Murder Me for Nickels Read online

  I ordered another drink.

  “I know nothing about any of that.”

  “Then why are we talking here?” she asked me, and all that female suspicion was smiling at me.

  My drink came and I picked it up.

  “May all my affairs go better than this one.”

  “You left out the part about business.”

  “I wish I could.”

  “But don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’ll keep reminding you.”

  “I’m beginning to dread the rest of the evening,” I told her. “Don’t you?”

  “I’m having a nice time,” she said. “You’re such a bad promoter, I don’t dread you at all.”

  The compliment was so doublejointed I let it lie. I took it for its best possible meaning, said thank you, and tried again to talk about singing careers.

  “When I handle talent,” I said, “first thing is, we show mutual trust. First thing is…”

  “All I know is, your name is Jack.”

  That’s when Lippit’s lawyer walked in. He came up to the bar, asked for a shot, poured it down, put his change on the counter.

  “What if your name is really John?” she was saying. “What if you’re John the Ripper instead of Jack and here…”

  “One moment. Just one moment.”

  The lawyer was turning to leave when he spotted me. He barely nodded, being either discreet or distracted, but when I waved at him to come over he came. He said, “Hi, Jack.”

  I looked at the girl to make sure she had heard that. “So you’re Jack the Ripper,” she said.

  “You tell my friend Doris,” I said to the lawyer, “that I’m actually in the music business. Tell her.”

  “Hehe,” he went. Just like that. “Yeah,” he said, and “hehehe.”

  He was either completely distracted or had some ridiculous notion that he should be discreet Either way, the next thing was, Doris did the same thing. “Hehe,” she went, and, “What nice friends you have.”

  The lawyer gave a small bow, as if he had just heard a compliment. He was distracted all right. Then he looked at me and said, “You’re coming, aren’t you?”

  “I am neither coming nor going. It’s been like that for a while now.”

  “The party,” he said. “I’m just going up now.”

  “No,” I said. “You go. I’m not.”

  He nodded and left, discreet and distracted.

  “What kind of a party is that?” asked the girl.

  “We’re not going.”

  “What I mean is, here he has to come in for a quick shot before going there.”

  “It’s a lousy party and we don’t need it.”

  I didn’t need it The first thing she would learn, I wasn’t a talent promoter. The next thing Lippit would learn, I had private business connections. And the least thing the girl would find out, St. Louis was a very poor liar. To hell with Lippit’s party.

  “There’s a band in the next room,” Doris was saying. “You hear it?”

  “Nice beat,” I said, “I know the drummer.”

  “My kind of music,” she said.

  Then it hit me I had made another mistake. I had the wild fear that she wanted to sing with that band, that I should go ask the boys if they’d let her sing just one number, her favorite number, for me-big promoter. It was true I knew the drummer, but what price friendship?

  “And I love dancing,” she said.

  We went into the next room and danced. It was very good. She held on well, she felt good, she moved very nicely and stayed as close as was needed. I forgot about all my bad times after a while and my plans for the evening took a happier turn.

  Then they changed again.

  “I’m sorry,” said Doris, “but there’s no cutting in here, you know.”

  She said this past my ear and across my shoulder, so I turned around to see who was doing this flattering thing.

  There was Pat, Lippit’s Pat, but the way she was smiling and being polite it would have been gauche to say anything but Patricia to her.

  “Why, dear,” she said. “Dear Jacky. And here I had thought, the way that lawyer was talking, that you must be involved in some miserable kind of business. But you aren’t, are you?”

  “This is Doris,” I said, “who was a friend of mine, and this is Pat. Likewise.”

  They smiled at each other like two Cheshire cats. I was the mouse.

  It took a little arguing-not too much-and Pat took us along to the party. We walked the two blocks to Lippit’s apartment and there was conversation all the time. I don’t remember just what. It was that polite.

  Lippit’s party, any other time, might have been a very nice thing. Lippit was loud and cheerful, liquor and things were spread three rows deep, the foreman was there and some other people, and there were even two girls whom I didn’t know. As it stood, I had enough with the two I did know.

  First thing, Pat introduced Lippit.

  “This is Mister Lippit,” said Pat to Doris, “your host and Jack’s boss.”

  Doris was sweet. She hung on my arm, staying close, and said, “You must be the Lippit who doesn’t like Benotti. Jack here was telling me about that.”

  “He was?” said Lippit.

  “Well, what I mean is, not in so many words. But I could tell by the way he acted. Like this morning, you know. I work right next to Benotti’s place.”

  Lippit laughed very loud. He went hawk, hawk, hawk, and wasn’t that something. Then Pat took Doris to the liquor table.

  “Tell me something,” said Lippit “Maybe I should have invited that cop captain from this morning, too?”

  Of course, he wasn’t laughing any more when he said that.

  Then Doris came back, and Pat, and Lippit went away. On the way he went hawk, hawk, again and gave Doris a fatherly wink.

  “Doris tells me,” said Pat, “that you’re a promoter.”

  “What she means…”

  “That you’re trying to help her with her singing career.”

