Too Old a Cat (Trace 6) (18 page)

“You said this was important, Mister…”

“Graham,” Trace said. “My friends just call me Will.”

“And it concerns…”

“I’m sorry I don’t have any business cards with me. I left them back in my hotel room,” Trace said.

“Would you please tell me what your business is?” said J. J. Gildersleeve.

They were sitting in the small office in the rear of the Salamanda headquarters.

“I couldn’t help it,” Trace said. “I was watching the television and I saw the report and I had to get right down here.”

“What report?” Gildersleeve asked. He was a small man with yellow discolored teeth with large spaces between them. Handy for spitting pumpkin seeds, Trace thought. The man bit his nails too.

“About Sister Glorious, of course,” Trace said. “How she is going to take over the work of the Swami.”

“I’m not in a position to discuss that right now,” Gildersleeve said.

Trace chuckled. “Heh, heh. I understand. Hierarchical problems, et cetera, et cetera, I truly do understand. But that’s why I came.”

“I was hoping that eventually you would tell me,” Gildersleeve said, barely able to keep the annoyance from his voice.

“Sister Glorious,” Trace said. “Well, I wanted you to know that she is a married woman.”

“I know that,” Gildersleeve said.

“But she is separated from her husband. I thought, well, I thought you had better know that. Think of the consequences to your organization.”

Gildersleeve leaned forward across the desk. He was interested now. “What consequences?” he said.

“I can trust your discretion in this matter?” Trace asked.

“You can. You have my word. What consequences?”

“I happen to be close to the family that Sister Glorious is married into. The Alcetta family of Brooklyn. They are not the type of family that would normally be associated with the type of freedoms the Swami espoused.”

“I know that. I’ve met Sister’s husband,” Gildersleeve said.

“You have?”

Trace waited and let the silence hang in the room. Gildersleeve waited too, but cracked first. “Yes. He was here one day to talk to Sister Glorious.”

“Then you know what he is like?”

“I do.”

“He told me once in private conversation that he would do anything—he stressed the ‘anything’—to separate his wife from your movement. I think he is a dangerous man.”

“He certainly is a noisy one,” Gildersleeve said. “He came in here and threatened to kill Sister. He threatened to kill the Swami. I told him unless he left I was going to call the police and he threatened to kill me.”

“That’s what I mean,” Trace said smugly.

“A lot of people talk,” Gildersleeve said. He sat back in his chair. “You haven’t anything to tell me that might compromise Sister Glorious’s ability to head our movement, have you, Mr. Graham?”

“Call me Will,” Trace said. He shook his head. “Just that family connection.”

“Well, I thank you for your concern, sir, but I really have to be back to work. I have a national conference here this weekend. If the police have not moved toward a solution of the Swami’s murder, I plan to expose their inefficiency to the world. I’ve many things to do before I get caught up. A potful of work,” he said.

Trace rose. “Sister will be the leader, then?” he said.

“That decision won’t be made by her alone,” Gildersleeve said. “I really must ask you to leave.”

Trace walked down the block toward Sarge’s old car, thinking. Gildersleeve did not like Gloria Alcetta. That was pretty obvious. Probably he thought of her as some kind of interloper in a movement he’d been with for years. But did he really expect that he could be named guru? Guru Gildersleeve? Come on.

He passed a florist shop and next to it noticed a television store that advertised XXX TV tapes, taping equipment, and VCRs for sale or rent. He remembered something Sarge had told him on Sunday and walked into the store where a giant of a man was trying to fit kielbasa-sized fingers into the back of a television set designed to be serviced by the pencil fingers of Oriental dwarfs.

“I need some information, my good man,” Trace said.

“The public library’s on Forty-second Street. You can tell it by the lions out front.”

Trace ignored the comment. The man had hunkered down closer over the set.

“I’m looking for somebody to shoot some television tape. My daughter’s engagement party.”

“Yellow pages. A lot of places do that.”

