Coates was waiting in the “cool room” with a white-uniformed morgue attendant. The little inspector stood beside a sheet-draped figure on a wheeled table.
“Sorry to have to bother you again so soon,” Coates said with a gentleness that was foreign to the nature of the man. “I want you to look at someone.” He nodded in the direction of the covered figure.
My eyes followed the outline of the corpse. A woman. My knees threatened to buckle and it was suddenly hard to breathe. I made a silent vow. If Eleanor was under that sheet, then I’d track Lagusta down and put a dum-dum bullet in his belly. And then I’d go after Brink. Because, if she was under that sheet, then Lagusta and Brink knew who’d done it, and why.
“All right,” Coates said.
The attendant gripped a corner of the sheet. I set myself for it. He lifted the sheet. My eyes blurred. For one terrible moment I was looking into Eleanor’s face, through a haze, the way it is when I try to form a picture of her in my mind. But then the scene cleared and I was looking at someone else.
“Can you identify her?” Coates asked.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“No chance it’s Eleanor Gesualdi?”
“There’s a superficial likeness, but it’s not her.”
Coates nodded to the attendant, who replaced the sheet. Coates walked away a few paces and I followed.
“She was fished out of the Hudson, upstream, just north of the Tappan Zee bridge. The coroner says she’s been dead for about two days. No identification. I put out an all-points on Stanley Brink. I want him to come here for an identification. Not that I don’t take your word for it.”
“I understand.”
“You look pale. Could you stand a drink?” He smiled at my open mouth. “It may come as a surprise, Kent, but there are times when I even pat children on the head. And at Christmas I send cards out. Not many, but I send cards. There’s a saloon down the street.”
“I could stand a drink, Inspector.”
“Fine.” He turned to Bagley. “I’ll be at Rudy’s Bar. If anything comes through, get me there.”
“Yes, sir,” Bagley said. “By the way, sir, Kent had an interesting visitor—Raphael Lagusta.”
Coates’ bald head jerked around. “That a fact?”
“I meant to tell you about it, Inspector.”
“You can do that over a drink.”
Not five minutes later, there was a double rye inside me. Scotch for pleasure, rye for effect. Coates nursed a Dubonnet on the rocks with a twist of lemon.
“Let’s have it,” he said after the bartender poured my second double.
I told him about Lagusta’s visit, leaving nothing out. Coates nodded every now and then, had a sip of his drink. When I was finished he had some nods left but no Dubonnet. Nor did I have any scotch. So I called the bartender over for refills.
“Of course,” Coates said when the bartender was out of earshot, “I know about Lagusta. I’m aware that he’s a big wheel with the Mafia. You say he’s one of the seven board members. All the information I have on him indicates that this may well be so, but there’s no proof. Get me proof, Kent, and I’ll have him arrested within minutes.”
“Sure. And then his battery of lawyers will go to work. Before they’re finished they’ll prove there’s no such thing as the Mafia or the Syndicate or whatever else you want to call it. No, Inspector, you don’t deal with men like Lagusta in a court room.”
“Maybe not,” Coates said. “But it’s all we’ve got.” He swirled the ice cubes in his drink around, looked down at them. “Don’t try to be a one-man army, Kent.” His eyes came up to meet mine. “If you do I’ll stomp all over you.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“If you come up with something, see me. We can work some kind of a deal.”
I had a belt of scotch. “Inspector. I think you’re trying to play square with me.”
The ghost of a smile haunted the oddly tanned face. “Believe me, Kent, I’m bending as far as my nature will allow.”
“Well, maybe we can negotiate. It depends.”
“On what?”
“Eleanor. If she’s dead, all bets are off.”
“That’d be stupid. Anyhow, I don’t think she’s dead. If she was, Lagusta wouldn’t be looking.”
“That may have been an act.”
“Why? You don’t think he’s afraid of you, do you?”
“He’s got reason to be.”
