Read A Killing in Comics Online
Authors: Max Allan Collins
A Killing in Comics (18 page)
“Oh. Sure. Like Harry and Moe?”
“Yes . . . among others.”
He frowned. “Well, hell,
I’m
not a suspect.”
I’m
not a suspect.”
I grinned. “Good to hear. But maybe you can help me out with zeroing in on some real suspects.”
“Yeah. Sure. Why not? Shoot.”
I leaned back, folded my arms. “Let’s start with Honey Daily.”
He smirked, shook his head. “She can’t be a suspect. She was Donny’s girl.”
“But she was also
your
girl, wasn’t she? For a while, anyway?”
your
girl, wasn’t she? For a while, anyway?”
I don’t know if I ever saw anybody sober up quicker.
Krane said, “Uh . . . who says?”
“She does. She also says you can’t take no for an answer.”
His jaw had dropped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That when Miss Daily gave you your walking papers, you didn’t take the hint. And threatened to go to Donny about it.”
He was squirming; kind of fun to see a guy in a white dinner jacket squirm. “Well . . . come on, Jackie. You know how it is when a love affair goes on the rocks.”
“No. Tell me how it is. And the name is ‘Jack. ”
The flickering smile was nervous, as were the darting eyes. “I . . . I was crazy about her. When she said it was over, I said all kinds of stupid, lunatic things. Raving and ranting things. . . . You don’t
really
think I’d tell Donny about Honey and me?”
really
think I’d tell Donny about Honey and me?”
“She said you told her you were going to ‘stick it to Donny,’” I said. “You knew about his diabetes, right? Or am I just adding insulin to injury?”
The black eyebrows rose so high, they damn near straightened out into exclamation points. “Jack! Please! Of course I knew about his diabetes, everybody knew about Donny’s diabetes, and his shots and . . . I just
told
you how I was gonna ‘stick it’ to Donny! By my pop sticking it to
Americana
, with the bit about me being a minor when I signed
Batwing
over!”
told
you how I was gonna ‘stick it’ to Donny! By my pop sticking it to
Americana
, with the bit about me being a minor when I signed
Batwing
over!”
Now it was a “bit.”
Maggie said, “Do you think you were the first, Rod?”
“The first . . . what?”
“The first man Honey Daily strayed with, away from Donny?”
“Hell no! Donny was just her meal ticket—she only saw him a couple days a week, or I should say nights. I was just one of many. One of a parade of chumps who rolled through that suite, helping keep her mind off the monster she had to pay the rent to.”
I asked, “Who else was on that list?”
Besides me, currently.
The joker grin returned. “I don’t know ’em all. Maybe she keeps a little black book, like horny bachelors do.”
I gave him something that was half grin, half sneer. “Why, do you have one?”
He stood and the martini glass spilled and sopped the linen. He leaned his hands on the table, finding dry places, and said, “I’m not the only Americana number in that little black book, that much I’ll tell you.”
Maggie’s voice had an edge. “Who, Rod? Who else from Americana?”
“Why should I tell you?” he said to her imperiously. Then to me, he snarled, “You’re the one playing private eye—it’s somebody
powerful
, that much I’ll tell you. Maybe the most powerful man at Americana! Figure it out for yourself.”
powerful
, that much I’ll tell you. Maybe the most powerful man at Americana! Figure it out for yourself.”
He left the table, paused at the door and said, “Thanks for the steak, and the martinis—now I know how a dame feels when you ply her with liquor to take advantage.”
“Will it change your style?” I asked cheerfully, and he was gone.
“Hope he isn’t driving,” Maggie said, with a roll of her big green eyes.
“If he is,” I said, “let’s hope he kills nobody but himself, or maybe his ego.”
“That would take a big crash.”
I sat forward. “Have you been doing some sleuthing yourself, Maggie?”
Her smile was genuinely amused now. “Why? Some of my questions surprise you?”
“Yeah. I hate it when you know more than me.”
