I walked straight back to my hotel. The liquor stores were closed but the bars were still open. I passed them without much effort, resisted too the call of street whores on Fifty-seventh Street on either side of the Holiday Inn. I gave Jacob a nod, confirmed that I’d had no calls, and went upstairs.
Sanctimonious bastard. No better than I am. He’d been ugly drunk, with that defensive belligerence of the drinker who had exposed too much of himself. His words didn’t mean anything. He’d have addressed them to any companion, or to the night itself.
Still, they echoed in my head.
I got into bed but couldn’t sleep, got up and put the light on and sat on the edge of the bed with my notebook. I looked over some of the notes I made, then jotted down a point or two from our conversation in the bar on Tenth Avenue. I made a few further notes to myself, playing with ideas like a kitten with a yarn ball. I put the notebook down when the process reached a point of diminishing returns, with the same thoughts turning over and over upon themselves. I picked up a paperback I’d bought earlier but couldn’t get into it. I kept reading the same paragraph without getting the sense of it.
For the first time in hours I really wanted a drink. I was anxious and edgy and wanted to change it. There was a deli with a cooler full of beer just three doors from the hotel, and when had beer ever led me into a blackout?
I stayed where I was.
Chance hadn’t asked my reason for working for him. Durkin had accepted money as a valid motive. Elaine was willing to believe I was doing it because it was what I did, even as she turned tricks and God pardoned sinners. And it was all true, I could indeed use the money and detecting was what I did insofar as I did anything, it was as much of a profession as I had.
But I had another motive, and perhaps it was a deeper one. Searching for Kim’s killer was something I could do instead of drinking.
For awhile, anyway.
When I woke up the sun was shining. By the time I showered and shaved and hit the street it was gone, tucked away behind a bank of clouds. It came and went all day, as if whoever was in charge didn’t want to commit himself.
I ate a light breakfast, made some phone calls, then walked over to the Galaxy Downtowner. The clerk who’d checked in Charles Jones wasn’t on duty. I’d read his interrogation report in the file and didn’t really expect I could get more out of him than the cops could.
An assistant manager let me look at Jones’s registration card. He’d printed “Charles Owen Jones” on the line marked “Name,” and on the “Signature” line he’d printed “C. O. JONES” in block capitals. I pointed this out to the assistant manager, who told me the discrepancy was common. “People will put their full name on one line and a shorter version on the other,” he said. “Either way is legal.”
“But this isn’t a signature.”
“Why not?”
“He printed it.”
He shrugged. “Some people print everything,” he said. “The fellow made a telephone reservation and paid cash in advance. I wouldn’t expect my people to question a signature under such circumstances.”
That wasn’t my point. What had struck me was that Jones had managed to avoid leaving a specimen of his handwriting, and I found that interesting. I looked at the name where he’d printed it in full. The first three letters of Charles, I found myself thinking, were also the first three letters of Chance. And what, pray tell, did that signify? And why look for ways to hang my own client?
I asked if there’d been any previous visits by our Mr. Jones in the past few months. “Nothing in the past year,” he assured me. “We carry previous registrations alphabetically in our computer and one of the detectives had that information checked. If that’s all—”
“How many other guests signed their names in block caps?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Suppose you let me look through the registration cards for the past two, three months.”
“To look for what?”
“People who print like this guy.”
“Oh, I really don’t think so,” he said. “Do you realize how many cards are involved? This is a 635-room hotel. Mr.—”
“Scudder.”
“Mr. Scudder. That’s over eighteen thousand cards a month.”
“Only if all your guests leave after one night.”
“The average stay is three nights. Even so, that’s over six thousand registration cards a month, twelve thousand cards in two months. Do you realize how long it would take to look at twelve thousand cards?”
“A person could probably do a couple thousand an hour,” I said, “since all he’d be doing is scanning the signature to see if it’s in script or in block caps. We’re just talking about a couple of hours. I could do it or you could have some of your people do it.”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t authorize that,” he said. “I really couldn’t. You’re a private citizen, not a policeman, and while I did want to cooperate there’s a limit to my authority here. If the police should make an official request—”
“I realize I’m asking a favor.”
“If it were the sort of favor I could grant—”
“It’s an imposition,” I went on, “and I’d certainly expect to pay for the time involved, the time and inconvenience.”