“If you’re right about his position, getting you out of the way wouldn’t be too much of a problem.”
“He’d still need a majority vote of the board.”
“He could manage that if he wanted it badly enough.”
I had another swallow of scotch, lit a cigarette. “All right, let’s say she’s still alive. Why does the Mafia want to find her?”
“You asked me that question in my office, Kent.”
“I think you can answer it.”
“Maybe. But it’s trading material. You come up with something good enough and I’ll give you the answer.”
“Why can’t you give it to me now?”
“Because it doesn’t suit me at the moment.”
“Inspector.” I waited until his eyes were on mine. “Listen. That girl is very important to me.”
The bald head went up and down. “I know, I know. That’s why I’m being so nice to you.”
“Inspector Coates—” It was the bartender. “Phone call for you.”
Coates walked down the bar, took the phone. I called the bartender over to refill my glass. Coates was back a minute or so later. He hoisted himself onto the stool.
“I’ve decided to tell you something,” he said.
“I don’t have anything to trade at the moment.”
“You can owe it to me.” He shifted his position on the stool. “That phone call—it was about Brink. You’re pretty well informed about the Mafia, Kent, but there are two or three things you don’t know. For example, Brink. Ten years ago he didn’t have a hundred bucks to his name. Then he suddenly began to buy properties out on the West Coast. In no time at all he was dealing in millions.”
“Mafia money?”
“Yes. He was fronting for the Syndicate.”
“That explains Trillo.”
“Yes.”
“Did Eleanor know the Mafia was behind him?”
Coates looked down at his drink. “You’ll have to ask her, Kent. This is as far as I go.”
“But why stop short? I want to know!”
“That’s it, Kent. No more.”
His tone was final. No doubt about that.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll find out the rest.”
Coates sipped at his drink. “Getting back to that phone call. We located Brink. At least, one of my men spoke to him on the phone. Brink will be at the morgue at ten in the morning—” He waved a hand casually. “Just thought you might like to know.”
“I wonder,” I said.
“Hm?”
“I wonder if he knows that the girl in the morgue isn’t Eleanor.”
Coates grunted, looked at his watch. “It’s getting on to midnight. You’d better get some sleep. I’ll drive you home.”
“Thanks.”
We didn’t speak much on the way to my apartment. There wasn’t much to say. Coates had said it all when he told me that Brink would be appearing at the morgue in the morning. He wanted me to take it from there. He was using me to stir things up. But he’d never admit it. Not Coates. He did everything by the book. Fair enough. Maybe I could get some information from Brink, something to trade with Coates for the answers to some questions. Of course, this was what the bald-headed fox was counting on. He’d have made a great horse-trader.
The police car slowed down, pulled over to the curb outside my apartment building.
“I expect I’ll be hearing from you,” Coates said.
“I’ll be in touch.” I opened the door. “Thanks for the ride.” I stepped out.
“Kent ...” Coates leaned towards me. Light from a street lamp made his bald head shine. “You don’t need me to tell you to watch yourself, but I’m doing it anyhow. Those fellows aren’t playing bean-bag. So far they’ve only banged you around, but that can change any minute. Maybe it has already.”
“I’m touched by your concern,” I said.
He grinned. “A wisecrack. I might have known. But what I said still goes.”
“Now I am touched,” I said, meaning it. “Thanks, Inspector.”
“You’re welcome.”
I closed the door, started to climb the brick steps of the apartment building. The police car moved down the street. I stepped into the vestibule, waited a few seconds, came out. The car wasn’t in sight. I went to the garage, got into my Corvette, backed her out and pointed her nose towards Greenwich Village.
The Colony Club was a medium-sized below-street-level lounge that featured dim lights and expensive coffee. There was a small stage at the back of the place. Kitty Simpson was spotlighted there. She wore a plain black dress, her hair was combed down and had a ribbon in it. She was strumming her guitar and singing a folk ballad about unrequited love.
