Too Old a Cat (Trace 6) (8 page)

“Right. Let’s take it from the top. What’s your full name?”

“John J. Gildersleeve. I told that to the other officers earlier.”

“Just tell me again,” Razoni said. “You live where?”

“I live in western Pennsylvania, on the site where the City of Love is being built. I am staying in town at the Hotel Palmer.”

“Why’d you come to town?” Razoni asked.

“To handle some financial matters. To assist the Swami in next Sunday’s rally. This building is really too small and I was arranging the rental of a theater. I got here just around the time the Swami was stricken.”

“When was the last time you saw him alive?”

“Last night.”

“Where?” Razoni asked.

“In his apartment here.”

“What were you doing?”

“We were discussing plans for the conference,” Gildersleeve said. “Really, do we have to go through all this again? I told it all to the other detectives.”

“Good. Then you won’t have any trouble remembering all the details. Was anybody else here?” Razoni said.

“As I told them too, no. Wait. For a while, there was a girl there.”

Razoni winked at Jackson broadly. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Was this girl the one who took a powder?”

Gildersleeve looked off into space. “No,” he said after a pause. “The girl you are seeking was new. This girl was around here for quite a while. She brought in tea last night.”

“Well, who is she?”

“I don’t know. I told you they all look alike,” Gildersleeve said. “She was tall.”

“That’s a terrific description,” Razoni said. “Tough, put out a thirteen-state alarm for her. Be sure to let everybody know she’s tall so they don’t make any mistakes.” He turned back to Gildersleeve and asked, “Is that all you remember about her?”

Sarge, from the hallway, could see Gildersleeve visibly thinking. “Tall,” the small man said. “Blond, I think. Yes, blond. I don’t know.”

“You remember her name?”

“I don’t know. Kara or Kuri or…”

“Or kitchee-koo?” Razoni said.

“Her name is Keri,” Gloria Alcetta said. “She is a follower and she is often working here.”

“Why don’t you stop asking all these questions,” Gildersleeve said, “and find that girl who killed the Swami? Really. After all I have heard about the efficient New York police. What a laugh.”

“Is that why you have pickets down around police headquarters?” Razoni said.

“I have removed the pickets,” Gildersleeve said. “I spoke to a Captain Mannion in the commissioner’s office. I told him that the followers of Swami Salamanda will wait until the end of the week for the police to do their duty. If they have failed by then, we will return and call attention to their inadequacies. This Mannion said he would assign his best men to the case.”

“He has,” Razoni said.

“You?” said Gildersleeve.

“Him,” Razoni said, jerking his thumb toward the huge figure of Tough Jackson, who leaned against a wall, taking notes. “He counts as two.”

After lighting a cigarette, Razoni asked Gloria Alcetta, “Now what’s your name again?”

“Sister Glorious.”

“And before you were Sister Glorious, you were?”

“Gloria. Gloria Charterman.” Without being asked, she gave Razoni her address on the Upper West Side.

“How long have you been with this carnival?”

Sarge saw the lovely redhead bite her lip before answering. “I have been with the Swami for three months.”

“And what’s your position?”

“I was the Swami’s assistant,” she said.

“That’s pretty fast moving for someone who’s been on board for only three months,” Razoni said. From the corner of his eye, he saw Gildersleeve nod, almost imperceptibly, but a nod nevertheless. Sarge saw it from the hallway too.

“Length of time is not the only consideration,” Gloria said. “From the time I first met the Swami, I devoted my life to him.”

“And you say this girl with the tea was Keri?”

“That’s right.”

“You have a last name for her?”

“No. We don’t deal in last names here,” she said.

“And you don’t know anything about the girl with the roses?” Razoni asked.

“Nothing. I never saw her before.”

“Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Do you people draw a salary?” Razoni asked. He looked at Gildersleeve, who nodded and said, “Yes, and the amount is none of your business.” Gloria said, “Only expenses. It was an honor to work for the Swami. There wasn’t anyone else like him.”

“I imagine not,” Razoni said. “You said the Swami had an apartment here?”

“In the back of this building,” Gildersleeve said.

“Let’s see it.”

Gildersleeve started for the door and Sarge turned his back to the doorway and started pushing his broom down the hallway. He heard their footsteps moving away and peeked over his shoulder. Gildersleeve and Gloria were leading the two detectives down the hallway, past the men’s room, past the women’s room, past a storeroom. They passed a refrigerator and Razoni opened it and looked inside, then slammed the door in disgust.

Sarge heard him grumble, “Nothing but roses in this joint.”

