Ed Lacy - Shoot It Again

     “You have a marvelous nose line, in a classic face.”

     “You an artist?” she asked, coming over to look at the sketch. She used perfume by the quart.

     “I've been working abroad for several years, portrait commissions.” I held out the sketch. Even with the crumbling matchstick and glossy paper, I had a rough, photographic likeness of her.

     “Say, you're great.”

     I examined the sketch—sadly. Hank was so right —in time I might be a fifth-rate commercial artist. “I'd love to do a complete sketch of your exquisite face.”

     “Always consider my shape better than my face. Couple years ago on the Cape, a painter guy saw me in a swim suit, wanted me to model. My stuffy old husband didn't go for the deal.”

     “You're stacked fore and aft, but your face—the delicate lines of a flower in bloom,” I said, slopping hard, wondering what other hungry artist had pitched her a line. “When you have free time, I'd very much like to add your face to my notebook— for a mural when I return to my studio in San Remo.”

     “I'm free now. We went to London once, and didn't even get over to Paris. My business-business hubby.”

     “I'd love to sketch you now, but unhappily my room is in the rear and the light...”

     “I've a front room. I'm Mrs. Arlene Price.”

     “Dandy Collins,” I said, over my charm grin. A crappy name helps a snow job.

     “Dandy?” She giggled.

     I shrugged. “Been explaining that handle all my life. Dad and his sense of humor. Can we start immediately? Noon light is the very best.”

     “Sure, Dandy. I don't have a date until three.” She unlocked her door. “Dandy—really have dandy hair—oh those waves. You're a big guy for an artist, but when I first saw your... clothes, I just knew you were an intellectual.”

     “You've a keen mind,” I said, glancing around the room, pressing against her in the doorway. By the mild disorder of things, she was a long time resident.

     “Dandy, you are a giant. I don't come to your broad shoulders.”

     “Sweetest things come in cute little packages,” I cornballed as she gave me her stupid giggle again. “Need some paper—be right back.”

     Taking more paper, burnt matches, the cat, and leaving my door half-open, I returned to 305. Seeing the cat, Arlene gushed, “Oh my, what a big pussy,” followed by a double-meaning giggle.

     “A good luck charm from Egypt Always keep it around when I work.”

     “Some large charm,” she said, starting to close the door.

     “Please leave the door open a little,” I said, carefully placing the cat on her unmade bed.

     Giving me an astonished if searching glance, Arlene said, “Thank you. You are a gentleman.”

     “Don't be too sure. I'm expecting a phone call—in my room. Let's see... sit by the window, where the sun will highlight your delicate facial planes.”

     “You bet. Dandy—oh, I buy that cute name—would a Scotch relax us both?”

     Five drinks later I heard her sad story, kissed her several times, she was peeling her dress so I could sketch her breasts... when my phone rang. Taking the cat, I raced across the hall, answered the phone on the second ring. A brittle male voice said, “Mr. Collins, this is the desk. A Mr. Smith is here to see you. Shall I send him up?”

     “Yes.”

     Hanging up, I moved the false cat on the dresser so it could be seen immediately upon entering the room. Leaving my door cracked, I ran back to 305 with the real statue, closed her door to a slit, and watched the hall.

     “Hey, Candy-Dandy, look at this fine stuff.”

     I turned to see Arlene in the nude near the window. I'd been wrong about the bra, she really had firm salt and pepper shakers, with the rest of her more meaty than I'd expected. As she started toward me, I told her, “Stay there, honey—strike a pose and relax. I'll be with you in a second.”

     “Anything big Dandy-daddy wishes,” she said, reaching for the Scotch bottle on the dresser. “I'll strike a pose and strike a few other things you'll like...”

     “Shut up, beautiful. I'm getting into a painting mood,” I said, hearing the elevator stop. Peering through the crack in the door I saw a trim fellow in a seersucker suit, sharp straw hat, white shirt and baby blue tie... head for my room. If his face lacked any special toughness, he looked like a joker who could handle himself. Knocking once—lightly —he gently pushed the door open, calling, “Collins?” Seeing the phony cat, he went directly to the dresser. I felt high with relief, the guy didn't act like a thug... in minutes I'd be richer than...