It would have worked at a smaller hotel, but here I was wasting my time. I don’t think he even realized I was offering him a bribe. He said again that he’d be glad to go along if the police made the request for me, and this time I let it lie. I asked instead if I could borrow the Jones registration card long enough to have a photocopy made.
“Oh, we have a machine right here,” he said, grateful to be able to help. “Just wait one moment.”
He came back with a copy. I thanked him and he asked if there was anything else, his tone suggesting he was confident there wouldn’t be. I said I’d like a look at the room she died in.
“But the police have quite finished there,” he said. “The room’s in a transitional state now. The carpet had to be replaced, you see, and the walls painted.”
“I’d still like to see it.”
“There’s really nothing to see. I think there are workmen in there today. The painters are gone, I believe, but I think the carpet installers—”
“I won’t get in their way.”
He gave me a key and let me go up myself. I found the room and congratulated myself on my ability as a detective. The door was locked. The carpet installers looked to be on their lunch break. The old carpet had been removed, and new carpet covered about a third of the floor, with more of it rolled up awaiting installation.
I spent a few minutes there. As the man had assured me, there was really nothing to see. The room was as empty of traces of Kim as it was of furniture. The walls were bright with fresh paint and the bathroom fairly sparkled. I walked around like some psychic practitioner, trying to pick up vibrations through the tips of my fingers. If there were any vibrations present, they eluded me.
The window faced downtown, the view chopped up by the facades of other tall buildings. Through a gap between two of them I could catch a glimpse of the World Trade Center all the way downtown.
Had she had time to look out the window? Had Mr. Jones looked out the window, before or afterward?
I took the subway downtown. The train was one of the new ones, its interior a pleasing pattern of yellow and orange and tan. The inscribers of graffiti had already scarred it badly, scrawling their indecipherable messages over every available space.
I didn’t notice anyone smoking.
I got off at West Fourth and walked south and west to Morton Street, where Fran Schecter had a small apartment on the top floor of a four-story brownstone. I rang her bell, announced myself over the intercom, and was buzzed through the vestibule door.
The stairwell was full of smells—baking smells on the first floor, cat odor halfway up, and the unmistakable scent of marijuana at the top. I thought that you could draw a building’s profile from the aromas in its stairwell.
Fran was waiting for me in her doorway. Short curly hair, light brown in color, framed a round baby face. She had a button nose, a pouty mouth, and cheeks a chipmunk would have been proud of.
She said, “Hi, I’m Fran. And you’re Matt. Can I call you Matt?” I assured her that she could, and her hand settled on my arm as she steered me inside.
The marijuana reek was much stronger inside. The apartment was a studio. One fairly large room with a pullman kitchen on one wall. The furniture consisted of a canvas sling chair, a pillow sofa, some plastic milk crates assembled as shelves for books and clothes, and a large waterbed covered with a fake-fur spread. A framed poster on one wall over the waterbed showed a room interior, with a railway locomotive emerging from the fireplace.
I turned down a drink, accepted a can of diet soda. I sat with it on the pillow sofa, which turned out to be more comfortable than it looked. She took the sling chair, which must have been more comfortable than it looked.
“Chance said you’re investigating what happened to Kim,” she said. “He said to tell you whatever you want to know.”
There was a breathless little-girl quality to her voice and I couldn’t tell how much of it was deliberate. I asked her what she knew about Kim.
“Not much. I met her a few times. Sometimes Chance’ll take two girls at once out to dinner or a show. I guess I met everyone at one time or another. I just met Donna once, she’s on her own trip, it’s like she’s lost in space. Have you met Donna?” I shook my head. “I like Sunny. I don’t know if we’re friends exactly, but she’s the only one I’d call up to talk to. I’ll call her once, twice a week, or she’ll call me, you know, and we’ll talk.”
“But you never called Kim?”
“Oh, no. I never had her number, even.” She thought for a moment. “She had beautiful eyes. I can close my eyes and picture the color of them.”
Her own eyes were large, somewhere between brown and green. Her eyelashes were unusually long, and it struck me that they were probably false. She was a short girl of the body type they call a pony in Las Vegas chorus lines. She was wearing faded Levi’s with the cuffs turned up and a hot pink sweater that was stretched tight over her full breasts.
She hadn’t known that Kim had planned to leave Chance, and she found the information interesting. “Well, I can understand that,” she said after some thought. “He didn’t really care for her, you know, and you don’t want to stay forever with a man who doesn’t care for you.”