Razoni and Jackson followed the two officials through a door with a heavy-duty lock on it. When they were out of sight, Sarge opened the refrigerator door. It contained only a bouquet of yellow roses, tied together loosely with string, lying on their side on an otherwise empty shelf. It was a funny place to leave evidence, Sarge thought, and without knowing why, he slid one of the roses from the bunch and slipped it, stem first, into his inside jacket pocket.

When he heard a sound at the end of the hallway, he turned and started pushing the broom again. He heard the door close and then Razoni’s voice: “Nothing to see in there.”

“No. Hey, was there any beer in this refrigerator?” the black detective’s voice asked.

“No. Just some more frigging roses. This place is like a flower shop,” Razoni said.

Jackson opened the refrigerator anyway and looked at the flowers.

They passed Sarge and walked toward the end of the hallway, which led to the curtains separating this area from the large meeting room.

As they passed through the curtains, Sarge heard Razoni say, “She was sleeping with him, you know.”

“I know,” Jackson said.

“What the hell do you expect in this massage parlor?” Razoni said.

And then they were gone.

Sarge put down the broom and glanced into the two offices, but he knew it was a senseless formality because there was nothing to be seen. When he stepped out into the hall, Sister Glorious came from Salamanda’s apartment.

“Those two men who were here?” she said to Sarge. “Did they leave?”

“Detectives Razoni and Jackson?” Sarge said. “Yes. I’m working with them. Can I help?” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and showed her his badge. “Sergeant Tracy,” he said.

“Oh, good,” she said. “I just remembered something that I thought they might be interested in. I didn’t think of it, they asked so many questions.”

“I understand, ma’am,” Sarge said. “What was it?”

“There was a young man here today recording the ceremonies on television tape. He might have film of the young woman they’re looking for.”

“Well, that’s very good. Who’s the young man?”

“I don’t really know,” Gloria said.

“Was he a follower of the Swami’s?”

“I don’t really think so. But he came here quite a bit and said that he would shoot pictures for us and someday make a documentary. He seemed harmless enough and nice, so I gave him permission to do some photographing here. As I say, he might have pictures of the girl with the flowers.”

“Well, that’s very helpful, Sister,” Sarge said.

“You’ll pass it along to the other detectives?” she asked.

“I certainly will,” Sarge said.

To Trace, New York was a dentist’s drill of a city, a kind of throbbing noise that came at him from all sides and gave him a headache. He found it bearable only at times like these, Sunday evenings, when the traffic was light and the city’s population seemed magically to have been halved.

Riding in the cab from the airport, he kept looking out the back window, until Chico said, “What are you doing?”

“Keeping an eye out for the ex-wife. She may have gotten word from her spies that I’m in town.”

“All right, knock it off,” she said. “We just got here and I don’t want you to start complaining right from the git-go.”

As they drove through Manhattan, Trace said, “What is this crap? I’ve been out of the city only a couple of months and already everything’s changed.”

“Like what?” Chico said.

“All the women are wearing sneakers, for Christ’s sake. What’s that all about? Look at them all. This damn city looks like a girl’s gym.”

“It’s the new fad,” Chico said. “Women wear sneakers on the street; they carry their shoes in their purses. Then, when they get where they’re going, they put on their shoes.”

“That’s stupid,” Trace said.

“It’s comfortable. Why should only men be comfortable?” Chico asked.

“If women want to be comfortable, they don’t have to wear sneakers. They should wear comfortable shoes.”

“There are no comfortable shoes for women,” Chico said. “Not unless you have a face like a horse, wear a nubby tweed suit that could sand wood, and live in Paddlington on the Puddlington.”

“Women are dopes as human beings,” Trace said.

“Fortunately the level of competition is real low,” Chico said.

“That’s right,” the cabdriver said. “Women are dopes.”

“Hey, pal, watch the road, huh?” Trace said. “We want to get there alive. And today if you don’t mind.”

“Sorry,” the cabdriver said. “I just thought you’d want to know somebody thinks you’re right. Women are dopes.”

Chico said, “Drive the freaking cab before I put a bullet between your eyes.”

Trace sighed. Chico with a gun was going to be something to deal with. The world would never be the same.

Nothing much had changed since the last time Trace had been to Sarge’s office, a second-floor walkup over Bogie’s Restaurant. The “C” had again fallen out of the sign on the door making it TRA Y DETECTIVE AGENCY.

There were still
Playboy
centerfolds on the walls, still a ratty old velveteen couch, two metal folding chairs, an old wooden burn-scarred desk that might have once belonged to a bookkeeper for a gambling syndicate who worked in the cellar of an olive-oil warehouse.

An improvement was the calendar on the wall behind the desk. Sarge was watering plants by the windows that looked out over the street when Trace and Chico entered. Chico looked around and said softly to Trace, “What a dump.”

