James Chase - You Must Be Kidding

Hamilton looked him over.

‘You’ll be fine as you are. Let’s go.’

He led Lepski into a brilliantly lit studio where cameras were set-up and a small army of technicians was lolling around.

‘I’m putting you on the first spot,’ Hamilton said. ‘All you have to do is to hold the jacket. I’ll do the talking. Let’s have a quick run through.’ He pointed to a table. ‘Stand behind that, and hold up the jacket.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Lepski said. ‘Should I wear my hat?’

Hamilton released a sigh.

‘All cops wear hats. Sure... wear it.’

Lepski positioned himself behind the table. Two technicians showed him how they wanted him to hold the jacket. Cameras moved forward. Lepski braced himself. This was his moment!

Hamilton stared, then nodded.

‘Okay, relax. I’ll give you your cue.’ He looked at the wall clock. ‘Coming up.’ He went over to a chair and sat down. Another camera focussed on him.

Sweating slightly, Lepski waited. He was aware that Hamilton was talking, but his mind was elsewhere. He thought of Carroll, waiting. He thought of his fink neighbours also waiting. Boy! Wouldn’t he make a goddamn impression!

Then he heard Hamilton say, ‘This is the jacket the police want to identify.’

A bearded youth signalled to Lepski who wasn’t sure what expression he should wear. He decided the stern cop rather than the grinning cop was the thing. He turned on his ferocious expression as the camera zoomed in. The bearded youth signalled him to hold it, and Lepski changed his expression from ferocious to looking friendly.

‘Anyone recognizing this jacket,’ Hamilton was saying, ‘who has any information, no matter how trivial, about this jacket should contact the police headquarters.’

The camera moved away. The bearded youth signalled to Lepski it was over, and Lepski folded the jacket and drew in a sigh of satisfaction.

A girl touched his arm and motioned him to the door. Hamilton was still talking. Lepski couldn’t care less. He had had one minute of fame. As he walked, feeling ten feet tall, into the impressive lobby, he saw a row of telephone booths. He called home.

After a delay that made him hop from one foot to the other with impatience, Carroll came on the line.

‘Hi, baby! How did you like it?’

‘Like what?’ Carroll demanded, her voice shrill.

‘Come on, baby. How did I look?’

‘Let me tell you something. I invited the Lipscombs, the Watsons and the Mayfields to watch with me. Right now they are guzzling your Cutty Sark like thirsty camels, and they are already eyeing our last bottle of gin.’

‘To hell with them!’ Lepski shouted. ‘I want to know how I looked!’

‘How should I know?’ Carroll snapped. From the tone of her voice, he could tell she was in a raging temper.

‘For Pete’s sake! Didn’t you watch the Hamilton show?’

‘Of course we watched it!’

Feeling strangled, Lepski dragged at his tie.

‘Then you saw me, for Christ’s sake!’

‘Don’t be blasphemous, Lepski!’

‘Did you or didn’t you see me?’ Lepski bawled. ‘Were you all so stinking drunk on my Scotch you didn’t see me?’

‘We were not drunk and we didn’t see you! All we saw was a close-up of the jacket, held by hands. If they were your hands, you should have washed them. They looked grimy!’

Lepski gave a great start as if he had been goosed by an icy finger.

‘Just hands, huh?’

‘Yes! I’ve got to go before they get at the gin bottle. They are having a ball... that’s more than I am! The Mayfields are throwing hints they haven’t had supper! I could have them with me for the rest of the night!’

‘Just hands, huh?’ Lepski said, dazed. Then he understood why he hadn’t been made-up. Why Hamilton hadn’t cared if he wore his hat or not. He released a soft hissing sound. ‘Why the goddamn stinking creep!’

‘Get home as soon as you can,’ Carroll said. ‘I need help here.’

‘Yeah... yeah. I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ Lepski said, his voice low. A vast black cloud of depression settled over him.

Carroll suddenly softened, recognizing from the tone of his voice, his shattering disappointment.

‘Dear Tom, I am so very sorry. You come right home and I’ll try to make it up for you.’

‘Yeah. Okay, honey,’ and Lepski hung up. He walked, heavy footed, out to his car and headed back to headquarters. He felt as if his ambitious little world had come apart at the seams.

Entering the Detectives room, he paused to gape. Three men from Homicide were at desks. Jacoby and Dusty were also at their desks: all were talking on their various telephones.

Beigler took the jacket from Lepski.

‘Get moving, Tom,’ he said. ‘That broadcast really started something. The moment it was off the air, people started calling in. Everyone in the city seems to have something to say about the jacket. We could be here all night.’

Lepski heard his telephone bell start up. He plodded across to his desk, sat down, pulled a scratch pad and pencil towards him, then lifted the receiver.

‘Lepski. Police headquarters.’

‘This is Mrs. Applebaum. I’ve just seen that jacket on the Pete Hamilton show. Mr. Hamilton said to contact the police... right?’ She sounded a very aggressive lady.

‘That’s right, madam,’ Lepski said.

‘It is my husband’s birthday, next week. I find it very difficult to give him a present.’

Lepski dug his fingers into the surface of his desk.

‘You have information about the jacket, madam?’

‘No. I want information from you. The police are supposed to give information... right?’

Lepski pushed his hat to the back of his head and dragged at his tie.

‘I’m not following you, madam,’ he said in a strangled voice.

‘I want information! I want to buy a jacket just like the one I saw on the telly for my husband’s birthday present. Where can I buy it?’

Lepski made a noise that would have frightened a hyena and slammed down the receiver.

Claude Kendriek sat back in his massive, antique chair and released a sigh. His breath fluttered the papers on his desk. In a depressed mood, he looked around his reception room which he refused to call his office although all his big deals and sales were transacted there. It was a vast room with an enormous picture window overlooking the sea, sumptuously furnished with some of his most impressive treasures (anyone could buy them if they had enough money) and paintings worth a fortune, hanging on the silk covered walls.

Al Barney, [2] See An Ear to the Ground and You're Dead Without Money. that doyen of the waterfront, had once described Claude Kendriek as follows: ‘Let me give you a picture of Claude Kendriek. He is a tall, massively built queer of around sixty years of age. He wears an ill-fitting orange coloured wig and pale pink lipstick. He is as bald as an egg, and wears this wig just for the hell of it. When he meets a lady client he raises the wig like you would raise your hat... strictly a character. He is fat: soft, massive fat that is no good to anyone. He has a long thick nose and little green eyes and what with all this fat covering his face, he looks like a dolphin, but without a dolphin’s nice expression. Although he looks comic, and often acts comic, he is a top expert in antiques, jewelry and modern art. He runs his gallery on Paradise Avenue, the swank quarter of the City, with the aid of a number of gay boys, and he makes a load of dough.’

Apart from his flourishing gallery, Kendriek was also a fence. He became a fence by force of circumstances. Important collectors came to him, wanting some special art treasure that was not for sale. Their offers were so tempting, Kendriek couldn’t resist. He found a gang of expert art thieves who stole what his clients wanted and he sold to the clients at a huge profit, and his clients keep the treasures in their secret museums.