answering, she strolled away from us and we could see the room. At first, all I could make out were the bright colors, orange, red, and yellow, in the flickering light. I thought it was from a fireplace like the one I’d just seen in the grand library, but this came from an electric fixture with a revolving colored shade. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that the room looked like the inside of an Arab tent, a Hollywood Arab tent with big pieces of silk hanging from the ceiling and the floor covered with carpets and cushions.

Honeybunch said over her shoulder, “Entrez vous, and please take off your shoes.”

Connie and I entrezed. She took off her shoes. I didn’t.

As Honeybunch settled on a pillow and picked up her hash pipe, a man came in from the back. “Who is it?” he repeated, sounding suspicious and worried. He was bald and brown from the sun with a thick black Vandyke. Dress slacks, suspenders, and a starched white shirt. No shoes, no tie.

He took a long slow look at Connie before he turned to me. Then he said, “Jimmy Quinn, long time, no see,” and held out a hand. I almost recognized the voice.

When he smiled, I saw the gap between his front teeth and remembered him.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Bobby Colodny.”