Джеймс Чейз - You’re Lonely When You’re Dead

The bellhop leered at him.

‘You might bust one or you might want to give a guy a drink. A third glass is always useful, mister. The drinks I’ve missed because there ain’t been a third glass.’

‘We’ll all have a drink,’ I said. ‘Make them big ones, Jack.’ I said to the bellhop, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Carter,’ he told me, and fetched out a crumpled cigarette from inside his pillbox hat, wrapped his lips around it and set fire to it.

‘Been here long?’ I asked, leaning back on my elbows and looking beyond him at the girl on the ladder. I wondered what the dog could see that I couldn’t that made him leer.

‘Ten years,’ the bellhop said. ‘When I first came the joint wasn’t bad. But the war knocked it. The war knocked everything.’

Kerman gave him a drink you could have floated a duck on. He sniffed at it, poured a little of it into his mouth, and rinsed his teeth with it.

‘See what I mean about the third glass?’ he said when he finally got it down.

I shook four aspirins into my hand, washed them down with whisky. He watched me without interest.

‘How would you like to earn a little money?’ I asked.

‘Doing what?’

‘Exercising your memory?’

He took another pull at his glass, went through his rinsing movements and swallowed.

‘What’s my memory got to do with it?’

I took out my wallet, produced a photograph of Ed Benny and handed it to him.

‘Ever seen this guy?’

He didn’t take the photograph, but leaned forward and peered at it. The seams of his trousers creaked but held. Then he straightened, poured the rest of the whisky down his throat, put the glass on the bamboo table and slid to the door.

‘All right, guys,’ he said, his hand on the doorknob. ‘It was a beautiful act while it lasted, and you certainly fooled me. Coppers buying a guy a drink! Ain’t that something? For crying out loud! Who would believe it? But you don’t get anything from me. I don’t talk to coppers.’

Kerman hauled himself out of his chair, grabbed the bellhop by the scruff of the neck and sat him on the bed by my side.

‘Do we look like coppers?’ he demanded furiously. ‘I’ve a mind to shove that ugly snout of yours through the back of your neck!’

‘Well ain’t you coppers?’

I took a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet and laid it on the bed between us.

‘Do we act like coppers?’

He eyed the bill avidly.

‘Can’t say you do,’ he said, and licked his lips. ‘They were here this afternoon asking questions. He’s dead, isn’t he? They showed me a photo of him: a morgue photo.’

‘So he did stay here?’

His hand strayed towards the bill.

‘Yeah, he stayed here all right. The manager didn’t want the cops tramping over the joint. He told them he didn’t know the guy.’

I picked up the bill and gave it to him.

‘Give him another drink,’ I said to Kerman. ‘Can’t you see he’s thirsty?’

‘You’ll keep this to yourselves?’ the bellhop said, a little anxiously. ‘I wouldn’t like to get the sack.’

‘You surprise me,’ Kerman said. ‘By the way you talk I should have thought it was the one thing you prayed for.’ He thrust another man’s-sized drink into the bellhop’s hand.

‘Look,’ I said, as he started to go through his rinsing movements again, ‘this guy was a friend of ours. Someone sapped him and threw him into the Basin. We’re trying to find out why. Have you any ideas?’

The bellhop shook his head.

‘I guess not. He booked in at five o’clock yesterday afternoon. He took the room next to this one. He went out almost immediately after, and that’s the last we saw of him.’

‘Did he leave a bag?’

The bellhop’s eyes shifted.

‘Yeah, but the manager’s got that. He’s entitled to it. The guy didn’t pay for his room.’

‘Go and get it,’ I said.

The bellhop stared at me.

‘I can’t do that,’ he said. ‘If the managers saw me with it...’

‘Go and get it or I’ll talk to the manager myself.’

‘You mean — now?’

‘Yes; now.’

He put the half-finished whisky down on the overmantel and after giving me a long, thoughtful stare, eased himself towards the door.

‘Do I make anything out of it? Or does that twenty cover it?’

‘You make another ten.’

When he had gone Kerman said, ‘That was a lucky break. How did you guess Ed came here?’

‘Why did we come here? Give me another drink. Talking to that rat makes my headache.’

While he was fixing me a drink, I opened the suitcase again and took out Anita’s photograph. I put it face down on the bed.

Kerman said, ‘Do you think he’ll know her?’

‘It’s worth trying. He’s been here ten years.’

The pain in my head was a little better, but still not right. I washed down two more aspirins.

‘You’re taking too much of that stuff,’ Kerman said, frowning. ‘And you’d better lay off whisky. You should have seen a doctor.’

The bellhop came in with the suitcase and put it on the bed.

‘I’ve gotta take it back,’ he said, a worried look on his rat face. ‘I don’t want to get into trouble.’

I went through the suitcase. I didn’t expect to find anything and I wasn’t disappointed. It was just an ordinary suitcase a guy would pack who is going away for the weekend. The only thing in it that was missing was Anita’s photograph. I put the things back, closed the case and shoved it on to the floor.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Take it back.’ I took a ten-dollar bill out of my wallet and dropped it on the bed. ‘Take that too, and keep your mouth shut. Okay?’

He picked up the note and the bag.

‘Is that all I can do for you?’ he asked, suddenly reluctant to leave us.

I turned Anita’s photograph over and flicked it towards him.

‘Ever seen this dame before?’

He put the bill in his pocket, set the bag on the floor and picked up the photograph. He held it at arm’s length, squinting at it.

‘Looks like Anita Gay to me,’ he said, and shot me an inquiring look. ‘It’s her, ain’t it? Jeepers! The times I’ve seen her. Sure, it’s Anita Gay.’

‘Don’t act coy,’ I said. ‘Who’s Anita Gay? What does she do? Where can I find her?’

‘I don’t know where you’ll find her,’ he said regretfully, and laid the photograph on the bed. ‘I haven’t seen her for months. She used to do a turn at the Brass Rail. And, boy, was she a sensation! That fur glove routine of hers certainly packed them in.’

‘What’s the Brass Rail?’

‘You don’t know the Brass Rail?’ He looked astonished. ‘Why, it’s a big beer-dill-pickle hippodrome on Bayshore Boulevard. It hasn’t had my custom since Anita quit. She wouldn’t be coming back, would she?’

I thought of the face framed in blood with the hole in the forehead big enough to poke my finger in.

‘No,’ I said. ‘She won’t be coming back.’

I left the hotel the next morning around eleven o’clock. It has been a hot night, and I hadn’t slept well, and when I finally bludgeoned myself to sleep with aspirin and whisky I didn’t wake until it was nearly ten.

Kerman let me sleep. He said there was nothing like rest after a sock on the head. But as my head still ached and I still felt lousy when I woke I didn’t believe him. After a lot of strong black coffee and a couple more aspirins and a tepid shower I did manage to feel well enough to start the day’s work.

I decided against calling on the photographer’s shop right away. I thought it would be better, if I could, to get a little information about Anita from the Brass Rail before I tackled Comrade Louis, so I decided to go there first.