The Erection Set (23 page)

“They ... tried to knock me off.”

“I know.”

“But I didn't even ...”

“Just describe them.”

His tongue tried to wet his parched lips and he nodded, his hand rubbing the bruise on the side of his head. “There were two of them. About your size. Those guns made them a lot bigger. Damn it, Dog ...”

“Come on, Lee.”

“Sure, come on. You know what it's like to think you're going to drown in a couple of minutes? You ...”

“I have a good idea.”

Lee squinted and propped his head in his hands. “They were in their forties, one wore a black suit, the other a sport coat and slacks. White shirts ... patterned dark ties.”

“Any definite characteristics?”

After a moment's thought Lee said, “Nothing ... special, unless you want to call them kind of hard looking.” He looked up at me then, his eyes still scared. “Dog, look, those guys weren't kidding around! They sat here all night without saying a damn thing, then all of a sudden one got up and coldcocked me. The next thing I knew I was tied up in the tub and they were turning the water on.”

“They must have said something.”

“Yeah, in the beginning. They wanted you. I didn't know where the hell you were. You didn't tell me you were going to stay out all night.”

“How about their speech? What did they sound like?”

“You mean... like a dialect?

“That's right.”

Lee gave it a thought for a moment, frowning. “They spoke... well, pretty damn good. Like too good, maybe.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sort of ... like they studied the language. The one ... he seemed to think first, then speak. The other had a funny inflection like... you remember that RAF pilot they called Big Benny?”

“Yeah.”

“Like him, that kind.”

“Benny was from Brussels,” I said. “He went to England straight from college four years before the war started.”

“Well, he didn't say much except to ask about you and he sounded like Big Benny when he did.”

“Did they say what they wanted me for?”

“No, but one was going to search the place until the other one told him you wouldn't be that stupid. They were going to wait until you got here, make you talk and then kill you. They had a briefcase with them that had all kinds of stuff in it. Tools, bottles of stuff... scared the shit out of me. I guess they knew I wasn't lying or they would have tried something on me.”

“They knew, all right. I just wonder why they didn't wait for me.”

“One of them kept looking at his watch the last two hours. He was getting pretty fidgety.”

“They could have figured I smelled the trap and would come back with reinforcements.”

“But why those cops?”

“Another way to nail me down, except their timing was bad. They kept a watch on the door until I did show, then called the cops thinking I'd be grabbed in an apartment with a dead man ... or trying to move a body.”

“Trying to... geez, Dog ...”

“Forget it. Nothing happened. I'm going to clear out of here and ...”

“The hell you are,” he interrupted. “I saw those guys and I can identify them. You're not letting me be a straggler on this raid. Man, I'm chicken. I don't go for this routine at all.”

“Okay, okay, you may be right.”

I got up and got another cigarette. When I turned around he was staring at me like I was a stranger. “You know who they were, don't you?”

“No.”

“Then you know why they were here.”

“I got an idea.”

“But you can't tell me.”

“No,” I said.

“You're wild,” Lee told me, then he grunted “I guess you know I really did shit my pants.”

“I found that out the hard way.”

“You ever do that?”

“Twice,” I told him.

“Dog ...”

“Yeah?”

“They were wearing brown shoes.”

I snuffed the butt out and waited.

“In New York you don't wear brown shoes with a black suit or dark slacks. Like it's one of the gauche things out-of-towners do.”

“Or foreigners?”

“Uh-huh. All the time.”

“What else?”

“Everything they had on was brand-new. I saw the folds in their shirts from the packages.”

“You notice the guns?”

“How could I miss them. One was a big bore, maybe a

.38. Either a Colt or an S. and W. The other one was a .22 on a heavy frame.”

“Nickel-plated?” I asked him quietly.

“Yeah. How'd you know?”

 

Below the penthouse level of the fabulous Chateau 300, New York City lay sprawled out like a gigantic Christmas tree, the lower branches sweeping into Queens, Brooklyn and the Bronx, then stairstepped up to the giant towers of Manhattan.

Cable Howard Productions had taken over the entire restaurant to celebrate its merger with Walt Gentry, announcing the forthcoming filming of
Fruits of Labor,
a current best seller of nineteenth-century sex. Lee had whipped up a guest list that included everybody who was anybody at all; football greats, movie stars, Wall Street financiers and a scattering of war heroes in uniform of all the services.

The press was all over the place, popping flashbulbs, rolling TV cameras and taking notes, living up to their reputations at the punch bowl and the three huge bars. A pair of name orchestras spelled each other at playing soft dance music for a change, with a concert pianist fresh in from an appearance at Carnegie Hall filling in the blanks between sets.

Walt Gentry presided over it all in his usual manner, pleasant and smiling, taking a few notes himself to break the monotony of his bachelorhood in the future. Sharon was at S. C. Cable's side prompting him with names and making the introductions. She had wanted to skip the whole affair, but her boss insisted he needed her and she was back in the big run again.

She saw me watching her and waved just as a glass tinkled next to mine. A voice said, “Enjoying yourself, Mr. Kelly?”

I threw a quick look at Dick Lagen and shrugged. “Not especially.”

“Must be a bit dull after those lavish European affairs you're used to.”

“Where'd you hear that?”

He swirled the ice in his glass, then polished half the drink off. “Several sources. You keep excellent company. Walking among the rich must be rather pleasant.”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Really? Doesn't being the guest of one of the richest men in Europe impress you? I understand Roland Holland owns nine separate major industries outright and heads one of the world's largest conglomerates.”

“Rollie and I were in the same outfit during the war, Dick.-Every once in a while I pick up on my old buddies. Lee Shay was there too.”

