McBain, Ed - Killer's Payoff

“Eighty-seventh Precinct, Sergeant Murchison,” the voice answered.

“Dave, this is Willis. Is Hawes upstairs?”

“Hold on a second, Hal. I’ll check.”

Willis waited.

“Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Hawes,” Hawes said.

“Cotton, this is Hal.”

“Hi. How’s the tail?”

“Fine. You should see it.”

“Pretty?”

“A diamond, once you chip away the coal.”

“Where are you?”

“In the city.”

“Where’s she?”

“1612 Independence Avenue. That’s below the Square, midtown. She’s in Room 806 with a quote photographers’ representative unquote named Patrick Blier. Shall I hit him or maintain the tail?”

“Stay with her, Hal. Buzz me when she leaves, and I’ll go down to see him.”

“I’ll leave the message with the desk,” Willis said. “I won’t have time to exchange cordialities or I’ll lose her. She travels like a bunny.”

“Okay. I’ll ask Dave to let me know as soon as he gets your call. Stay with her, Hal.”

“I’d love to,” Willis said.

“You horny bastard.”

“Horny? I’m red-blooded.”

“I’m tired-blooded,” Hawes said. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

Patrick Blier, Photographers’ Representative, was a bald man with a hooked nose. The first impression he gave was of a giant bald eagle. He sat behind his desk in a cubbyhole office the walls of which were covered with photographs of girls in various stages of dress and undress. A metal plaque on his desk announced the fact that he was Mr. P. Blier, in case anyone should accidentally think he was Miss or Mrs. P. Blier. To further eliminate doubt, Patrick Blier wore a transparent sports shirt, short-sleeved, and his chest was matted with thick black hair. His arms curled with the same black hair. A lesser man might have cracked under the pressure of all that hair everywhere but on the head. Patrick Blier didn’t seem to care. He was bald, so he was bald. So what?

“So what do you want?” he asked Hawes when he stepped into the office.

“Didn’t your receptionist tell you?”

“She said a detective was here. You a city cop or a private eye?”

“City.”

“I get a lot of private eyes. They want my clients to take pictures for divorce cases. I explain to them that I ain’t in the habit of breaking down bedroom doors. Private eyes are disgusting. Ain’t nothing sacred? What do you want?”

“Some answers.”

“You got the questions?”

“Loads of them.”

“Speak. I’m busy. I got requests up to here. I’m gonna have to get a bigger office, so help me God. Phones ringing all day long. Editors coming up day and night. Models pestering me. Jesus, what a rat race. What do you want? Speak. I’m busy.”

“Why was Lucy Mencken here?”

“Who the hell is Lucy Mencken?”

“She was here a little while ago.”

“You’re nuts. Lucy Men—you mean Mitchell? You mean Lucy Mitchell? Is that who you mean?”

“Yes.”

“So where the hell did you get this Mencken from? Say what you mean, will you? I’m busy.”

“Why was she here?”

“Why, what’d she do?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why should I tell you?”

“Why not?”

“First tell me what she done.”

“Blier, I don’t have to bargain with you. I asked a question. I’ll ask it one more time. Why was she here, and what did she want?”

Blier studied Hawes for a long moment.

“You think you scare me?” he said at last.

“Yes,” Hawes answered.

“You’re right, you know that? You scare the hell out of me. Where the hell did you get that white hair? You look like the wrath of God, I swear to God. Jesus, I’d hate to meet you in a dark alley. Boy!”

“Why was she here?”

“She wanted some pictures.”

“What kind of pictures?”

“Cheesecake.”

“What was she going to do with them?”

“Paste them in her scrapbook, I guess. How the hell do I know? Do I care what a dame does with her own pictures? What do I care?”

“These were pictures of her?”

“Sure. Who’d you think? Marilyn Monroe, maybe?”

“What kind of pictures?”

“I told you. Cheesecake.”

“Nude?”

“Some were nude. The rest were almost nude.”

“How nude is almost nude?”

“Pretty nude. As nude as you can get without getting nude. As a matter of fact, nuder than if she was entirely nude, if you know what I mean.”

“Who took these pictures?”

“One of my clients.”

“Why?”

“To try to sell, what do you think? I sell to all the men’s magazines. I handle other stuff, too, not only cheesecake. I don’t want you to get the idea I only handle cheesecake. I do photographic essays. That is, I handle them. My clients shoot the actual stories.”

“Which client took these pictures of Lucy Mitchell?”

“A guy named Jason Poole. He’s a good man. Top-notch. Even these pictures were good, and he took them a long time ago.”

“How long ago?”

“Ten, twelve years ago.”

“Which?”

“How do I know? Who remembers that far back? She walked into the office today, I thought I was seeing a ghost.”

“I’m not sure I’m following you, Blier. Suppose we start from the beginning.”

“Oh my God, I’m busy. How can I go way back to the beginning?”

“By going there,” Hawes said. “I’m busy, too, Blier. I’m busy investigating a homicide.”

“That’s murder?”

“That’s murder.”

“She done it?”

“Start from the beginning, Blier.”

“The beginning was about ten, twelve years ago. Maybe longer. Let me think a minute.” He thought a moment. “The war was just over. When was that?”

“1945.”

“Yeah. No, wait a minute, the war wasn’t over yet. The first war, the one with the bastard. That was over.”

“You mean Hitler?”

“Who else? That one was over. We still had to clean up the Pacific. Anyway, it was around then—1944,1945. Around then. I was sitting in the office alone. I didn’t even have a receptionist at the time. Just me. I had an office, I wanted to change my mind I had to go outside to do it. That’s how big it was.” Blier laughed at his own devastating humor. “I was eating a sandwich. Pastrami on rye, from Cohen’s. Delicious pastrami. In walks this doll. An absolute doll. A doll you could die with. With this doll, you could put me on a desert island for the rest of my natural life without food and water, so help me. Just her alone, and I’m a happy man. That’s the kind of a doll she was.”

“Lucy Mitchell?” Hawes asked.

“Who else? With straw sticking out of her ears. Straight from the farm, and milk-fed. Oh mister please, I get weak. These big blue eyes, and this body, this body sings, it plays sonatas, it’s an orchestra with strings, Jesus I get weak. She wants to model. She says she wants to model. I say did you ever model? She says no she never modeled but she wants her picture in magazines. I visualize a fortune in pinups. I can see this doll decorating barracks from here to Tokyo. I can even see her decorating Japanese barracks! Her I wouldn’t even deny the enemy, the bastards. But her I wouldn’t deny them. I send her up to see Jason Poole. He takes a string of pictures. He can’t stop the shutter from clicking. Click, click, he shoots away all night long.”

“Go on,” Hawes said.

“He gets these marvelous pictures of this marvelous doll with this body that makes concrete limp. I can visualize a fortune. So what happens?”

“What happens?” Hawes asked.

“Next week I’m out of business. Some snotty underage dame sues me for selling cheesecake for which she gave me permission to sell. How was I supposed to know she’s underage? I’ve got these lovely pictures of Lucy Mitchell, but I ain’t got no office any more because this other snotty dame sued me out of existence.”