Too Old a Cat (Trace 6) (12 page)

“Yeth.”

“Have you seen her?”

There was a pause. “Why?”

“She hasn’t been home and her family is worried,” Jackson said.

“Oh. I thaw her on Thaturday at thchool.”

“Not since then?”

“No.”

“Did she give you any indication that she might be thinking of going away for a while?” As he spoke, Jackson gradually moved closer to the candle.

“No,” the voice answered.

“Do you know the name of any of her other friends?” Jackson said.

“Abigail hath no other friendth. Jutht me.”

“He means boyfriends,” Razoni said.

“No boyfriendth,” answered the voice.

“Do you know where she might be staying away from home?” Jackson asked.

“No.”

Jackson took his business card from his wallet, walked to the end table, and put the card on it. “I’m leaving my card here,” he said. “If you hear from Abigail, please call us.”

As he put the card down, he picked up one of the photographs on the table. It was a snapshot of Swami Salamanda. He replaced it and picked up the other photo. It was a duplicate of their photo of Abigail Longworth. There was a message written on it, but Jackson couldn’t see it in the dark. He fished a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with his lighter. In the light, he read the message:

“Dearest K., The beauty of love must always be our guide, A.”

“A beautiful sentiment Abigail wrote you,” he said.

The girl was silent.

Jackson replaced the picture and his fingers brushed against something metallic. It was a small gold bell. He looked at it, then put it back down.

“We’ll be going now,” he said. “We’re very sorry about your guru.”

“Life alwayth endth in death,” the girl said.

“Right on,” Razoni said.

Jackson turned, cigarette lighter still burning in his hand, but he could not see past the girl’s veil. He put out the lighter as Razoni opened the door and light from the hallway leaked into the room. Jackson continued to stare at her, but she seemed, under the veil, to turn her face toward the wall as if to avoid the light.

Jackson followed Razoni out into the hallway and closed the door behind them.

Razoni hissed, “If we’ve got to fight our way out, I take the old lady.”

“I thought you’d want to plug that monkey.”

“No, monkeys I leave to you. They’re more in your line,” Razoni said.

But they went downstairs and let themselves out without anyone wishing them good-bye or noticing their departure.

“Hello. This is Devlin Tracy. That’s T-R-A-C-Y. May I speak with the honorable Mr. Walter Marks, please?”

Would wonders never cease, Chico thought as she sat on a chair in the office and listened to the telephone conversation. Trace being polite to the secretary of Walter Marks. The poor woman was probably rolling on the floor, holding her chest.

“No, of course I do not mind telling you what my business is,” Trace said. “I have decided to accept an assignment that Mr. Walter Marks has so graciously offered to me.”

He winked at Chico and covered the telephone with his hand. “You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” he said. Quickly uncovering the phone, he said, “No, of course not, madam. It’s Devlin Tracy. T-R-A-C-Y.

“My company? Of course. My company is that noble institution for which you work. The Garrison Fidelity Life Insurance Company. And I have news that will delight the right honorable Mr. Walter Marks.”

Trace winked at Chico again.

“The name is Tracy,” he said. “Devlin Tracy. No, not Stacy. Tracy. T-R-A-C-Y. What? You don’t know me? Well, I know you, you stupid twat. You are the latest in a long line of morons to hold that job. Now, put Groucho on the phone before I come up there and kick in your homely insipid face.” He covered the mouthpiece and shook his head sadly.

“Honey,” Chico reminded him. “I think that was a little vinegary.”

“Screw her,” Trace growled. “That’s what I get for trying to be nice. Just watch me charm Groucho.”

“Hello, Walter,” Trace said. “Ho, ho, ho, it’s good to hear your voice again.”

“What are you up to, Trace?” Marks said. He was a small man with a voice to match: a small, pinched, suspicious voice that sounded as if he were being charged by the vowel. He was also the vice president for claims of the insurance company, and thus Trace’s boss on those occasions when Trace chose to work.

“Why are you always in such a hurry to talk business?” Trace said. “Ho, ho, ho. How’s the family?”

“The family’s fine,” Marks said. “What do you want?”

“Glad to hear it,” Trace said. “Ho, ho, ho. Dorothy’s fine? The boy…Walter Junior…is fine too?”

“My wife’s name is Gladys and she’s fine. There is no Walter Junior. My son’s name is Paul and he’s fine. Everybody’s fine but me. You know why I’m not fine?”

“I’m sorry to hear it, Walter. Why aren’t you fine? Ho, ho, ho.”