A waiter materialized, a skinny little swarthy fellow with pock-marked cheeks.
“I’d like a table near the singer, please,” I said.
He showed big teeth. “I’m sorry, sir, but—”
I showed him a five dollar bill.
He changed gears. “I think we can accommodate you.” He made my five dollar bill disappear.
I followed him to a tiny table near the wall, just to Kitty’s left. I saw her peering at me through the weak-colored spotlight as I sat down. “Coffee,” I told the waiter and he returned to the darkness.
Kitty finished her song and got some good applause, with me adding my bit. She made a signal with her right hand and the spotlight went out. Now her brown eyes were full on me and there was a crooked little smile on her lips.
“A dear friend,” she said, and I knew the words were for me, “made a request for a song I’ve never sung in public. For him—anything.”
And she went into “Ode to Billy Joe,” the song I’d said I heard her sing. She did it well, too. Her voice was low and sweet and she knew how to carry a melody. With her looks and figure, a TV spot would send her on her way. This time the applause was a bit louder, and I was conscious of some envious male looks thrown my way, particularly when, after bowing, she blew a kiss in my direction. Then she backed through the curtain. She emerged for another bow when the applause continued. The little wave she gave to the audience was a signal that she’d received enough tribute. A few lights came on and the babble of conversation began.
My pot of coffee arrived. I poured and sipped it black. Good. At three bucks a pot it should have been. I lit a cigarette and leaned back. Kitty was walking towards me, sans guitar, weaving her way between tables with delightful hip work, smiling a hello here, giving a little wave there. I got to my feet.
“This is a nice surprise,” she said.
“Would you care to join me?”
“That,” she said, sitting down, “is the general idea.”
“Would you like something?”
“Just a few kind words.”
“Thanks for singing my request. If you knew I hadn’t caught your act, why didn’t you say so then and there?”
“Well, I thought you were delivering a line. A wise girl doesn’t kill a fellow’s line. Now that I know you’re not particularly interested in me, it doesn’t matter so much, does it?”
“Who says I’m not interested?”
“That kiss—remember?”
“I’m not at my best when a girl makes the advances.”
“Besides, you suspect me of something or other.”
I waved a hand and laughed. “I’m a private detective, Kitty. When I’m on a case I suspect everybody.”
“A case?”
“Uh-huh.”
“May I have a cigarette?”
“Camels?”
“Fine.”
I shook a cylinder free of the pack and she took it in her long fingers. Her nails were cut rather short and square. Maybe it had something to do with playing the guitar, I thought. I touched the end of her cigarette with the flame of my Ronson. She inhaled, let out a thin stream of smoke.
“Larry ...”
“Yes?”
“You said you were working on a case.”
“That’s right.”
“Does that mean Eleanor Gesualdi isn’t a friend of yours?”
“Oh, she’s a friend.”
“Then it’s not a real case? I mean, if it were a case, wouldn’t there be a client?”
“There is a client.”
“Oh.” She looked down at the table cloth, pushed away a speck of something. “Have you made any headway?”
“Not much. I thought a long talk with you might turn up something.”
She worked her lashes. “But I don’t know anything. I already told—”
“You’re smart, observant. You see things, hear things. Well, you may have seen or heard something that will help me.”
“I can’t imagine what.”
“Well, maybe you’ll be no help at all.” I winked at her. “But I’d still like to spend a few hours with you. Alone, that is. When do you get through?”
“I go on for the last time at two.”
“I’ll be outside in my car at two-twenty.”
She gave me a push-the-lips-together smile. “I should say no, just to keep you hanging.”
“That’s for other people.”
“You’re special?”
“Of course I am. You kissed me and you didn’t get the usual reaction. So you’re curious.”
“Oh, you’re one of those fellows who thinks he understands women.”
“Not true. I like them as they are, a mystery.”
“You know just what to say, don’t you?”
