Strip For Violence

I fell asleep the moment I hit the sack, had a crazy dream where I was judging a beauty contest and as far as I could see there were rows of legs—all of them the strong legs of Margrita, but when I raised my eyes the faces were all Louise's, complete with black eyes and cockeyed eyebrows. And they were all saying, “Thanks,” and it was the haunting voice of Anita. And then reporters were all about me, shaking my shoulders, asking...

I opened my eyes to blink into a flashlight. A hard voice asked, “Where's the damn light?”

I fumbled among the blankets for the .38 I'd taken from Anita. A big hand shook me wide awake, asked for the light again. I switched it on. Two burly jokers were standing there, filling the cabin, the five-foot-five headroom making them stoop. In the doorway I saw Pete's frightened pale face.

One of them was hatless, his hair crew-cut, giving him a flat-headed odd look. Neither of them had to flash their badges, I knew they were cops. He grunted, “Lieut. Hank Saltz, police department. Get dressed.”

I got up. The other dick picked up the gun lying at the foot of the sheets. Slipping on my pants I said, “I've a permit for that. What's this all about?”

“Got an Anita Rogers working for you?” Saltz asked in that ragged voice of his.

I nodded. “What did the kid do, steal a car or...?”

“She got herself beaten to death,” Saltz said slowly, as though enjoying the words. “I'm from Homicide.”

BOOK TWO

I

The night was still warm and clear, the same stars and moon above, but now standing on the rotten dock, I shivered with cold—and maybe fear. It was an old unused dock on the East River, big gaps in the rotted planking. Across one dirty, weather-darkened beam Anita's body had been flung—that's how she looked, battered arms and legs outstretched like a broken doll flung on the floor. Her thin face was a bloody mask of bruises, her teeth knocked out, dried blood on her hair where her skull had been smashed, red blotches where she had been beaten on the shoulders and thighs. The murderer had done a sadistic job, even her skinny fingers were busted.

What chilled me most was her pocketbook, lying torn beside her body—the compact, some change... and those lead sinkers. I could picture the terror on Anita's face, hear her childish scream when she reached for the .38 and found useless pieces of lead. Saltz told me, as we drove to his office, that the official cause of death had been a savage blow on the head with a “blunt instrument.” And all the time I was sick with guilt, for I knew the cause of her death had been... me.

Saltz and I sat alone in his office, a dull, neat, efficient-looking place. For a while he sat there, hunched over his desk, staring at me. He had a strange face, all his features were too big, gave him the appearance of a hammy actor registering strong emotions. I didn't try to outstare him. Finally I asked, “What... what did she have on her, in her pocketbook?”

He dumped her stuff out on his desk. The sliver of rock wasn't there. It might have fallen into the river, but I somehow was sure it hadn't. The rock was the only thing that made sense, hinted at any reason for the awful beating. I was trying to make up my mind whether to tell Saltz about the rock, when he asked, “Those sinkers— what would a young girl be carrying them around for?”

I said I didn't know.

Saltz gave me a thoughtful look, as he put a finger against the side of his nose, turned his head, and blew a “pearl” on the floor. He rubbed it into the floor with a big shoe, asked, “They yours? We know... What's the matter, never see nobody blow their nose before?”

“Tell you the truth, never as neatly as that. You're quite a floor-waxer.” I guess I couldn't kick—he had turned his head.

“Forget me. Now those sinkers—yours? We know Anita was on your boat tonight.”

“She might have taken them. But why? She certainly wasn't going fishing,” I lied.

Saltz was silent for a moment, then he thundered, “Come on, Darling—talk!”

It was crude, he expected me to jump. And I jumped—a little. I told him about Anita being my secretary, the office routine. He snapped, “She on a case for you?”

Maybe I should have told him about the rock then, but I was supposed to protect my client—and myself—and I'd have to tell him I'd sent her trailing the rock. Hal Darling, the big-time private eye, letting a school girl work on a case! All I said was, “Stop it, she's—was—only a kid. Answered the phone, did some typing, that's all.”

“You laying her?”

“No. Just told you she was a kid.”

Saltz grunted, took out a cigarette, put the pack on the desk. I didn't want a smoke—didn't feel anything except this sullen, roaring anger, deep inside me. With all her dizzy ways Anita had been a sweet kid, and I'd probably sent her to her death without even a gun. Big brother Hal, coyly switching the rod from her bag!

The office was full of the dead quiet of early morning and it seemed to weigh on me like a blanket, smothering my mind. “Let's get on with this,” I told him. “Got work to do.”

“What sort of work?”

“Mainly finding the killer or killers.”

Saltz sat up straight, his face red with anger, the short, rabbit-tail hair atop his dome standing up straight, “Finding the killer,” he repeated, mocking me. “You lousy little blond bastard, let me get you straight—you private dicks are an insult to any real cop's guts! With the best equipped police force in the world, why should anybody hire a private cop unless it's a crooked deal, unless they're afraid of the law? Every time I see a movie glorifying one of these all-clever private 'eyes'—I want to puke!”

I said, “Most of them are sickening. But no matter what you think, the State of New York gives us a license to do business. And while we're busy-busy putting things straight, people don't go to the cops because they're afraid of you servants of the law. Some cops are too handy... have their palms out, or think with their nightsticks first.”