“I’m not fine because I’m wondering why the hell you’re calling me only one day after I called you and I’m wondering why you’re doing this Santa Claus impersonation. Ho, ho, ho. What do you want, Trace?”

“Remember that assignment you mentioned on the telephone?”

“Right. The Dundee matter.”

“Right,” Trace said. “Exactly correct, Walter. How you do get right to the heart of things? The Dundee matter. Exactly. Well, have I got exciting news for you.”

“I’m listening,” Marks said.

“I’ll take the case, you see. I know that’s what you wanted me to do.”

“Yesss,” said Marks, suspiciously, stretching the word out, as if waiting for Trace to say something so he could withdraw the word without ever having finished it.

“But I’ve set up a new venture, Walter. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“I’m not investing in it or buying stock in it,” Marks said. “That’s that.”

“No, Walter,” Trace said. “Ho, ho, ho. It’s not like that at all. What it is is that I’m entering the private-investigation business and Garrison Fidelity now is going to be one of our corporate clients. You won’t have just me on your cases now: you’ll have a whole team of top-flight investigators at your disposal.”

“Who’s on this top-flight team?” Marks said.

“We’ve started out with Sarge and Chico, but already we’re looking for staff, good staff. Sarge has just got more work than we could possibly handle. But I…well, I just wanted you to know, Walter, that no matter how big or how busy we get, we’ll always have time for Garrison Fidelity and its piddling little piss-ant cases. And when we get more staff, we’ll be able to help even more. Maybe young Walter Junior would like a job. What do you think?”

“Paul is my son’s name, and if he were ever to be associated with you in any way, I would know that all the money I spend on his education has been wasted,” Marks said.

“Well, if you ever change your mind, you just let me know. Ho, ho, ho. We can always use another good man,” Trace said. “Now about our fees.”

“I’m listening,” Marks said sourly. “Somehow I knew it would get to this.”

“Commerce rears its ugly head. Ho, ho, ho,” Trace said. “Since you’re going to have a whole agency now at your disposal instead of just one operative, of course we’re going to have to charge more of a fee. But even though we’ve got three people now servicing your account instead of one, we’re not going to triple your fees. No, sir. Ho, ho, ho. We’re just going to double the fee. Just double my present retainer, Walter, and that’ll be the new annual contract with the new detective firm. You can’t ask for a better deal or more consideration than that, can you?”

“Ho, ho, ho,” Walter Marks said. “Double your fee? Ho, ho, ho,
and
ho.”

“Which means exactly what?” Trace asked politely.

“It means exactly, Trace, that I don’t care if you bought the Pinkerton agency with Wells Fargo thrown in. There is no way your fee is being raised. If you have not three but a million operatives, if you con the KGB into working for you, there will be no change. Your fee is the same. Period. End of story. Next.”

“But the company…” Trace protested.

“I don’t care about the company. I don’t care about you, if the truth be known. You and your precious company just work for the same number. No more. Not a penny more.”

“I think you’re making a mistake, Walter. I think a little incentive increase would have inspired us all to work harder for good Old Garrison Fidelity.”

“Tough titty, pal,” Marks said.

“Well, just for you, Walter, we’re going to give you a break. The firm is going to take this case, what is it…?”

“The Dundee matter.”

“Right. Dundee. We’re going to take this case and we’re going to do such a good job on it that you’re going to say…Because you’re a big man, Walter; inside that shrunken body beats a giant heart and you’re going to be big enough to say, ‘Trace, old buddy, I was wrong. Your firm is a wonderful new improvement and I want to raise your fees.’ You’ll say that, Walter. You’ll see. You’ll say it.”

“Right after I say, ‘Look, Ma, I can walk on water.’ Don’t hold your breath,” Marks said.

“No need to be like that, Walter. No need to be testy. We’ll pick up the file on the Dundee case and get right on it and we’ll do our regular top-notch job. Don’t you worry.”

“I—” Marks began.

“No, don’t you worry. Same rates, just more staff. For our very best client, the right honorable Walter Marks. Ho, ho, ho. I’ll be talking to you, Walter. Give my best to Dorothy and Walter Junior.”

Trace hung up.

“Ho, ho, ho,” Chico said. “Doesn’t sound like your suggestion went over real well.”

“Ho, ho, ho, to you too,” Trace said. “We got everything we wanted.”

“Don’t forget,” she said. “I was listening.”