“I say what I think.”
“No line at all, eh?”
“That’s right.”
“Now that’s the best line I’ve heard for years. I—oh, hello Babs, Peter.”
A couple stopped by the table. “When are you on?” the man asked.
“Every hour on the hour, hon.”
“Well, we’ll stop for a while and catch you.”
They smiled and nodded to me and were led away by a waiter.
“Every hour on the hour, eh?” I said.
“From nine until two.”
“Five appearances. Were the working conditions better in Atlantic City?”
This made her think. But then she smiled and helped herself to another of my cigarettes. I flicked my lighter.
“Well?” I said.
She blew smoke and watched it rise. “You’re quite a detective.”
“Just routine,” I said modestly. No need to tell her that Tom Sloane had done all the work.
“What else have you found out about me?”
“Well, I’ve managed to link you with Eleanor’s husband.”
She took another drag on the cigarette. “I should have told you that Stanley Brink was my boss in Atlantic City. I met Eleanor through Brink.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this afternoon?”
“I’d only just met you. I didn’t know what to expect of you.”
“And now?”
“There isn’t much more to tell, but I think I’d better give you all the information I can. Later, in my apartment.”
“All right.”
She stubbed out her cigarette. “The boss has been making nasty faces at me, Larry. I’m supposed to circulate a little between appearances.”
“Go ahead and circulate.”
“Are you staying?”
“No, I think I’ll go to a restaurant and get a bite to eat. But I’ll be outside in my car, waiting, when you’re through.”
“That means I’ll have to break an appointment.” She gave me a warm smile. “So don’t stand me up.”
“Not a chance.”
One eyelid winked. I got to my feet before she rose. She smiled again, then she pushed her lips together, made a small kiss sound, turned and walked among the tables, saying hello and waving. Finally she sat down at a table with two fat men and a bored-looking but well-stacked brunette. I finished my coffee, got the bill from the waiter and went to the cashier.
I turned at the door. Even with the dim lighting I could see that Kitty’s face was turned towards me. I lifted a hand. She waved.
Half an hour later I was putting myself around a steak. The meal killed time until ten after two, when I got into the Corvette and drove to the Colony Club. As I braked I could hear applause, fading. Kitty had apparently just finished her act. I lit a cigarette. Hardly a minute passed and then she was on the sidewalk, heading towards the car. I got out, went around and opened the passenger door.
“A gentleman in New York?” she said.
“There are some of us left.”
“You’re not too gentle, I hope.”
“Don’t try to appeal to my bestial nature. I’m a detective first and a man second.”
She squeezed onto the bucket seat and her hemline went about a foot above her knees.
“Or,” I said, “is it the other way around?”
She laughed. I pushed the door shut, circled the car and got behind the wheel. “Bucket seats,” Kitty said as I rolled the Corvette from the curb, “must have been invented by an unromantic engineer. With that shift thing on the floor between us, we can’t even play kneesy.”
I geared down to go around a cruising cab. “In New York traffic, honey, kneesy isn’t quite as safe as Russian roulette.”
“I thought you detectives thrived on taking risks.”
“When we’re very young we’re inclined to get a little reckless. I know of one young private investigator who actually ran across Broadway at 42nd Street against the light.”
“That’s not the kind of image the newspapers give you, Larry Kent.”
“They’re just trying to sell papers.”
“I think you’re as tough as they come.”
“Remember that when we get to your apartment. I want to know everything there is to know about your relationship with Stanley Brink.”
“That won’t take long.”
“Everything.”
“Five minutes should do it. That gives me an idea. I can tell you now, while we’re driving. Then, when we get to my apartment, we won’t have to waste any time.”
“I think we’ll wait. I can’t interrogate you properly while I’m driving.”
“Does that mean you use your hands when questioning someone?”
“It’s possible I may decide to use my right hand.”
“A one-handed private detective?”
“That’s all it takes to spank a girl your size.”