“Well, it’s not my favorite daughter,” Trace said, “so I’m trying to hold the cost down. I really wanted somebody maybe not too professional.”

“Rent the equipment and do it yourself. That’s the cheapest way. You want to rent equipment? I rent equipment.”

“I’m afraid I have no skill,” Trace said. “I was down the block at the Temple of Love and they said there was a young man who used to tape there. I thought you might know who he is.”

“Yeah. I know him. He always buys his tapes here. But you couldn’t afford him.”

“How’s that, old chap?”

“He just got a job with United Broadcasting.”

“He must be very good,” Trace said.

“He’s not that good. But he took some film of that cuckoo guru the day he went belly up and I guess the company liked them because they hired him.”

“Oh? I never saw those films,” Trace said.

“Me neither. But I guess they were pretty good if they hired him.”

“What’s his name? Maybe he’s freelancing?” Trace said.

“Sam. Sam Silverand. He lives in that apartment building on the corner, that big red dump. Let’s see, he’s number 412.”

“You know, I don’t want some lunatic taking these films,” Trace said. “He’s not one of these Love people, is he?”

“Naaah, he’s kind of nerdy and he used to hang out there because he likes that free-love crap. He told me once that people grope each other right at the meetings.”

“It takes all kinds,” Trace said. “Thanks for your help.”

There was no doorman, no lock on the front door, and no lights in the hallway, which smelled like a dog’s kennel on a holiday weekend. The stairs were bare splintering wood; the landings semicovered with linoleum whose print had long ago worn away, exposing a dirt-brown base. Sam Silverand had three visible locks on the door to his apartment and God knew how many inside.

But no one was home. Trace tried the bell but didn’t hear it ring inside the apartment. Then he tried knocking on the door. He knocked a long time before giving up.

When he turned around, an old woman was watching him from an apartment at the other end of the hall. Two security chains were still in place as she peered out the crack. Trace could see a bit of the flowered cotton housedress she wore.

“He’s not home,” she said.

“I was figuring that out. Where is he?”

“I’m not authorized to give out that information,” she said.

Trace nodded and walked toward the stairs.

“You want to leave a message. I’ll tell him.”

“I’m not authorized to leave a message.”

“Ain’t you a dummy?”

“Maybe I am. Hell. Tell him that Roone Arledge was here.” He started down the steps.

The woman called after him. “Hey.”

“What?” Trace said.

“You’re a television guy, right? A big shot?”

“Right. I made Howard Cosell what he is today.”

“He’s a dork.”

“And I put him there,” Trace said.

“Roone Arledge?”

“Right.”

“What kind of a name is Roone?” she asked.

“A first name,” Trace said.

“I don’t mean
that
,” she said. “How’d you get to be so big if you’re so stupid?”

“I had a lot of good people helping me.”

“Is Roone German?”

“No. It’s Guelph. I’m the last of the Guelphs.”

“It’s a dumb name. What do you want Sam for?”

“I wanted to talk to him about some tape he shot when the Indian down the street got poisoned.”

“You’re too late, Mr. Mogul. United Broadcasting beat you to it. They already bought it.”

“I didn’t see it. Was it good?”

“It was never on. Sam and me were looking for it, he even came over here, but it wasn’t on. The big guy there bought it hisself but it wasn’t on.”

“I guess Sam was disappointed,” Trace said.

“Well, he got a job out of it from the big guy, so I guess it all worked out.”

“What big guy?”

“The big guy what runs United Broadcasting,” she said. “Longneck or something.”

“When’s Sam usually get home?”

“I don’t know. He just started.”

“Maybe I’ll catch up with him tomorrow,” Trace said.

“I’ll tell him you were here.”

“Thanks,” Trace said, and started down the stairs.

“Hey, Arledge,” the woman yelled as Trace neared the next landing.

“What?” Trace yelled back.

“Fire Cosell. He’s a dork.”