“What makes you say he didn’t care for her?”
“You pick these things up. I suppose he was glad to have her around, like she didn’t make trouble and she brought in the bread, but he didn’t have a feeling for her.”
“Does he have a feeling for the others?”
“He has a feeling for me,” she said.
“And anybody else?”
“He likes Sunny. Everybody likes Sunny, she’s fun to be with. I don’t know if he cares for her. Or Donna, I’m sure he doesn’t care for Donna, but I don’t think she cares for him either. I think that’s strictly business on both sides. Donna, I don’t think Donna cares for anybody. I don’t think she knows there are people in the world.”
“How about Ruby?”
“Have you met her?” I hadn’t. “Well, she’s like, you know, exotic. So he’d like that. And Mary Lou’s very intelligent and they go to concerts and shit, like Lincoln Center, classical music, but that doesn’t mean he has a feeling for her.”
She started to giggle. I asked her what was so funny. “Oh, I just flashed that I’m the typical dumb hooker, thinks she’s the only one the pimp loves. But you know what it is? I’m the only one he can relax with. He can come up here and take his shoes off and let his mind roll out. Do you know what a karmic tie is?”
“No.”
“Well, it has something to do with reincarnation. I don’t know if you believe in that.”
“I never thought about it much.”
“Well, I don’t know if I believe in it either, but sometimes I think Chance and I knew each other in another life. Not necessarily as lovers or man and wife or anything like that. Like we could have been brother and sister, or maybe he was my father or I was his mother. Or we could even have both been the same sex because that can change from one lifetime to another. I mean we could have been sisters or something. Anything, really.”
The telephone cut into her speculations. She crossed the room to answer it, standing with her back to me, one hand propped against her hip. I couldn’t hear her conversation. She talked for a moment or two, then covered the mouthpiece and turned to me.
“Matt,” she said, “I don’t want to hassle you, but do you have any idea how long we’re gonna be?”
“Not long.”
“Like could I tell somebody it would be cool to come over in an hour?”
“No problem.”
She turned again, finished the conversation quietly, hung up. “That was one of my regulars,” she said. “He’s a real nice guy. I told him an hour.”
She sat down again. I asked her if she’d had the apartment before she hooked up with Chance. She said she’d been with Chance for two years and eight months and no, before that she shared a bigger place in Chelsea with three other girls. Chance had had this apartment all ready for her. All she’d had to do was move into it.
“I just moved my furniture in,” she said. “Except the waterbed. That was already here. I had a single bed that I got rid of. And I bought the Magritte poster, and the masks were here.” I hadn’t noticed the masks and had to turn in my seat to see them, a grouping of three solemn ebony carvings on the wall behind me. “He knows about them,” she said. “What tribe made them and everything. He knows things like that.”
I said that the apartment was an unlikely one for the use being made of it. She frowned, puzzled.
“Most girls in the game live in doorman buildings,” I said. “With elevators and all.”
“Oh, right. I didn’t know what you meant. Yes, that’s true.” She grinned brightly. “This is something different,” she said. “The johns who come here, they don’t think they’re johns.”
“How do you mean?”
“They think they’re friends of mine,” she explained. “They think I’m this spacey Village chick, which I am, and that they’re my friends, which they are. I mean, they come here to get laid, let’s face it, but they could get laid quicker and easier in a massage parlor, no muss no fuss no bother, dig? But they can come up here and take off their shoes and smoke a joint, and it’s a sort of a raunchy Village pad, I mean you have to climb three flights of stairs and then you roll around in a waterbed. I mean, I’m not a hooker. I’m a girlfriend. I don’t get paid. They give me money because I got rent to pay and, you know, I’m a poor little Village chick who wants to make it as an actress and she’s never going to. Which I’m not, and I don’t care much, but I still take dancing lessons a couple mornings a week and I have an acting class with Ed Kovens every Thursday night, and I was in a showcase last May for three weekends in Tribeca. We did Ibsen, When We Dead Awake, and do you believe that three of my johns came?”
She chatted about the play, then began telling me how her clients brought her presents in addition to the money they gave her. “I never have to buy any booze. In fact I have it to give away because I don’t drink myself. And I haven’t bought any grass in ages. You know who gets the best grass? Wall Street guys. They’ll buy an ounce and we’ll smoke a little and they’ll leave me the ounce.” She batted her long lashes at me. “I kind of like to smoke,” she said.
