The Lime Pit (5 page)

Well, I'd find out more about their business in the
morning. I'd make the rounds of the local smut shops--the half-dozen
storefronts on the north side of the city. Perhaps a clerk would
recognize Cindy Ann's face, or, better still, I might find that face
being pandered in one of the shop windows. If my luck held true, I
might even be able to work my way back through the dealer to the
Jellicoes' place of business or to the girl herself. On the other
hand, if the photos were meant for sale, if nobody recognized the
girl, then I could be sure that the Jellicoes were using them as
advertisements. Which would be bad for Hugo and bad for his little
girl, because what they advertised was a very rough trade indeed.

Adult News was the fourth shop I visited that hot
Friday morning, and the only thing that distinguished it from the
first three was the fact that its front window was painted red rather
than green. The storefront was situated on the verge of the Vine
Street tenderloin at the corner of Twelfth, next to a Pentecostal
church, which, I suppose, should count for something when it comes to
distinguishing features. I'm sure it counted for something to the
Pentecostalists, three of whom were standing in the doorway of the
church damning every customer that went into or came out of Adult
News.

I tried my best to look saved as I walked past them.
But judging from the frowns on their faces, I don't think they were
convinced. The roadside to perdition must be crowded with such
faces--lean and pitiless and full of smoke.

An unpainted square in the center of the smut shop
window served as a teaser to passers-by. Behind it, a corkboard was
posted with two dozen tame, unattractive nudes. And one of them was
Hugo's Cindy Ann, reclining on a white cushion. She looked a bit more
sophisticated in the Adult News photograph than she had in the ones
I'd seen the night before--her face was carefully made up and she'd
thrown her chest out, what little there was of it, and sucked in her
round tummy like a professional model. Looking at her on display, I
felt a wave of indignation rock me again. And I had to remind myself
that it was job and that there were unpredictable folks involved and
that getting mad again wasn't going to help Hugo or his little girl.

I bent forward to the glass and peered closely at the
face, just to bee sure. Then I went inside the shop.

Tere was a tall glass display case to the right of
the door. Behind it a very black Negro with a gold chain around his
neck and teeth and eyes of the same color gold was leaning against
the tiny register, gazing at his reflection in the chrome.

"What is it?" he said abstractedly. He tore
himself away from his favorite sight and looked sullenly down at me.

"Those pictures in the window, are they for
sale?"

"Sho'. Everything's for sale, man. Which one you
want?"

"Lower left. There's a snapshot of a red-haired
girl."

He turned to the window. The corkboard on which the
photos were pinned swung open like a dutch door and a chunk of bright
sunlight fell into the room. The black squinted at it furiously, as
if it were a big yellow brick someone had tossed through his window.

"Which, now?" he said irritably.

I leaned over the counter and pointed to Cindy Ann.

He plucked the photograph off the cork and slammed
the display door shut. "Man," he said, holding the picture
at arm's length. "Can't say she do nothing for me." He
slapped the photo to the glass. "Two dollars."

"Got any more like that one?" I said,
pulling my billfold out.

"Could be. Got a whole box of them in the back
there." He grinned. "Ah'll hold this one for you, suh,
while you go'n take a look."

"You won't sell it to anyone while I'm gone?"

The black man looked at me stupidly.

I had the rear of the shop more or less to myself. It
was dry-walled into a three-sided cube, racked on each side with
magazines. A curtained portal in the back wall led to the peep shows,
and there was a bin marked "Special" in the center of the
floor. I rummaged through the torn magazines and snapshots inside the
bin and came up with two more of Cindy Ann. Both of them were tame,
nondescript Polaroids--very different fare from what Hugo had
discovered in that shoebox. Which puzzled me.

I looked back up to the counter and decided it was
time to do a little detection. After thinking it over, I decided a
twenty dollar bill would be just about the right tool.

The clerk was staring at his own reflection again
when I walked back up to the register. "Find what you looking
for?" he said to me.

