So Nude, So Dead (16 page)

“Come on, man,” Ragow insisted. “Build yourself a dream.”

“I don’t know, Phil—”

“Look man, don’t be a crow. You dig this stuff and those crazy jerks out there won’t be able to touch you.”

Ray reluctantly admitted to himself that the heat and the noise and the frantic movement were beginning to wear on him. But still…

Ragow insisted. “Just this once, man. Can’t do you no harm. Hell, all the other cats are onto it, too. Come on, come on, let’s ride.”

Ray sniffed. Gently. On the mirror the mound looked bigger, its reflection doubling its size.

“Hell, that ain’t gonna do nothing,” Ragow said. “You gonna snort, you got to really snort. Come on, take a big pull. Come on.”

Ray inhaled. The white flecks leaped off the mound, darted into his open nostrils.

“More, man. More.”

He inhaled again, and the mound disintegrated. The mirror caught light from the bare bulb over the closed cubicle. The light sent splinters chipping off the surface of the mirror and Ray sniffed deeply. The mirror grew brighter, and the white mound seemed to reach up for his nose.

The noises outside the locked door of the toilet blended together into a soft, steady hum, punctuated with hoarse laughs. Ray’s feet were off the ground. He was floating. He felt wonderfully light, marvelously happy.

“Hit you, eh man?” Ragow asked.

Ray grinned foolishly, blinked his eyes and then opened them. Ragow was sniffing at a new mound on the mirror.

“Christ,” he said.

“Jesus H.,” Ray said, the smile still on his lips.

“Mmmmm-mmm.”

Ragow flushed the toilet. The noise was faraway and muted, like the wash of the ocean on a long, white beach. There were gulls over the beach, wheeling and screeching. The sky was an endless blue, cloudless, a lone white sail against the horizon.

“Let’s go, man,” Ragow said. “Let’s go play now. Let’s go play.”

The kids still ran over the dance floor, but they ran slowly and their voices were hushed. Ray walked among them, grinning, floating leisurely up to the bandstand. The faces all around him were stupid, and he felt good and wise and self-sufficient. The heat no longer bothered him.

His fingers wandered over the keys during the next set, grew into the keys, became a part of the instrument, and his soul flooded out through his fingertips, and the music became a part of him. He felt wonderful. He felt just grand.

“Really makes you play, don’t it, man?” Ragow asked.

* * *

He sat at the piano in Babs’s apartment, and the keys were wet and slippery under his hands. He shoved back the stool abruptly and began to pace the room, thinking of that first cocaine lift, thinking of the heroin that followed.

He stopped near the piano, smashed his fist down against the keys. The cacophonous blast hung on the air, and he turned and walked back to the couch, over to the bar, back to the piano, crossing the room, recrossing it, while the sweat stood out on his brow, drenched his back. His hands trembled and his face shook, and the walls began to close in on him.

He had to get out of there. He had to walk, had to get some air.

He fairly ran to the bedroom, threw his jacket onto his back. He’d come back later, after he’d walked this off. He’d leave a note for Babs. He went into the kitchen, fumbled in one of the drawers for a pencil. When he couldn’t find one immediately, he gave the idea up, walked quickly to the front door and stepped out into the hallway, clicking it shut behind him.

He pressed the elevator button, walked a short distance away from the elevator, then returned, and pressed the button again. He paced while he waited, pressed the button three more times, kept pacing.

Where the hell was the elevator? Man could die here on the goddam floor waiting for an elevator.

He punched viciously at the button, waited, then gave up in despair. What floor was he on? Tenth, yes, tenth.

He’d walk down. Time the elevator came, he’d be chewing up the carpet. He found the stairwell, and ran quickly down the steps. Nine, eight, seven, down, down.

He stopped to catch his breath on the third floor, then continued down to the main floor. He had half a mind to give the operator hell. Maybe he’d do just that. Go over to the guy and say, “Look, you stupid bastard. What does a man have to do to get a little elevator service?”

He spotted the door marked
Lobby
, reached for the knob and pulled it open.

His heart gave a sudden leap, and he slammed the door shut quickly. He wanted to scream. He slammed his back against the door and closed his eyes shut tightly.

Cops!

