The Con Man (14 page)

“All right,” the young man said. He gave them to Parsons, and Parsons wrote them down.

“How do I know these are legitimate?” Parsons asked. “Let me see your driver’s license.”

“I don’t drive. You can check it in the phone book.” He turned to the jeweler. “Have you got an Isola directory?”

“Never mind,” Parsons said. “I trust you. But I’ll be at your apartment first thing tomorrow morning to give you my five hundred dollars and to get my share of the pearls.”

“All right,” the young man said. “I’ll be there.”

“God, this is a great deal, isn’t it? If they’re genuine, we’ll be rich. And if they’re cultured, we break even. We can’t lose.”

“It’s a good deal,” the young man agreed.

“Let’s get to the bank before he changes his mind.”

O’Neill was waiting for them outside. “Well?” he asked.

“He said they’re not paste,” Parsons told him.

“See? What’d I tell you? Did he say they’re worth a thousand?”

“He said they might be worth about that.”

“Well, do we have a deal, or don’t we?”

“I’ll have to go home for my passbook,” the young man said.

“All right. We’ll go with you.”

The three men hailed a cab, and the cab took them uptown. The young man got out, and the cab waited. When he came down again, he had his bankbook with him. He gave the cabbie instructions, and the three men drove to the bank. They all got out then, and Parsons paid the cabbie. The young man went into the bank, and when he came out, he had a thousand dollars in cash with him.

“Here’s the money,” he said.

Parsons grinned happily.

The young man handed the thousand dollars to O’Neill.

“And here’re the pearls,” O’Neill said, reaching into his pocket and handing the young man a leather sack. “I’m certainly much obliged to you fellows. This means I’ll be able to go home.”

“Not for a long while,” the young man said.

O’Neill looked up. He was staring into the open end of a .38 Detective’s Special. “What?” he said.

The young man grinned. “The old diamond switch,” he said, “only with pearls. You’ve got my thousand, and the pearls in this sack you gave me are undoubtedly paste. Where are the real ones the jeweler appraised?”

“Listen,” Parsons said, “you’re making a mistake, Mac. You’re—”

“Am I?” The young man was already frisking O’Neill. In two seconds, he located the sack of real pearls. “Tomorrow morning, I’d be sitting around in my apartment waiting for my
partner
to arrive with his five hundred dollars. Only, my partner would never show up. My partner would be out spending his share of the thousand dollars he conned from me.”

“This is the first time we ever done anything like this,” O’Neill said, beginning to panic.

“Is it? I’ve got a few other people who may be willing to identify you,” the young man said. “Come on, we’re taking a little ride.”

“Where to?” Parsons asked.

“To the 87th Precinct,” the young man said.

The young man’s name was Arthur Brown.

The tattoo parlor was near the Navy yards, and so the specialties of the house were anchors, mermaids, and fish. There were also dagger designs, and ship designs, and mothers in hearts.

The man who ran the place was called “Popeye.” He was called Popeye because a drunken sailor had once jabbed out his left eye with his own tattooing needle. Judging from Popeye’s present condition, he may very well have been drunk himself when he’d lost his eye. He was certainly ossified now. Carella reflected upon the man’s profession and concluded that he wouldn’t trust him to remove a small splinter with a heated needle, no less decorate his flesh with a tattooing tool.

“Come and go, come and go,” Popeye said. “All th’ time. In an’ out, in an’ out. From all ov’ the worl’. I decorate ’em. Me. I color their fleshes.”

Carella was not interested in those who came and went from all over the world. He was interested in what Popeye had told him just a few minutes before.

“This couple,” he said, “tell me more about them.”

“Han’some guy,” Popeye said. “Ver’ han’some. Big, tall, blond feller. Walk like a king. Rish. You can tell when they rish. He had money, this feller.”

“You tattooed the girl?”

“Nancy. Tha’ was her name. Nancy.”

“How do you know?”

“He called her that. I heard him.”

“Tell me exactly what happened?”

“She in trouble? Nancy in trouble?”

“She’s in the biggest kind of trouble,” Carella said. “She’s dead.”

“Oh.” Popeye squinched up his face and looked at Carella with his good eye. “Tha’s a shame,” he said. “Li’l Nancy’s dead. Automobile accident?”

“No,” Carella said. “Arsenic.”

“Wha’s that?” Popeye asked.

“A deadly poison.”

“Too bad. Li’l girls should’n take poison. She cried, you know? When I was doin’ the job. Bawled like a baby. Big han’some bassard jus’ stood there an’ grinned. Like as if I was brandin’ her for him. Like as if I was puttin’ a trademark or somethin’ on her. Sick as a dog, poor li’l Nancy.”