She chuckled deep in her throat. “If I don’t say enough to suit you, I get spanked—is that it?”
“It sure is, honey.”
“Maybe I like the idea of being spanked. For all you know, I could be one of those girls who enjoys a little discipline.”
“But I hit a little harder than most men.”
And so it went on. We made cracks back and forth until I braked the Corvette outside Kitty’s apartment building. Eleanor’s apartment building. Eleanor. My heart seemed to rise in my throat. I fought the feeling, got out of the car and went around to open the door on Kitty’s side. Her thighs flashed as she turned on the bucket seat. She smiled up at me.
“A gentleman one minute and a spanker the next.”
“It’s entirely up to you, honey.”
She stepped down, stood close to me. “I think I’d prefer you to be gentle ...” The warm chuckle welled up, “… at first.”
I smiled at her. But I wasn’t feeling gentle. Everything Eleanor meant was churning inside me. Along with worry about her. And fear. And something else—a mixture of things—a seething, bubbling, painful mingling that could explode at any moment.
All this stayed behind the smile I froze onto my face. We entered the building, went up in the elevator. As the cage doors slid open I saw the front door of Eleanor’s apartment and there seemed to be a heavy weight in my stomach.
“Maybe you should try her door bell again,” Kitty said.
I looked at her and kept the smile. Her lips spread but there was something more than amusement in her brown eyes. She was testing me, I thought. Or it may have been something else. She was hard to read.
She fished her keys from her purse, handed them to me. “The brass one,” she said. “If you’re real nice I’ll have a gold-plated one cut for you.”
“We may not be compatible.”
“Well, we’ll soon see about that, won’t we?”
I unlocked the door, opened it, stepped back. Kitty sidled past me. There was plenty of room but she managed to brush against my arm, proving conclusively that her uplift didn’t depend on a bra. There was a click as she flicked on the wall switch, activating a ceiling light that couldn’t have been more than 50 watts.
She didn’t waste any time. She walked to me, didn’t stop until she was hard against me. “Kiss me, Larry.”
I did, putting something into it. She gave back. It was a long kiss. When we parted it was because she had to come up for air.
“There’s hope for you yet,” she said.
I placed my hands on her shoulders, gently pushed her away. “Let’s not talk about you and me, Kitty. Let’s talk about you and Stanley Brink.”
She delivered a mock sigh. “You have a one-way mind.”
“You said there wasn’t much to tell.”
“There isn’t. But a girl likes to think she can make a man forget his business for a while.”
“Then let’s get the business part over with.”
“Well, give me a cigarette. By the time the cigarette is finished, my story will be. And then…” She used her shoulders and breasts to simulate a shiver, “… we’ll see about the spanking.”
I placed a Camel between her lips, touched the end with Ronson flame, lit my own. She walked partly across the room, turned to face me.
“I ran into Stanley Brink a few years ago, in Chicago. I had a singing job in a cheap little club. He came in one night, alone. The owner of the place went to Stanley’s table and—” She stopped herself. “You’ve noticed, of course, that I used his first name. Yes, we got friendly.”
“Okay. The owner went to Brink’s table.”
“He was impressed.”
“The owner?”
“Yes.”
“What was his name?”
“Nat Perroni.”
“Go on, Kitty.”
“Well, after my act Perroni came to my dressing room and told me I was invited to join Stanley Brink at his table. Although he used the word ‘invited’, it was a Command Performance. Mr. Perroni suggested that I be just as sociable as I could, then he used words like ‘cooperate’, ‘generous’, ‘influence’—”
“Influence?”
“He told me that Stanley Brink was a very influential man.”
“So you got friendly.”
She took a deep drag on her cigarette. “It’s amazing how friendly a girl can be when poverty is staring her in the face and opportunity is pressing the door buzzer. Stanley got the boss to let me off early. We had something to eat and drink at another club—a decent one—and then we drove to a motel, where I was generous and cooperative. The next morning I saw him put something in my purse. I had a look when he went to clean up in the bathroom. A 100-dollar bill. I returned it to him.”
