“How many of you do I have to protect?” Kling said dryly.
“Well… only Hud and me, actually,” Tommy said.
“The Bobbsey Twins.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” Kling started for the door. “Stay away from big girls,” he said. “Go lift some weights.”
“You’ll leave us out of it?” Tommy called.
“I may be back,” Kling said, and then he left them standing by the record player.
10
In Riverhead — and throughout the city, for that matter, but especially in Riverhead — the cave dwellers have thrown up a myriad number of dwellings, which they call middle-class apartment houses. These buildings are usually constructed of yellow brick, and they are carefully set on the street so that no wash is seen hanging on the lines, except when an inconsiderate city transit authority constructs an elevated structure that cuts through backyards.
The fronts of the buildings are usually hung with a different kind of wash. Here is where the women gather. They sit on bridge chairs and stools, and they knit, and they sun themselves, and they talk, and their talk is the dirty wash of the apartment building. In three minutes flat, a reputation can be ruined by these Mesdames Defarge. The ax drops with remarkable abruptness, whetted by a friendly discussion of last-night’s mah-jongg game. The head, with equally remarkable suddenness, rolls into the basket, and the discussion idles on to topics like, “Should birth control be practiced in the Virgin Isles?”
Autumn was a bold seductress on that late Monday afternoon, September 18. The women lingered in front of the buildings, knowing their hungry men would soon be home for dinner, but lingering nonetheless, savoring the tantalizing bite of the air. When the tall, blond man stopped in front of 728 Peterson, paused to check the address over the arched doorway, and then stepped into the foyer, speculation ran rife among the women knitters. After a brief period of consultation, one of the women — a girl named Birdie — was chosen to sidle unobtrusively into the foyer and, if the opportunity were ripe, perhaps casually follow the good-looking stranger upstairs.
Birdie, so carefully unobtrusive was she, missed her golden opportunity. By the time she had wormed her way into the inner foyer, Kling was nowhere in sight.
He had checked the name Townsend in the long row of brass-plated mailboxes, pushed the bell button, and then leaned on the inner door until an answering buzz released its lock mechanism. He had then climbed to the fourth floor, found Apartment 47, and pushed another button.
He was now waiting.
He pushed the button again.
The door opened suddenly. He had heard no approaching footsteps, and the sudden opening of the door surprised him. Unconsciously, he looked first to the girl’s feet. She was barefoot.
“I was raised in the Ozarks,” she said, following his glance. “We own a vacuum cleaner, a carpet sweeper, a broiler, a set of encyclopedias, and subscriptions to most of the magazines. Whatever you’re selling, we’ve probably got it, and we’re not interested in putting you through college.”
Kling smiled. “I’m selling an automatic apple corer,” he said.
“We don’t eat apples,” the girl replied.
“This one mulches the seeds and converts them to fiber. The corer comes complete with an instruction booklet telling you how to weave fiber mats.”
The girl raised a speculative eyebrow.
“It comes in six colors,” Kling went on. “Toast Brown, Melba Peach, Tart Red—”
“Are you on the level?” the girl asked, puzzled now.
“Proofreader Blue,” Kling continued, “Bilious Green and Midnight Dawn.” He paused. “Are you interested?”
“Hell no,” she said, somewhat shocked.
“My name is Bert Kling,” he said seriously. “I’m a cop.”
“Now you sound like the opening to a television show.”
“May I come in?”
“Am I in trouble?” the girl asked. “Did I leave that damn shebang in front of a fire hydrant?”
“No.”
And then, as an afterthought, “Where’s your badge?”
Kling showed her his shield.
“You’re supposed to ask,” the girl said. “Even the man from the gas company. Everybody’s supposed to carry identification like that.”
“Yes, I know.”
“So come in,” she said. “I’m Claire Townsend.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“The boys at Club Tempo sent me here.”
Claire stared at Kling levelly. She was a tall girl. Even barefoot, she reached to Kling’s shoulders. In high heels, she would give the average American male trouble. Her hair was black. Not brunette, not brownette, but black, a total black, the black of a starless, moonless night. Her eyes were a deep brown, arched with black brows. Her nose was straight, and her cheeks were high, and there wasn’t a trace of makeup on her face, not a tint of lipstick on her wide mouth. She wore a white blouse and black toreador pants, which tapered down to her naked ankles and feet. Her toenails were painted a bright red.
She kept staring at him. At last, she said, “Why’d they send you here?”
“They said you knew Jeannie Paige.”
“Oh.” The girl seemed ready to blush. She shook her head slightly, as if to clear it of an erroneous first impression, and then said, “Come in.”
Kling followed her into the apartment. It was furnished with good middle-class taste.
“Sit down,” she said.
“Thank you.” He sat in a low easy chair. It was difficult to sit erect, but he managed it. Claire went to the coffee table, shoved the lid off a cigarette box, took one of the cigarettes for herself, and then asked, “Smoke?”
“No, thanks.”
“Your name was Kling, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a detective?”
“No. A patrolman.”
“Oh.” Claire lighted the cigarette, shook out the match, and then studied Kling. “What’s your connection with Jeannie?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Claire grinned. “I asked first.”
“I know her sister. I’m doing a favor.”
“Uh-huh.” Claire nodded, digesting this. She puffed on the cigarette, folded her arms across her breasts, and then said, “Well, go ahead. Ask the questions. You’re the cop.”
“Why don’t you sit down?”
“I’ve been sitting all day.”
“You work?”
“I’m a college girl,” Claire said. “I’m studying to be a social worker.”
“Why that?”
“Why not?”
Kling smiled. “This time, I asked first.”
“I want to get to people before you do,” she said.
“That sounds reasonable,” Kling said. “Why do you belong to Club Tempo?”
Her eyes grew suddenly wary. He could almost see a sudden film pass over the pupils, masking them. She turned her head and blew out a ball of smoke. “Why shouldn’t I?” she asked.
“I can see where our conversation is going to run around in the why/why not rut,” Kling said.
“Which is a damn sight better than the why/because rut, don’t you think?” There was an edge to her voice now.
He wondered what had suddenly changed her earlier friendliness. He weighed her reaction for a moment and then decided to plunge onward.
“The boys there are a little young for you, aren’t they?”
“You’re getting a little personal, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Kling said, “I am.”
“Our acquaintance is a little short for personal exchanges,” Claire said icily.
“Hud can’t be more than eighteen—”
“Listen—”
“And what’s Tommy? Nineteen? They haven’t got an ounce of brains between them. Why do you belong to Tempo?”