“What do you mean, sick?”

“Sick, sick.”

“How?”

“Pukin’,” Popeye said.

“The girl vomited?” Carella asked.

“Right here in th’ shop,” Popeye said. “Got th’ can all slobbed up.”

“When was this?”

“They’d jus’ come from lunch,” Popeye said. “She was talkin’ about it when they come in th’ shop. Said they didn’t have no Chinese res’rants in her hometown.”

“Is there a Chinese restaurant in the neighborhood?”

“One aroun’ th’ corner. Looks like a dump, but has real good food. Cantonese. You dig Cantonese?”

“What else did she say?”

“Said th’ food was ver’ spicy. Tha’ figgers, don’t it?”

“Go on.”

“Han’some said he wanted a tattoo on the li’l girl’s hand. A heart an’ N-A-C.”

“He said that?”

“Yeah.”

“Why N-A-C?”

Popeye cocked his head so that his dead socket stared Carella directly in the face. “Why, tha’s their names,” he said.

“What do you mean, names?”

“‘Nitials, I mean.
N
is her initial.
N
for Nancy.”

Carella felt as if he’d been struck by lightning.

“The
A
is jus’ ‘and,’ you know. Nancy
and
Chris. Tha’ was his name. Chris. N. A. C.”

“Goddammit!” Carella said. “Then the Proschek girl’s tattoo meant
Mary
and Chris. I’ll be a son of a bitch!”

“Wha’?” Popeye said.

“How do you know his name was Chris?” Carella asked.

“She said so. When he said, ‘N-A-C,’ she said, ‘Why don’t we put th’ whole names, Nancy and Chris?’ Tha’s what she said.”

“What did he say?”

“Said there wasn’t enough space. Said it was just a tiny li’l heart. Hell, that li’l girl was goofy about him. He’da tole her to lay down an’ take off her bloomers, she’da done it ri’ here in the shop.”

“You said she cried while you were working on her?”

“Yeah. Bawled like a baby. Hurt like hell.”

“Were you drunk?”

“Me? Drunk? Hell, no. Wha’ makes you think I was drunk?”

“Nothing. What happened next?”

“She was cryin’, and I was working, and then all of a sudden, she fells sick. Han’some looked kind of worried. He kep’ tryin’ to rush her out of the shop, but the poor girl had to puke, you know? So I took her in back. Slobbed up the whole damn can.”

“Then what?”

“He wanted to take her away. Kep’ sayin’, ‘Come on, Nancy, we’ll go to my place. Come on.’ She wouldn’ go withim. Said she wanted me to finish th’ tattoo. Game kid, huh?”

“Did you finish it?”

“Yeah. She was sick as hell all the way through. You could see she was tryin’ to keep from pukin’ again.” Popeye paused. “But I finished it. Nice job, too. Han’some paid me, an’ away they went.”

“Into a car?”

“Yeah.”

“What make?”

“I dinn notice,” Popeye said.

“Goddamn,” Carella said.

“I’m sorry,” Popeye said. “I dinn notice.”

“Did she mention the man’s last name? This Chris fellow.”

Popeye thought for a moment. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “She did. She said something about the future Mrs. Somebody.”

“Mrs.
Who?”
Carella asked.

“I don’t remember.”

“Goddamn,” Carella said again. He snorted heavily. He bit his lower lip. “Can you give me a full description of the man?” he asked finally.

“Much’s I can remember,” Popeye said.

“Blond hair,” Carella said, “right?”

“Yeah.”

“Long or short?”

“Average.”

“He wasn’t wearing a crew cut or anything like that?”

“No.”

“All right, what about his eyes? What color?”

“Blue, I think. Or gray. One or th’ other.”

“What kind of a nose?”

“Good nose. Not long, not short. Good nose. He was a han’some guy.”

“Mouth?”

“Good mouth.”

“Was he smoking?”

“No.”

“Any scars or birthmarks on his face?”

“No.”

“Anywhere on his body?”

“I dinn undress him,” Popeye said.

“I meant visible. On his hands perhaps? Tattoos? Any tattoos on his hands?”

“Nope.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Topcoat. This was back in February, you know. A black topcoat. Had a kind of a red lining. Red silk, I think, and those straps you slip your hands through.”

“What straps?”

“Inside the coat. You know, so you can slip it over your shoulders while you’re at the track. That’s what I mean.”

“What kind of a suit?”

“A tweed. Gray.”

“Shirt?”

“White.”

“Tie?”

“Black tie. I remember asking him if he was in mourning. He jus’ grinned.”