“Now that,” I said, “was really being generous.”
Kitty blew smoke and smiled. “If I took the money, that would probably have been the end of it. A hundred dollars for a rolling in the sheets. Beginning, middle and end. So I returned the money. Stanley wasn't accustomed to that sort of thing. He had a beginning and a middle but no end.”
“You intrigued him.”
“I was betting a hundred dollars against a possible jackpot. I told him that I enjoyed the night at least as much as he had, and was hoping it wouldn’t be the last. His chest swelled a bit, and as he straightened his tie in the mirror he was looking at a great lover.” A wry smile. “He wasn’t bad at that.”
“Eleanor—” It hurt to say her name. “—apparently doesn’t think so.”
“Doesn’t she? I wouldn’t know, Larry.”
“You told me that you and Eleanor just nodded to each other in the hall.”
“Oh, no. We said ‘Good morning’ and ‘Good evening’ and ‘Nice day’ and ‘Isn’t it awful weather!’ and things like that.”
“But you didn’t really know her.”
“Not in the least.”
“Did you know Brink was married to her?”
“He told me he was married but he didn’t get specific.”
“Specific. That’s the word, Kitty. Let’s get specific.”
“About what?”
“Your being here in this apartment. The extent of your relationship with Brink.”
“I told you; I’ve been here for a few weeks.”
“Just down the hall from Brink’s wife. Please don’t ask me to accept that as a coincidence.”
She drew on her cigarette, inhaled deeply, threw back her head and let out a stream of smoke at the ceiling. Then her head came back down and she met my gaze levelly. “It wasn’t a coincidence, Larry.”
“Did Brink put you there?”
“Yes. You see, he owns the building.”
I tapped my cigarette over an ashtray. “He and Eleanor have been separated for quite a while. If they were living together but not ‘sharing the conjugal bed’ as our courts put it, I could understand why he’d like to have someone as attractive and ‘cooperative’ as you, forty or fifty feet away. But—”
“He wanted me to keep an eye on things,” Kitty said quickly.
“Specifics, please.”
“He set me up in this apartment so I could spy on his wife. He wanted me to report on every person who went into her apartment.”
“Why?”
“The usual reason, I suppose. Prove your wife is playing the field and you cut down on your settlement and the alimony payments.”
“You’re assuming this.”
“Yes.”
“And did you have any reports to make?”
“Two. I was here only a day when you visited Mrs. Brink.”
“Call her Eleanor.” I snapped the words out.
“All right, Larry.”
“Did you tell Brink that Larry Kent paid his wife a visit?”
“I didn’t have a name for you. But I gave him a description. And I saw you get into a white Corvette when you left.”
“What did he say to that?”
“Nothing. But I had a feeling that he knew you.”
I touched the back of my head. “Oh, he knows me all right.”
She looked at me for a moment, then she squashed her cigarette in an ashtray. “I had no idea there’d be ... trouble, Larry. I wouldn’t have agreed to live here if I thought someone might be hurt.”
“Sure. The second man you reported on—that was the one who called himself Revere, of course.”
“Yes. But you gave him another name—Tom Sloane.”
“Tell me the rest, Kitty.”
“That’s it.”
“I mean about you and Brink. You jumped from Chicago to here. What about Atlantic City?”
“He kept in touch with me all the time. I parleyed that hundred dollars into a mink ...” She raised her left hand to show me the sparklers on her fingers. “... jewelry, a red MG and so on. He used his pull to get me singing engagements all over the country. But he kept me under wraps. No TV or records.”
“He had a good thing going. He didn’t want to lose it.” She glanced down at the diamonds. “I didn’t do too badly.”
“But what comes next?”
She shrugged. “I’ll go with the tide.” She smiled. “And right now the tide is taking me in your direction.”