“You’d better pay attention because I’m about to teach you some of the facts of life,” Trace said. “Now, do you really think I’d ask that backbiting little bastard Groucho for a raise? If it was time for a raise, I’d go talk to the president of the company, not Groucho. I threw that in so he’d have a chance to turn me down and feel good about himself.”

“Well, what did you want that you got?” Chico asked.

“From here on in, the company—this company—is handling the Garrison Fidelity Account.” He smiled at her. “Groucho could have said no, you know.”

“I’ll be damned, Trace. Every time I think you are a hopeless dimwit, you do something that totally surprises me.”

“Here’s something else that will surprise you. Get on over to Gone Fishing’s offices and see Groucho. You’re handling the Dundee case.”

“Cheez-o-man,” Chico said. “My first job in the big time. Wow.” She stood up, snatched up her purse, and started for the door. “I’m on my way,” she said.

Trace called her at the door. “Hey.”

She turned and he said, “Be careful out there.” As she left, he turned on the new television set.

Their car had been ticketed while they were in the Marichal home.

Razoni ripped the ticket from the windshield, crumpled it, and threw it into the gutter. “See, you did it again,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jackson said.

“No, don’t worry about it. But if I don’t worry about it, who will? You people don’t worry about anything. But I’m the one—”

“Will you shut up and get in the car?”

Inside the car, Razoni kept going.

“Another thing. Nice place you take me to.”

“Just wanted you to see how a real American family lives,” Jackson said.

“Yeah. Especially the monkey. A monkey named Percy. Good Jesus.”

“Will you disengage your mouth and put your brain in gear for a minute?” asked Jackson as he lurched away from the curb.

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”

“Are you thinking about how it’s kind of unusual? These two cases keep turning in on each other?”

“That’s just what I’m thinking about,” Razoni said.

“And?”

“Well, first, the lizard is done in by some chick. But nobody knows who she is. Then we find that the mayor’s daughter used to go down to the lizard’s cereal shop. But nobody there ever saw her. Shit. I can’t make head or tail out of it. You think about it for a while,” Razoni said.

“You forgot about the bells,” said Jackson as he headed crosstown.

“What bells?”

“That’s what you get for not reading reports. The girl who slipped the Swami the mickey was wearing a bell. And the girl last night in the health-food store was wearing a bell. And this Marichal kid was wearing a bell.”

“And Elsie the Cow wears a bell,” Razoni said. “So what? Maybe all these House of Love nut cases wear bells.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Why do
you
think?” Razoni asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Jackson said.

“For Christ’s sake,” said Razoni in exasperation. “You get me all worked up with bells and things and then you don’t know. I don’t want to think about it anymore. Let me know if you decide anything. Where are we going?”

“To Abigail’s school.”

“What for?” Razoni asked.

“See if anybody knows anything about her.”

“I know all you need to know. Her old man’s a fag who’s in love with his kid. He’s nuts, her friends are nuts, including that frigging monkey, and she’s nuts.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“What else could she be?” Razoni said.

“What about Jenkins?”

“I don’t trust anybody who takes a job as a chauffeur for a fag. And besides, he’s a horseplayer and all horseplayers are nuts.”

“And Gildersleeve?” Jackson asked.

“I don’t trust him,” Razoni said.

“Why not?”

“He’s a little guy. Little guys are always sneaky,” Razoni said.

“Sister Glorious?” Jackson asked.

“Obviously a nut case. A woman who looks like that, why is she jerking around with some swami and all those sappy people with big asses or pimples that hang around there?”

“What about the Marichal family?” Jackson said.

“I don’t trust any of them,” Razoni said.

“Why not?”

“Because they look like liberals. All liberals are nuts.”

“Is there anybody you do trust?” Jackson said.

“Yeah. Three people. Me, myself, and I.”

“What about me?” Jackson said.

“
Om shanti
in old shanty town,” Razoni said.

The only person in the registrar’s office at the uptown college was a long-haired T-shirted youth behind a desk, feet up, reading
Screw
magazine.

“Hello,” said Jackson politely.

“Yeah,” answered the youth noncommittally, glancing at Jackson, then looking disdainfully back to his reading.

“I want to know the schedule of a friend of mine and the names of her instructors.”

“Oh, you would? Well, we’re not allowed to give out that information,” said the youth, pleased at telling off a man a foot taller than he was.

Jackson showed his badge to the youth. “We’re police officers,” he said.

“So what?”

“We need the schedule of Miss Abigail Longworth,” said Jackson. “Now, either direct us to someone who can give it to us or get up off your fat ass and get it yourself.”

