Death is the Last Lover (Prologue Books) Read online

  I knew more about Mousie Lawrence than Parker did.

  Mousie Lawrence, born Morris Lawrence, was a fifty-year-old man with all the moral scuples of a despondent rodent. He was small, wiry, rough, tough and heartless. Fifteen years ago he was still groping, clawing for his niche in the world of his peers — that was when he was apprehended and jugged for armed robbery. But Mousie was not stupid and he had come a long way since then. Ten years ago, he had hooked up with a major narcotics outfit operating out of Mexico City, and he had been paired off with Kiddy Malone. They had fitted together like a screw and bolt, they had complemented one another: they were a rousing success in the nefarious traffic which was their milieu. They were front men, advance men, salesmen. Operating out of Mexico City, with enormous funds at their disposal, they descended upon various points in the United States where they set up depots, organized intricate personnel, managed and stayed with an operation until it was meshed, geared, flawless, and self-performing. Then they retreated to home base, where minds concentrated on the next site of burgeoning business for this enterprising duo. Mousie was a sour little man, dry and humorless, and a teetotaler both of alcohol and drugs. Kiddy Malone was an addict, a small man like Mousie, but outgoing, robust, twinkling-eyed and happy-natured when he was on the stuff — and since he was in the business, he was always on the stuff. Kiddy’s Christian name was Kenneth and I was much more intimately acquainted with Kiddy than I was with Mousie Lawrence. Kiddy was an Irishman out of Dublin. Sixteen years ago he had been a seaman who had jumped ship and had remained, without benefit of quota or citizenship, in the United States. Kiddy was a woman’s man, and I had first met him when he had got into trouble with his first woman in this country (or second or third or thereabouts). He had been effusively appreciative of my efforts in his behalf — which was no more than fair since he could not afford to pay for such efforts at that time in his career — and a casual acquaintanceship had ripened into a rather ribald and entertaining friendship, until Kiddy had commenced to sin with the syndicate, and I had commenced to disapprove of the new ways and habits of one Kiddy Malone. Before long, Kiddy’s papers were straightened out, a forged citizenship was forged for him, and he began to patronize the correct tailors, the correct haberdashers, the correct barbers, the correct booters, and he began to flash bankrolls as thick as salami sandwiches. He also began to hit the stuff himself — a mainliner — and he became a personality. Then came Mexico City, his hookup with Mousie, and the flourishing of a successful partnership.

  I hailed a cab as I thought about Mousie and Kiddy. If Mousie was in New York, so was Kiddy, and if they were in New York, they were working on a deal, and if they were working on a deal, it was not the kind of deal that Parker was talking about. Mousie and Kiddy in a mugging act was as difficult to contemplate as Rogers and Hammerstein doing words and music for the pornography of a college-boys’s stag party.

  Something stank. Out loud.

  The cab driver said, “You didn’t tell me where to, Jack.”

  “Nirvana Ballroom,” I said. “You know where?”

  “I know where,” he said and he squinted unpleasantly at the rear-view.

  At Fifty-fifth and Broadway, I paid, alighted, by-passed Nirvana, and went into a drug store. I bought cigarettes and gave the man a dollar for change. I took the change to a phone booth and called Adam Frick’s. There was no answer at Adam Frick’s. So I checked the phone book and called Barbara Phelps. I expected the butler to answer, hoped that Adam would answer, but Mrs. Phelps came on directly.

  “Yes?” she said in a vinegar voice.

  “Mrs. Phelps?”

  “This is Mrs. Phelps.”

  “This is Peter Chambers,” I said.

  “Ah, you have some news for me?” she said.

  “Not yet,” I said, “but I’m working on it.”

  “But you called — ”

  “Is Adam Frick there?”

  There was the skip-silence of a moment’s hesitation, then, “Yes, he is here, but why — ”

  “There’s a lead on Mr. Phelps,” I said. “I need somebody I can trust to help me. I called Mr. Frick at home, he wasn’t in, and I thought — ”

  “Just a moment,” she said, “I’ll put him on.”

  Frick said: “Yes, Peter?”

  “Hold the receiver close to your ear,” I said.

  “Yes, Peter.”

  “I told her I needed you to help me on the Phelps thing. I don’t need you for that, but you told me you wanted me to call, so I’m calling. You still want to talk?”

  “Yes, Peter.”

  “You don’t mind my bailing you out of there, do you?”

  “Not at all, Peter.”

  “Okay, meet me in … an hour. Lorenzo’s bar. One hour. Lorenzo’s bar.”

  “A half hour?” he said.

  “You want it in a half hour?” I said.

  “Yes, Peter.”

  “Okay. Half hour. Lorenzo’s.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Don’t mention it, Mr. Frick.”

  I hung up, went out, and once again I paid admission for the privilege of entering into the fragrant dimness of Nirvana. I went immediately to the bar.

  “Hi, Mac,” said my bartender. “You back already?”

  “Who can resist Nirvana?”