“Life must be very uncomfortable for you, then.” She had another sip of Horse’s Neck. “Did you drop those thread samples off at that lab, as I suggested?”
“Yes. That stain can’t be blood.”
“Donny was sweating profusely, you said.”
“Right.”
She shrugged a little. “Maybe it was dye residue from the Wonder Guy costume, released by Donny’s perspiration.”
“Maybe. We’ll know tomorrow. You think Rod is our killer?”
She sighed, making me uncomfortable—not because she knew more than me, but because she was my stepmother and when her breasts made themselves known under a garment like that, I squirmed.
“Rod our killer?” she mused. “Could we be so lucky?”
Once again I dropped by Honey Daily’s suite at the Waldorf without calling. Whether I was hoping (or hoping not) to find her with another man—maybe someone powerful from find her with another man—maybe someone powerful from Americana like Sy Mortimer or even Louis Cohn—I can’t say. I do know knocking unannounced on any woman’s door at nine at night is unspeakably rude. But I did it anyway.
I passed the peephole test and the door opened, with her in the same black dressing gown with its touches of pink, some of it ribbon, some of it her. Her hair was a lovely blonde tangle tickling her shoulders and the only makeup she had on was a little lipstick.
She leaned a red-nailed hand against the jamb and gave me a smile I didn’t deserve. “You think you can just show up and get away with it, do you?”
“Worked before,” I said. My hat, a light gray Milan that went well with my suit, was in hands. “I’m an impulsive boy.”
“No phone at your place?”
I shrugged. “Suppose you’d said no?”
“Jack, Jack, Jack . . . you have more confidence than that, surely. . . . Come on in.”
I followed her and her Chanel No. 5 through the foyer into the coral-and-emerald living room. She wasn’t drinking anything. A radio was playing Cugat and his Latin stylings, and I quickly gathered it was a broadcast from this very hotel’s Starlight Roof. A copy of the paperback of
Forever Amber
was open to her place on the coffee table by the sofa. The painting of the courtesan on the cover was almost as beautiful as Honey.
Forever Amber
was open to her place on the coffee table by the sofa. The painting of the courtesan on the cover was almost as beautiful as Honey.
She sat and I sat. Next to her. Very next to her. She turned her face to mine and I kissed her. She kissed back. We kissed a while. Let’s face it, kissing went on. Lots of it. And some fondling. We were of age.
Then she said, “You’re troubled.”
“No, I feel fine. Anyway, better.”
The big baby blues showed genuine concern; or really well-done fake genuine concern. “You want to talk about it? It’s the murder case, right? You’ve been looking into it all day?”
“All day except for when I was at the funeral.”
She swallowed; turned away, looking toward the unlit fire place. Folded her arms. Sore point?
“Would you have liked to’ve gone?” I asked.
She said nothing.
“I’m not sure I know how you felt about him.”
She shook her head. “I told you. I was fond of him. Very fond of him. He was good to me. I loved him, in my way. And everybody got to say good-bye to him but me.”
I didn’t point out that, on the list of people who got to say good-bye to Donny, the guy’s wife and kids came first, along with their feelings about who they shared Donny’s public farewell with. But, hell, she knew that. She was either feeling sorry for herself, or putting on a show for me.
And it bothered me, in fact pissed me off, that I couldn’t tell the difference.
“Listen, Honey,” I said, in a way that made the “H” ambiguous as to whether it was her name or an endearment, “you’ve been open to helping me. Giving me information, and sharing your opinions . . . so I can find Donny’s killer.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” I slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Guess who I had the pleasure of dining with this evening?”
“I was kind of hoping it would be me,” she said, and pouted, or pretended to. “But you didn’t call.”
“No, I had a prior engagement. Maggie Starr lined it up and played hostess—I ate with the talented and charming creator of
Batwing
.”
Batwing
.”
She shuddered. “That creep Krane?”
“That creep Krane. And he told us his side of your affair.”
“
His
side?” Her eyes flared. Nostrils, too. It was pretty, and pretty disturbing. “You make that sound like
my
side was . . . was what? Untrustworthy? A lie?”