Using a tavern telephone, it took Trace twenty minutes to track down Razoni and Jackson.

“This is Ed Razoni.”

“This is Devlin Tracy.”

“Who the hell are you?” Never much for charm, Razoni sounded even grouchier than usual, Trace thought.

“Is your partner there?”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t talk to nobody unless I tell him to talk to somebody,” Razoni said. “Who are you?”

“I’m with the State Lottery Office,” Trace said. “I’m checking a winning ticket.”

Trace heard the phone drop and Razoni’s voice saying, “Get this one, Tough. It may be important.”

“Detective Jackson.”

“This is Devlin Tracy. We met yesterday in my office while our partners were threatening to shoot each other.”

“Right. What can I do for you?”

“I thought you might be interested,” Trace said. “I tracked down that TV tape of the Swami dying.”

“What TV tape?” Jackson said, and suddenly Trace remembered that Sister Glorious had told Sarge about the tape and he had never passed the message on to the two city detectives.

“Well, there was a tape shot,” Trace said. “By some guy named Sam Silverand, who used to hang out at the House of Love. United Broadcasting bought the tape, but I don’t think they showed it. Then they hired him as a cameraman. I think he’s working tonight.”

“That’s good,” Jackson said. “How’d you happen to run into this?”

“I was nosing around at the Swami’s place. My divorce case. I stumbled on it.”

“You’re not playing hotshot and getting involved in that murder investigation, are you?” Jackson asked.

“No. Divorce is more my speed. Why?”

“Sometimes people who kill other people start to kill people who are looking for them.”

“I’m not afraid,” Trace said. “Remember? I’ve got my partner to protect me.”

“The girl with the invisible gat,” Jackson said.

“What harm could come to me?”

In the background, Trace heard Razoni roaring, “Tell that guy to go fuck himself. Tell him to stay out of our business. Tell him, Tough. You tell him.”

“You heard that?” Jackson asked.

“Half of New York did,” Trace said.

“Thanks for the tip.”

“Anytime. If I run into anything else, I’ll keep you posted.”

“Well?” Razoni said as Jackson hung up the telephone.

“Interesting. There was a TV tape shot when the Swami died.”

“Screw that,” Razoni said, waving a hand in dismissal. “Screw the lizard. We try to do our jobs and we get our asses reamed out and we get assigned to look for some faggot’s faggot kid, screw it all. And I don’t want you talking to that Tracy anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because of that homicidal Jap he’s got working for him. She’s gonna get one of us killed.”

“But listen to this anyway,” Jackson said. “The TV film was bought by United Broadcasting, but they never showed it.”

“I don’t think that’s interesting,” Razoni said.

“I do. I think I’m going to look at it,” Jackson said.

“Don’t volunteer,” Razoni said. “Christ, didn’t you learn anything in reform school?”

“No,” Jackson said. “That’s why I kept getting left back.”

There was another phone call for Jackson. He answered it, then came back looking worried.

“What now?” Razoni said.

“We’ve got to roll. That was the captain. He wants us to meet him right away.”

“Where?”

“At Theodore Longworth’s house.”

They parked in the circular driveway behind an old Subaru that they recognized as Captain Mannion’s. He was on the front steps waiting for them.

“Great idea, Razoni,” he said.

“Thanks, Captain. But remember it wasn’t all my idea. Tough helped a little bit too. He takes notes and things.”

“So the girlfriend would show up if we announced we were holding the Marichal kid?” Mannion said.

“Right,” said Razoni. He detected a change of wind and asked cautiously, “She’s home, isn’t she?”

“No, dopey, she isn’t home. You two better come inside.”

Inside the house, Theodore Longworth paced back and forth, being comforted by a man the two detectives recognized well. The police commissioner. At the sight of the two detectives, Longworth’s face gathered red like a spanked toddler.

“You two. You two. You two said you were going to bring back my little girl.”