“I guessed that.”
“Why? Do I seem stoned?”
“The smell.”
“Oh, right. I don’t smell it because I’m here, but when I go out and then I come back in, whew! It’s like a friend of mine has four cats and she swears they don’t smell, but the smell could knock you down. It’s just that she’s used to it.” She shifted in her seat. “Do you ever smoke, Matt?”
“No.”
“You don’t drink and you don’t smoke, that’s terrific. Can I get you another diet soda?”
“No thanks.”
“Are you sure? Look, would it bother you if I smoked a quick joint? Just to unwind a little.”
“Go ahead.”
“Because I’ve got this fellow coming over and it’ll help me be in the mood.”
I told her it was fine with me. She fetched a plastic baggie of marijuana from a shelf over the stove and hand-rolled a cigarette with evident expertise. “He’ll probably want to smoke,” she said, and manufactured two more cigarettes. She lit one, put everything else away, and returned to the sling chair. She smoked the joint all the way down, chattering about her life between drags, finally stubbing the tiny roach and setting it aside for later. Her manner didn’t change visibly for having smoked the thing. Perhaps she’d been smoking throughout the day and had been stoned when I arrived. Perhaps she just didn’t show the effects of the drug, as some drinkers don’t show their drinks.
I asked if Chance smoked when he came to see her and she laughed at the idea. “He never drinks, never smokes. Same as you. Hey, is that where you know him from? Do you both hang out in a nonbar together? Or maybe you both have the same undealer.”
I managed to get the conversation back to Kim. If Chance didn’t care for Kim, did Fran think she might have been seeing someone else?”
“He didn’t care for her,” she said. “You know something? I’m the only one he loves.”
I could taste the grass in her speech now. Her voice was the same, but her mind made different connections, switching along paths of smoke.
“Do you think Kim had a boyfriend?”
“I have boyfriends. Kim had tricks. All of the others have tricks.”
“If Kim had someone special—”
“Sure, I can dig it. Somebody who wasn’t a john, and that’s why she wanted to split with Chance. That what you mean?”
“It’s possible.”
“And then he killed her.”
“Chance?”
“Are you crazy? Chance never cared enough about her to kill her. You know how long it’d take to replace her? Shit.”
“You mean the boyfriend killed her.”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause he’s on the spot. She leaves Chance, there she is, all ready for happily ever after, and what does he want with that? I mean he’s got a wife, he’s got a job, he’s got a family, he’s got a house in Scarsdale—”
“How do you know all this?”
She sighed. “I’m just speedballing, baby. I’m just throwing chalk at the blackboard. Can you dig it? He’s a married guy, he digs Kim, it’s kicky being in love with a hooker and having her in love with you, and that way you get it for free, but you don’t want anybody turning your life around. She says, Hey, I’m free now, time to ditch your wife and we’ll run into the sunset, and the sunset’s something he watches from the terrace at the country club and he wants to keep it that way. Next thing you know, zip, she’s dead and he’s back in Larchmont.”
“It was Scarsdale a minute ago.”
“Whatever.”
“Who would he be, Fran?”
“The boyfriend? I don’t know. Anybody.”
“A john?”
“You don’t fall in love with a john.”
“Where would she meet a guy? And what kind of guy would she meet?”
She struggled with the notion, shrugged and gave up. The conversation never got any further than that. I used her phone, talked for a moment, then wrote my name and number on a pad next to the phone.
“In case you think of anything,” I said.
“I’ll call you if I do. You going? You sure you don’t want another soda?”
“No thanks.”
“Well,” she said. She came over to me, stifled a lazy yawn with the back of her hand, looked up at me through the long lashes. “Hey, I’m really glad you could come over,” she said. “Anytime you feel like company, you know, give me a call, okay? Just to hang out and talk.”
“Sure.”
“I’d like that,” she said softly, coming up onto her toes, planting an astonishing kiss on my cheek. “I’d really like that, Matt,” she said.
Halfway down the stairs I started laughing. How automatically she’d slipped into her whore’s manner, warm and earnest at parting, and how good she was at it. No wonder those stockbrokers didn’t mind climbing all those stairs. No wonder they turned out to watch her try to be an actress. The hell, she was an actress, and not a bad one, either.
Two blocks away I could still feel the imprint of her kiss on my cheek.