His
side?” Her eyes flared. Nostrils, too. It was pretty, and pretty disturbing. “You make that sound like
my
side was . . . was what? Untrustworthy? A lie?”
“Honey—I’m investigating. I hear everybody’s side, and I take into consideration which end of the telescope each person is looking through. Not talking lies or untrustworthiness, here. Just looking at the various perspectives.”
“You’re treading water, Jack.”
And I was.
I cut straight to the point. “Baby, this son of a bitch says he was only one of a . . . he implied a large group.”
“Group of what?”
Again I was blowing it.
I tried another angle. “You said it yourself—you had a life, aside from, away from, Donny. There were other men in your life. Like Rod, for a while.”
Her eyes no longer flared; they tightened, so much so I could barely tell how she could see out of them. “I never denied it. I don’t deny it. I was with Donny for a long, long time. And I am a normal woman with normal needs.”
“Sure. I know. But what
I
need is to know . . . who were those other men?”
I
need is to know . . . who were those other men?”
“What?”
“Honey—baby. I’m looking into the murder of the guy who paid for this suite. I need you to share the names of the other men who’ve, well, been in your life.”
She drew away. “Don’t ‘honey baby’ me, Jack Starr. This is out of line.
You
are out of line.”
You
are out of line.”
My arm no longer around her, I patted the air with peaceful palms. “Okay. Let’s just limit it to Americana. Krane says you were seeing another bigwig at Americana, besides Donny.”
“What? He’s
lying
! That’s
crazy
!”
lying
! That’s
crazy
!”
“Nobody at all in your life, who had anything to do with Americana—Louie Cohn, maybe?”
Her face turned white. “Louie Cohn? My idea of having someone besides Donny Harrison in my life would have been to entertain
Louie Cohn
?
That
bloodless bastard?”
Louie Cohn
?
That
bloodless bastard?”
I knew it was a dumb thing to say. Cohn really was a bloodless bastard. You can’t have an erection without having blood to send in that general direction.
She sat with her arms folded and the white in her face was going away and red coming in. Very tightly she said, “Jack, right now there is only one man in my life. Or at least there
was
—you. If you want to pursue that role, you need to get off this subject.”
was
—you. If you want to pursue that role, you need to get off this subject.”
“Honey, it’s not jealousy, or prying. I need the information to—”
Without looking at me, she said, “Jack, I need you to leave. I need you to leave right now.”
Actually, that was fine with me.
But I said, “I hope we can get past this. I really do care about you, Honey.”
“I care about you, too. But, Jack?”
“Yes?”
“Next time—call.”
CHAPTER EIGHT THIS LOO
They called Jackson Heights the cornfields of Queens, because this middle-class community of single homes and garden apartments had been carved out of farmland. North of Roosevelt Avenue, centering around Eighty-second Street, the Heights was an active, well-off (if not quite well-to-do) Jewish enclave. On one of its greenest streets, in a colonial-style apartment building, Harry Spiegel lived with his young bride, Rose.
Their place, on the top floor, was spacious with the sort of nice, new furnishings a young couple starting out might assemble, assuming they had a little
mazuma
. The rose-color walls had ivory-framed pastel airbrushed floral prints that seemed an unlikely backdrop for a frenetic guy like Harry, who had whipped up the world’s first comic-book superhero out of his adolescent imagination. Feeling like I’d walked into a
Better Homes & Gardens
layout, I was seated on a wine-color mohair sofa next to Harry, and in a nearby matching lounge chair was Harry and Moe’s attorney, Bert Zelman.
mazuma
. The rose-color walls had ivory-framed pastel airbrushed floral prints that seemed an unlikely backdrop for a frenetic guy like Harry, who had whipped up the world’s first comic-book superhero out of his adolescent imagination. Feeling like I’d walked into a
Better Homes & Gardens
layout, I was seated on a wine-color mohair sofa next to Harry, and in a nearby matching lounge chair was Harry and Moe’s attorney, Bert Zelman.
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