“The registrar is out to lunch and I don’t have the authority to look in the files and I’m not going to break the rules because establishment lackeys tell me to.”

Razoni inhaled deeply. He held a hand up to Jackson. “Let me reason with him, Tough,” he said mildly.

Razoni grabbed the youth by the pigtail that hung down the back of his neck and jerked him across the room, back to the desk. He picked up a pair of scissors and cut off the first inch of the pigtail.

“Now, little man, I’m going to cut off your hair inch by inch until you learn some manners. And if that doesn’t work, I’m going to turn very mean and frisk you for the stash you’re carrying in these beautiful jeans and then I’m going to bust your bald fucking head.” Snip. Another inch. “Are you getting the message from this establishment lackey?”

“Stop it, stop it,” the young man yelled, and Razoni released his death grip on the boy’s hair. The youth scurried to a file cabinet. “What’s her name?” he asked Jackson, glancing back over his shoulder at Razoni, who held up the scissors as a reminder.

“Abigail Longworth,” said Jackson. “Don’t you have all that stuff on computer?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know how to work the computer,” the young man said as he began looking through the cabinet.

“Try looking under L,” suggested Razoni.

“Right, right. Under L,” the youth said. “Here it is. Longworth, Abigail.” He looked up with a smile that pleaded for approval.

“What’s the schedule?” asked Jackson.

“Every day, she’s got creative writing with Professor Foley in the morning and then illustrative art with Dr. Mack.”

“Where do we find Foley and Mack?”

“They’re in this building. Foley’s in Four-A. Mack’s in the seventh-floor workshop.”

“Thank you,” said Razoni. “You’re a credit to your race, whatever that is.”

As the two detectives walked away, the young man fingered his raped pigtail, then bolted toward the office restroom so he could inspect the damage in a mirror.

In the elevator riding up to the fourth floor, Razoni said that kids weren’t what they used to be.

“What did they used to be?”

“Damned if I know, but it wasn’t what we just saw.”

Professor Foley’s creative-writing group was on a break. The professor was a long-haired man in his forties with hair that seemed electrically charged and a flowered shirt open at the throat.

Through the open classroom door, the two detectives saw Professor Foley seated at his desk reading some typewritten papers. To his right stood a tiny buxom brunette, whose sweater celebrated her bust and whose short skirt celebrated her legs. She leaned over Foley’s right shoulder. He seemed intent on reading the paper, but his right hand seemed intent on keeping busy under her skirt.

“Professors aren’t what they used to be either,” Jackson said. He called from the doorway: “Professor Foley?”

The man at the desk looked up. His right hand dropped casually out from under the skirt.

“May we have a word with you?”

“Sure. Why the hell not? Everybody else is always bothering me when I’m trying to read my assignments. Why should you be different? Come on in, come on in. Beat it, Monica. I’ll talk to you later.”

The brunette smiled at him worshipfully. She passed Jackson in the doorway without a look. She gyrated a little passing Razoni and gave him lots of teeth.

He smiled back at her.

Professor Foley pushed away the paper in front of him and turned in his chair to look at the two men. Razoni noted with disgust that the professor wore brown leather strapped sandals and no socks.

“We understand Abigail Longworth is one of your students?” Jackson said. As he stepped closer to the desk, he could smell the powerful reek of alcohol emanating from Professor Foley.

“That’s another thing,” Foley said. “How can I teach writing when the people I’m supposed to teach writing to don’t show up? Here I am, one of America’s very finest uncelebrated writers and—”

“You mean Abigail misses your classes?” Jackson said.

“She’s not here today, is she?”

“When was the last time she was here?”

“I don’t know. Last week. Wait a minute, I’ll tell you. She turned something in.” He began rooting through a pile of papers on the side of the desk. “Here it is. Saturday. She was here on Saturday.”

“May I see that?” asked Jackson.

Foley shrugged and pushed the paper forward. Jackson looked at it. It was covered with tight lines, neatly hand-printed in a calligraphic style.

“It’s awful,” Foley said. “I’m warning you. It’s terrible.”

As Jackson looked at it, Foley opened a desk drawer and took out a Styrofoam coffee container. It reeked of alcohol too. He took a large sip and put it back in the desk.

Jackson skimmed the paper, reading some of it in a soft mumble. “From A to Z with a stop at K…let our bodies touch…let our breasts form one jealous mountain…let your warm lips ignite my essence…please violate me with your kindness….” The big detective looked up. “Very interesting.”

