Dope (11 page)

“No, I just need a favor. We're friends, aren't we, Harry?”

“Sure, sure we are, Joe.” He looked ready to piss in his pants.

“And you can do me a favor, can't you? Wouldn't it be nice to get this Buffalo thing off your mind once and for all?”

“Of course, Joe, sure,” he said quickly. “Anything, I'm good for it.”

“Okay then. Jerry McFall. You know the guy?”

“Yeah, I know him.”

“Good. Where is he?”

Harry hesitated. I could tell from his eyes he was making up a lie, and I didn't want to give him any time to work on it.

“Come on, Harry, you don't have to think about it. You want us to be square, or you want to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder?”

He wrinkled up his brow. “This would really square us, once and for all?”

“Absolutely, Harry,” I lied. We'd never be square. “But you've got to tell me where he is, and it's got to be good.”

“It's just that he asked me, really made me promise not to tell anyone—”

“But he didn't mean
me,
Harry, you know that. I don't count. You wouldn't be breaking your promise at all.”

Harry slumped in his chair. I gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“Yeah, okay,” he finally said. “The last I heard, he was staying at this place out in Sunset Park.”

“Sunset Park? Where the hell is that?”

“Forty-fifth Street and Fifth Avenue, in Brooklyn. All the way out there. I don't remember the number but it's a brick building, apartments, right on the corner.”

“You been there?”

He sighed. “Yeah, I been there. A few days ago. I went by just to say hi, to pal around, you know? And to bring him some clothes 'n' stuff.”

“What's the story?” I asked. “Why's he laying so low?”

“What he told me was that someone thought he had ripped them off,” Harry said with a smirk. “You know, in a dope deal. Of course, he said he hadn't done it, but he wanted to give everyone some time to cool off all the same.”

“Who was it?” I asked. “Who'd he rip off?”

Harry shrugged. “He didn't say.”

“But of course he didn't do it, right?”

Harry smiled. “I don't know, he said he didn't.”

“How about a girl, Nadine? Is she with him?”

“Yeah, he's got a girl with him. A cute little blonde, young, real pretty.” Harry's eyes glazed over at the thought of Jerry's cute little blonde. It was kind of disgusting.

I rolled my eyes. “All right,” I said. “This better be good.” I stood up to go.

“So this is it?” Harry said, looking up nervously. “I mean we're okay now, right?”

“Go to hell, Harry,” I said. “We'll never be okay.”

J
im lived on Fifth Avenue, north of Washington Square Park, in a fancy apartment building that had just been built last year. The whole front of the lobby was all glass and it looked like a fishbowl. Jim wouldn't be there long. He moved two or three times a year, depending on what kind of work he was doing and what he could afford and what he felt like and who he wanted to be, or seem to be.

The doorman called upstairs by a house phone and told Jim with a straight face that a Miss Marlene Dietrich was here to see him. Jim said to send her on up. Naturally he took the time to put on a jacket and a hat before he answered the door.

He smiled when he saw who it was. He was in a good mood. That would help. “Hey Marlene. You wanna go get a drink or something?”

“No, thanks. But I was hoping you could do me a favor.” I figured I better ease into this slowly. Jim had a thing about his car.

“Anything, Joe. Come on in.” I followed Jim inside. His place was a good size and done up to the nines—sunken living room, new record player that played forty-fives, and all new furniture, streamlined like the sofa and the chairs were about to take flight. I sat down on a turquoise leather sofa while Jim fixed me a drink at the bar.

He joined me on the sofa with the drinks. The glasses had gold and turquoise seashells painted on them.

“Well,” I began, “I finally got a good lead on Nadine Nelson.”

“Great!” Jim smiled and clinked his glass against mine. He really seemed happy for me. “Where'd you track her down?”

I told him about Skinny Harry and our fun evening together. Jim knew Harry, and he laughed so hard he almost spit out his drink.