“Improving,” Trace said. “Last time I was here, the calendar was three years old. Now he’s got a new one. Hello, Sarge,” he called out.

Sarge turned and smiled at them. He was a big man, not as tall as Trace but broader and bulkier. His face was ruddy, but it looked like outdoor living and not whiskey had caused that. He was a little thicker around the middle than Chico remembered him, but he was a formidable-looking man, not for sixty-seven but for any age. He had a large brush of snow-white hair that made him look a little like Spencer Tracy with a mean streak. His hands were big and powerful-looking and the little metal sprinkling can, the kind children used to use on the beach before plastic enveloped the world, looked like a drinking cup in his mitt.

“Here they are. Nick and Nora,” he said. “Ready to go to work?” He came forward and embraced Chico.

“Sure,” Trace said.

“When do I get my gun?” Chico said.

“Soon, soon,” Sarge said.

“Not safe to walk down these mean streets without a gun,” Chico said.

Sarge nodded, agreeing with her. “That’s right, and you’ll have a gun mighty soon, little lady.”

“He’s jerking me around, Trace,” Chico said. “I can tell that tone in his voice, he’s jerking me around.”

“Not me, Babe,” Sarge said. “You’ve got my promise. You want some coffee?”

“Did you teach Trace how to make it?” Chico asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll pass,” she said.

“When are you and Mother leaving?” Trace said.

“Tomorrow morning. Seven days of fun and frolic in the sun. Do you know your mother gets seasick?”

“Just what she needed to make her perfect,” Chico said.

“Exactly,” Sarge said. “Seven days of watching Hilda barf. I bet you both think this is going to be fun, don’t you?”

“Maybe if she gets sick enough, she won’t spend her time complaining,” Trace offered brightly.

“She’s never been that sick,” Sarge said. “Hey, I’m sorry. Sit down, make yourselves comfortable.”

Chico looked at the shabby chocolate couch, once brown, now the color of chocolate that had aged in the open air. “Must I?” she said.

“I vacuumed that couch especially for you,” Sarge said with a hurt expression.

“Turn down the suction. You pulled off all the nap,” Chico said.

“Very funny. Is she always this funny?”

“Always before she eats,” Trace said.

“We’re having dinner tonight at my house,” Sarge said. “Mother’s cooking. So you can get the lay of the land.”

Trace looked at her, then took her arm and led her to one of the folding chairs and elaborately helped her sit down.

“Can the manners,” she said. “What lay of the land?”

“So you know where everything is in our house,” Sarge said.

“Why should I want to know where everything is in your house?” Chico said.

Sarge shrugged puzzlement and looked at Trace, who told Chico, “I forgot to tell you something.”

“Tell away. I know I’m going to love it.”

“I told Sarge that you and I would stay at their house until they got back,” he said.

Chico made a growling sound in the back of her throat.

“It’s not that bad,” Trace said. “My mother’s not going to be there.”

Chico growled again.

“Look at the bright side,” Trace said.

“There
is
no bright side,” she said. “You watch. Your mother’s going to have a list made of everything she owns in that house. Every junk spoon-rest she ever bought in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Every plastic ashtray from Miami Beach. She’s going to make us sign an inventory. And when she gets back, she’s going to check every item on the list before she releases our bags. I know it, I can feel it, I can see it coming.”

“The bright side, the bright side,” Trace said.

“I’m waiting,” she said.

“I’m going to try to get a job out of the insurance company. What I figured I’d do is tell them we’re staying in a New York hotel while we’re on the job, see, and then make them pay for the hotel. And all the while, we’ll be in the lap of luxury out at Sarge’s house. In a week, I’ll be able to beat the company out of a thousand dollars or so.”

“Let’s spend the thousand and stay in a hotel,” Chico said.

“We’re starting out in business,” Trace said. “Every dollar counts.”

“I don’t want to count a dollar. I don’t want to beat the insurance company out of money and I don’t want to be in your mother’s house. Excuse me, Sarge, nothing against you, but that woman doesn’t like me.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Sarge said.

“It’s not true,” Trace said. “She doesn’t not like you. She hates you.”

“Much more accurate,” Sarge agreed. “It’ll work out, you’ll see.”

“I hate it,” Chico said.

Sarge went to his jacket, hung on a hook screwed into the plaster wall, and when he turned, he held a yellow rose. He stepped forward and handed it to Chico.

“Sort of a welcoming gift,” he said.

“How nice.” She sniffed the rose and Sarge said. “Smell but don’t taste. It may be poisoned.” When Chico looked up, he said, “The case I’m working on.”

Anxious to change the subject from the question of where they were spending the night, Trace looked at Chico and said, “If we’re going to be partners and all, I think it’s a good idea for Sarge to tell us about his cases, don’t you?”

