Ed McBain - Give the Boys a Great Big Hand

“Let me get this straight,” Carella said. “Are you saying that Barbara and this drummer both disappeared at the same time?”

“The same night, yes.”

“This was when?”

“I don’t remember when exactly. A few days before Valentine’s Day, I think.”

“What was this drummer’s name?”

“Mike something. An Italian name. A real tongue twister. I can’t remember it. It started with a C.”

“Were Barbara and Mike very friendly?”

“They didn’t seem to be, no. At least, I never noticed anything going on between them. Except the usual patter that goes on between the girls in the show and the band. But nothing special. Oh, I see,” Simms said. “You think they took off together, is that it?”

“I don’t know,” Carella said. “It’s a possibility.”

“Anything’s possible with strippers and musicians,” Simms agreed. “I’m better off without them, believe me. This piano player I’ve got now, he plays very cool music, and everybody sits and listens in the dark, and it’s great. Quiet. I don’t need fist fights and intrigue.”

“You can’t remember this drummer’s last name.”

“No.”

“Try.”

“It began with a C, that’s all I can tell you. Italian names throw me.”

“What was the name of the band?” Carella said.

“I don’t think it had a name. It was a pickup band.”

“It had a leader, didn’t it?”

“Well, he wasn’t exactly a leader. Not the type anybody would want to be taken to, if you follow me. He was just the guy who rounded up a bunch of musicians for the job.”

“And what was his name?”

“Elliot. Elliot Chambers.”

“One other thing, Mr. Simms,” Carella said. “Barbara’s agent told us she was living with two other girls when she disappeared. Would you know who those girls were?”

“I know one of them,” Simms said without hesitation. “Marla Phillips. She used to be in the show, too.”

“Would you know where she lives?”

“She’s in the book,” Simms said. He paused and looked at the detectives. “Is that it?”

“That’s it,” Carella said.

Outside, Hawes said, “What do you make of it?”

Carella shrugged. “I’m going to check with the musician’s local, see if I can’t get a last name for this Mike the drummer.”

“Do drummers have big hands?”

“Search me. But it looks like more than coincidence, doesn’t it? Both of them taking a powder on the same night?”

“Yeah, it does,” Hawes said. “What about Marla Phillips?”

“Why don’t you drop in and pay a visit?”

“All right,” Hawes said.

“See what a nice guy I am? I tackle the musicians union, and I leave the stripper to you.”

“You’re a married man,” Hawes said.

“And a father,” Carella added.

“And a father, that’s right.”

“If you need any help, I’ll be back at the squad.”

“What help could I possibly need?” Hawes asked.

Marla Phillips lived on the ground floor of a brownstone four blocks from The King and Queen. The name plate on the mailboxes listed a hyphenated combination of three names: Phillips-Caesar-Smith. Hawes rang the bell, waited for the responding buzz that opened the inner door, and then stepped into the hallway. The apartment was at the end of the hall. He walked to it, rang the bell set in the door jamb, and waited. The door opened almost instantly.

Marla Phillips looked at him and said, “Hey!”

He recognized her instantly, of course, and then wondered where his mind was today. He had made no connection with the name when Simms had first mentioned it.

“Aren’t you the cop who was in Mr. Tudor’s office?” Marla asked.

“That’s me,” he said.

“Sure. Cotton something. Well, come on in, Cotton. Boy, this is a surprise. I just got home a minute ago. You’re lucky you caught me. I have to leave in about ten minutes. Come in, come in. You’ll catch cold standing in the hallway.”

Hawes went into the apartment. Standing next to Marla, he realized how tall she truly was. He tried to visualize her on a runway, but the thought was staggering. He followed her into the apartment instead.

“Don’t mind the underwear all over the place,” Marla said. “I live with another girl. Taffy Smith. She’s an actress. Legit. Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you,” Hawes said.

“Too early, huh? Look, will you do me a favor?”

“Sure,” Hawes said.

“I have to call my service to see if there was anything for me while I was out. Would you feed the cat, please? The poor thing must be starved half to death.”

“The cat?”

“Yeah, he’s a Siamese, he’s wandering around here somewhere. He’ll come running into the kitchen the minute he hears you banging around out there. The cat food is under the sink. Just open up a can and put some in his bowl. And would you heat some milk for him? He can’t stand cold milk.”

“Sure,” Hawes said.

“You’re a honey,” she told him. “Go ahead now, feed him. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

She went to the telephone and Hawes went into the kitchen. As he opened the can of cat food under the watchful eyes of the Siamese who had materialized instantly, he listened to Marla in the other room.

“A Mr. Who?” she asked the telephone. “Well, I don’t know anybody by that name, but I’ll give him a ring later in the afternoon. Anyone else? Okay, thank you.”

She hung up and walked into the kitchen.

“Are you still warming the milk?” she asked. “It’ll be too hot. You’d better take it off now.” Hawes took off the saucepan and poured the milk into the bowl on the floor.

“Okay, now come with me,” Marla said. “I have to change, do you mind? I’ve got a sitting in about five minutes. I do modeling on the side. Cheesecake, you know. For the men’s magazines. I’ve got to put on some fancy lingerie. Come on, come on, please hurry. This way.”

He followed her into a bedroom that held two twin beds, a huge dresser, several chairs, and an assortment of soiled cardboard coffee containers, wooden spoons, and clothing piled haphazardly on the floor and on the top of every available surface.

“Forgive the mess,” Marla said. “My roommate is a slob.” She took off her suit jacket and threw it on the floor, slipping out of her pumps at the same time. She began pulling her blouse out of her skirt and then said, “Would you mind turning your back? I hate to be a prude, but I am.”

Hawes turned his back, wondering why Marla Phillips thought it perfectly all right to take off her clothes in a nightclub before the eyes of a hundred men, but considered it indecent to perform the same act in a bedroom before the eyes of a single man. Women, he thought, and he shrugged mentally. Behind him, he could hear the frantic swishing of cotton and silk.

“I hate garter belts,” she said. “I’m a big girl. I need something to hold me in. What’s supposed to be so damn sexy about a garter belt, anyway, would you mind telling me? What was it you wanted, Cotton?”

“Somebody told us you used to room with Bubbles Caesar. Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right. Oh, goddamn it, I’ve got a run.” She pushed past him half-naked, bent over to pull a pair of stockings from the bottom drawer of the dresser, and then vanished behind his back again. “Excuse me,” she said. “What about Barbara?”

“Did she live with you?”

“Yes. Her name is still in the mailbox. There, that’s better. Whenever I’m in a hurry, I tear stockings. I don’t know what they make them out of these days. Tissue paper, I think. I’ll have to take her name out, I suppose. When I get the time. Boy, if I only had time to do all the things I want to do. What about Barbara?”