  “Brother, you’re talking. A guy like me behind this bar, he can go out of his mind. Especially I’m married to a gal ain’t particular beautiful. A little bit on the ugly side, but you kind of get used to them when they got other things on the ball. You looking for Miss Sierra?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Kind of where you left her,” he said. “Maybe sopping up the stuff, for all I know. Another sucker bought a bottle, but she got rid of the sucker quick. She ain’t in a good mood, if you ask me. What’d you do to her, Mac?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Maybe that’s why she ain’t in a good mood. Why don’t you try again?”

  “I’m going,” I said.

  This time I bought one dollar’s worth of tickets and they were snapped at me with a sniff by the redhead at the box office. Sniff or no sniff, all I wanted to do was get through to the roped-off area, and I wanted to get through as inexpensively as possible as long as the lady in red was not being impressed this evening by a great show of tickets. I found her seated at exactly the same table, and alone. She seemed to be studying the untouched drink in front of her, but that study was not all-inclusive because she said without looking up, “Sit down, lover. Glad you’re back.”

  “Didn’t know you noticed.” I sat opposite.

  “I noticed,” she said, “and I’m really glad you’re back. I hope you’re staying this trip.”

  “I don’t think I am.”

  “Then why’d you come back?”

  “I love you,” I said.

  “The hell with you,” she said, “lover. Have a drink. Glasses on the tray, bottle under the table and it’s Scotch.”

  I reached and found the bottle. It had hardly been used. I poured, restored the bottle, said, “You off the stuff?”

  “No fun drinking alone. I like to drink with company I like. You’re company I like, but you weren’t here. Where were you, lover?”

  “Looking at pictures.”

  “Looking at pictures?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Clean or dirty pictures?”

  “Dirty pictures,” I said and brought them out, full face and profile, and I handed them to her quick-like, all of a sudden — and I saw her start before she pulled back into control. “Do you know the guy?” I said.

  “No,” she said and returned the pictures.

  “Ever see the guy?” I put the pictures back in my pocket.

  “No,” she said.

  “Have it your own way,” I said and sipped at my drink. “Have what my own way?”

  “Skip it,” I said. “You’re beautiful. I love you.”

  “Have what my own way?” she sa
id.

  “You’re beautiful,” I said.

  “Where’d you get those pictures?”

  “A friend of mine gave them to me.”

  “He’s no friend of yours.”

  “Who isn’t?”

  “Whoever gave them to you,” she said. “Give them back.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “They’re trouble. Strictly.”

  “How would you know? You never saw the guy, remember?”

  “I’m psychic,” she said and smiled with all the beautiful teeth, and I wished I could stay with her. “I’m going to see your boss,” I said. “And then will you stick around?”

  “No, but I’ll try to be back.”

  “Look, let’s stop playing shuttlecock. You my date for tonight — or no?”

  “Or yes. But I got work to do in between.”

  “Now look. Either you stick around, or I’m getting out of here. For tonight, I’ve had it. You’re a bad influence. You take my mind off my work.”

  “I’ll try to be back,” I said. “Please.”

  “Well, you’re either back real quick, or I’m not here. We’ll catch up another night.”

  “Tonight,” I said. “I’ll try to be back.”

  “It’s your life,” she said. She looked at me, dark-eyed sullen, looked past me. “Don’t bother going upstairs for the boss,” she said. “He’s at the coffee-bar, and he’s watching us as if he’s expecting us to break a law.”

  I did not turn to look.

  “I’d like to talk to him alone,” I said.

  “Gentle hint for me to take my fanny elsewhere,” she said. “Boy, I could learn to hate you quick.”

  “It’s just I want to talk to him alone,” I said.

  “The hell with you, lover. If this is your way of trying to put the make on me, maybe you’ve got the right idea. I’m burning, but I’m still interested. You’re a funny joe, but at least you’re different. Okay, I’ll blow. And if you’ve got to get out of here, get out right after you talk to Steve. After that, I may wait around a while, but I’m not going to wait around long. You’ve got things on your mind? Well, so have I.” She stood up and kissed the top of my head, lightly. “Good-bye, crazy-joe. The hell with you.”

  She went away.

  Watching her, going away, in that tight red dress, was like watching a conglomerate of all the strip shows on Fifty-second Street. Only better. I cursed her, me, and the business I was in. I reached down for the bottle to add more color to my drink and I saw the well-shod feet stop at my table. I said, still stooped for the bottle, and to impress him with my prowess as a peeper: “Sit down, Stevie. Have a drink. On the house.”

  I heard his chuckle.

  I came up with the bottle in my hand.

  “Got eyes in your ass,” he said.

  “Standard equipment for the private peeper,” I said. “Sit down, Stevie. Have a drink.”

  “Not drinking, thanks,” he said. “But I’ll sit.”

  “I’m honored,” I said. He sat. I put the bottle back under the table.

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said. “And vice versa,” I said.

  “I mean on that Vivian Frayne deal,” he said. “What do you think I mean?” I said. He smiled at me. I smiled at him.

  “Maybe I’ve got a little dope for you,” he said. “I’m always anxious for a little dope,” I said. “Gordon Phelps,” he said. “Maybe that’s not all dope,” I said.