She came to me and I put my arms around her. She leaned back, her eyes closed, her lips parted for my kiss. Our lips met and she crushed herself against me. She was strong, much stronger than a woman should be. But soft, too. And demanding. I felt myself falling, gently, with my temples pounding and my body burning from her contact.
And then there was something else.
A vague sound, behind me.
Her embrace tightened.
I listened, my body tense, and now she was even more demanding. She moved against me and breathed my name against my lips. “Larry ... Larry ... Larry ...” But through it I heard the whispering ghost of a sound. I couldn’t identify it—but I knew there was someone in the bedroom behind me!
I slid my hands to the small of her back and her lips said, “Darling!” But then I gripped her at the waist, lifted her, spun her around. She pulled her head back, her eyes big, and squirmed to get away. I reached under my coat, gripped the butt of the .45, lifted it free of the holster just as the bedroom door opened.
The guy stood there, crouched, his silencer-snouted gun glinting.
“Drop it,” I said.
The gun in the man’s hand belched flame and the bullet sent Kitty hard against me. I pressed the trigger just as he fired the second shot. Kitty’s body jerked. The .45 boomed three times. Each of the slugs caught the man in the doorway, picked him up off his feet and sent him onto his back and into the bedroom.
Kitty was limp. I held her tightly to me with my left arm, took four or five slow steps to the bedroom, looked down at the man. There was a spreading red splotch on his white shirt. One of his legs jerked. His wide-open eyes stared at the ceiling. He wouldn’t live. No one lives after three soft-nosed .45 slugs go through the middle of them. His gun was on the floor. I kicked it away.
Kitty moaned. I tossed the .45 onto a chair and carried her to the sofa. My hands and coat sleeves were covered with her blood. Her eyes were open, looking into mine.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She drew in a sharp breath and her face went tight. “It ... hurts, Larry.”
“I’ll phone for a doctor.”
But she gripped my arm. “No. Don’t ... leave me.”
“It won’t take a minute.”
“I’m dying. I’m ... scared. My ... hands ... hold—”
I took her hands in mine.
“Tight!”
I exerted pressure. Her eyes closed against the pain and her breathing became labored. When she opened her eyes again there was a strange light in them ... the light of the dying. I’d seen it in Jenny’s eyes ...
Jenny.
Eleanor.
No!
I choked up and my eyes burned.
“Don’t ... hate me,” Kitty murmured.
“Never.”
“Please don’t.”
“I swear it.” My voice broke. Eleanor. Eleanor.
“My ... my bro—brother ...” She coughed and blood trickled from her mouth. “Larry—my—”
“Don’t talk.”
“Must. Must tell. Brother. Trouble. They ...”
“The Mafia?”
“Yes. Trouble. My broth—” Her eyes got bigger and she tried to rise to a sitting position, but she couldn’t make it. “Larry? Larry?” Her eyes were open but they didn’t see. “Larry?”
“I’m here, Kitty. I’m with you. Can’t you feel me holding your hands?”
“Tighter ... tighter—”
I exerted just about as much pressure as I could. Suddenly she seemed to settle back, and slowly, as I watched, the pain left her face and the light faded from her eyes. There was blood on her lips and chin. I went to the bathroom and wet a towel and came back and washed her face. Then I pressed her eyelids down.
“Goodbye, Kitty.”
Another one who didn’t get to smell the roses.
There was a lot of commotion in the hall. I went to the front door, opened it. Two men in pajamas and some women in dressing gowns shrank back.
“There’s been a shooting,” I said. “Somebody call the police.”
I slammed the door and went back to the bedroom. The guy on the floor was very dead. I looked into his face. He was still staring. It was an anonymous face. Ten people could talk to him and give ten different descriptions later on. I took out his wallet. There wasn’t a scrap of identification.
I sat down in the living room, lit a cigarette and waited for the sirens.