Some of them are back-slappers and some of them
handle you as daintily as teacups. This one was the cautious type.
But I figured that most of his suspiciousness came from being black
and poor. Which made the twenty dollar bill seem more and more like a
good idea. Besides, that gold in his eye wasn't all eyestrain.

"These pictures," I said in my most casual
manner. "I'd like to get some more of them."

"You would?" he said, mocking my tone of
voice. "How bad?"

I slipped the twenty out of my wallet.

"That bad?" he said and his eyes glittered.
"Well, I'll tell you, we get us a shipment every month."

I started to put the bill back in my pocket when he
reached out and grabbed my arm.

"'Course you in a
hurry. So you might try up to Gem Distributors on Mohawk."
He pulled the twenty out of my hand. "You can
jus' keep them," he said, pointing to the three photographs.
"They's your change."

***

It took me half an hour to walk up to Mohawk. Half an
hour in the noon sun through that part of the city where commerce
dies off and languishes in two-story storefronts and red-brick
tenements. Used furniture stores, redneck bars with names like
"Liberty Bell," two-dollar-a-day hotels, pawn shops,
abandoned movie houses. Most great cities trail their own death
around with them and sleep, like John Donne, with one foot in the
coffin. And the Over-the-Rhine, around Mohawk, is Cincinnati's
dead-end.

It took me ten more minutes to find Gem Distributors,
because, like a box within a box, Gem Distributors was tucked away
inside an old white trolley depot. At least, it looked like it had
been a trolley depot from the size of the round picket doors set in
the white stone facade. I found a customer's entrance on the west
side of the building and walked in. Two men were sitting on a dolly
by the door, drinking wine from a paper bag. One of them had long red
hair and the lush, simpering face of a painted Cupid. The other was
older, with a great shock of white hair and white walrus moustaches
and spry gray eyes. They were both a little drunk and, from the looks
on their faces, I'd walked in on them in the middle of a joke. The
old one got to his feet and dusted at his overalls, while Cupid broke
up in laughter.

"Don't mind him, mister," the old one said.
But there was laughter in his voice, too, and he was having a hard
time containing it. He made his face over into a mask of seriousness.
And the young one fell back on the dolly and roared.

"Shut up, Terry," the old one said. "Don't
mind him, mister. What can I do for you?"

"I want to speak to the manager," I said.

"You're looking at him." The old man hiked
up his pants.

"Pete O'Brien," he said, holding out a
hand.

"Harry Stoner," I said.

Pete O'Brien didn't look like a pornographer--for
what that was worth. And if he were, he wasn't a particularly
successful one. The warehouse was virtually empty. From the dust on
the floors it hadn't seen much business in quite a time. I began to
think that the clerk had pulled a fast one.

"You deliver all over the city, Pete?" I
asked him.

"Hell, yes. You got some items you want
shipped?"

"Not exactly. I'm looking for some goods that
you handled."

He looked at me warily. "You an insurance
adjustor, Mr. Stoner?"

I shook my head. "I'm a P.I."

"A cop?" Terry said gamely. The grin left
his face and was replaced by the sort of amusement that rings like a
coin slapped on a bar. It can go either way--heads its violence,
tails its back again to explosive laughter.

O'Brien, who'd apparently seen his friend Terry get
worked up like that before, looked back over his shoulder and said,
"Find something to do, Terry. And I mean now."

The boy got to his feet and took a pull of wine. "The
hell," he said quietly. He wiped his lip with a shirt sleeve.
"He's a cop, Pete."

O'Brien looked back at me. "Just what is it you
want?"

"I'm looking for a girl," I said. I handed
him one of the snapshots I'd picked up at Adult News. "That
girl."

"Ho-lee!" O'Brien said, looking at the
picture.

Terry ambled up and peered over his shoulder. When he
saw Cindy Ann, his skin got as red as his hair and his face filled
with a coarse lust.

"Shit," he said softly. "Look at
that!"