“He would, the bastard. Are you sure you can’t remember the make of the car he was driving? That would be very helpful.”

“I ain’t good on cars,” Popeye said.

“Did you happen to notice the license plate?”

“Nope.”

“But I’ll bet you can tell me what kind of a tie-clasp he was wearing,” Carella said, sighing.

“Yeah. Silver bar with a horse’s head on it. Nice. I figured him for a horseplayer.”

“What else do you remember?”

“Tha’s about it.”

“Did they mention where they were going?”

“Yeah. To his place. He said she could lay down there an’ he’d get her something cool to put on her forehead.”

“Where? Did he say where?”

“No. He only said his place. That could be anyplace in the city.”

“You’re telling me?” Carella asked.

“I’m sorry,” Popeye said. “Guy wants to take care of a girl with a stomach ache, that’s his business. Wants to get her something for her head, ain’t none of my affair.”

“He got her something for her
feet,”
Carella said.

“Huh?”

“A hundred pound weight to carry her to the bottom of the river.”

“He drowned her?” Popeye asked. “You mean he drowned that nice li’l girl?”

“No, he—”

“Bravest li’l thing ever come in here. Even the sailors I get whimper. She bawled, an’ she got sick, but she come right back for more. That takes guts. To come back for more when you’re so scared you’re sick.”

“You don’t know just how much guts it took,” Carella said.

“An’ he drowned her, huh? How do you like that?”

“I didn’t say he—”

“What a way to die,” Popeye said, shaking his head. His nose was red and bulging with aggravated veins. His one good eye was watery and bloodshot. His breath stank of cheap wine. “What a way to die,” he repeated. “Drownin’.”

“You’re well on the way,” Carella said.

Then he thanked him and left the shop.

Chris Donaldson had already fed her the arsenic.

He had fed it to her in a half-dozen dishes—the tea, the fried rice, the chow mein, every dish he could get to while she was in the ladies’ room. When the food had come, he’d simply said, “Let’s wash up,” and then he’d taken Priscilla by the elbow and led her away from the table. He’d doubled back almost instantly and done his work, and she had consumed the odorless and almost tasteless arsenic with apparent relish.

They had gone to the Chinese restaurant directly after they’d left the bank. They had deposited Priscilla’s money in his account, and now she had consumed the arsenic, and now it was all a matter of time.

He watched her with the flat look of a reptile, a slight smile on his face. He hoped she would not get sick too soon, like the last one. That had been an embarrassing episode. Even beautiful women lost all their charm when they became violently ill, and
the women he had murdered, and was now murdering, were far from beautiful.

“That was good,” Priscilla said.

“More tea, darling?” he asked.

“Yes, please.” He poured from the small, round pot. “Don’t you like tea?” she asked. “You haven’t had any.”

“Not particularly,” he said. “I’m a coffee drinker.”

She took the cup from him. “Did you put sugar in it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Everything’s in it,” and he smiled at his own grim humor.

“You’ll make a good husband,” Priscilla said. She felt full and warm and drowsy. That afternoon she would be married. She felt lazy and content and at complete peace with the world. “You’ll make a wonderful husband.”

“I’m going to try my damnedest,” he said. “I’m going to make you the happiest woman in the world.”

“I’m the happiest woman in the world right now.”

“I want everyone to know you’re mine,” Donaldson said. “Everyone. I want to shout it at them. I want big signs telling them.”

Priscilla grinned.

He watched her grin, and he thought,
Do you know you’ve been poisoned, my dear? Do you know what metallic poisoning is?
He watched her, and he felt neither pity nor compassion. It would not be long now. A few hours at the most. Tonight he would dispose of her, the way he had disposed of the others. There was just one thing remaining, one concession to his ego. Like a great painter, he must sign his work. He must lead her into helping him sign his work.

“I get crazy ideas sometimes,” he said.

“Ah-ha,” she answered. “Now he tells me there’s insanity in his family. A few hours before the wedding and he trots out the skeletons.”

“I really
do
get crazy ideas,” he persisted, as if his speech were rehearsed, a speech that had worked for him before and that he was sure would work now, annoyed because she had interrupted the smooth, rehearsed flow of his speech with her silly witticism. “Like I…I want to brand you. I want to put my name on you so that people will know you’re mine.”

“They’ll know, anyway. They can see it in my eyes.”

“Yes, but…Well, it’s silly, I admit it. It’s crazy. Didn’t I tell you it was crazy? Didn’t I warn you?”

“If I were a cow, darling,” she said, “I wouldn’t at all mind being branded.”