“I don’t want to stay at your mother’s,” Chico said.

“Come on, Sarge,” said Trace. “Let’s talk money.”

“If we’re going to be partners here,” Chico said, “we ought to see the books. Make him show you the books.”

“Show me the books,” Trace said.

Sarge tapped his forehead. “I’ve got it all up here.”

Trace tapped his mouth. “Make it all come out here.”

Sarge sat down heavily behind the desk. “You have to realize that getting this furniture was a cash deal.”

“How much did they pay you to take it?” Chico asked. “That should be listed under miscellaneous income.”

“Very funny. She’s very funny, isn’t she, son?”

“Don’t ‘son’ me. You only ‘son’ me when you’re trying to run a con. We’re waiting for an accounting. We’re going to cast our lot in with you in the detective business, we ought to know if we’re going to have bread on the table.”

“We’re family,” Sarge said with a grin. “What is all this accounting stuff?”

“It’s one of the things I learned in the restaurant business,” Trace said.

“What was that?”

“Don’t invest money with friend or family unless you’re holding a hostage.”

“I don’t understand this attitude,” Sarge said.

“You’re suggesting that we invest money in this so-called firm,” Chico said. “You’re suggesting that we temporarily uproot ourselves from our very comfortable life…”

“In the desert,” Sarge said. “With the snakes.”

“At least the women don’t wear sneakers all the time,” Trace said. “You’re asking us to possibly move to New York—New York, for God’s sakes—and we’re not buying a pig in a poke. The accounting, please.”

“All right. This is it approximately,” Sarge said. “I didn’t know you two were going to audit me today or I would have had Touche Ross send in the four accountants I keep on retainer.”

“Go ahead,” Trace said.

“All right. Approximately. Since January first, the firm has taken in about eleven thousand dollars. I’ve paid myself about seven thousand dollars in salary. Expenses have been almost three thousand dollars. A thousand dollars left for profit or operating, and that’s in the bank. Satisfied?”

“No,” Chico said. “Your expenses are too high. From now on, you’re going to have to find a better class of people to give you money to take their old furniture away. And spend less money on blondes with legs from here to here.”

“Tell us about your pending cases,” Trace said.

“Actually it’s a pending
case
,” Sarge said.

“It better be a big case if it’s going to support all of us,” Trace said.

“Poisoned rose, right?” Chico said, waving the yellow rose in the air. “Murder, right? Danger, intrigue, shoot-outs in alleys. I’ll take it, just as soon as you give me a gun.”

“Well, actually,” Sarge said, “all I’m handling is the possible divorce end of it.”

Trace and Chico were silent. She slowly jabbed the pointed end of the rose stem into her palm. Finally, Sarge told them the story of how Angelo Alcetta had hired him to check out his wife and how her religious leader had been murdered that very day.

“You say this is one of the roses?” Chico asked.

Shrugging, Sarge said, “I don’t know. I doubt it. This was in the refrigerator and I don’t think even today’s cops are stupid enough to leave evidence in a refrigerator at the scene.”

“So what about your report to this Alcetta character?” Trace asked.

“I just finished it up before you arrived. Tomorrow ends the three days of surveillance, so I was hoping you’d call him and give him the report.”

“Think there’s any hope there that he might ask us to keep watching her?” Trace asked.

“Damned if I know. Who knows what Italians think?” Sarge said. “Oh, this is the wife, by the way.” He opened the folder on the desk and took out the wallet-sized picture of Gloria Alcetta.

Trace looked at it and passed it to Chico. “I’ll get right on it,” he said.

“Not with me in town, you won’t,” Chico said.

“How much of your business does Mother know?” Trace asked.

“Nothing. I don’t tell her what I do or what I make. She doesn’t want to know. She just doesn’t want me to ask her for money, so I don’t.”

“Okay. We’ll keep it that way, then. No talking business in the house,” Trace said.

“We talk business now, though,” Chico said.

“Sure.”

“Talk away,” Sarge said.

“Okay. First thing is you don’t do enough business here for us to invest money in it. That’s just sensible from my standpoint. And from Trace’s standpoint, he doesn’t have any money, ’cause he never does.”

Sarge started to speak but she silenced him by raising the rose over her head like a sword.

“So scratch us as investment sources. What we
can
do is try working here for a while to see if we can expand the business. If we can, then we can do something about salaries and ownership and like that. How does that sound?”

“It sounds all right,” Sarge said, “but I don’t want you to downgrade the business. Just remember, nobody ever went broke taking a small profit.”

“And you remember, nobody ever got fat eating three from one dish,” Chico said.

“Speaking of which, let’s go home and eat,” Trace said.

“Good idea,” Chico said. “And then we’ll talk about getting me a gun.”