I snapped the picture out of O'Brien's hand. The kid
jerked his head up and leered at me. I had enough of leering and of
dirty minds for one morning.

"Wipe that smile off your face," I said,
before I realized how silly I sounded.

The old man laughed. "Better do like he says,
Terry."

"The hell." Terry swaggered a bit--the
bottle clutched in his right hand. But I knew it was all for show. I
was a lot bigger than he was, and like most bullies, Terry had an
instinct for odds. "I don't like you," he said nastily.

"Feel better now that I know?"

The old man laughed again. "Take it over in the
corner, Terry. Or this fella's likely to call your bluff."

Terry muttered something under his breath, then took
a ferocious pull of the wine. His mouth looked bloody with it when he
jerked the bottle away. He walked slowly back to the trolley and
plunked himself down and stared at me and drank and muttered to
himself.

"Kids," Pete O'Brien said to me. "That
one there hasn't got the guts of a chicken. But he's sure enough
vicious when your back is turned."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You do that," O'Brien said. "About
the picture. I don't know where on earth you got the idea that that
girl was around here, but I'll tell you plainly she ain't. I've never
seen her before in my life. Christ, she sure looks young for that
kind of thing."

"She's sixteen," I said. "And I didn't
think you'd know her. It's the photograph I'm interested in. It was
shipped out of this warehouse."

"Could be," O'Brien said. "We ship all
sorts of things. I take it you want to know where that photo came
from." I nodded.

He walked over to a work table next to the door.
There was an old ledger on the counter. "I'll tell you the
truth, Mr. Stoner. I'm just the floor manager around here. The man
you ought to talk to is Morris Rich. He owns this place and he'd be
the one that could tell you who ships what from where. That is, if
he'd be willing to talk. Which I doubt. Why you looking for that
girl?"

"She's a runaway," I said. "Her father
wants her back."

O'Brien sighed. "I shouldn't do this, but I'm
going to let you look at the manifests. I don't know how much help
that'll be. But that's about all I can do for you."

I thanked him and took a quick look at the dusty
ledger.

There were monthly shipments to the bookstore on
Eighth Street, consigned out of Atlanta, where the big pornography
houses are based. But the snapshots in my pocket weren't professional
smut. They were strictly amateur stuff the kind of thing that might
run as a one-line ad in the back of a magazine. Ten photos for ten
dollars and, maybe, a steamy letter to go with them. According to the
ledger, there weren't any local shippers dealing with Adult News.
Which meant that either the Negro had been lying to me or that he
just didn't know where the photos came from. I figured he didn't
know. Like Pete O'Brien he was only a hired hand and, as far as he
was concerned, everything in the store came from Gem Distributors.

If I was going to go any further, I would have to
talk to someone higher up, either to Rich or to whoever owned the
porno shop. That is, if as Pete O'Brien said, they were willing to
talk to me.
 
 

5

IT TURNED out that I didn't have to make that choice,
because Pete O'Brien got talkative after I couldn't find anything in
the ledger book. Like Hugo Cratz, he was an old man with a heart, and
he felt badly enough about Cindy Ann to let drop the fact that Morris
Rich not only supplied Adult News, he owned it. Rich had an office in
the Dixie Terminal Building on Fifth Street. O'Brien gave me the
address as I left, along with a piece of advice.

"Morrie's a family man. The more you say about
his kids, the better you make him feel. Just keep talking about his
sons and you might make out O.K."

Judging from the decor of Rich's handsome office, I
thought O'Brien was probably right. The Rich boys looked down from
every wall and up from every end table in the room. And, in case you
missed the point, Morrie Rich reminded you by tapping constantly on
the dozen picture frames that crowded his desk. I had the
disconcerting feeling that his family was sitting there with us. And,
eventually, I realized that Rich felt that way, too. Occasionally his
nasal voice seemed to soften, and he'd be talking familiarly to one
of the boys in the photographs, as if the kid were standing there by
his desk, asking his dad for another twenty or for the keys to the
Seville.