I signed in as Mr. and Mrs. Thompson from Toledo, Ohio, passed the money over and took the key marked 410. The clerk didn't even bother to look at my signature or thank me for letting him keep the change of my bill.
There was no bellhop, but this place had an early-model self-service elevator that took us to the fourth floor where we got out. We walked to the room and when I opened the door she gave me an odd look, a wry little smile, shrugged and walked in.
I grinned at her, but there wasn't any humor there. "No tricks, kid. I can't go busting in his door up there and he damn well won't open it for me."
"Nothing would surprise me any more. I'm sorry."
I went to the window, forced it up and looked out at the back of the building. Like most, it had an iron fire escape with landings that covered the windows of several rooms at each floor. I shucked my raincoat and threw it to Roberta. "Give me fifteen minutes to get up there, then come pay a visit."
"You won't start without me, will you?"
"No...I'll wait."
Outside, thunder rumbled across the sky and for a second there was a dull glow over the city. I stepped out to the iron slats and closed the window behind me. The rain waited for that second and came at me like a basket of spitting cats, daring me to go any further.
I swung my legs over the railing and got my feet set, hanging on to the metal bar behind me. The rain pelted my face and I couldn't be sure of the distance to the other fire escape frame. Then the sky lit up with that dull gray incandescence and I could see it, and while the image was still there, jumped, my fingers clawing for the iron rail.
My hands made it, but my feet slipped, smashing me into the uprights. I hung on, pulled myself up until I found a toehold, then climbed over and stood there to get my breath and see if anybody had heard the racket. There wasn't any need to worry; the rain kept the windows closed and the thunder drowned out any noise I thought I made. Two flights up where room 614 was, the window was outlined in yellow behind the drawn shade.
I took the .45 out of the sling, cocked it and started up the stairs.
The window was open about four inches from the bottom with the shade pulled below the level of the sill. Inside a radio was playing some tinny music and the smell of cigar smoke seeped out the opening. There was a cough, the creak of bedsprings and somebody twisted the dial of the radio savagely until another station was on. I tried the window. The damn thing was stuck fast.
Behind my back the wind came at me, driving the rain through my clothes, making the shade flop against the sill. I edged to one side, reached out with my fingers, got the shade, pulled it down on the roller and let it go. The thing snapped up under the tension of the spring and flapped wildly around its axis and the guy on the bed jumped up with a curse, startled, a snub-nosed gun in his hand. He took a look at the shade, let out another curse, stuck the gun in his waistband and came to the window, reaching up to pull down the blind.
And saw me standing there with the .45 aimed at his middle through the glass.
"Open it," I said.
For a moment I thought he was going to try it, but the odds were just too big and he knew it. His face was a pasty white, his hands shook going to the window, and when he forced it up he stood there with the sweat running down his forehead into a crease in his flattened nose and he couldn't get a sound out of his throat.
I stepped inside, yanked the gun out of his pants and smashed him across the jaw with it. His head snapped back and he stumbled against the bed just as a knock came on the door. I walked over, opened it and let Roberta in. She gave me a hurt look and said, "You promised."
"It was just a teaser, kid," I told her. "The main course comes up later."
Lorenzo Jones got his voice back. "Mister...look, I didn't do nothing...I..."
"Shut up." I locked the door behind me, went over and pulled down the window, closed the shade and, very deliberately, turned the volume of the radio up.
Lorenzo Jones got the message loud and clear. His eyes in their heavy pads of flesh grew a little wild. They didn't want to look at mine. They tried to appeal to Roberta, then he saw who she was. "Look, mister...if she paid you to do this, I'll pay you more. That bitch..."
"She didn't pay me, Lorenzo."
"Then why...?"
"Shut up and listen to me, Lorenzo. Listen real good because I'm only going to say it once. I'm going to ask you questions and if you don't answer them right, you're going to catch a slug someplace." I motioned to Roberta. "Get me a pillow."
She pulled one from the bed and tossed it to me. I wrapped it around the rod in my fist and walked over to Jones. He tried to swallow and couldn't. I said, "Who paid you to use Virginia Howell's room?"
"The...the girl. She..."
"Not the girl."
His nod was desperate. "It was, I'm telling you. She gimme the dough..." I leveled the .45 at his kneecap. "Cripes, don't shoot me, will ya! I'm telling ya, the girl gimme the money. Ali said she'd pay me...It wasn't the first time. He wanted a room somewhere for himself or his friends, I'd clear Virginia out and let 'im use it. Always whoever used the room would pay me. He..."
"Roberta?" I asked.
"He's pulled that plenty of times, usually with Virginia. A lot of those bums don't want to sign a register. A couple of times he stuck somebody up there who was hot."
I looked back to Jones again. "How long was Greta supposed to stay there, Lorenzo?"
His shrug was more like a big shudder. "I...dunno. Ali never told me. She got out on her own, then that stupid Virginia came back when I told her to stay away until I saw her. That's why I smacked her. She was givin' me a hard time. She didn't like nobody using her place. That other one messed up her clothes, threw them in a suitcase, knocked them down..."
"That other one was putting on an act for me, Lorenzo. She wanted me to think she lived there." I stopped a second, watched him and said, "Was she there before?"
"How do I know? I don't ask Ali no questions. Maybe she was. I ain't gonna complain when..."
I cut him off. "Who's Ali?"
"Hell, that's all I know. Just Ali He's a guy."
"You're getting close to hopping, Jones." I grinned at him and my mouth was a tight line across my teeth. I could feel my fingers starting to squeeze the gun.
Lorenzo Jones knew it too. His breath sucked in so hard he almost choked and he tried to double up in a ball. "Who's Ali?" I repeated.
His tongue ran over dry lips. "He's...on a ship. Some kind...of a steward."
"More."
"He brings things in. You know, he..."
"What does he smuggle, Jones?"
He couldn't keep his hands still and the sweat was dripping off his nose. "I...I think it's H. He don't tell me. His customers are...special. He ain't...in the rackets. He does it special."
"That puts him in the money class," I said.
Lorenzo jerked his head in a nod.
"How would he contact a slob like you?"
"I...got him some broads one time. He like to...well, he wasn't right. He did some crazy things to 'em, but he paid good."
"What things?"
Lorenzo Jones was almost babbling, but he said, "Cigarettes. He burned 'em, things like that. He'd...bite them. Once he..."
Roberta came up and stood beside me, looking at Jones with loathing. "I knew two of those kids. They never talked about it, but I saw the scars. One wound up in the mental ward at Bellevue and the other stepped in front of a subway train when I she was dead drunk."
"Describe him, Jones."
His mind didn't want to work. He couldn't keep his eyes off the pillow that covered the gun in my hand. I grinned again and it was too much for him. His mouth began to contort into words. "He...he's kind of not too big like. He talks funny. I tried to get something on him so I could maybe score with him but he's careful. I seen him in the Village sometimes. Him and a silly hat. He goes with them oddballs down there for kicks. Look, I don't know him. He's just some gook."