The Erection Set (26 page)

“Fine.”

“What are you planning on doing now?”

I smirked at him and got out of the rocker. “I got a date with a teenybopper named Sharon Cass who's taking me to supper with Walt Gentry and her boss. Nothing like living big, old buddy.”

Al let out a few choice barracks words under his breath and didn't even bother to say so long when I left.

 

Ordinarily, S. C. Cable could field any question with the nimble dexterity of the professional con man, but when Sharon threw the curve at him he was stopped cold and looked across the table at Walt Gentry in absolute amazement, groping for an answer. Walt just smiled his silly little smile that showed which side he was on and left the big tiger of Hollywood dangling.

Sharon wasn't about to let it alone. “Well, why not?” she insisted. “It saves months of exploring for a practical location site, there's power facilities, plenty of room, authentic period buildings and a cooperative management.” She probably had her fingers crossed under the table when she made the last statement, but I wasn't worried a bit about it.

S.C. finally found his voice someplace under his mottled chin. “Are you mad, Sharon? We haven't even got a working script yet. The budget isn't ...”

Sharon's smile had a dagger in it. “You haven't signed the contract with Walt yet, either. And since you expect me to put my virtue on the mattress for your gigantic production, the least you could do is humor me.”

“Humor you!”

“Exactly, or Walt cancels the deal. It's as simple as that.”

Cable suppressed a choking cough and looked at Walt again. When he saw the affirmative nod he turned to me. “Are you the instigator of this... this ...”

“Don't look at me,” I told him. “I'm only going along with the idea. Frankly, it sounds pretty realistic... if you like realism... and I'm in a position to push for that management cooperation Sharon mentioned. I read the book and as far as the Barrin factory in Linton is concerned, that place has everything you need including the historical details. In fact, some of the truths about that place would goose your story up a little.”

“This is blackmail,” Cable said. “It's illegal.”

“So is assigning women to perform an immoral act for profitable purposes,” Sharon purred.

“You're fired,” S. C. Cable said.

“You're hired,” Walt Gentry told her. “The project is now in your hands.”

Cable looked at me helplessly. “See how they trap you? Business ethics mean nothing. A deal is only words. You try ...”

“Nobody called the deal off yet,” I reminded him. “Looks like your move now.”

“Shit,” Cable said, “so well look over the factory. So if it's okay, why not? Any more problems?” He looked around and nobody said anything at all. “Can I hire this broad back? I can't afford to let her go working for anybody else.”

“We'll talk about my raise later,” Sharon said.

“Oh, boy. I'm broke before I start,” Cable moaned. “Now let's eat while I still got an appetite.”

Under the table I gave Sharon's hand a squeeze. My finger felt the funny little ring on hers. When she realized I was touching it she looked at me with a quiet smile and eased her hand away.

 

She had left the sleek business facade back at the restaurant. The hard maturity, the total awareness the city seems to nurture to a peak was gone now. The velvet claws that could bend the business giants with a single soft silken scratch were sheathed. She had unfastened a golden pin so that her hair could swirl around her face and had changed from the black chiffon into tight little short shorts and an even tighter halter that form-fitted into every crevice and curve of her body. The little girl was back, but the woman was still there and it made me uncomfortable to look at her.

There was that strange something about her. Purpose. Call it purpose. Then again, all females were dedicated to something or other. Sharon saw the way I was looking at her and smiled, a cute little feline smile that made me want to lay my hands on her and squeeze a little bit. But even little felines could bite back and I had just seen her nip two of them.

“What made you pull that off, kitten?”

She crossed the room and turned down the volume on the record player, then brought me my coffee. “I don't know. Maybe I was just thinking ... well, Linton was my home too. It might be nice to see something good happen there again.”

“What do you figure the rental for the site will be?”

Her shrug was a little wistful. “Not all that much, really. What I had in mind was some of the other locations. There are people who can use the money a lot more than the Barrin clan.”

“You're a sentimental do-gooder,” I told her. “I thought you hated that place?”

“I guess I did. Seeing the beach and my old house... well, a little nostalgia set in. Did I do wrong?”

“How much do you figure the company will drop in the town?”

“They won't budget less than five million. At least two will go directly into the economy of Linton for housing, subsistence, rentals and all the other details.”

I let out a little laugh. “Those cousins of mine are going to be obligated to take the deal if they want to retain their public-spirited image.”

“You think there'll be any trouble?” she asked me.

“Trouble, but no difficulty. Not from them, kitten. If there's any roadblocks they'll come from another angle.”

“Cross McMillan?”

“That slob won't cooperate with the Barrins to wipe his own tail,” I said.

Sharon refilled her coffee cup and smiled. “But he'll cooperate with Walt.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Because the handsome young bachelor prince owns a big chunk of McMillan holdings and that cute little-boy smile of his holds a mouthful of tiger teeth. No, Cross won't buck Walt, and Walt won't buck me.”

“Nice,” I said.

“Or you, Dog. Walt thinks you're a real cobra.”

“Oh?”

“I think you are too.” She put her coffee down and came over and sat beside me. “You're a snake, my friend. You don't hiss and you don't rattle. I haven't decided if you're a constrictor or venomous. I'm wondering what it would cost me to find out.”

“Some one of these days you're going to lay your virginity on the line and I'm going to pop it, kid.” I looked at her and let her see a face full of teeth. Getting played with by a slippery, beautiful blonde wasn't my idea of fun when there wasn't sand around to make up some friction.

“Keep talking, Dog.”

I handed her my cup and stood up. “Screw you, little girl, I'm not all that moral. I wish I knew your fiancé. I'd slam him on his ass and make him marry you just to take a walking land mine out of circulation. I heard you put down that lover boy ... what's his name?”

