DARASK FROCKS, INC.
Women’s Garments Of
Distinction
Meyer did not knock. He went into the loft, stared down at the front of Margarita’s low-cut smock for a second or two, asked for Dave Raskin and was ushered to the back of the loft where Raskin himself, standing in his undershirt and sweating profusely, was working with the girls pressing dresses. Raskin seemed to be in excellent high spirits.
“Hallo, hallo, Meyer!” he shouted. “What a day for pressing dresses, hah? A beautiful April day, what a day! It’s nice out, hah, Meyer?”
“Beautiful,” Meyer replied.
“April, that’s the only time of the year. April is just right for everything, and I meaneverything, Meyer, even an old man like me could say it,everything, Meyer!”
“You seem very happy today,” Meyer said.
“Yes, yes, I’m happy like a little lark. You know why? I’ll tell you why. To begin with, my crazyman hasn’t called since Friday. Already this is Tuesday, and thank God nothing has come for me, no stationery, nothing, and no telephone calls, either.” Raskin beamed. “So I’m happy. My girls aren’t frightened, and I’m not pestered by thismeshugenuh heckler. Also, I’m making money like a crazy thief.”
“Good,” Meyer said. “Maybe he’s given up the game, huh? Figured he wasn’t getting enough of a rise out of you, maybe.” Meyer shrugged. “I’m glad to hear there’ve been no incidents since Friday, Dave. And of course I’m glad to hear your business is going so well.”
“It couldn’t be better. I got six dozen summer dresses yesterday for—guess what? Guess how much?”
“I don’t know. How much?”
“A dollar each dress! Can you imagine something like that? These beautiful little summer things, sleeveless you know, and a little tight across the backside, I’ll sell them like hot cakes, they’ll come running all the way from Bethtown to buy these, I can sell them for four dollars each and they’ll snap them up! I’m telling you, Meyer, I’ll make a fortune. You saw the bank downstairs when you were coming in?”
“Yes,” Meyer said, grinning.
“Okay. Right under where we’re standing, right here under my feet, they got their vault. And into this vault, Meyer, I’m going to place thousands and thousands of dollars!”
“You’d better do it in a hurry,” Meyer said, “because the bank is moving at the end of the month.”
“Slow or in a hurry,” Raskin said, chuckling, “I’ll do it. I’ll be known as the sultan of sexy garments, the lama of ladies’ coats and dresses, the monarch of maternity clothes, the king of Culver Avenue! Me, David Raskin! If I keep buying dresses at a dollar each—oi gevalt,what a steal!—a dollar apiece and selling them for four dollars, Meyer, I could build myown bank! I won’t need already the vault downstairs! Meyer, I’ll be a millionaire! Can’t you see me now? I’ll only—”
The telephone rang. Raskin walked to it, still talking to Meyer, not breaking his conversational stride—
“—drive a Cadillac car, nothing else, and I’ll wear silk underwear and in Miami Beach I’ll be known as—”
He picked up the receiver.
“Hello—the biggest tipper on Collins Aven—”
“You son of a bitch!” the voice said. “Get out of that loft before the thirtieth, or I’ll kill you!”
10.
THE HOTEL ALBION was on Jefferson Avenue near South Third Street. A narrow green canopy stretched from the hotel entrance to the street, and a doorman wearing a green uniform and watching the girls strut by in their April cottons, sprang to attention as Carella approached, promptly pulled open one of the brass-bound doors for him, and damn near threw a salute.
“Thank you,” Carella said.
“You’re-welcome-sir!” the doorman shouted smartly.
Carella raised his eyebrows appreciatively, went into the lobby, and felt immediately that he had left the city somewhere far behind him. The lobby was small and quiet. Rich dark woods dominated the ceilings and the walls. A thick Persian carpet covered the floor. The furniture was upholstered in vibrant red-and-green velvet, and a huge cut-glass chandelier dominated the ceiling. He felt that he was no longer in the United States, felt somehow that Venice must look like this, rich and vibrant and somehow decadent, somehow out of place with the bustling twentieth century, a city misplaced in time. He had never been to Venice, never indeed been outside of America except during the war, and yet he knew instinctively that this hotel would have fit into that waterlogged city with uninhibited ease. He took off his hat and walked to the main desk. There was no one behind it. The hotel, in fact, seemed to be deserted, as if news of an impending atom bomb blast had sent everyone creaking downstairs to the wine cellar. A bell rested on the counter. He reached out with one hand and tapped it. The bell tinkled in the small lobby, cushioned by the velvet chairs and the Persian rug and the thick draperies on the windows, muffled by the overwhelming soddenness of the surrounding materials.
Carella heard the shuffle of soft-soled slippers sliding over steps. He looked up. A small thin man was coming down from the first floor. He walked with a slight stoop, a man in his sixties wearing a green eye shade and a brown cardigan sweater which had been knitted for him by a maternal aunt in New Hampshire. He looked like that Yankee-type fellow who plays the small-town hotel clerk in all the movies or the small-town postmaster, or the one the convertible pulls alongside to ask directions of, that guy, you know the one. He looked exactly like him. For a moment, listening to his creaky tread on the steps, watching him come into the cloistered silence of the lobby, Carella had the feeling that he was in a movie himself, that he would speak a line which had been written for him by some Hollywood mastermind and would be answered in turn with another scripted line.
“Hello, young feller,” the Yankee-type said. “Can I be of some assistance?”
“I’m from the police,” Carella said. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and opened it to where his shield was pinned to the leather.
“Um-hum,” the Yankee said, nodding. “What can I do for you?”
“I don’t believe I caught your name, sir,” Carella said and knew instantly that the man would reply “Didn’t throw it young feller,” and almost winced before the words left the old-timer’s mouth.
“Didn’t throw it, young feller,” the Yankee said. “But it’s Pitt. Roger Pitt.”
“How do you do, Mr. Pitt. My name is Detective Carella. We found the remains of a—”
“Carella, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“Carella?”
“Yes.”
“How d’do?” Pitt said.
“Fine, thank you. We found the remains of a uniform in an incinerator, sir, and we also found a matchbook from your hotel, the Hotel Albion, and there’s the possibility that this uniform might tie in with a case we are investigating, and so I wondered—”
“Youinvestigating the case?”