Scores of them. All over the lobby. Like cockroaches springing out of the woodwork, blue cockroaches with drawn pistols.

He waited until his heart beat normally again, then opened the door a crack, and peeked out.

No wonder he couldn’t get an elevator. The cops were piling into every car. There were cops everywhere he looked, cops at the entrance to the building, cops at the switchboard, cops in and behind every chair, cops leaning against the pillars.

Ray closed the door gently, looked quickly up the stairwell.

The roof was a long way up, but it was his only chance.

Chapter Fifteen

He started up the steps. He took them two at a time, swung around on each landing without pausing. When he reached the third floor, he heard the door down below slam shut.

“Hey!” a voice called. “This way. He’s on the stairs.” He heard the pound of feet on the stairs below him, began climbing faster.

“That him, Frank?” another voice called. “Come on, come on.”

“He’s on the stairs, Donnaly,” the second voice shouted. “Get the boys to cut him off.”

Ray kept climbing. He passed the fifth floor and was tempted to stop and catch his breath. The steady thud of feet behind him changed his mind. His breath tore into his chest as he labored up the steps. Behind him, he heard more feet.

“He can’t go far, Frank. Door to the roof is locked.”

“We’ll get the bastard,” the first cop answered.

Locked! They were bluffing. They were trying to get him to give up without trying. The lousy bastards were throwing a bluff. He paused on the sixth floor, looked over the railing down the stairwell.

He yanked back his head as a shot boomed from below. Quickly, he began to run again. There was noise above him. He snapped his head up rapidly, saw the door on the seventh floor landing burst open just as he reached it.

He threw his shoulder against the door, felt it crash against flesh on the other side. He backed away and the door flew open again. The cop stumbled into the hall, his pistol out in front of him as he staggered forward off balance. Ray brought his hand up and down in a quick chopping motion. The knuckle bone and hard edge of his hand hit the back of the cop’s neck. He chopped again as the cop fell forward, a surprised, shocked look on his face. His gun clattered to the floor. Ray picked up the gun, a .38 Smith & Wesson Police Special.

He leaned over the railing and shouted, “I’ve got a gun, you bastards! Keep away from me.” To emphasize his point, he fired two shots overhead.

“Watch it, men, he’s armed,” a voice shouted.

“He’s armed, men. Careful,” another voice repeated.

He started up the steps again, pleased with the sound of hurried consultation below.

Eight. How many more? How damned far to the roof?

He kept climbing, the footsteps beginning again behind him. On the tenth floor, he fired another shot over his head, heard the excited, angry voices rise in protest.

Eleven.

He almost collided with the door of the roof. It was made of metal, painted brown, and a large padlock held the door to the door frame. He aimed the Police Special at the lock, triggered off a quick shot. He drew his knee up, kicked at the door with the flat of his foot. The lock snapped and the door flew open, shooting dazzling sunlight into the darkened hallway.

He ran out onto the roof, the sound of footsteps close now, too close. He reached the ledge, glanced down. Christ, that was a mean drop. There was a sound at the door to the roof, and he whirled quickly and fired blindly. A blue-coated figure ducked inside.

Three shots to scare them on the stairs. One into the lock. One now. That left one. Great.

He climbed onto the ledge and gauged the distance to the next building. A good six feet. He glanced hastily over his shoulder, saw a cop poke his head around the doorway again.

Poising himself on his toes, he looked over at the other building again. Far down in the street, he could see the automobiles, black beetles in the sun. He could see the white tops of the police cars, too—larvae against the black asphalt street. He dipped at the knees, tucked the .38 into his belt.

“Stop or I’ll shoot,” a voice shouted.

“Go ahead!” Ray shouted back. He leaped into space, his arms stretched out ahead of him. His fingers caught the ledge of the other roof, and his knees scraped brick. A shot rang out behind him, as he pulled himself over the ledge. Another bullet chipped brick three inches from his face, sending red splinters against his nose. He dropped to the tar, and inched across the roof to the opposite ledge.