“There must be some way,” he said, as if mulling the problem over. He reached across the table for her hand, toyed with her fingers. “Oh, I don’t mean a red-hot branding iron. Pris, that would kill me. Any pain to you would kill me. But…” He stopped, studying her hand. “Say,” he said. “Saaaay…”

“What?”

“A tattoo. How about that?”

Priscilla smiled. “A what?”

“A tattoo.”

“Well…” Priscilla was puzzled. “What about a tattoo?”

“How would you like one?”

“I wouldn’t,” she said firmly.

“Oh.” His voice fell.

“Why on earth would I want a tattoo?”

“No,” he said. “Never mind.”

She stared at him, confused. “What’s the matter, darling?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you angry?”

“No.”

“You are, I can see it. Do you…do you
want
me to have a…a tattoo?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“A small one. Someplace on your hand.” He took her hand again. “Right here perhaps, between the thumb and forefinger.”

“I…I’m afraid of needles,” Priscilla said.

“Then forget it.” He stared at the tablecloth. “Finish your tea, won’t you, darling?” he said, and he smiled up at her, a defeated, boyish smile.

“If I…” She stopped, thinking. “It’s just that I’m afraid of needles.”

“It doesn’t hurt at all, you know,” he said. “I thought perhaps a little heart. With our initials in it. Priscilla and Chris. P-A-C. So that everyone would know. Everyone would know you’re my woman.”

“I’m afraid of needles,” she said.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he assured her.

“Chris, I…I’ll do anything else you want. Anything, really. It’s just that I’ve always been afraid of needles. Even getting a shot from the doctor.”

“Then forget it,” he said pleasantly.

She looked into his eyes. “You’re angry, aren’t you?”

“No, no, not at all.”

“You are.”

“Pris, really, I’m not. I’m just a little…disappointed.”

“In me?”

“No, of course not in you. How could I be disappointed in you?”

“In what then?”

“Well, I thought you’d like the idea.”

“I
do
like it, Chris. I
want
people to know I belong to you. But—”

“Yes, I know.”

“I feel like such a baby.”

“No, you’re perfectly right. If you have a fear of—”

“Chris, please, I feel so silly. It probably…” She bit her lip. “It probably doesn’t hurt at all.”

“Not at all,” he said.

“I am…I am being a baby.”

“Forget it,” he said, but there was an aloofness about him that chilled her. Desperately, she wanted to reach him again, wanted to be safe and secure in the warmth of his respect.

“I’ll…I’ll do whatever you say,” she told him.

“No, don’t be ridiculous,” he said. He snapped his fingers and called, “Waiter,” and to her, he said, “Let’s get out of here.”

“I’ll do it, Chris. I’ll…I’ll do it. The tattoo. Whatever you want.”

His eyes softened. He took her hands and said, “Would you, Pris? It would really make me very happy.”

“I want to make you happy,” she said.

“Good. There’s a tattoo parlor right on the edge of Chinatown. It won’t hurt, Pris. I can promise you that.”

She nodded. “I’m petrified,” she said.

“Don’t be. I’ll be right there with you.”

She covered her mouth and swallowed hard. “This food was awfully heavy,” she said. She smiled apologetically. “Very good, but heavy. I feel a little queasy.”

He looked at her, and there was concern in his eyes. The waiter approached the table, quietly depositing the check facedown. Donaldson picked up the check, glanced at it, left a tip on the table, and then took Priscilla’s arm. He paid the check at the cashier’s booth.

As they left the restaurant, he said, “Do you know the story about the man who goes to a Chinese brothel?”

“Oh, Chris,” she said.

“He goes there, and then the madam is surprised to see him returning five minutes later. She says to him, ‘But you were here just five minutes ago with Ming Toy, our most beautiful girl.’ And the fellow looks at her and says, ‘Well, you know how it is with a Chinese meal.’”

Priscilla laughed and then sobered almost instantly. “I still feel queasy,” she said.

He took her elbow and glanced at her quickly. Then he quickened his pace and said, “We’d better hurry.”

To say that Charlie Chen was surprised to see Teddy Carella would be a complete understatement.

The door to his shop had been closed, and he heard the small tinkle of the bell when the door opened, and he glanced up momentarily and then lifted his hulk from the chair in which he sat smoking and went to the front of the shop.

“Oh!” he said, and then his round face broke into a delighted grin. “Pretty detective lady come back,” he said. “Charlie Chen is much honored. Charlie Chen is much flattered. Come, sit down, Mrs.…” He paused. “Charlie Chen forget name.”

Teddy touched her lips with the tips of her fingers and then shook her head. Chen stared at her, uncomprehending. She repeated the gesture.