“Raul?”

“Yeah. Just don't give
me
that garbage. Not again. You got a hot wet body, sugar. I like it. I shouldn't but I do. No more skinny-dipping like Hunter and old Dubro and no more sacking it in cobwebby houses. I couldn't take it.”

“Dog,” she said softly.

“What?”

“You love me?”

“Hell no.”

“You bastard.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I didn't mean it that way.”

I grinned at her and slipped into my coat. “You love me, kid?”

“Certainly,” she said matter-of-factly.

“A terrible affliction I infect all the women with,” I said.

“You really are a bastard, Dog.” She smiled back at me, her teeth white and shiny.

“A cobra, remember?”

Next to the Ormin Hotel, the shattered remains of a row of tenements gaped out at the street, windows smashed, the frames smoke blackened and whole areas of brickwork crumpled in a miniature landslide to the sidewalk. Somehow one building still stood between the ruins and the hotel and a lone figure curled in the shadow of the stoop.

There was no Markham registered, but the clerk remembered the guy with the torn-up face and gave me the room number for a five-dollar bill, then went back to his scratch sheet on a stool behind the counter. The only thing that surprised him was the five. It was four more than he'd usually get for the same information.

His room was on the west side of the third floor at the far end of a corridor lit by two hanging bulbs. I stayed close to the wall trying to be as quiet as possible, reached the door and stood there listening for any sounds inside. All I heard was the rats scratching inside the wall. I waited another minute and tried the knob, letting it twist slowly and gently under my fingers. When the latch was all the way free I pushed the door in gently, waiting to feel the bite of a chain, but it went past the distance a chain would have held it and I didn't bother waiting anymore. I shoved it open all the way and it clattered back against some barrier and stayed there.

The hammer going back on the .45 was enough for any body to hear. I said, “Markham,” and waited. I could see almost one-half the room in the dull light from the corridor, the dresser and chair with the pants thrown over the back, even one corner of the bed that nestled out of my line of sight. I said, “Markham,” again, then rolled inside in a tight ball, spun on my stomach with the gun ready to cut loose and nothing happened at all.

But I could see Markham. He was on the bed with one arm dangling over the side and there was just enough light to see that his eyes were open. I found the switch on the lamp beside the bed and flipped it on.

My strong-arm friend was out to lunch. Somebody had retired him from the land of the living with a single tiny puncture square in the middle of his forehead halfway between his hairline and the bridge of his nose. There had been no fuss and no mess. There was a half-empty bottle of codeine tablets on the night table and Markham had bought his ticket in the middle of a deep sleep he needed to deaden the pain from his smashed face.

I went over and took a look at the door. The lock was old-fashioned and simple, easy to open with a skeleton key or a pick. There was a chain lock too, but it dangled free because whoever installed it put the catch too close to the edge of the door and there was enough play for it to be opened by reaching in from the outside and flipping it back.

Markham had made too many other people hurt without knowing the bite of pain himself. He forgot that it could make you careless about the things that could get you dead fast.

I went back to the body, felt the clammy skin and lifted the arm that dangled so stiffly, then went out, closed the door and went back downstairs. The clerk looked at me over his scratch sheet and said, “Find him?”

I nodded. “He get any other visitors?”

“Nope.”

“Anybody check in the last twelve hours?”

“We don't get much trade, feller. Like I'm only here to see nobody tears the place up. In this neighborhood ...”

“I didn't ask you that,” I said.

He faked a smile, waiting to see another bill in my fingers, but he saw what was in my face and the smile turned sour. “One guy comes in. So I give him a room.”

“He there now?”

“Nah. I figured he needed it for a broad. He went out maybe a half hour later to get one. He ain't shown yet.”

“Luggage?”

“When they pay in advance, they don't need it. Besides, you think we got fancy trade yet? Here they come in with paper bags. This guy was looking for a quick shack, that's all. The way he was dressed he could do better uptown.”

“Describe him.”

“Mister, I don't look at my customers. You I'll remember from talking. You want that?”

“I don't give a shit, buddy. Where's your register?”

“Hell, I'll tell you his name. Peterson, that's what. New-ark, New Jersey. Look, what's ...”

“Give me your phone.”

“Pay phone's on the wall.”

I looked at him for about three seconds and he handed me the phone. I had to go through the police emergency number, but I finally raised Tobano and said, “I found Markham, Sergeant. He's nice and dead.”

For a minute I listened, then said into the mouthpiece, “Ease off. He's cold and rigor's set in. I'm covered for every minute of the day. If I were you I'd get to the Greek. He might have been a little luckier.”

Tobano finally calmed down, but the annoyance was still there. “You stay put until we get there, understand?”

“Unh-uh, pal. Consider this call from an anonymous source. I'll check in with you later. By the way, did you get a report on those prints?”

His voice was quiet and hard. “I did,” he said, and hung up.

The night clerk had put down his paper and was trying to light a cigarette. I handed his phone back and held a match under the butt in his lips. “Don't bother going upstairs, mister. Just stay here until a squad car shows. After that tell them anything you know.”

He sucked in a lungful of smoke, coughed and nodded. “If that guy comes back ...”

“He won't,” I told him.

 

The pancakes and sausages weren't sitting very well with Lee at all. He couldn't keep his eyes from drifting to the front page of the
News
where the body shots of Markham and Bridey-the-Greek were laid out side by side with the “Mystery Murders” caption hinting at some dark intrigue. The same .22 caliber gun had killed both of them, but Bridey had tried to scramble out and it took four shots to pull him down. The last was through the back of the head and he lay face down halfway out the open window leading onto a fire escape.