Razoni noticed that Longworth had a glass in his hand and liquid slopped over the sides as he waved his arms for emphasis.

Jackson remained silent, content to let the television executive yell himself out. Razoni, however, was not about to be abused by a fag, probably husband of a fag, certainly father of a fag, even if he did own the biggest television network in the world.

He started to say something but was silenced by Captain Mannion’s squeezing his shoulder.

The police commissioner said, “Perhaps, Ted, we ought to brief these two men on what has happened.”

Longworth looked angrily at the commissioner, then paused, nodded, and slumped into a chair. More of the liquid slopped from his glass.

The commissioner walked to a small table. “This arrived just a little while ago. It was brought by a cabdriver who said he had been given it by a man to deliver here.”

On the table was a small tape recorder. The commissioner pressed a button. The machine whirred, then scratchily, hesitantly, a voice sounded out. A young woman’s voice.

“Daddy, thith ith Abigail. Daddy, two men are holding me in an old building. They’re going to hurt me, Daddy, unleth you do jutht what they thay. Two of your polithemen picked up Karen Marichal today. One of the polithemen wath named Detective Jackthon. They thay you have to let her go if you ever want to thee me alive again. Daddy, pleathe do what they thay. I’m thcared.”

The recorder clicked the end of the message and the commissioner looked up. “We’ve called the FBI, of course, and they should be here any minute.” He stopped short when he saw that Razoni was using his hand to cover a large smile on his face. Razoni saw the commissioner looking at him and tried unsuccessfully to stop smiling.

“Can I ask a question?” he said.

“Go ahead,” said the commissioner.

“Mr. Longworth, does your kid always talk funny like that?”

“Like what?”

“Thpitting her wordth. Anything with an S in it.”

Longworth glared at him. “She has a slight lisp, if that’s what you mean, Detective.”

Razoni looked at Jackson, who nodded. “When did this tape arrive, Mr. Longworth?”

“Just a little while ago.”

“Before six o’clock or after six o’clock? Do you remember?”

“Why? Is it important?”

“The story about Karen Marichal was on the six-o’clock news,” Jackson said. “It’s worth knowing if this tape was made before or after that.”

“Before that,” Longworth said. “I was just getting ready to watch the news when the cabbie brought the tape.”

“Did the cabbie say where he got it?”

“From a tall man, a very tall man, up on the West Side someplace.”

“Tall man with blond hair?” Jackson asked.

Longworth nodded.

“Captain, can we talk to you for a minute?” asked Razoni. Mannion looked at the commissioner. When he nodded, Mannion went into the hall with the two detectives.

“What is it, Razoni?”

“When the FBI comes, stall them for a while. Tough and me are going to go get the kid.”

“You know where she is?”

“We can find her,” Razoni said.

Mannion studied their faces carefully as if deciding whether or not he trusted them. Finally, he agreed. “Okay, but don’t slip. This time it’ll be your ass. Mine too, probably. Longworth’s going nuts.”

“We’ll get her, Captain,” Razoni said. “And if you think he’s nuts now, you might start preparing him for the fact that we’re going to charge the little faggot with murder. See how he likes that.”

“Razoni,” Mannion cautioned, “you’re on thin ice, so you’d better step easy.” He looked at Razoni’s stubborn dark eyes and softened. “I’ll talk about it with the commissioner. Hurry up now.”

The two detectives ran toward their car and skidded away down the long semicircular drive in front of the mansion.

“Ed, you’re the picture of couth.”

“Why the hell do I always get in trouble?” Razoni asked.

“You didn’t have to say his kid talks funny.”

“But she
does
talk funny. No wonder she’s a fag. No man’d want to talk to her. He’d spend all his time wiping his face.”

“Funny, we noticed Karen’s voice was different, but I thought the lisp was to disguise it.”

“Sure,” Razoni said. “But those two dirty things were probably there in the dark, and when we came, Karen got afraid that we’d recognize her so she turned out the lights and had Abigail make believe that she was Karen.”

