Lady Killer

'Do you know his name?'

'Yes. Philip Bannister.'

'Does he live in the neighbourhood?'

'I imagine so. Whenever he's come into the shop, he's been dressed casually. He came in once wearing Bermuda shorts.'

'Bermuda shorts?' Hawes asked, astonished. 'In this neighbourhood?'

'People are people,' the girl reminded him.

'You don't know where he lives, though?' Hawes said.

'No. It must be close by, though.'

'What makes you say that?'

'He's often come in with shopping in his arms. Groceries, you know. I'm sure he lives close by.'

'I'll check it,' Hawes said. 'And I'll see you tonight at nine.'

'At nine,' Christine said. She paused. 'I'm—I'm looking forward to seeing you again,' she said.

'So am I,' he answered.

'Good-bye,' she said.

'Good-bye.'

The bell over the door tinkled when he left.

The telephone directory listed a Philip Bannister at 1592 South Tenth. Hawes called the squad to let Carella know where he was going, and then he drove to Bannister's place.

South Tenth was a typical precinct street, crowded with tenements and humanity, overlooked by fire escapes cluttered with the paraphernalia of life. The fire escapes were loaded today. Today every woman in the neighbourhood had said to hell with cleaning the house. Today every woman in the neighbourhood had put on her lightest clothing and stepped out on to the fire escape in the hope of catching any breeze that might rustle through the concrete canyon. Radios had been plugged into extension cords that trailed back into the apartments, and music flooded the street. Pitchers of lemonade, cans of beer beaded with cold sweat, milk bottles full of ice water, rested on the fire escapes. The women sat and drank and fanned themselves, their skirts pulled up over their knees, some of them sitting in shorts and halters, some of them sitting in slips, all of them trying desperately to beat the heat.

Hawes pulled the car to the curb, cut the engine, mopped his brow, and stepped from his small oven into the larger oven that was the street. He was wearing lightweight trousers and a cotton sports shirt open at the throat, but he was sweating none the less. He thought suddenly of Fats Donner and the Turkish bath, and felt immediately cooler.

1592 was a dowdy grey tenement set between two similarly dowdy and similarly grey tenements. Hawes climbed the front stoop, walking past two young girls who were discussing Eddie Fisher. One of them couldn't understand what he'd seen in Debbie Reynolds. She herself was built better than Debbie Reynolds, and she was sure Eddie had noticed her that time she'd got his autograph outside the stage door. Hawes went into the building wishing he could sing.

A small neatly-lettered white card told him that Philip Bannister lived in Apartment 21. Hawes wiped sweat from his lip, and then climbed to the second floor. Every door on the floor was open in an attempt to produce a cross-current circulation of air. The attempt failed miserably. Not a breeze stirred in the hallway. The door to Apartment 21 was open, too. From somewhere inside the apartment, Hawes heard the unmistakable chatter of a typewriter. He knocked on the doorjamb.

'Anybody home?' he called.

The typewriter continued its incessant jabbering.

'Hey! Anybody home?'

The clatter of the keys stopped abruptly. 'Who is it?' a voice shouted.

'Police,' Hawes said.

'Who?' The voice was utterly incredulous.

'Police.'

'Just a second.'

Hawes heard the typewriter start up again. It went furiously for some three and a half minutes and then stopped. He heard a chair being scraped back, heard the pad of bare feet through the apartment. A thin man in undershirt and striped under-shorts came into the kitchen and walked to the front door. He cocked his head to one side, bis bright brown eyes gleaming.

'Did you say police?; he asked.

'Yes, I did.'

'It can't be Grandfather because he's dead. I know Dad drinks a bit, but what kind of trouble can he be in?'

Hawes smiled. 'I'd like to ask you a few questions. That is, if you're Philip Bannister.'

'The very same. And you are?'

'Detective Hawes, Eighty-seventh Squad.'

'A real cop,' Bannister said appreciatively. 'A real live detective. Well, well. Enter. What's the matter? Am I typing too loud? Did that bitch complain about it?'

'What bitch?'

'My landlady. Come in. Make yourself homely. She's threatened to call the cops if I type at night again. Is that what this is?'

'No,' Hawes said.

'Sit down,' Bannister said, indicating one of the chairs at the kitchen table. 'Want a cold beer?'

'I can use one.'

'So can I. When do you think we'll get some rain?'

'I couldn't say.'

'Neither could I. Neither can the weather bureau. I think they get their forecasts by reading yesterday's forecast in the newspapers.' Bannister opened the icebox door and pulled out two cans of beer. 'Ice melts like hell in this weather. You mind drinking it from the can?'

'Not at all.'

He punctured both cans and handed one to Hawes.

'To the noble and the pure,' he toasted, and he drank. Hawes drank with him. 'Ahhhhh, good,' Bannister said. 'The simple pleasures. Nothing like them. Who needs money?'

'You live here alone, Bannister?' Hawes asked.

'Entirely alone. Except when I have visitors, which is rarely. I enjoy women, but I can't afford them.'

'You employed?'

'Sort of. I'm a freelance writer.'

'Magazines?'

'I am currently working on a book,' Bannister said.

'Who's your publisher?'

'I have no publisher. I wouldn't be living in this rat trap if I had a publisher. I'd be lighting cigars with twenty-dollar bills and I'd be dating all the high-class fashion models in the city.'

'Is that what successful writers do?'

'That's what this writer is going to do when he's successful.'

'Did you buy a ream of Cartwright 142-Y recently?' Hawes asked.

'Huh?'

'Cartwright 14—'

'Yeah,' Bannister said. 'How the hell did you know that?'

'Do you know a prostitute called The Lady?'

'Huh?'

'Do you know a prostitute called The Lady?' Hawes repeated.

'No. What? What did you say?'

'I said-'

'Are you kidding?'

'I'm serious.'

'A prost—Hell, no!' Bannister seemed to get suddenly indignant. 'How would I know a prost—? Are you kidding?'

'Do you know anyone called The Lady?'

'The Lady? What is this?'

'The Lady. Think.'

'I don't have to think. I don't know anybody called The Lady. What is this?'

'May I see your desk?'

'I don't have a desk. Listen, the joke has gone far enough. I don't know how you found out what kind of typing paper I use, and I don't particularly care. All I know is that you're sitting there drinking my good beer which costs me money Dad works hard to earn, and asking me foolish questions about prost—Now, what is this, huh? What is this?'

'May I see your desk, please?'

'I don't have a goddamn desk! I work on a table!'

'May I see that?'

'All right, all right, be mysterious!' Bannister shouted. 'Be a big-shot mysterious detective. Go ahead. Be my guest. The table's in the other room. Don't mess up anything or I'll call the goddamn commissioner.'

Hawes went into the other room. A typewriter was on the table, together with a pile of typed sheets, a package of carbon paper, and an opened box of typing paper.

'Do you have any paste?' Hawes asked.

'Of course not. What would I be doing with paste?'

'What are your plans for tonight, Bannister?'