“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...”
“How much do you want?”
“Come on, I'm not here for a handout. I've recently returned to the States and am leaving for... South America, tonight. I have this...” I pulled the gallery check from my wallet. “You can see it's okay, even you must have heard of this gallery. I've been selling a lot of my stuff lately, have a one-man show in Paris shortly...”
“I couldn't care less!” Amy said, taking the check, reading it.
“Of course. I was on my way to the airport and... having been out of the country, I don't know anybody who might cash this. I thought of you.”
“I don't have anything like $156 with me. I've about $45 in the house. You can have that, and get out!” She flung the check at me.
Picking it up, I asked, “Got a pen? Ill endorse it.”
“I don't want your filthy check! I'll give you the money and you leave at once, before Fred comes!”
“Get the $45 and a pen, Amy. Use the balance of the check to buy something for Clark and...”
“I will not!”
“... and don't say a mumbling word about where it came from. Make it snappy, honey, or I'll wait for Fred, ask him to cash it. I mean that.”
Amy stared at me for a moment, blue eyes full of the icy fury I remembered so well. “All right! But you stay right here, don't try to come into the apartment, or I swear to God I'll scream for the police!”
“Lord, you're the same silly, melodramatic bitch you always were,” I said sweetly.
Amy left to return seconds later with her purse and a pen. She gave me four tens and a five. Signing the check, I handed it to her casually. “Goodbye, hon.”
“Don't ever come back, Clay!”
“But darling, what was there ever worth coming back for?”
“You dirty unwashed louse!”
“Frigid bit...!” Clark and a tiny naked girl of about fifteen months suddenly stuck their cute heads around the corner. They made a startling pair: the boy looking like me, the girl a copy of Amy. “Thank you for your time, madame. I'm sorry you're not interested in ordering rugs. Perhaps next season. Good day.” I cocked my thumb in a pistol motion at the boy, as I walked toward the elevator, heard him giggle. Then my son shouted, “Bang! Bang! I kill you...!” as Amy slammed the door.
Downstairs I walked several blocks before phoning Nice from a drugstore booth, practically taking all the man's silver. The druggist was open-mouth impressed and I wondered if I was stupidly leaving a trail for the police—I actually didn't wish to involve Amy in anything.
About fourteen dollars and some ten minutes later the call went through: Hank's gallery didn't answer. I couldn't remember his home address—he slept around so damn much—but while I still had an open wire, I had the call switched to Syd's pension, person-to-person. I'd tell her to see Hank, have him call me back at this number at a certain hour tomorrow.
Syd's voice sounded so thin and unreal—long, long distance—as she asked, “Clay, on your way back here? Oh darling, did things work out for us?”
“I haven't been here long enough to see... anybody, yet. Listen to me Syd: you remember that art gallery across from the park, the Jardin Albert 1, where my water colors are on...?”
“Darling,” she cut in, “the police have been here asking some blasted questions about you. The silly blokes simply must have known you boarded a plane last night, yet they kept asking as if you were responsible for Monsieur Dupre's death. That's the same art gallery, I mean his...?”
“Hank... Henri Dupre is dead?”
“Brutally beaten to death during the night—found him in Mont-Boron, outside Nice. Big item in the bloody papers here.”
“But—what did the police want me for?”
“Exactly what I kept telling the ruddy bureaucrats—you had to be half across the Atlantic when the killing took place. Clay, forget that, what did you phone to tell me?”
“What could the French police possibly...? Syd, honey, I only phoned to say this may take more time than I first thought, and... eh... I didn't want you to worry.”
“Sweet, sweet, Clay darling! Now I know you love me!” Over the phone her voice sounded like a mechanical doll's.
“Yeah. In case I am delayed, why you go on to London, and I'll write you there. Goodnight, Syd.”
“Good, good night, my lover!” Syd made a kissing noise—a kind of animal squeal—as I hung up.
In a sweaty daze, I squared away the overtime charges with the operator, the coins dropping like a slot machine jackpot—in reverse. How could the French cops have connected me with Hank? Or had the flics been shadowing me all the time, after I was ordered to leave France?
The hell with the flics, I was in Queens now! But no wonder the 'ping' man and his runty partner had been on hand to kill Al Foster! Somebody —another 'they'—had tortured poor Hank until he spilled the details. Syd had said Dupre had been 'brutally beaten'... why couldn't his bad heart have stopped, saved him all that nightmare of pain?
One thing was now clear, when the tall man with the silencer had been looking around the hotel room, the closet, he'd been hunting for me. Either they had followed Foster to me, or they were waiting until he arrived, figuring on getting the fifty grand and the dope. But Hank had said he'd picked me as the courier on the spur of the moment, wouldn't let anybody else, even the contact here, know until my plane was about to land at Idlewild. How the devil did Foster know where to contact me, then? Hank was dead hours before the plane reached the States. This was supposed to be an informer-proof plan; or had I literally let the cat out of the bag, caused Hank's death? I certainly hadn't talked, but Parks saw the cat, so did Syd, madame, the porter's son... But how could they have possibly known what the cat held? That was the 'beauty' of the plan, I was merely bringing home souvenirs... like a glass cat.
Leaving thedrugstore I moved about aimlessly, my head aching. I hadn't the slightest idea where to go, what to do. I had less than thirty bucks on me. True, I was carrying three millions around...
I swung the little blue duffel bag over my shoulder. I ought to have Robert Parks recite The Ancient Mariner. The damn junkies talked about a monkey on their stupid backs... I had a seven kilo albatross around my fat neck—strangling me.
I opened my eyes to blink at the tower, now flecked with gold shadow from the sinking sun. Tall tower... the final jest for me... that phallus symbol slop? My sex castle...? Nutty talk. Lovely contrast, gold and white of the tower against the dirty grey of the rest of the castle. Call the color of sand, burnt sienna... or...? Doesn't matter, never did—for me, really.