“Your wartime buddy wasn't wealthy before the war, however.”

“Nobody was, remember? Rollie was one of those types with a mind. A financial whiz kid. He parlayed a small bundle into a fat fortune and it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. Plenty of others have done the same thing.”

“Quite so, but they weren't friends of yours.”

“That remark had a curve on it,” I said.

“Your friends all seem to be very interesting people. Your seeming lack of friends is just as interesting. I still don't get very far researching your past ... except for your immediate family.”

“Read the society pages, Dick, you'll find out about them there.”

Lagen let a waiter take his glass and picked another drink off the tray. “I found some interesting tidbits in the gossip columns... and a few police reports.”

Now I knew where the needle was going in and beat him to the punch. “You mean about Veda and Pam? Those twists always were trouble. Veda's been in more night courts than a Times Square hooker. Pam's just as bad, but if you want icing for the cake, try Lucella. She and that Fred Simon character cut a real wide path before they divorced. How the hell they could figure me for a black sheep is more than I can understand.”

“The rest of the family seems to live with it.”

“Bullshit. Those old biddies ignore it or are too old to remember. Besides, when you're top chicken in the pecking order in that social circle, nobody feels like promoting gossip and getting kicked off their rung.”

“You ought to talk to Mona Merriman. That kind of talk would fill her columns for weeks.”

“It's old hat, Dick. She'll get enough garbage for a month right at this bash.”

Lagen let a smile play across his face and looked over to where the center of activity was. “She may get more. There's an old friend of yours here.”

I followed the direction of his eyes but couldn't place anybody. “Who?”

“A Mr. Cross McMillan and his wife, Sheila.'

“You really do a research job, friend.”

“I've only just started, Mr. Kelly.”

 

Walt Gentry was a large stockholder and a director of Wells River Plastic Corporation. Cross McMillan was the majority stockholder and chairman of the board. That afternoon there had been a meeting to consider a merger and, since Cross was staying in New York, Walt had invited his business associate to his party.

Until I joined the group he had been enjoying himself, then all those nasty memories of the past, the rock in the head, the standoff at the beach and the loss of all that waterfront he had wanted so badly etched a mask of concealed anger into his face. Walt's attempted introduction drew a curt “We've met,” and upon seeing Sharon he threw a look at Walt as if he were being double-crossed. Walt got no part of the play at all and called him away to meet somebody else, leaving me standing there alone until a tall brunette with a figure and features so sensuous as almost not to be real sidled up and said, “My husband doesn't like you, Mr. Kelly.”

I looked at her, puzzled. The sheer silk of her gown clung to the curves of her body, the open front of it the absolute minimum in modesty. At the point of cleavage of her magnificent breasts a huge pear-shaped diamond pendant dangled on a platinum chain throwing highlights of color into my eyes.

“No, we haven't met,” she laughed. She held out her hand, cradling a drink in the other. “I'm Sheila McMillan ... Cross's wife.”

I took her hand and held it a moment. The grip was warm and firm, a little stronger than most women's. “Dogeron Kelly. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. Mona told me who you were, then I remembered Cross speaking about you.”

“We're not exactly buddies.”

Sheila laughed again and held the glass to her mouth. Even the way she tasted her drink was a pure sex act and I began to wonder about all those things I had heard about her. “You're the one who gave Cross that scar on his head, weren't you? You know, he's never forgiven you for that.”

“Kid stuff,” I said. “That was a long time ago. Besides, he never could stand our family. But at least we have something in common. I can't either.”

“Yes, I know. Rumors circulate freely around Linton. I understand your coming home was quite a shock to them.”

“More or less.”

She looked past me toward her husband. He was shaking hands with a pair of uptown bank presidents and didn't see us. “Sometimes I wish Cross would get out of all this,” she mused. “We have everything we need but he keeps wanting more. Money hasn't even got a useful purpose anymore. It's just something you need to play the game of business.”

“High finance built this country,” I reminded her.

“But it ruins people.” She turned to me suddenly and smiled again. “Tell me, Mr. Kelly...”

“Call me Dog.”

“All right... Dog” Sheila made a mock face at the name. “What do you do? Are you going with Barrin Industries?”

“Right now I'm doing nothing but relaxing. I don't think I could relax with Barrin.”

“What a lovely evasion of my question.”

“A month or two and I'll have it all figured out.”

She patted my arm gently. “Best of luck to you then. I'm glad you aren't like the rest of the Barrins. I don't suppose I had better invite you to tea when you're in Linton, should I?”

My grin turned into a short laugh and I shook my head. “No, you'd better not. I wouldn't want Cross to blow a fuse.”

I said “so long” to her, watched while she joined two other women and walked over to the door. The heavy-shouldered big guy by the entrance looked up when I approached and came from behind the table. “Everybody checks out, Mr. Kelly. No gatecrashers.”

“How about downstairs?”

“A dozen or so autograph hounds, maybe. Joe's keeping his eye on them.”

“You check the orchestras?”

“Sure. Two fill-ins for a couple who couldn't make it. They have ID's and union cards. Every one of those press guys here I know personally. The crews with those TV units are all vouched for. Waiters are all staff personnel.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said. Fifty bucks could buy me a lot of extra security.

Most of the evening I had been dodging Mona Merriman, but she caught up to me on the way to the bar and I had to escort her over for a refill. She stuck the ball-point pen in a clip on her pad and dropped everything in her purse with a sigh and snapped her fingers for a drink. “Someday,” she told me, “I'm going to get an item that's true, not distorted or contrived and I think I'll fall over.”

“You give the public what it wants to read.” I raised my glass. “Cheers.”