These kids knew too much for their age nowadays. I needed a drink bad this time. The joint on the left was closer, so I went in and stood at the bar making tight fists with my hands until the nails cut into my palms. Now this, I kept thinking, now this! Did every corner to this have a blank wall I couldn't hurdle. The bartender didn't ask... he shoved a glass and a bottle under my nose and drew a chaser from the beer tap, then made change from my buck. When I had the second he put all the change in the register, then came back and waited.
"One more?"
I shook my head. "Just beer this time. Where's your phone?"
"Over in the corner." He jerked his head towards the end of the bar while he pulled the beer. I went down to the booth and dropped a nickel in, then dialed Pat at his home.
This time I had a little luck because he answered. I said, "This is Mike, chum. Need a favor done. There was a fire in one of the bawdy houses down the street here and I want to know if there has been an investigation made. Can you check it?"
"Guess so, Mike. What's the number?" I gave it to him and grunted when he checked it back to me. "Hang up while I call and I'll buzz you back. Give me your number there."
He got that, too, and I hung up. I went down and got my beer, then went back to the seat in the phone booth and sat there sipping the stuff slowly. The minute it rang I snatched it off the hook.
"Mike?"
"Yeah."
"The fire happened twelve days ago. A complete investigation was made because the place had been condemned for occupancy a month before and nothing had been done about it. The fire started accidentally and the guy who flipped the lit match out the window is still in the hospital recovering. Apparently, he was the only one who got out alive. The flames blocked the front door and the rear was littered with junk so as to be impassable.
"Three girls perished on the roof, two in the rooms and two jumped to their deaths before the firemen could get the nets up. Destruction was complete because the floors caved in completely."
Pat didn't give me a chance to thank him. Before I could say a word his voice thinned out and had an edge on it. "Give me what you know, Mike. You aren't there out of curiosity and if you're still thinking in terms of murder I want a trade. And right now, too."
"O.K., sharp guy," I laughed. "I'm still trying to find out who the redhead was. I met a guy who knew where she had worked before she free-lanced and I wound up here."
This time Pat was the one who laughed. "Is that all? I could have told you that if you'd called me." I froze on the phone. "Her name was Sanford, Nancy Sanford. She used several first names, but seemed to stick to Nancy most of the time, so we picked it as her own."
My teeth grinding together made more sound than my voice. "Who said so?"
"We have a lot of men on the Force, Mike. A couple of the patrolmen got on to her."
"Maybe you know who killed her, too."
"Sure. The kid did. The lab finally found traces of fender paint on her clothes, and strands of fibres from her dress on the car. It was as simple as that."
"Was it?"
"Uh-huh. Besides, we have a witness. At least a witness who saw her just a few minutes before she was killed. A janitor was putting out the ashes and saw her staggering up the street, dead drunk. She fell, got up again and staggered some more. Later she was discovered a half-block away in the gutter where she was hit."
"Did you trace her parents--anybody at all who knew her?"
"No, we couldn't get that far. She did a good job, of wiping out all traces of her past."
"So now she gets the usual treatment... pine box and all."
"What else, Mike? The case is closed except for the kid's trial."
I snarled into that mouthpiece, "So help me, Pat, if you lower her coffin before I'm ready, I'll beat the hell out of you, cop or no cop!"
Pat said quietly, "We're not in a hurry, Mike. Take your time, take your time."
I set the receiver back in its cradle gently and stood up, saying her name over and over again. I must have said it too loud, because the willowy brunette at the corner table looked up at me with a quizzical expression in eyes that had seen through too many bottles of liquor. She was a beaut, all right, not part of this section of town at all. She had on a black satin dress with a neckline that plunged down to her belt buckle, and she sat there with her legs crossed, unconscious of what she was giving away for free.
The heavy rouged lips parted in a smile and she said, "Nancy... always Nancy. Everybody's looking for Nancy. Why don't they pay a little attention to pretty Lola?"
"Who was looking for Nancy?"
"Oh, just everybody." She tried to lean her chin on her hand, but her elbow kept slipping off the table. "I think they found her, too, because Nancy isn't around any more. Nancy's dead. Did you know Nancy was dead? I liked Nancy fine, but now she's dead. Won't pretty Lola do, mister? Lola's nice and alive. You'll like Lola lots when you get to know her."
Hell, I liked Lola already.
Chapter Four
When I sat down beside the brunette the bartender watched me so hard the three drunks at the rail turned around too. The drunks didn't matter, they couldn't see that far, so I turned on my best nasty look and the bartender went about his business. Just the same he stayed down at the end where he could hear things if they were said too loud.
Lola uncrossed her long, lovely legs and leaned towards me. The big, floppy hat she was wearing wobbled an inch away from my eyes. "You're a nice guy, mister. What's your name?"
"Mike."
"Just Mike?"
"It's enough. How would you like to go for a ride and sober up a little."
"Ummm. You got a nice shiny convertible for Lola to ride in? I love men with convertibles."
"All right."
She stood up and I held her arm to keep her straight. Nice, very nice. Deep-dish apple pie in a black satin dress. I steered her towards the door, hardly taking my eyes off her. Tall, and as long as you didn't look too close, as pretty as they come. But close looks were what counted. She had that look around the eyes and a set of the mouth that spelled just one thing. She was for sale cheap.
My heap wasn't what she expected, but it was comfortable and she leaned back against the cushions and let the breeze blow across her face and fluff out her hair. Her eyes closed and I thought she was asleep until she reached up and tugged off the floppy hat. Then she did go to sleep.
I wasn't going anywhere... just driving, taking it easy along the main Stem, following anybody that was ahead of me. Somehow we got to the approach of the Manhattan Bridge and it was easier to go across than to cut out of traffic. This time I was behind a truck that led the way down Flatbush Avenue at a leisurely pace. Evidently he was in no hurry because he didn't bother going through light changes and never jumped the reds. He set such a nice pace that when he parked at Beverley Road for ten minutes I sat behind him and waited until he came back and followed him some more. The first thing I knew we had the lights of the city behind us and were skirting Floyd Bennett Field, and the air was carrying the salty tang of the ocean with it. We crossed the bridge then and he turned left, but I didn't follow. The winding macadam on the right led in the direction of the breezes and I took it to a gate and on into Rockaway Point.
We had been parked for an hour before Lola woke up. The radio was turned low, making music that mingled with the air and the stars and if murder hadn't led me here it could have been pretty nice.
She looked at me sleepily and said, "Hullo, you."
"Hi, kid."
"Where is Lola this time?"
"At the beach."
"And who with?"
"A guy called Mike... that's me. I found you back in the city under a rock. Remember?"