  I said, “Why didn’t you bring a drink for me?”

  “We forgot,” said Doris. “We were talking.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “And I was telling Doris,” said Pat, “what a sweet dress she is wearing. Did you notice, Jack, that it doesn’t have any zipper?”

  “I’m going to get me that drink.”

  I had to wait at the liquor table because a fellow named Dick was ahead of me, and two girls with him. There was a blonde and a redhead and one was in front of the other. The one who stood in back was fiddling with the dress of the other.

  “You got some material jammed into it,” she said to the blonde, “and I can’t get it to move up or down.”

  Then she looked at me. I turned around and left without a drink.

  Lippit was at the piano and Pat and Doris were, too. I could see Lippit sit down on the bench and I could see Pat talking to Doris. Then, as might happen when the party is informal and friendly, Lippit worked the piano and Doris started to sing. The girl sounded good.

  Pat put her drink down on the piano because I was sure she meant to clap any moment.

  Doris did not have a sweet voice. She was a belter. I should have known. But she was good.

  Pat, who was smiling like never before, came over and leaned by the wall next to me.

  “You like her?” she asked.

  “Like her?”

  “Her singing, Jack.”

  “I can’t tell. There is so much talking.”

  “Just shop talk,” she said. “Like between you and her.”

  “She and I were dancing. She and I were just dancing.”

  But Pat had her topic.

  “What label is she going to sing on, promoter?”

  “How do I know? All I ever said…”

  “I think she said Blue Beat. Could that possibly be, Jack?”

  “No. That could not be, Pat.”

  “I didn’t think so either, Jack. I mean, she would almost have to know s
omebody there, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. Such a voice.”

  “Yes.”

  Doris finished and Pat clapped very hard. She was the hostess. She went to the piano, took Doris by the arm, and brought her over to me.

  “Jack thinks,” Pat was saying, “that something can really be done with your talent. Isn’t that so, Jack?”

  I didn’t have to answer. They both took care of the talking. They twittered back and forth for a while and before Pat went someplace else in the room, being hostess, she asked Doris to be sure and tell her everything I might explain, about how it’s done, making a singing career.

  “You start with a good promoter,” said Doris.

  “Yes. Of course. That’s the problem,” and then Pat went away.

  I took my other nemesis out to the balcony because I felt like breathing a lot of air. We stood at the railing, six stories up, and I looked at the dark sky and Doris looked down at the lights of the city.

  “What did she mean, Jack, about my dress not having any zipper?”

  I said, “Just a minute,” and went inside to the table with liquor where I got a drink same as at the bar. Only much bigger. I took it back out to the balcony but had some of it on the way.

  “Because actually it does have a zipper. Only hidden,” said Doris.

  I had more of the scotch, getting down to the halfway mark, and paid attention to the stuff spreading inside like summer sunshine.

  “Aren’t you going to answer?”

  “To hell with that,” I said. “From now on, little sweets, I set the topic.”

  Almost all of the evening had gone to pot. Pat catching on to my record connection, Doris catching on to my Lippit connection, and the only one missing all the connections, Jack St. Mouse. I put my drink on the railing, my hand on the girl’s back, and gave her a smart turn in my direction. When the angle was right I nipped down and hung on for a right, regular kiss.

  It caught her on the point of wanting to say something or other but she gave that up. She met the change in demand and hung on, too. After a while we let go, but not too far apart. Though we had nothing to say to each other. So she moved in again, with a lot of purpose, and we did it again, like before, only feeling much more familiar.

  I held the back of her neck, where the skin was lovely, I held her arm, where the skin was lovely, and I felt her cheek from close, also lovely. The summer night and the city below and the party hum must have all been romantic, though the thought is an afterthought because I paid no attention. And the girl didn’t either, I think, because she said nothing about it. When we did talk it was just to check plans.

  “Like the party?” she asked.

  “Lousy party.”

  “I think so, too.”

  “But you sang nice.”

  “Don’t talk business now.”

  “I’m done promoting.”

  “I was noticing,” she turned a little, to look into the room. “And something else.”

  “Who?”

  “Your friend, Pat.”

  “Coming this way and smiling like a Cheshire cat.”

  “Except,” Doris said, “this one will not disappear.”

  “Lousy party,” I said, and we let go enough to be able to walk. We walked back into the apartment, to the kitchen where Lippit was getting ice. We said good-bye to him first.

  “Leaving already?”

  “Doris has got to go to bed.”

  “Already?”

  “Yes.”

  Then we walked out of the kitchen and almost into Pat who had been following not too far behind.

  “Leaving already?”

  “Doris has got to go to bed.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  In the elevator we had six floors to keep checking plans.

  “You’re not tired, are you?”

  “No,” she said. “Do I act tired?”

  “No. But you’re going to bed.”

  “I know.”

  That doesn’t seem like much conversation for six floors of a city apartment, and it isn’t Then we drove to my place, she over there, me over here and both hands on the wheel. I never drive fast one-handed. I live five floors up but this time we didn’t talk at all.

