Lawrence Block - The Topless Tulip Caper

And a while later she said, “I thought it might turn you off. Me being older than you.”

“Oh, sure. You really turned me off, Tulip. That’s what you did, all right. Like a bucket of cold water.”

She giggled. It was a pretty sexy giggle, actually. “Well, I thought it might turn me off, then I was attracted to you, you know, but I’m used to older men. And we were both so tired but I wanted to do it anyway.” She put her hand on my stomach and moved it gradually lower. “You must be really exhausted now,” she said, holding on to me. “Oh.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How did you get so wide awake so fast?”

“It’s one of the advantages of younger men,” I said “We have these incredible recuperative powers. Especially when we’re in bed with somebody like you.”

“How nice,” she said. “But you must be tired.”

“I’m not that tired,” I said.

The last conscious thought I had was that I’d damn well better get from her bed to the couch before I fell asleep. Because Haig would either say something or maintain a diplomatic silence, and one would be as infuriating as the other. I had that thought, all right, but that was as far as it went. The next morning I knew it was morning.

Fourteen

I WAS THE last one awake. I yawned and stretched and reached for Tulip and encountered nothing but air and linen. I yawned some more and got up and put clothes on. They were having breakfast. I slipped out without saying hello, walked the few blocks to my own rooming house, showered and changed clothes and went back to Haig’s. By then they were in the office and the great man was on the telephone. I couldn’t tell who was on the other end of the line or what they were talking about, because all Haig said was “Yes” and “No” and “Indeed” and, at last, “Satisfactory.” For all I could tell he had called the weather bureau and was talking back to the recording.

“There you are,” he said to me. “I thought you’d gone off without instructions. You’ll want to see Mrs. Henderson without further delay. And there are other errands for you as well.”

I got out my notebook.

“I also want your report. Last night, from the time you left for Treasure Chest until your return. Verbatim, please.”

I came as close to verbatim as possible and he listened to it with his feet on the desk. When I’d brought it to the point where I left Danzig at his apartment and hopped a cab home, he took his feet off the desk and leaned forward and frowned at me. “How did Mr. Danzig know where to find you?” he demanded

“I thought about that. Jan Remo.”

“The barmaid.”

I nodded. “She excused herself to go to the bathroom. I don’t think she went to the bathroom. I think she went to the telephone.”

“And called Mr. Danzig.”

“Right. I think she fingered me. That’s the right term, isn’t it?”

“I believe so.”

“Well, I believe she fingered me.” I pictured Jan, the red hair, the feline face, the fishnet stockings, the body stocking filled with just what I’d always wanted far Christmas. “She fingered me,” I said. “I’d like to return the favor.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just thinking out loud,” I said.

Haig grunted—his way of thinking out loud—and spun around to consider the Rasboras. I looked over at Tulip and she gave me the world’s most solemn wink. I don’t know if I blushed or not. I probably did.

Haig turned around again. “There’s another variable. Rather surprising. You had a telephone call this morning during your absence.”

“Oh?”

“From another topless dancer, I assume. One of those inane stage names.” He turned to Tulip. “Your pardon, Miss Wolinski. No criticism is intended.”

She assured him none was inferred.

“I don’t recall that you’ve mentioned this one,” he went on. “You know your reports must be as comprehensive as possible. The slightest detail—”

“There was no other dancer. Oh, there were a couple new ones last night, but I didn’t talk to them. I didn’t even get their names, and if that was an oversight I’m sorry. Who was it that called?”

He consulted a slip of paper. “She gave her name as Clover Swann,” he said. “I’ve no idea what her real name might chance to be. She left a number.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I said. “She’s not a topless dancer.”

“Indeed?”

“She’s an editor,” I said. “At Gold Medal,” The image of Clover Swann, Gold Medal’s resident hippie, dancing nude on the stage of Treasure Chest, suddenly flashed somewhere in my mind. It was by no means an unappealing image, but I had the feeling she was happier editing books.

“It was not an illogical assumption,” Haig said. “Clover Swann indeed.”

“Well, she’s an editor. She probably wants to know when I’m going to do another book for them. I’ll call her tomorrow or the next day.”

“You’ll call her now.”

I just looked at him.

“Now,” he repeated. “Bear in mind, Chip, that I hired you as much for your journalistic ability as anything else. It is not enough to be a brilliant detective. The world must know that one is a brilliant detective. Cal Miss Swann. I have the number right here.”

“I know the number,” I said. I picked up the phone and dialed it, and after I’d given the operator everything but my Social Security number I got through to Clover.

“I’ve been reading the papers,” she said. “It sounds as though you’re right in the middle of an exciting case. Topless dancers and everything.”

“And everything,” I agreed.

“It ought to be perfect for your next book. Are you going to write it up?”

“That depends,” I said. “A few hours from now Mr. Haig is going to reach into a hat. If he pulls out a rabbit I’ll have something to write about. If he comes up empty it’s not going to make much of a book.”

Haig scribbled furiously, passed me a note. I read it quickly. It said: “Show more enthusiasm.”

Clover must have read the note because she showed plenty of enthusiasm. She went on telling me what a great book it would make, that it had all the ingredients. “And it should be a cinch to have a lot of sex in this one,” she said. “You know what Joe always says.”

I knew what he said, all right. “People like to read about what a character Haig is and all that, Chip, but if you want to sell books to them you have to give them a hard-on.” That’s what he always said.

“I’m not sure there’s too much sex in it,” I said.

“Oh, who do you think you’re kidding?” She laughed heartily. “Topless dancers? Chip Harrison cavorting with a batch of topless dancers? If I know you, you’re bouncing around like a satyr in a harem.”

“Er,” I said.

“Just let me know how it goes today, Chip, and we’ll draw up a contract. You could even start thinking about a title.”

“Uh,” I said.

I wrapped up the conversation and then I had to give Haig a Reader’s Digest version of it. Then he told me what I had to do next, and I made some notes in my notebook and headed for the door.

Tulip walked me to the door. When we were out of Haig’s hearing range she slipped an arm around my waist. She turned her body so that her breasts rubbed companionably against my chest.

“Not enough sex,” she purred. “Ho, boy! How about a fast bourbon and yogurt?”

I’m sure I blushed that time. Damn it.

I got the Cadillac from the garage. It’s my car, but if it weren’t for Haig I wouldn’t be able to go on owning it. He pays fifty dollars a month so that it can live in a garage on Tenth Avenue. Maybe twice a year I have occasion to use it, and yes, it would be a lot cheaper to rent a car, but I like this one and Haig doesn’t seem to mind the expense. The car was given to me by Geraldine, who runs a whorehouse in Bordentown, South Carolina, where I worked for a while as a deputy sheriff.