     As I started to leave the room, two younger men appeared in the hallway, near the stairs. One was very tall, the other a runt. The tall, skinny one wore cheap, flashy clothes; long face and lantern jaw, the hard eyes. The short man was absolutely nondescript in looks and clothing. Walking fast and silently, on reaching the open door of my room the tall one calmly pulled out a pistol with a very long barrel—I realized it was a silencer—and fired. There was a 'ping' sound and seersucker fell across the dresser, an ugly red stain blossoming on his back, before he slipped to the floor.

     The runt sort of shook his right arm and a horrible knife seemed to spring into his hand. They stepped into the room—the tall guy pointing his gun around quickly, while the little man took the cat from the dresser. The taller man kicked the closet door open, as Shorty bent down and yanked a white envelope from the inside pocket of the dead man.

     Then they both walked rapidly out of the room to the stairs, the runty one hugging the cat.

     All this took about—five seconds.

     I had two reactions. I couldn't believe a man had been killed in so few seconds, without the smallest warning or chance. I almost expected seersucker to jump to his feet, take a bow. The second, and far stronger reaction was—to get the hell out of the hotel before they found it was the wrong cat, returned to ruthlessly murder me with another 'ping' shot.

     But I was too damn scared to move. My guts seemed to have turned into heavy lead, bolted to my legs, nailed to the floor...

     “Hey, Dandy, whatcha at that door crack for?”

     Jumping, I turned to see Arlene doing a bump and grind, holding a bath towel over her belly, lips a coy and drunken smile. “Always felt I'd make a sensational burly-cue queen, a...”

     Mutt and Jeff certainly wouldn't open the cat on the stairs, more likely they'd take it to some office, or a car. If the car was parked near, they could be back within minutes...

     “Regular Swiss movement, hey Dandy? Hotter than hot, a...”

     As Arlene danced toward me I snatched the towel from her hand, bundled the cat in it, ran along the hall, and down the steps—walked as fast as I could without attracting attention through the lobby—out into the crowded, lunch-hour street.

     Walking East—for no reason—I kept glancing around until I was dizzy, trying to spot the tall goon. Crossing 5th Avenue I slowed down: I was not only safe in a crowd but probably the two killers had no idea what I looked like. They must have known seersucker was going to meet me, tailed him. If they knew about me, they would have come directly to the room—before seersucker. There was only one link to me—the damn cat. That wasn't a link, but a regular chain—a noose! Soon seersucker's body would be found and while the cops might have a tough time tracing Stanley Collins, Arlene would certainly tell them about the 'artist' with the big 'pussy,' and once that hit the fan—pronounced newspapers—the Idlewild Customs man would remember me and the two glass cats. Also, my prints were certainly all over the damn room.

     But it wasn't the law worrying me so much. I was not only scared of the horrible tall clown and his 'ping' gun... but what would 'they'—the syndicate—think now? Their contact man killed, money missing, and me long gone too!

     Walking down to 42nd Street where the crowds were thicker—always on the lookout for the tall thug's blank face above the passing people—I had two things to do quickly: get rid of the cat, make a transatlantic call to Hank—ask who I should contact now.

     In one of these drugstores which have become small department stores, I purchased a plastic pillow cover and a cheap hammer. Attache cases were too expensive, so I settled for a little blue duffel bag.

     I used the last pay toilet in the Grand Central Station men's room. Flushing it to cover the noise, I busted the cat's ear with the hammer. The dumb ear had to hit the floor with a loud tinkle of glass. In a booth down the line somebody laughed, called out, “Jack:, you really need a dose of mineral oil.”

     Another clown said, “He needs A.A. First I ever heard of a secret John guzzler.”

     “Funny, funny, you uncouth bastards,” I said. “Broke a ten-buck bottle of medicine on dropping my pants.”

     “I bet,” the last comedian snapped.