“Thank God they’re not too smart. Handing over that tape recorder to the cabbie.”

“Right. Tall, blond. Lurch, the butler. And it was dumb to send it before the news was on. The only people who knew about it were the ones in Karen’s house. And even your name on the tape. I knew you’d get in trouble if you keep giving everybody your business card.”

“I just hope we’re right,” Jackson said. “I don’t want to go back on traffic duty.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Razoni said. “We’re right.”

The Marichal’s brownstone was dark when they pulled up. No lights shone through to the street.

“Maybe no one’s home,” Jackson said.

“They’re home. They’re down in the cellar drinking bats’ blood,” Razoni said.

Razoni leaned on the bell at the top of the steps but got no answer. He pounded on the door with his fist. “Come on, Lurch, open up. I know you’re in there,” he yelled.

There was only silence from the other side of the door.

Razoni shrugged. “Do you please want to look the other way?”

“Why?”

“I’m about to break the law.”

“If it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me,” Jackson said.

The two detectives moved lightly down the front steps and through the small flagstoned alleyway that ran alongside the brownstone. Halfway to the rear of the house was an old wooden door with windows in it.

Razoni pressed his face to the windows and peered inside.

“Black as you,” he said. “Nobody there, dammit.”

“Maybe they’re eating pigeons on the roof, instead,” Jackson said.

“We’ll see.” Razoni drew his revolver and, using the butt of it, crisply and sharply smashed the pane of glass right next to the doorknob. There was a string of small tinkles as glass bits hit the stone floor of the cellar. Then again there was silence.

Razoni reached carefully through the broken window and unlocked the door. He and Jackson moved into the building, then waited to acclimate their eyes to the darkness.

“A ground-level basement,” Jackson said. “I thought all these buildings had real cellars.”

“This one used to,” Razoni said.

“Yeah?”

“But when it got filled with bodies, they decided to pave it over.”

Razoni led the way up the stairs toward the first floor of the house.

“Man, it’s dark in here,” Jackson said.

“Follow me. I can see in the dark.”

“I knew I should have spent my youth breaking into warehouses at night.”

“The exercise would have been good for you, Fatty. Instead, you sat home eating chitlins and ham hocks and look at the shape you’re in.”

The first floor was dark and empty. They pulled open the French doors to the sitting room but no one was inside. The trapeze hung motionless from the ceiling. It seemed strange not to see Mrs. Marichal’s blond curls in front of the canvas on the far side of the room.

They searched the first floor carefully but found no one. In the kitchen, Razoni knocked over an empty wine bottle.

Jackson led the way upstairs. Razoni trooped slowly after him through the dark. He heard something and froze on the steps.

“Tough,” he whispered.

“I hear it.”

The sound was a rustling, a small scraping noise. It seemed to come from the top of the stairs. In the silence, it echoed loud and ominous. A drape blowing against an open window? The start-up hiss of air from some kind of central air-conditioning?

It continued.

Slowly, carefully, Jackson again started up the stairs, pausing on each step to listen. He drew his pistol. Razoni’s was already in his hand.

They reached the top of the stairs before it attacked.

Razoni felt something slam against his face. It was pressed against his face. Something was smothering him.

“I got it,” he shouted. He reached up with his hands and grabbed a handful of hair. He wrenched.

There was a squawking and a chattering and a hissing. Razoni held on fiercely to the handful of hair. He felt sharp teeth bite into the back of his hand.

“Owwwww,” he yelled.

Jackson, pistol cocked, moved alongside him.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said, “will you stop fooling around with the monkey? We didn’t come here to play with the monkey.”

Razoni held the monkey by the neck in one hand. The animal was hissing and chattering. Razoni heaved him away down the corridor. The chattering stopped and again, all was silent.

“Are you ready to stop fooling around?” Jackson asked.

“That’s right. Get smart. It wasn’t you that fucker was trying to rape.”

