“Because he told me that he had to go with his boss to see The Magic Flute at Carnegie Hall. But there is no opera scheduled.”
“You seem to have it all worked out yourself. Why would you need a detective?”
“Because of Dick’s mother,” Karmen Brown said. “She told me that I wasn’t worthy of her son. She said that I was common and coarse and that I was just using him.”
The anger twisted Karmen’s face until even her ethereal beauty turned into something ugly.
“And you want to rub her face in it?” Leonid asked. “Why wouldn’t she be happy that her boy found another girl?”
“I think that the woman he’s seeing is married and older, way older. If I could get pictures of them then when I leave at least she won’t be so smug.”
Leonid wondered if that would be enough to hurt Dick’s mother. He also wondered why Karmen suspected that Dick was seeing an older married woman. He had a lot of questions but didn’t ask them. Why question a cash cow? After all, he had two rents to pay.
The detective looked over the information and glanced at the cash, held together by an oversized paper clip, while the young bartender placed the water by his elbow.
The photograph was of a man whom he took to be Richard Mallory. He was a young white man whose face seemed unfinished. There was a mustache that wasn’t quite thick enough and a mop of brown hair that would always defy a comb. He seemed uncomfortable standing there in front of the Rockefeller Center skating rink.
“Okay, Miss Brown,” Leonid said. “I’ll take it on. Maybe we’ll both get lucky and it’ll be over by tomorrow night.”
“Karma,” she said. “Call me Karma. Everybody does.”
Leonid got down to Elizabeth Street a little after ten-thirty. He rang Gert’s bell and shouted his name into the security microphone. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the roar of a passing motorcycle.
Gert Longman lived in a small studio on the third floor of a stucco building put up in the fifties. The ceiling was low but the room was pretty big and Gert had set it up nicely. There was a red sofa and a mahogany coffee table with cherry wood cabinets that had glass doors along the far wall. She had no kitchen but there was a miniature refrigerator in one corner with a coffee percolator and a toaster on top. Gert also had a CD player. When Leonid got there she was playing Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter tunes.
Leonid appreciated the music and said so.
“I like it,” Gert said, somehow managing to negate Leonid’s compliment.
She was a dark-skinned woman whose mother had come from the Spanish side of Hispaniola. Gert didn’t speak with an accent, though. She didn’t even know the Spanish tongue. Actually Gert knew nothing about her history. She was proud to say of herself that she was just as much an American as any Daughter of the American Revolution.
She sat on the southern end of the sofa.
“Did Nestor pay you yet?” Gert asked.
“You know I been missing you, Gertie,” Leonid said, thinking about her satin skin and the fortyish woman in the teenybopper dress from the French bistro.
“That’s done, Leo,” Gert said. “That was over a long time ago.”
“You must still have needs.”
“Not for you.”
“One time you told me you loved me,” Leonid replied.
“That was after you told me that you weren’t married.”
Leonid sat down a few inches away from her. He touched her knuckle with two fingers.
“No,” Gert said.
“Come on, baby. It’s hard as a boil down there.”
“And I’m dry to the bone.”
… but to a woman a man is life, Ella sang.
Leonid sat back and shoved his right hand into his pants pocket.
After Karmen Brown had left him at Barney’s Clover Leonid ducked into the John and counted out Gert’s three thousand from the twelve Craig Arman had laid on his lap. He took the wad from his pocket.
“You could at least give me a little kiss on my boil for all this,” he said.
“I could lance it too.”
Leonid chuckled and Gert grinned. They’d never be lovers again but she liked his ways. He could see that in her eyes.
Maybe he should have left Katrina.
He handed her the roll of hundred-dollar bills and asked, “Could anybody find a trail from you to Joe Haller?”
“Uh-uh. No. I worked in a whole ‘nother office from him.”
“How did you find out about his record?”
“Ran off a list of likely employees for the company and did a background search on about twenty.”
“From your desk?”
“From the public library computer terminal.”
“Can’t they trace you back on that?” Leonid asked.
“No. I bought an account with a Visa number I got from Jackie P. It’s some poor slob from St. Louis. There’s no tracing that. What’s wrong, Leo?”
“Nuthin’,” the detective said. “I just want to be careful.”
“Haller’s a dog,” Gert added. “He’d been doin’ them girls around there for months. And when Cynthia Athol’s husband found out and came after him Joe beat him so bad that he had to go to the hospital. Broke his collarbone. He beat Chris Small with a strap just two weeks ago.”
When Nestor asked Leonid to find him a patsy for a midday crime Leonid came to Gert and she went to work as a temp for Amberson’s Financials. All she had to do was come up with a guy with a record who might have been part of the heist; a guy who no one could connect with Nestor.
She did him one better. She came up with a guy that no one liked.
Haller had robbed a convenience store twelve years before, when he was eighteen. And now he was a gigolo with some kind of black belt in something. He liked to overwhelm the silly office secretaries with his muscles and his big thing. He didn’t mind if their significant others found out because he believed he could take on almost any man one on one.
Gert had been told that he once said, “Any woman with a real man wouldn’t let me take her like that.”
“Don’t worry,” Gert said. “He deserves whatever happens to him and they’ll never follow it back to me.”
“Okay,” Leonid said.
He touched her knuckle again.
“Don’t.”
He let his fingers trail up toward her wrist.
“Please, Leo. I don’t want to wrestle with you.”
Leonid’s breath was shallow and the erection was pressing against his pants. But he moved away.
“I better be going,” he said.
“Yeah,” Gert agreed. “Go home to your wife.”
It didn’t take long to get past security at the Empire State Building. Leonid worked late at least three nights a week.
He didn’t want to go home after Gert had turned him down.
He never knew why he took Kartrina back in.
He never knew why he did anything except if it had to do with the job.
Leonid became a P.I. because he was too short to qualify for the NYPD when he was eligible. They changed the requirements soon after that but by then he’d already been busted for unlawful entry.
He didn’t care. The private sector was more lucrative and he could work his own hours.
He found a Richard Mallory in the phone book that had the same address that Karmen Brown had typed out on her fiancé’s fact sheet. Leonid dialed the number. Someone answered on the third ring.
“Hello?” a tremulous man’s voice asked.
“BobbiAnne there?” Leonid asked in one of his dozen accents.
“What?”
“BobbiAnne. She there?”
“You have the wrong number.”
“Oh. All right,” Leonid said and then he hung up.
For a dozen minutes by the big clock on the wall Leonid thought about the voice of the man who might have been Richard Mallory. Leonid thought that he could tell the nature of anyone if he could talk to him just when he was roused out of a deep sleep.