The Consummata

No more posturing. Good.

But Muddy waited until his pie and coffee was in front of him, and the waitress gone, before he said, “For what it’s worth, I do have something, but in the interest of fairness, I have to level.”

“Interest of fairness? You are Muddy Harris?”

“I’m just saying, it wasn’t me who ran this down. You know that kid at the Amherst?”

“Sure, the little smart-as-a-whip bellhop.”

“That’s the one. I mean, I played a role. We kind of angled it out together.”

He shoveled some all-American apple a la mode in his pie hole. He talked as he chewed it—not a pretty sight.

“Seems like he thinks you’re quite a guy, Morg. Quite... a...guy.”

“Some people have taste.”

“Seems like he found out who you are, too. That you’re a living legend and all.”

I looked at him and didn’t say anything.

“These refugees,” he went on, “stick together. They have their own crazy little grapevine.” His expression crinkled in thought. “You think I ought to know more about how they work it, Morg? Might come in handy in my trade.”

“No. Go on.”

Muddy washed some pie and ice cream down with coffee, some of the latter dribbling down his chin like dirty rain. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Guess you’re right,” he said. “That’s a whole world of its own.”

“Yeah. Wipe your chin.”

He did. “Anyway, the kid found two bottles of high-price booze stashed away in that old porter’s digs—buried under a pile of junk in the closet of the basement room the geezer used there. Wasn’t the grade of stuff he usually swilled down at all—he was more a Muscatel man.”

“Less commentary, Mud, more facts.”

“Facts? How’s this for facts—there were three pawn tickets stuck back there, too, in that closet—one for a cheap portable transistor radio the old fart got a buck for, one for a travel clock he likely swiped out of a room, worth another buck, and another for an old signet ring that had his initials on it, which got him a whole two dollars.”

“So he was hard up,” I said.

“Just goes to show the old man never had a dime. And what he did have went for cheap wine or booze...that is, until the night that room blew apart. That night, from a joint four blocks away? The codger picked up three quarts of the finest hooch...and told the liquor store guy that a hotel guest had just given him a big tip.”

“That,” I muttered, “is what you get when you pay a drunk in advance.”

Muddy blinked at me, freezing between bites of pie. “What, Morgan?”

“If the old porter polished off one of those quarts, that explains why he didn’t set the timer right.”

“Yeah, or maybe you just got lucky, is all.”

He finished the pie, swirled the coffee around in the cup, polished it off, and smacked his lips.

“So,” Muddy said, “the kid and me start nosing around at what’s left of the Amherst Hotel to see who the old man’s contact was. We went round and round until finally we get one of those cleaning maids to talk. Seems a few hours before the explosion, she remembers that the old boy asked her to cover for him for a while.”

“Did he tell her why?”

“Indeed he did—turns out grandpa had an errand to run. She agreed to help him out, and said he was gone for a couple of hours. When Pops come back, he was acting funny, the maid says, nervous-like, and had something with him that she figured was just another bottle in a brown bag. She nips from her own jug from time to time, so never thought anything much of it.”

“Tell me there’s more.”

“Oh, there’s more. After that, it took a whole lot of legwork, but the bellhop and me, we found a place where the old man went for some chili and beer. Seems he was eating when a guy come in, sits next to him and strikes up a confidential sort of conversation. The counterman didn’t hear what they were talking about, because the jukebox was blasting away, but when they left, the guy paid for the old boy’s eats.”

“Get a description?”

“Absolutely,” Muddy said, nodding. “The counterman came through. The dining companion was about thirty- five, pretty sharp looking and big for a Cuban type, tall, dark, and nearly handsome. Nearly ’cause of a squashed boxer’s nose and a scar kinda like a lightning bolt on his cheek. Not sure which cheek. Anyway, counter guy never saw the big Cuban before, and said he hoped he never did again, ’cause this character looked like the type you didn’t mess with.... Honey! Honey, do this again, would you?”

Muddy was holding his empty plate out to a passing waitress, and lifting his cup, as well. She stopped, took the plate, and filled the coffee with the pot she was hauling.

When she was gone, Muddy said, “Now here’s the kicker. When the big Cuban comes in, he’s carrying a package. Only when the two of ’em left? The old man had it.”

I nodded thoughtfully.

“Got him pegged?” Muddy asked me.

I nodded. The description fit Jaimie Halaquez, but I didn’t tell Muddy that.

“So don’t tell me,” Muddy said, shrugging. “Send me out for information, but keep the damn context to yourself. That’s a good way to get nowhere fast.”

I ignored him.

He had a slug of the coffee—it must have been hot because he said, “Ow,” before asking me, “Maybe you’d like to know something else?”

“Maybe.”

“You got that Walter Crowley guy really screwed up. They got a make on the spic who really belonged to those car-wash coveralls. Right now they’re figuring you’re long gone from the scene.”

But it hadn’t stopped Crowley from sending my photo around to the hotels.

“Where’d you hear that, Muddy?”

“Big ears, thin walls. It’s what makes my world go round.”

His new round of pie and ice cream arrived. He dug in.

“Anything on this Consummata dame?” I asked.

“Couple of things.” He kept eating.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” I said.

He swallowed a bite, which meant at least I wouldn’t have to watch him masticate while he talked. “Morg, are you aware that this is an older doll?”

“Who?”

“The Consummata!”

“How old?”

“Her activities go back to before the war, in Europe. That means, if she started out in her early twenties, you know, real precocious and such like, she’s got to be pushing fifty, anyway.”

“Last time we talked she was a rumor. A legend. Now she’s a broad of fifty? What gives, Muddy?”

He shrugged expansively. “Who the hell knows, for sure? But my guess is, she may be a political operative.”

“Attached to whom?”

“Who can say? Maybe freelance. Nazis, Allies, Commies, NATO, it’s up for grabs. But when you have some special somebody with key information, and that somebody has a kink in their make-up? That’s a sweet way to squeeze information out...and ideal blackmail material. Whether it’s for money, or military intelligence, it’s a great gambit.”

Like the Club Mandor, only more so.

I sipped iced tea, kept my tone casual. “You said a couple of things about the Consummata. What