Ed McBain - Puss in Boots

“Yes, so you told me. It’s worth eight or nine million dollars.”

“Well, more.”

“So you decided not to tell your attorney about it.”

“Well, it had nothing to do with her murder.”

“You don’t know that for a fact! Why’d you withhold such important—”

“Because I... I thought... I thought if Jake could come up with the money we need down there... well then... then after the trial... after you got me off... I’d go join him. And we’d go ahead just the way we planned. Finish the movie, find a distributor... ”

“Without Prue.”

“Well, yes, without her. We could find people to finish it. Edit it, do whatever else needed to be done. We had the negative, that wasn’t a problem, Prue made sure she got that back from the lab. So if they found me innocent... ”

“Did Delaney take the film with him to Mexico?”

“Well... no.”

“You said you planned to use it as collateral.”

“Once he found the right people, yes. We planned to show them the film later. When we got down there.”

“You planned to take the film down with you?”

“Well... yes. That was the plan.”

“Then you know where it is,” Matthew said.

Markham said nothing.

“Do you know where the film is?” Matthew said.

Still no answer.

“ Do you?”

Markham nodded.

“Where?” Matthew said.

He parked the Karmann Ghia into the gravel lot outside a low white stucco building, its pristine facade broken by a row of a dozen or more red doors. There were six yellow-and-green moving vans in the lot, each decorated with the company’s name — Franklin Moving & Storage — and a logo depicting a little man in knee breeches, flying a kite. Under the little man’s buckled shoes was the motto franklin! fast as lightning! Rock music blared from inside a windowed office at the far end of the building. Matthew walked over the gravel to the red door set between the windows, opened it, and stepped into a Christmas party in full swing.

There were at least two dozen girls in the place, all of them dressed somewhat less elegantly than the women at the Snowflake Ball had been, but resplendent nonetheless in party dresses and high-heeled shoes. The men in the room, outnumbered by at least two to one, were wearing a motley assortment of clothes, some of them in suits or sports jackets, others in blue jeans and short-sleeved shirts and looking as if they’d just come off the road after a long haul from Maine. A decorated Christmas tree blinked first yellow and then green, the only lights on it, an obvious homage to the company’s colors. Red and green streamers were hanging from the ceiling, stretching from corner to corner. Santa Claus cutouts were on all the walls. On one wall was the same little man who was on the side of the trucks, wearing his little knee breeches and his little buckled shoes and flying his little kite. A bar had been set up in one corner of the office, and most of the revelers were gathered around it, pouring liberally from what appeared to be a fine selection of booze.

A bell had sounded over the door when Matthew came in. How anyone had heard it over the din was a miracle, but a woman wearing a tight green skirt and a red tube top broke away from the bar, turned to look at him, and then said, “Well, well, reinforcements.”

She came to him as fast as lightning, click, click, click, click, high-heeled shoes zapping the floor, wide grin on her generous mouth, red hibiscus tucked behind one ear, blonde hair brushed back from it. Pale skin, cheeks flushed. Slender, and tall, and moving as gracefully as a dancer. Long, shapely legs, firm breasts in the shirred red tube top. He guessed she was in her early thirties. He also guessed she’d been drinking a bit.

“Whoever you are, come in,” she said, “we’re short of gorgeous men.” She extended her hand. “Marcie Franklin,” she said, “I’m the boss.”

“Matthew Hope,” he said, taking her hand.

“Any relation to Harry?” she said at once.

“Yes. I played Larry Slade in a college production.”

“Hey,” she said, “somebody literate! Tell me what you think about Bergman.”

“Ingrid or Ingmar?”

“Oh, my God, I think I’m falling in love,” she said. “I’ve been in Calusa only six months, came down from New York to take over the business when my father died, and I’m so starved for conversation, I’m ready to call Dial-a-Prayer. Are you married?”

“Divorced,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “Oh, wow, Santa must’ve brought you.”

Matthew smiled.

“I’m serious,” she said. “Every guy I date in this town wants to talk about football. I say, ‘How’d you like Ginger and Fred ,’ they say they don’t watch old musicals. I say ‘Fellini, Fellini ,’ they say they don’t like Italian food unless it’s the Pizza Hut. I say, ‘What’d you think of Kiss of the Spider Woman ,’ they say I don’t know the lady. I say, ‘Okay, how about The goddamn Color Purple ?’ and they say I prefer red. I mean, wow! Do you like movies?”

“Yes.”

“Want to go to the movies with me tonight? Think it over, don’t leap to a hasty conclusion you may later regret. I’ll be thirty-three next month, I like tall men with dark hair and brown eyes, I’m sensitive and intelligent, and some people think I’m gorgeous. I like expensive restaurants and fancy motorcars, Beethoven and—”

“You sound like a personals ad in the Village Voice ,” Matthew said.

“Oh, my God, I am falling in love,” she said. “He knows the Village Voice ! Are you from New York, too?”

“My partner is. He talks about it all the time.”

“Where are you from?”

“Chicago.”

“Pity,” she said, and grinned.

She had not let go of his hand. Her green eyes danced all over his face, checking out his mouth, checking out his eyes, checking out his mouth again. Yellow and green from the Christmas tree bounced off her eyes.

His own eyes roamed her face—

Blink, yellow, blink, green—

Oval and pale. Orange lipstick on her mouth. High model’s cheekbones—

Blink yellow—

Checking her out.

White even teeth behind the wide grin—

Blink green.

Hey, he thought.

Watch it.

“Come have a drink,” she said, and — still holding his hand — led him to the bar. “Jimmy,” she said to a man in shirtsleeves, “please fix a drink for Matthew Hope. What are you drinking, Matthew?”

“Well... uh... just a little gin, please, on the rocks,” Matthew said.

What’s happening? he thought.

“Gin on the rocks for Matthew,” she said, and released his hand. She tugged at her tube top again, pulling it higher on her breasts. “I am very happy to meet you, Matthew,” she said, and grinned again. Wide grin. Luscious mouth. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Matthew said, and accepted the drink Jimmy handed over the bar. “Thank you,” he said. “Cheers,” he said to Marcie.

“Finish your drink,” she said, “and then come dance with me. Lucille!” she called across the room. “Put on something romantic! Matthew wants to dance with me!”

The music stopped abruptly. The roar of the crowd sounded louder now that it was gone. There was a delay of perhaps a minute or so — voices, laughter, ice tinkling in glasses — and then another tape started, soft and slow. Watch it, he thought.

“There you go,” Marcie said, and walked into his arms.

He still had the drink in his right hand.

She moved in tight against him.

He almost spilled the drink.

He steered her toward one of the desks. His right hand behind her, the drink still in it, he put it down blindly on the desktop. She pulled him close again. More people were moving out onto the floor now; it seemed suddenly very crowded and steamy. Watch it, he thought, watch it.