They were shooting in earnest now. The bullets struck the soft tar with sullen thuds, sending thick pieces of black leaping into the air. Ray reached the second ledge, lifted his head quickly. A bullet whistled through the air, and he ducked automatically. He crawled to a red-brick chimney, circled behind it. One of the cops was climbing onto the ledge of the roof he’d left, ready to leap across. Ray pulled the .38 from his belt, triggered off a fast, overhead shot. The cop yelled out in fear, unharmed, and toppled backwards into the arms of the other waiting policemen. Ray grinned and moved to the ledge, tucking the empty .38 back into his belt. He climbed up, still protected by the chimney behind him. He leaped out, caught the opposite ledge and pulled himself up immediately.

He ran hastily across the roof, his heels sticking in the wet tar, the wind cool on his cheeks.

He had crossed two more roofs before the cops jumped the first one. He darted into the first open door he found and ran blindly down the steps. On the third floor, he dropped the .38 into a trash basket.

When he reached the street floor, he walked calmly through the lobby and out onto the pavement. A police car passed by outside, heading for Babs’s apartment house. His heart leaped into his throat, but he kept walking calmly.

A cab idled at a hackstand on the corner. Without looking toward the cluster of police cars down the street, Ray opened the door near the curb and stepped inside.

“The nearest drugstore,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “And make it quick.”

* * *

The book listed a Mary O’Donnell in Washington Heights. She was the only woman listed in a long line of male O’Donnells, and Ray figured he’d take the chance. Mary, Rusty.

He stood outside in the hallway now and pressed his finger against the buzzer. An ominous hum sounded within the house, and he took his finger off the button and waited.

A peephole in the door clinked open, and he could make out a brown eye behind the grillwork.

“Well, a man,” a clipped voice said. “Battered and bruised, but a man.”

The door opened almost immediately after the peephole clicked shut. Ray stepped back a pace. His mouth fell open.

She was small. She wore a dressing gown that curved outward over amazingly full breasts for her size. The thin silk hugged her hips, and a belt gathered the material around a narrow waist. If this was Rusty O’Donnell, they’d named her wrong. Her hair could never be called rust, never in a million years.

It was a fiery red that haloed the oval of her face. It came as a shock because her eyes were dark brown, and her brows were pitch-black. The eyes slanted upward, heavily fringed in black. Her nose was small, slightly flat.

He found his tongue at last, while the girl regarded him steadily, staring at his discolored eye.

“Miss—O’Donnell?”

“Yes?” The voice was high and clipped.

“Rusty O’Donnell?”

“Yes, of course.” There was a twang to her voice, an almost sing-song lilt.

“I—”

“You’re surprised?” she asked.

“Well—”

She grinned, two dimples popping into the smooth line of her cheeks, her crimson lips pulling back over small white teeth. “Don’t be embarrassed,” she said. “There aren’t many O’Donnells who are Chinese.”

“It’s just—well—”

“Come in, come in.” She looked at him again. “What happened to your face?” she asked.

He touched his face. “Little accident.” She nodded briefly.

He stepped into the foyer, looked past the beaded curtains into the comfortable living room. Rusty closed the door behind him, walked past him. He noticed the rounded, muscular calves of her legs in the black, high-heeled pumps.

“I was dressing,” she apologized. Her voice had a childlike, questioning quality. “People are always surprised,” she said, still smiling. “They expect a buxom Irish lass, and they get a delicate China doll.”

She laughed and added, “Of course, I’m not as fragile as most. My father was as Irish as they come. Pat O’Donnell was his name, and they didn’t make Marines any tougher.”

A glimmer of understanding flashed onto Ray’s face.

“You’ve got it, my friend,” Rusty said. “Seduced poor Mom in the shade of an old pagoda.” She clucked her tongue sympathetically, the smile still playing on her lips. She began to jiggle her foot, the heel of the shoe dangling from her rounded arch.

“What newspaper did you say you’re from?” she asked.

“I didn’t,” Ray answered.

“That’s right, I guess you didn’t. I always assume I’m being interviewed.” She paused, one arm stretched out along the back of the couch, the foot incessantly jiggling. “Well, never let it be said that Rusty O’Donnell turned any man away from her door—but just what is it you want?”

“Information,” Ray said.

“Then you are a newspaper man.”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

Ray thought of his picture splashed over the front page of every tabloid in town. “Let’s say I work closely with the newspapers.”