“He must have thought he recognized you,” Jackson said.

They turned to the right, toward the door of Karen Marichal’s room. From inside, they heard no sound. Jackson reached out his hand for the doorknob.

He turned it slowly. The door lock clicked, the door began to swing open, and then the sharp report of a shot cracked out. Above Jackson’s head, the wood of the door frame splintered as a bullet slammed into it.

Razoni dived into Jackson, dragging him to the floor and pushing him to the side of the doorway. The two of them went down in a lump, Razoni’s body covering his partner’s.

The monkey, who had been hiding out of reach, saw the two men on the floor, decided that they had changed their minds about playing, and with one large bound landed on top of them.

Razoni had been scrambling toward his feet, gun cocked, ready to charge into the room, when the monkey hit him, and he went down again.

“Ed, don’t shoot,” hissed Jackson as Razoni clawed over his head, trying to get the monkey off him. “It’s probably the girl.”

Razoni punched the monkey in the stomach. The animal, ooofed, chattered, jumped, and ran. They heard it skittering down the hallway.

Razoni, from a crouch, leaned forward and with his left hand pushed the door wide open.

“We’re coming in,” he shouted.

“Come another thtep and I’ll thoot.”

Razoni stood up.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said. “It’s the twit. Hey, don’t thoot. We’re poleeth.”

Jackson got up from the floor. “Abigail, I’m Detective Jackson. Remember? We were here yesterday?”

“What do you want?” the girl called.

“We’ve come to take you home,” said Jackson.

“Ith Karen all right?”

“Karen’s being released right now,” said Jackson.

“Very good,” Razoni whispered. “Always lie.”

“Karen’s being released and there’s no reason for you to hide here anymore.”

There was a silence from inside the room, then the young woman’s voice said, “Oh, I gueth it’th all right.”

“We’re coming in,” Jackson said.

“Okay.”

They turned on the light and found Abigail Longworth huddled in a corner of the sofa, where she had been the first time they had encountered her. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt that read LOVE IS ALL and in her hand was a .38 police special.

Razoni stepped up and snatched the gun away from her.

“You could have hurt somebody,” he said.

“I thought you were burglarth,” Abigail said.

“Shoot first and ask questions later?” Razoni said.

“Why not, Ed? It’s what you do,” Jackson said.

“Oh, shut up. Who asked you? Come on, Abigail. Daddykins is waiting for you.”

“Where is everybody else, by the way? How come the house is empty?” Jackson asked.

“The Marichalth all went to picket poleeth headquarterth.”

“For what?” Razoni asked.

“To make you releathe Karen. I told them they thould hire a lawyer but they wouldn’t lithen.”

In the car on the way back, Jackson asked the young woman, “Why did you run after you gave Swami Salamanda the roses?”

“I wath afraid. I didn’t know what happened and then I thought my daddy wath going to be embarrathed if my name wath involved. Tho I panicked. Karen thaid I thould thtay in her houth for a while. Then we didn’t know what to do becauth it thounded like I killed the Thwami.”

“A likely story,” Razoni said.

“It’th a true thtory,” said Abigail heatedly.

“I think it’s a little queer,” said Razoni, underlining “queer.” “I think there are a lot of queer things in this case, starting with you.”

“You’re hateful,” Abigail said.

“Right. And as far as I’m concerned, you’re murder-suspect number one. You and Karen got the flowers for the lizard and you gave the flowers to the lizard and then the lizard died and that makes you and her the two people involved in his death.”

“By why would we kill our Thwami?”

“I don’t know. But you just tried to kill us when we opened the door to your room. We’ll find out.”

“Where’th Karen?”

“In jail, where you belong too,” Razoni said.

“Let me out of thith car,” Abigail screamed. “You tricked me. You told me Karen wath releathed. Let me out of here.”

She swung her small fists toward Razoni, but Jackson smothered her arms with his right hand, pinning her fists in her lap.