     I didn't bother answering—saw only more glass where the ear had been. Waiting a good, sweating ten minutes, hearing men coming and going, I flushed the commode again, hammered at the spot the ear had fallen from. A large crack appeared, and when I removed a big sliver of glass... there it was: flour-like powder. Opening the plastic pillow case I carefully poured over sixteen pounds of pure heroin into it—banged the cat a couple of times so as not to leave a few grand in dust—zippered the case shut. Placing the plastic sack inside the duffel bag, I stuffed Arlene's towel on top of it.... had the most innocent-looking three million bucks ever seen!

     Removing my coat, I wrapped the hammer and the remains of the glass cat in that, slung the bag over my shoulder, and walked out. Except for the crude bundle under my arm, I looked the part of a sweaty joker going or coming from a beach. Glancing about constantly to be as certain as I knew how to be—that no one was tailing me, I rode the subway to South Ferry. Standing on the stern of the Staten Island ferry, with a sigh of sheer relief I opened my coat... quietly dropped the ugly cat to the bottom of New York's harbor.

     Having a cup of coffee in the Staten Island ferry terminal left me down to my last fifty-five cents. Hating to do it—although there wasn't any time for pride—I found Amy's new address in the Queens phone book. It would be lousy to beg her for a favor. We'd had mother-in-law trouble: Amy found me in the sack with her mama. I'd merely been trying to con the old babe into buying us a station wagon, or some such major item. I could understand Amy blowing her gasket, but on another level I was helping my rich mother-in-law lose her neurotic frustration—she'd been widowed when Amy was ten.

     On the ferry back to Manhattan, watching a passing ocean finer with desperate longing, I had a better idea: I'd go directly to the art gallery.

     Surely they'd cash their own check, and I had my passport for identification.

     Leaving the subway at 59th and Lexington Avenue, I never went near the gallery. The evening papers were already out—with a snap of seersucker bleeding all over the floor of room 302. The picture caption briefly stated:

     “Al Foster, thirty-seven, a known criminal, was found shot to death this morning in the room of a Stanley Collins, at the Hotel Tran. Police are seeking a mysterious heavy suitcase...”

     Reading the paper, I rode the subway back to Grand Central, changed for a Queens train. Foster, who lived in the West 70's, had a record of ten arrests—including one for armed robbery and assault—but only one conviction—he'd done time as a youngster for stealing a gum vending machine. The news story said the police were searching for a Stanley Collins, who had checked into the hotel room a few hours before the shooting. Only an empty suitcase was found in the room...

     Amy lived in a standard middle-class neighborhood of institutional-looking solid apartment houses. It was a few minutes past four p.m.... little chance of her new hubby being home. And if I could get some money from her within the next half hour, I'd be able to phone Hank in Nice before he shut his shop.

     A husky little boy—who had to be at least eight—opened the door when I rang, gave me a buck-tooth smile as he asked, “What are you selling, mister?”

     “Mother home, sonny?” It gives you an odd feeling when your child calls you 'mister.' Even if Clark had only been two when Amy divorced me, I was amazed he didn't know I was his old man: his face and hair were so much a copy of mine—he looked as if I'd spit him out.

     A baby cried someplace within the over-decorated apartment as Amy called out, “Who is it, Clark?” I didn't know Amy had another kid. “A big man to see you, mommy.”

     “I told you to always ask a person's name...” Amy said, coming into the foyer, doing a dumb double-take upon seeing me.

     She'd put on a few pounds but it only helped her good figure, while her face still had all its startling beauty: she'd always been so damn sure of the power of her looks, used it like a club. Patting the boy's head—he had my soft, curly hair—Amy told him, “Son, go take care of Frances.”

     “I want to stay and talk to the man, mama.”

     “You look after your baby sister before I report you to your Cub Scoutmaster!” Amy snapped. The second the boy left, she stepped in front of me— barring the doorway like a mother-hen protecting her brood—announced, “Get out of here, Clayton, before I slam the door on your ugly face!”

     “Relax.” I put one of my size thirteens against the door. “I didn't come to make a scene. I'm in a mild jam and...”

     “That's the only time you'd ever think of coming around, naturally! I've told Fred what a slimy bastard you are—in detail! Clark thinks Fred is his father, so if Fred finds you here he'll break your thick head!

     “The boy looks fine. Only be a few seconds, Amy. I happened to be around here and...”