“That’s what people always say when they don’t like something or don’t understand it. It’s not interesting at all,” Foley said. “It’s shit. That’s what it is. That’s what all these are.” He pulled up the pile of the papers on his desk. “Shit.” He threw them in the air and they fluttered to the floor. “All shit. Why am I wasting my time here?”

“God knows,” Razoni said. “You should be in Hollywood. Let me see that.” He took the paper from Jackson and began to scan it. “Ummmmm. Ummmmmm. Ummmmmm. Just what I thought,” he said.

“What is just what you thought?” Jackson asked.

“Never mind. It’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“Does Abigail always write like this?” Jackson asked.

“Just about. Maybe worse,” said Foley. “Poor thing.”

“Why poor thing?” asked Jackson.

“No talent. Dippy and no talent. Talks funny. And small tits. Hardly any tits at all.”

“Do you have any of her other papers?”

Foley grimaced. “God, no. It’s bad enough I have to read this shit once without keeping it around. Do you realize that I’ve spent ten years wallowing in shit?”

Razoni muttered something about water always seeking its own level, but Foley had never heard that statement before and gave no indication that, now having heard it, he had any idea what it meant.

“Does Abigail have any close friends in class that you know of?” asked Jackson.

“No. Shy too. She never talks to anybody. When she’s here. She hasn’t been here since Saturday. How can I teach people when they don’t show up?”

He had the Styrofoam cup in his hand again, even before the detectives reached the classroom door.

In the hallway, waiting for the elevator, Jackson said, “Why are you smirking?”

“Because I called it right again. That Abigail’s as big a freaking fag as her father. You read that poem. Let’s put our boobies together and make a big tit mountain. She’s a fag.”

“You don’t call girls fags, Ed. It’s not polite. Lesbians or gay, but not fags.”

“I don’t see anything gay about being a fag,” Razoni muttered.

Dr. Madeline Mack was another professor who wasn’t what teachers used to be either.

She appeared to be no more than twenty-one and her face was scrubbed bright, shiny, and flawless without makeup. Her eyes crinkled at the corners all the time, as if hearing a secret joke. She wore blue jeans that encircled her smooth buttocks like a pair of firm hands and a red silk almost-see-through blouse with something to see through to.

She insisted upon bringing Razoni and Jackson into her classroom where twenty students were standing at easels painting. Their backs were turned to the front of the class and their attention was fixed on a slim curly-haired man who sat on a stool at the far end of the room, one hand behind his head, the other resting atop his left thigh.

“He’s naked,” Razoni whispered to Jackson.

“Right. He’s a model.”

“Yeah. But he’s naked.”

“You never heard of a nude model before?”

“Not a man,” Razoni said. “That’s disgusting.”

Dr. Mack had perched her buttocks on the edge of the desk. She leaned back and extended her fine long legs. Her tennis shoes touched the toes of Jackson’s feet.

“Now what was it you gentlemen wanted to talk about?” she asked.

Razoni was staring at the students. He took a few steps forward to look over the shoulder of one middle-aged woman at an easel. She was painting the model, ringlets and all—including a Homeric member jutting out from his loins. She felt Razoni’s eyes on her back and she turned to him. She was a pudgy little gray-haired woman.

“Do you like it?” she asked with a hopeful smile.

Razoni leaned forward with a smile of his own. “It’s disgusting, Mama. And so are you.”

She giggled, thinking Razoni was joking. Jackson asked Dr. Mack about Abigail Longworth.

“A nice girl,” Dr. Mack said.

“Is her attendance regular?” Jackson asked.

“It isn’t really customary for me to talk to strangers about my students.”

“We’re police officers,” said Jackson softly so the class would not hear. “This is business.”

“Oh, my. Abbie’s not in trouble, is she?”

“Not that I know of. This is a confidential thing for her family,” Jackson said vaguely.

“I see. Well, yes, Abbie’s very good about her attendance.” She shrugged. “But she missed today.”

“You saw her Saturday?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure? With so many students, you can remember?”

Dr. Mack smiled at him. “Sure,” she said. “Saturday was the first day Freddy down there was modeling for us. Abbie seemed to be a little upset at the idea. Like your friend there.”

“Strange attitude for an art student, isn’t it?” asked Jackson.

“Perhaps. Different strokes for different folks.” Her eyes locked on Jackson’s for a moment, then she turned her head away. “There,” she said. “That’s one of Abbie’s.” She pointed to a pen-and-ink sketch that hung on one of the cork panels that surrounded the room.