down."
"You seem very like The Bronx," she said, and pressed her mouth against mine and we didn't talk much for a while.
12
"So," Susan said, "what progress with April?"
We were still undressed, but we were sitting upright on the sofa now, drinking Chandon Blanc de Noirs from fluted glasses, our feet on the coffee table.
"Around none," I said. "There's something I don't like going on, but I don't know what it is."
"You must be used to that, by now," Susan said. She had her head resting against my shoulder. My left arm was around her.
"I've never learned to like it," I said. "I go see April and then when I go back she's gone, so I go see her pimp and somebody has obviously cleaned his clock and he won't say anything and he's scared to death and says I'm going to get us both killed. So I leave him and go see Ginger Buckey and she's not on the streets."
"Maybe the women are simply busy at their work."
"Maybe. But who beat up Rambeaux and why and what have I got to do with it?"
"You're sure it was because of you?"
"Yeah. Rambeaux was clear on that. His biggest sweat was to get me out of there and not be seen with me. He was so scared he couldn't sit straight."
Susan was tracing the mark on my chest where Sherry Spellman had shot me. Low down there was another mark and below that a mark where there had been a drain.
"God," Susan said, "you look like a scuffed shoe."
"But sinewy and desirable," I said.
"Of course." She sipped some champagne and leaned forward and got the bottle out of the ice bucket and poured some in her glass and poured some in my glass.
"What are you going to do now?" she said.
"I'll call Ginger Buckey," I said. "See if she knows anything about where April went."
"Why should she know?"
"It's not that she should," I said. "It's simply that she's all I have."
"And if she doesn't know?"
I shrugged and drank some champagne and my doorbell rang.
"We could ignore it," Susan said. I shook my head. Susan smiled.
"Of course we can't," she said. "It might be an orphan of the storm seeking shelter."
I got my pants on and took my gun off the counter and buzzed the caller in and looked through the peephole in the door. In a moment Frank Belson appeared on the other side.
"Balls," I said, and put the gun back on the counter.
"Balls?" Susan said.
"Frank Belson," I said. "I gotta let him in."
"Of course," Susan said, and got up and went into my bedroom and closed the door. I opened the front door and Belson came in. He glanced at Susan's clothing in a small pile on the living room floor and didn't change expression.
"You want some champagne?" I said.
"What else you got?" Belson said. He wore his summer straw with the big blue band and his seersucker suit, very recently pressed.
"Got some Black Bush a guy brought back to me from Ireland," I said.
His thin face softened slightly. He nodded. I went to the kitchen and poured the whiskey neat into a lowball glass and handed it to him. He took a sip and tipped his head back and let it slide down his throat. He smiled in a satisfied way.
"New York cops want to talk with you," he said.
"They looking for crime-stopper tips?" I said.
He shook his head and sipped the whiskey again. "They found a dead hooker with your card in her purse."
"Shit," I said.
"You know her?"
"Ginger Buckey," I said.
Belson nodded. "Detective second grade named Corsetti caught the squeal, found the card, called us to see if we knew you."
"She murdered?"
"You think they're going to call us on somebody hit by a cab in Queens?"
"No. How was she killed?"
"Gunshot, Corsetti didn't say much."
"Am I a suspect?"
Belson shook his head. "Naw, they just want to know if you got anything would help. I told them I knew you, I'd swing by and ask."
"I was looking for another whore, kid named April Kyle. Ginger Buckey had the same pimp and I asked her if she knew about April and she said no."
"What's the pimp's name?"
"Rambeaux," I said. "Robert Rambeaux, lives on Seventy-seventh
"You seem very like The Bronx," she said, and pressed her mouth against mine and we didn't talk much for a while.
12
"So," Susan said, "what progress with April?"
We were still undressed, but we were sitting upright on the sofa now, drinking Chandon Blanc de Noirs from fluted glasses, our feet on the coffee table.
"Around none," I said. "There's something I don't like going on, but I don't know what it is."
"You must be used to that, by now," Susan said. She had her head resting against my shoulder. My left arm was around her.
"I've never learned to like it," I said. "I go see April and then when I go back she's gone, so I go see her pimp and somebody has obviously cleaned his clock and he won't say anything and he's scared to death and says I'm going to get us both killed. So I leave him and go see Ginger Buckey and she's not on the streets."
"Maybe the women are simply busy at their work."
"Maybe. But who beat up Rambeaux and why and what have I got to do with it?"
"You're sure it was because of you?"
"Yeah. Rambeaux was clear on that. His biggest sweat was to get me out of there and not be seen with me. He was so scared he couldn't sit straight."
Susan was tracing the mark on my chest where Sherry Spellman had shot me. Low down there was another mark and below that a mark where there had been a drain.
"God," Susan said, "you look like a scuffed shoe."
"But sinewy and desirable," I said.
"Of course." She sipped some champagne and leaned forward and got the bottle out of the ice bucket and poured some in her glass and poured some in my glass.
"What are you going to do now?" she said.
"I'll call Ginger Buckey," I said. "See if she knows anything about where April went."
"Why should she know?"
"It's not that she should," I said. "It's simply that she's all I have."
"And if she doesn't know?"
I shrugged and drank some champagne and my doorbell rang.
"We could ignore it," Susan said. I shook my head. Susan smiled.
"Of course we can't," she said. "It might be an orphan of the storm seeking shelter."
I got my pants on and took my gun off the counter and buzzed the caller in and looked through the peephole in the door. In a moment Frank Belson appeared on the other side.
"Balls," I said, and put the gun back on the counter.
"Balls?" Susan said.
"Frank Belson," I said. "I gotta let him in."
"Of course," Susan said, and got up and went into my bedroom and closed the door. I opened the front door and Belson came in. He glanced at Susan's clothing in a small pile on the living room floor and didn't change expression.
"You want some champagne?" I said.
"What else you got?" Belson said. He wore his summer straw with the big blue band and his seersucker suit, very recently pressed.
"Got some Black Bush a guy brought back to me from Ireland," I said.
His thin face softened slightly. He nodded. I went to the kitchen and poured the whiskey neat into a lowball glass and handed it to him. He took a sip and tipped his head back and let it slide down his throat. He smiled in a satisfied way.
"New York cops want to talk with you," he said.
"They looking for crime-stopper tips?" I said.
He shook his head and sipped the whiskey again. "They found a dead hooker with your card in her purse."
"Shit," I said.
"You know her?"
"Ginger Buckey," I said.
Belson nodded. "Detective second grade named Corsetti caught the squeal, found the card, called us to see if we knew you."
"She murdered?"
"You think they're going to call us on somebody hit by a cab in Queens?"
"No. How was she killed?"
"Gunshot, Corsetti didn't say much."
"Am I a suspect?"
Belson shook his head. "Naw, they just want to know if you got anything would help. I told them I knew you, I'd swing by and ask."
"I was looking for another whore, kid named April Kyle. Ginger Buckey had the same pimp and I asked her if she knew about April and she said no."
"What's the pimp's name?"
"Rambeaux," I said. "Robert Rambeaux, lives on Seventy-seventh
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