Warren Murphy: Killing Time

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"And the others? Would anyone especially want to kill Admiral Ives?"

"Sure," Cecilia said. "The Russians, the Libyans, the PLO, the Red Brigades, the Baader Meinhof, the Red Chinese, you name it. He was the secretary of the navy, you know."

"You can drop the sarcasm," Remo said. "I get enough of that at home."

"Oh? You got a mother, too?"

"You might say that."

She showed him to the door and swung it open with a grunt. "Thanks," Remo said. "If 1 kissed you good­bye, would you get upset?"

She smiled. "Try me."

He touched her lips lightly. She blushed. "I don't suppose you'd like to start with the left earlobe again," she said.

Chapter Four

The first eighteen names on the Spangler's guest list were out of town. Since he'd exhausted the Washing­ton, Virginia, and Maryland numbers, Remo went on to the New York City addresses.

Number nineteen was Bobby Jay, a name Remo re­called from years of listening to Chiun's television blasting while Remo was doing his exercises. Bobby Jay, according to his TV commercials, was one of the world's outstanding voices, kriown so far only to the discerning tastes of Europeans, but now available to Americans through a special TV offer. His records, ac­cording to the announcer, were not sold in stores, a fact gratefully acknowledged by millions, since Bobby Jay was, to all intents and purposes, tone deaf.

Back from a recent engagement at Phil's Steak House in Atlantic City, Bobby Jay himself answered the door in the Manhattan penthouse apartment. He was around thirty, with coiffed hair and the kind of boy­ish, unlined face that bespoke a lifetime of fighting off anything resembling intelligent thought.

"Hey, good-iookin', what you got cookin'?" he crooned tunelessly in greeting, snapping his fingers off the beat.

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From the decor of the room, which consisted of sculpture, paintings, needlepoint, and other media de­picting the backsides of naked man, Remo got the dis­tinct impression that Bobby Jay was going to burst into a torrent of lisping in a matter of seconds.

He was right.

"Honey, are you the ethcort?"

"I'm the stranger," Remo said. "And I'd like to keep it that way."

Bobby Jay's eyes scanned the physique of the young man who stood in front of him, wearing chinos and a black T-shirt. "You mean you're not here to drive me to the airport?" he asked.

"Don't tell me you're leaving town, too."

"Everybody who's anybody is, darling. Oh, pooh. Where is that boy? I'm so annoyed I could spit." The lisp had changed to a slight whistle. He plopped down on a gigantic white sofa bordered with freshly cut calla lilies. "Come and sit down beside me. You'll make me feel better."

"Buddy, if I end up on that sofa next to you, I can guarantee you won't feel better."

"Well, I never. Who are you, anyway? Some kind of burglar or something? In that cute little T-shirt? It's January, macho man."

"I'm not a burglar. I want to ask you some questions about the party last night."

"Who, Elwood? That was nothing. It was just one of those things. . ." he sang.

"The party at the Spanglers."

". . Just one of those fabulous flings. . ."

Remo clapped Bobby Jay's arm behind him in a hammerlock.

"Oh, you big brute," Bobby said, batting his eye­lashes.

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"I don't want singing. I want talking."

"Gawd, so intense. And what nice wrists you have. So thick and naughty. Well. What do you want to talk about, brown eyes? Would you like to hear about my rise to stardom? I was an overnight success, you might say, in the iiteral sense."

"! want to talk about Admiral Thornton Ives, the Secretary of the Navy. Did you know him?"

Bobby Jay giggled. "Not in the Biblical sense."

Remo collared him. "If you don't start giving me some straight answers, I'm going to punch you out. In the unconscious sense."

"I love it when you play rough."

Remo counted to ten. "Okay. Let's start over. What was your relationship with Admiral Ives?"

"Ugh, please. That old man? I'd never have a rela­tionship with a sixty-year-old sailor. What do you think ! am, a tart? I'd rather drown in a sea of elephant piss. Say, I never thought about that before. Sounds kind of kinky-elephant piss. What do you think?"

"I think you'd have a swell time. Were you friends with the admiral?"

"God, no. He wasn't part of the group."

"What group?"

Bobby Jay smiled lewdly and sidled closer to Remo. "Why, the in group, of course. The jet-setters. The beau monde. The BPs. All the people who matter."

"Like who?"

"Oh, everyone. Mrs. Spangler and the senator, they're part of the group. And Posie Ponselle, the ac­tress-"

"Posie Ponselie? I thought she was dead."

"Oh, stars, no. Posse's still lovely. For a woman. Al­though she must be a hundred years old by now," he added maliciously. "But that's Shangri-la for you.

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Oops, I suppose 1 shouldn't have said that, it's so hard to keep a secret from the man of your dreams."

"Shangri-la?"

"Yeah. You know, 'Your kisses take me ..." "

"I know the tune, thanks," Remo said.

Bobby Jay stroked his arm. "It's a health clinic."

"In Pennsylvania?"

"Yes. Have you been there?"

"No," Remo said. "That's where Mrs. Spangler was going when I talked to her. What about it?"

"Now, I really can't say any more. They'll ail just be boiling if they find out I've told an outsider about us. You do understand, don't you? If everybody knew about Shangri-la, all the fat paupers in the world would be storming the place."

"Sure," Remo said. "Wouldn't want to get a bad element in there with the likes of you and the other BMs."

"BPs," Bobby corrected. "That stands for Beautiful People." He pressed close to Remo.

"Think you'd qualify as a Beautiful Person with two black eyes and a broken nose?"

Bobby Jay moved away, sniffing scornfully. "Philis­tine. And I was going to ask you if you wanted to join. Not that you could anyway. I can tell you're not rich enough. Your T-shirt doesn't even have anybody's name on it."

Remo pulled out the guest list Cecilia Spangler had given him. Posie Ponselle's name was one of the peo­ple Remo had tried to reach. She was out of town. "Will you look at these names?" he asked Bobby Jay, indicating the first section of his list. Bobby did, and handed it back.

"Yes?"

"You said that the senator and Mrs. Spangler were

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on their way to this Shangri-la place. Apparently, Posie Ponselle made the same trip, and you're going there, too. Are any of the other names on this list mem­bers of your club?"

"But of course, gorgeous. Most of them."

"Where is this place?"

"Ah, ah. I told you, I can't reveal any more. Unless you're thinking of joining."

"Then Set's say ! am."

Bobby Jay chuckled, "it's not so easy. The applica­tion fee is three thousand dollars, and you have to make at least a half-million a year."

"A half-million? How'd you get in?"

"My roommate's a tax lawyer," Bobby said.

"Pretty fancy club. What goes on at the meetings?"

"That I can't tell you. We've all been sworn to se­crecy."

"I wish you would," Remo said, twisting Bobby Jay's ear until the singer's face contorted in pain.

"Oh. Oh," he moaned. "More. Oh, it hurts so good."

Remo stopped. It was no use. He was probably on the wrong track, anyway. Admiral Ives hadn't even been a member of the queen's in group of BPs. He was back to square one.

"Forget it," he said.

"Never," Bobby Jay sighed. "You were wonderful. I've never been pinched like that before. How are you at biting?"

"Let's get back to the admiral," Remo said dis­gustedly.

"Why are you so interested in him?" Bobby pouted. "He's a nobody."

"He's dead."