“So we’ll finish the party in my office. Come on.”
Hy’s file on Sim Torrence was a thick one composed of hundreds of clippings. We all took a handful and found desk space to look them over. A little after one we had everything classified and cross-indexed. Joey had four cases of threats on Sim’s life, Cindy had six, Velda and I both had three, and Hy one. He put all the clips in a Thermofax machine, pulled copies, handed them over, and put the files back.
“Now can we go home?” he said.
Joey wanted to go on with it until Cindy gave him a poke in the ribs.
“So let’s all go home,” I told him.
We said so-long downstairs and Velda and I headed back toward the Stem. In the lower Forties I checked both of us into a hotel, kissed her at the door, and went down to my room. She didn’t like it, but I still had work to do.
After a shower I sat on the bed and started through the clips. One by one I threw them all down until I had four left. All the rest who had threatened Sim Torrence were either dead or back in prison. Four were free, three on parole, and one having served a life sentence of thirty years.
Life.
Thirty years.
He was forty-two when he went in, seventy-two when he came out. His name was Sonny Motley and there was a picture of him in a shoe repair shop he ran on Amsterdam Avenue. I put the clips in the discard pile and looked at the others.
Sherman Buff, a two-time loser that Sim had put the screws to in court so that he caught a big fall. He threatened everybody including the judge, but Torrence in particular.
Arnold Goodwin who liked to be called Stud. Sex artist. Rapist. He put the full blame for his fall on Torrence, who not only prosecuted his case but processed it from the first complaint until his capture. No known address, but his parole officer could supply that.
Nicholas Beckhaus, burglar with a record who wound up cutting a cop during his capture. He and two others broke out of a police van during a routine transfer and it was Sim Torrence’s office who ran him down until he was trapped in a rooming house. He shot a cop in that capture too. He promised to kill Torrence on sight when he got out. Address unknown, but he would have a parole officer too.
I folded the clips, put three in my pants pocket, and leaned back on the bed. Then there was a knock on the door.
I had the .45 in my hand, threw the bolt back, and moved to the side. Velda walked in grinning, closed the door, and stood there with her back against it. “Going to shoot me, Mike?”
“You crazy?”
“Uh-uh.”
“What do you want?”
“You don’t know?”
I reached out and pulled her in close, kissed her hair, then felt the fire of her mouth again. She leaned against me, her breasts firm and insistent against my naked chest, her body forming itself to mine.
“I’m going to treat you rough, my love . . . until you break down.”
“You’re going back to bed.”
“To bed, yes, but not back.” She smiled, pulled away, and walked to my sack. Little by little, slowly, every motion a time-honored motion, she took off her clothes. Then she stood there naked and smiling a moment before sliding into the bed where she lay there waiting.
“Let’s see who’s the roughest,” I said, and lay down beside her. I punched out the light, got between the top sheet and the cover, turned on my side and closed my eyes.
“You big bastard,” she said softly. “If I didn’t love you I’d kill you.”
CHAPTER 5
I was up and dressed before eight. The big, beautiful, tousled blackhaired thing who had lain so comfortably against me all night stirred and looked at me through sleepy-lidded eyes, then stretched languidly and smiled.
“Frustrated?” I asked her.
“Determined.” She stuck her tongue out at me. “You’ll pay for last night.”
“Get out of the sack. We have plenty to do.”
“Watch.”
I turned toward the mirror and put on my tie. “No, damn it.”
But I couldn’t help seeing her, either. It wasn’t something you could take your eyes off very easily. She was too big, too lovely, her body a pattern of symmetry that was frightening. She posed deliberately, knowing I would watch her, then walked into the shower without bothering to close the door. And this time I saw something new. There was a fine, livid scar that ran diagonally across one hip and several parallel lines that traced themselves across the small of her back. I had seen those kind of marks before. Knives made them. Whips made them. My hands knotted up for a second and I yanked at my tie.
When she came out she had a towel wrapped sarong-fashion around her, smelling of soap and hot water, and this time I didn’t watch her. Instead I pulled the clips out, made a pretense of reading them until she was dressed, gave them to her to keep in her handbag, and led her out the door.
At the elevator I punched the down button and put my hand through her arm. “Don’t do that to me again, kitten.”
Her teeth flashed through the smile. “Oh no, Mike. You’ve kept me waiting too long. I’ll do anything to get you. You see . . . I’m not done with you yet. You can marry me right now or put up with some persecution.”
“We haven’t got time right now.”
“Then get ready to suffer, gentleman.” She gave my arm a squeeze and got on the elevator.
After breakfast I bypassed Pat’s office to get a line on the parole officers handling Buff, Goodwin, and Beckhaus. Both Buff and Beckhaus were reporting to the same officer and he was glad to give me a rundown on their histories.
Sherman Buff was married, lived in Brooklyn, and operated a successful electronics shop that subcontracted jobs from larger companies. His address was good, his income sizable, and he had a woman he was crazy about and no desire to go back to the old life. The parole officer considered him a totally rehabilitated man.
Nicholas Beckhaus reported regularly, but he had to come in on the arm of his brother, a dentist, who supported him. At some time in prison he had been assaulted and his back permanently damaged so that he was a partial cripple. But more than that, there was brain damage too, so that his mental status was reduced to that of a ten-year-old.
The officer who handled Arnold Goodwin was more than anxious to talk about his charge. Goodwin had been trouble all the way and had stopped reporting in three months ago. Any information we could dig up on his whereabouts he’d appreciate. He was afraid of only one thing . . . that before Goodwin was found he’d kill somebody.
Arnold Goodwin looked like a good bet.
Velda said, “Did you want to see the other probable?”
“Sonny Motley?”
“It will only take a few minutes.”
“He’s in his seventies. Why?”
She moved her shoulders in thought. “He was a good story. The three-million-dollar killer.”
“He wasn’t in for murder. He was a three-time loser when they caught him in that robbery and he drew an automatic life sentence.”
“That could make a man pretty mad,” she reminded me.
“Sure, but guys in their seventies aren’t going to hustle on a kill after thirty years in the pen. Be reasonable.”
“Okay, but it wouldn’t take long.”