  “Maybe he’s more of a dope than you think,” he said. “And he thinks.”

  “Like how?” I said.

  He sighed, sorrowfully. He sneaked a hand across the table, hooked my drink, and drank from it. “That son of a bitch tried to put me in the middle. Well, I’ve decided to move over and put him in the middle.”

  “You mean there’s room for both of you?”

  “I mean there’s room for him.”

  “Go, boy,” I said. “Whoever’s in the middle — that’s my job.”

  He sighed again, sorrowfully. “Vivian Frayne knew that George Phillips was Gordon Phelps.”

  “You tell her?”

  “She told me!”

  “Well now, there’s a switch. How’d she know?”

  “I don’t know how she knew.”

  “Well, why’d she mention it to you?”

  “She wanted advice.”

  “About what?”

  “About making it pay off.”

  “Would you kindly break that down for me,” I said, “Mr. Pedi?”

  “The fish was on the line,” he said. “The bait was swallowed and the hook was through the lip. She had him, but she didn’t quite know how to reel him in — and for how much.”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “I don’t monkey with that stuff. And if I did, I wouldn’t monkey with a dame like Vivian, not with a close deal, not Vivian, you’d never know when she’d go holy-roller on you. Great gal for love that one was, but you didn’t monkey with her on a deal, she was too … unpredictable.”

  “The hook was through the lip?” I said.

  “She had him. He really went for her. Why, he once even gave her a gun.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She told me.”

  “What for a gun?”

  “There were burglaries in her apartment house. She was leery. A gun is a kind of consolation. A gal like that couldn’t get a license for a gun, legitimate. So Phelps lent her his. It made her feel better.”

  I wondered whether Detective Lieutenant Parker would be as anxious for Phelps if he knew that the gun he had found in the apartment had been there on a kosher lend-lease deal. On the other hand, he might be. The fact that Phelps had lent her the gun for possible defensive purposes did not preclude Phelps’ use of the selfsame gun for possible offensive purposes.

  “What, exactly,” I asked of Steve Pedi, “did Vivian want you to do?”

  “She wanted me to move in on it, to take over, to bat the fish over the head and put him into the boat, safe and sound.”

  “For how much?” I said.

  “She figured he’d be good for a hundred thousand big ones.”

  “And you moved away from that kind of money?”

  “That chick was trouble, no matter how much money. I’ve been around a little. You stay out of deals with a Vivian Frayne.”

  “You turned her down cold?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And she moved along with it — on her own?”

  “I’m sure of that.”

  “So what’s that got to do with me, Stevie?”

  “I’m putting him in the middle, that’s what it’s got to do with you.”

  “Just break that down a little more, please, Stevie.”

  “Let’s say she put the shove on him for a hundred thousand. Let’s say he could stand that kind of shove, but let’s says he figured it would be the first of many. So, maybe, he doesn’t like it. Maybe he hates it. When you’ve got a hate going, when there’s a panic scraping away at you….”

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Stevie.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Vivian was killed by Phelps’ gun.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “But would a guy kill a girl with his own gun, and leave the gun there?”

  “This guy’s no pro in the business. There’s an argument, he lets her have it, and he runs. He don’t have time to figure angles.”

  “But the door was locked from the outside. Did he have time to stop for that?”

  “Maybe.”

  “But he claims he has no key.”

  “So? He claims.”

  “But that’s been verified.”

  “How?”

  “Her diary says the same thing. Phelps had no key.”

  “Maybe he had a key, and she didn’t know about it. Could happen, you know. Maybe he knows what the diary says, so he purposely locks the door — which is almost like an alibi. He says he’s got no key, the diary says he’s got no key, an
d the door’s locked — so he couldn’t have done it. Follow me?”

  “Would you testify to all of this, Stevie-boy?”

  “Me? I testify to nothing.”

  “So what’s the sense to your telling me?”

  “I’m giving you a steer, pal, that’s the sense. That old bird tried to put me in the middle, didn’t he?”

  I tried out a smirk on him. (Have you ever tried to smirk?) “He sure did put you in the middle,” I said. “Are you copping a plea? Do you say he was lying?”

  “Damn right he was lying.”

  “About your argument with her? Your threat?”

  He shoved a thumb at my shoulder. “A hundred percent snow-job. He was counter-punching, trying to stick me in the middle.”

  “Well, suppose he says you’re lying about this — ”

  “I’m sure he would, the old son of a bitch.”

  “So whom do I believe?”

  “I don’t care whom the hell you believe, pal. The old bum talked first, didn’t he? So all right. So I think about it. So I decide I’ll do a little rat-job too. He’s putting you on me for that murder, so okay, I’m putting you right back on him. Like that we’re even up. You can go from there, fella.”

  “Where do Mousie and Kiddy go?”

  “What? What’s that?”

  Our eyes met across the table like a collision. “Mousie Lawrence and Kiddy Malone,” I said. “You’re using fancy names,” he said softly. “You know them?”