“You can’t talk, maybe?” he asked. “Laryngitis?”

Teddy smiled, shook her head, and then her hand traveled swiftly from her mouth to her ears, and Chen at last understood.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh.” His eyes clouded. “Very sorry, very sorry.”

Teddy gave a slight shake of her head and a slight lift of her shoulders and a slight twist of her hands, explaining to Chen that there was nothing to be sorry for.

“But you understand me?” he asked. “You know what I say?”

Yes,
she nodded.

“Good. You most beautiful lady ever come into Charlie Chen’s poor shop. I speak this from my heart. Beauty is not plentiful in the world today. There is not much beauty. To see true beauty, this gladdens me. Makes me very happy, very happy. I talk too fast for you?”

Teddy shook her head.

“You read my lips?” He nodded appreciatively. “That very clever, very clever. Why you come visit Charlie Chen?”

Teddy looped her thumbs together and then moved her hands as if they were in flight.

“The butterfly?” Chen asked, astounded. “You want the butterfly?”

Yes,
she nodded, delighted by his response.

“Oh,” he said, “ohhhhhh,” as if her acknowledgment were the fulfillment of his wildest dream. “I make very pretty. I make pretty big butterfly.”

Teddy shook her head.

“No big butterfly? Small butterfly?”

Yes.

“Ah, very clever, very clever. Delicate butterfly for pretty lady. Big butterfly no good. Small, little, pretty butterfly better. You very smart. You very beautiful, and you very smart. I do. Come. Come in. Please. Come in.”

He parted the curtains leading to the back of the shop and then gallantly bowed and stepped aside while Teddy passed through. She went directly to the butterfly design pinned to the wall. Chen smiled and then seemed to notice for the first time the calendar with its naked woman on the other wall.

“Excuse other pretty lady, please,” he said. “Stupid sons do.”

Teddy glanced at the calendar and smiled.

“You decide color?” Chen asked.

She nodded.

“Which?”

Teddy touched her hair.

“Black? Ah, good. Black very good. Little, black butterfly. Come. Sit. I do. No pain. Charlie Chen be very careful.”

He sat her down, and she watched him, beginning to get a little frightened now. Deciding to get one’s shoulder decorated was one thing. Going ahead with it was another thing again. She watched his movements as he walked around the shop preparing his tools. Her eyes were saucer wide.

“You frightened?” he asked.

She gave a very small nod.

“No be. Everything go hunky-dory. I promise. Very clean, very sanitary, very harmless.” He smiled. “Very painless, too.”

Teddy kept watching him, her heart in her mouth.

“I use very-deep black. Black no good unless really black. Otherwise is gray. Life is all full of grays, pretty lady. No sharp whites, no sharp blacks. All grays. Very sad, life is.” Chen brought a pencil and a sheet of paper to the table. He drew several circles on it, one the size of a dime, the next the size of a nickel, then the size of a quarter, and lastly, the size of a half-dollar.

“Which size do you want butterfly?” he asked.

Teddy studied the circles.

“Biggest one too big, no?” Chen asked.

Teddy nodded.

“Okay. We disintegrate.” He made a large cross over the half-dollar circle.

“Littlest one too little, yes?” he asked.

Again, Teddy nodded.

“Poof!” Chen said, and he crossed out the dime-sized circle. “Which of these two?” he asked, pointing to the nickel and the quarter.

Teddy shrugged.

“I think bigger one, no? Then Charlie can do nice lace on wings. Too small is difficult. Can do, but is difficult. Bigger one, we get nice effect, all lacy. Very pretty.” He cocked his head to one side and extended his forefinger. “But not too big. Too big no good.” He nodded. “Most things in life too big. Gray and too big. People forget blacks and whites. People forget little things. I tell you something.”

Teddy watched him, wondering if he were talking to put her at ease, realizing at the same time that he was succeeding. The panic she had felt just a few moments earlier was rapidly dissolving.

“You want listen?” Chen asked.

Teddy nodded.

“I was married very pretty lady. Shanghai. You know Shanghai?”

Teddy nodded again.

“Very nice city, Shanghai. I was tattoo there, too. Very skill art in China, tattoo. I tattoo many people. Then I marry very pretty lady. Prettiest lady in all Shanghai. Prettiest lady in all China! She give me three sons. She make me very happy. Life blacks and whites with her. Sharp, good contrast. Everything clear and bright. Everything clean. No grays. Big concern for little things. Very joyous, very happy.” Chen was nodding, lost in his reminiscence. His eyes had glazed somewhat, and Teddy watched him, feeling a sadness in the man even before he spoke his next words.