  Doris was wearing a little jacket and while I got the key into the door she took it off. The simple gesture, because of the state I was in, made me very tense. When the phone rang in my apartment, I almost broke off the key in the lock.

  We looked at each other. Doris still had one arm in her jacket and didn’t take it out.

  “I bet that phone’s right next to your bed,” she said.

  “I don’t know. I think it jumped off the night table and is coming this way.”

  “You’re not going to look?”

  “I’m afraid to look. It might be smiling, like a Cheshire Cat.”

  “It heard you,” said Doris, because right then the phone stopped ringing.

  We went inside, into the bedroom, and I turned on the light. Doris still had one arm in her jacket. I went over and tore the phone out of the wall and Doris dropped the jacket on the ground.

  Like I said once, her dress didn’t interfere much with the girl underneath, and in a short while it didn’t at all. Then nothing did. She sat down on the bed and waited.

  “Leave the light on,” she said.

  I did. I just turned the phone around because I didn’t like the look on the dial face.

  “May all my affairs end like this one.”

  Peter Rabe

  Murder Me for Nickels

  Chapter 11

  I had a time waking her in the morning but she had to be at work. When she was good and awake I had a notion she should stay in bed a little bit longer, but she said I should take her home or she would never come back. The thought was new to me but it was a good one.

  I took her home first, to change, and then to her office. The Benotti place, I could see from across the street, showed some activity. There was somebody with a broom and somebody else with a clip board and pencil and what they were working on must have been inventory.

  Then I drove off, top down, for some morning air and deep breathing, a refreshing way of starting the day and more harmless, it is my feeling, when done in a convertible, than in the fanatic’s manner, such as calisthenics or hikes.

  At eight-thirty I had ham and eggs, at nine o’clock it was still too early for anything. Lippit, after all, had been having a party. I spent twenty minutes or so calling a few of our places and the word was peace in each case and we’re glad it’s over. I had chitchat with a few of them-what is called customer relations work-and it was, “Why don’t you drop in sometime,” and, “Sure, Jack, the machines are fine.” In two places our service hop with the change of records was late but that happened sometimes and was not a real complaint.

  At ten o’clock I rang the bell of Lippit’s apartment.

  “The door’s open!”

  The morning paper was in front of the door and I brought that with me.

  But they didn’t pay any attention to me. I stood there with the paper in my hand and watched Lippit try to get into his jacket. He was so mad it took him twice as long as it would have taken a child.

  “And if I want back talk,” he was yelling, “I’ll ask for it. And if you can’t handle a sane conversation, then don’t talk to me!”

  Pat was on the couch, holding a coffee cup, but then she put it down to be less encumbered.

  “And if you don’t like me to talk to your help then don’t invite them up here for a party!”

  “You telling me who to invite and who not?”

  “Whom, Walter.”

  “I’m going nuts!”

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “You go to hell, too!” said Lippit.

  I went back to the door and said, “All right. I’ll see you, maybe?” but then he called after me I should wait, he’d come along right away.

  I stood around while he finished with
his jacket and while Pat sipped her coffee as if it was poison but she liked drinking poison. Once she kicked at a glass on the floor.

  The whole place was a mess. It was the standard post-party formula of cigarette butts, dead soldiers, brown dregs in the bottoms of glasses with lipstick stains on the rim. Sometimes there was a switch on the order of things and there was liquor in an ashtray and butts in a liquor glass.

  I said, “How was last night?”

  “I was just going to ask you the same thing,” said Pat.

  “Don’t answer her.” Lippit had his jacket on but had forgotten to put on a tie. “Or you’ll end up like this room.”

  I shrugged and went to the couch, meaning to sit there and wait for Lippit.

  “Better not,” said Pat, “or Walter will worry that I’ll make a pass at you.”

  “After last night,” he said without turning, “I wouldn’t wonder.”

  They spat at each other a little while longer and I went away from that couch and sat on the window sill. In a way it was just a post-party haggle about who made a pass at whom. Not my worry. Their worry. Except, I had a notion why Pat had behaved that way.

  And I don’t mean she was jealous in the antique sense of the word. Pat was modern. She and I on that couch-was it two nights ago? — that was fairly modern. Cerebral, is what I mean, and reminding of business. And then Doris had to stand by the piano and sing that song. And the chitchat about me promoting her talent. And Pat’s ambitions…

  Lippit might think this was a post-party skirmish. I didn’t Maybe Pat didn’t.

  I said, “You call me last night, Walter?”

  “Huh?”

  “No,” said Pat. “I did.”

  “Whatever for?” Lippit wanted to know.

  “Just for kicks,” said Pat “That’s all.”

  “Brother,” said Lippit. “Bu-rother.”

  It showed how mean Pat had felt and how much Lippit was out of it.

  “That all you going to say?” Pat asked him. She put her coffee cup down and got ready for him.

  Lippit had his tie on, his jacket, and now he grabbed his hat.

  “I’m getting out of here,” he said, and we started walking.

  “Jeez, you’d think she and me here was married.”

  When we closed the door Pat said, “Bu-rother.”

  That’s all she did. So far.