“So the thing is,” I said, “Harry tells me they're in Brooklyn. Like way far out in Brooklyn. I'm not sure if the subway even goes out there.”

Jim stopped laughing.

“And I really need to get there as soon as possible.”

Jim stopped smiling.

“So I was hoping I could borrow your car for a while.”

He looked down at the floor and thought for a minute. “I could call you a cab,” he suggested. “I'll even pay for it. A taxi'll go out there, no problem.”

“Right,” I said. “Thanks. That's really nice of you. But the thing is, a taxi would really stick out around there. I mean, I might have to watch the place for a while, wait until they come out. I don't want to scare them off. I need to let the parents know where the girl is while she's still there. If they split, I'm right back where I started. So I definitely don't want them seeing a taxi out front waiting for them.”

“That's true,” Jim said. “That's true. But you know, the Rocket 88 would stand out, too. I mean, a new car. In a neighborhood like that.”

“Right,” I said. “But not really. Not so much.”

“You have a good record, right?” He was dead serious. He really loved that car.

“Perfect. Never even a ticket,” I lied.

“You're sure?”

I took my license out of my purse and showed it to him. “Call Motor Vehicles,” I said. It was too late to call Motor Vehicles. If it wasn't, I wouldn't have said it.

Jim laughed. But he did glance at the phone. “Okay,” he finally said. “But you gotta go nice and slow—”

“I won't speed,” I promised.

“And you gotta be careful when you park.”

“I won't park within ten feet of another car,” I said.

“And no drinks,” he said sternly. “No drinks, no food, cigarettes, nothing like that.”

“Jim,” I said, “I will treat your car like it was my newborn babe.”

“Okay, okay.” Jim let out a long breath and tried not to frown. “Warm it up first. And watch where you park. Try not to park it outside. And don't forget to lock it up if you leave it. But don't leave it, Joe. Don't leave the car alone. Not unless you have to. And call me when you get back to the city. Just to let me know you're all right.”

“You mean that the car's all right,” I said.

“No,” Jim said. “That you're all right.”

Jim insisted on taking me out to eat before I drove to Brooklyn. But I wanted to get going soon, and so even though Jim wanted to go to Le Bouche, which of course is the best place to eat late at night if you like French food like snails and liver, he settled for a hash house in Sheridan Square that was open all night. It wasn't up to his usual standards. The coffee was awful and the waitress didn't know Jim's first name. Across the room a man was telling a story in a loud voice about the funny time he had with Rita Hayworth in Cannes.

“For Christ's sake,” Jim said, scowling at his omelet. “Who the hell is this guy trying to impress?”

“I don't know,” I said with my mouth full. “Just forget it.”

“I mean, who does he think he is?” Jim fumed. “
Where
does he think he is, for cryin' out loud—the Stork Club?”

“I. Don't. Know.” I said.

Jim craned his neck to give the man a dirty look. “Hey,” he said when he turned around. “Isn't that Shelley?”

I looked over. The man who was telling the story was sitting at a table across the room. He was a middle-aged man in a black three-piece suit, overweight and half bald, with a big diamond pin on his tie and an even bigger diamond on his little finger. Sitting with him was Shelley.

At least I thought so. Then I looked again and I wasn't sure. She hardly looked like Shelley at all. She looked more like the girl wearing the black dress in the ad Yonah had given me. Her hair was cut short and bleached platinum, and she was wearing a modest black dress with a tiny black hat over her white hair. She had on shiny red lipstick and a little bit of black makeup around her eyes. She laughed at the man's story like it was the funniest thing she had ever heard and leaned toward him, keeping her back straight and her chest out.

It was Shelley. But it was like she'd been to some kind of a spa where they took every little bit of Hell's Kitchen right out of her. It was her, but it wasn't.

I was wondering whether I should say hi or not when she finally saw me. Her eyebrows went up in surprise—I guess I was the last person she expected to see—and then she smiled a little, and nodded toward the ladies' room. I waited until she stood up and then I did, and we met in the bathroom.

We hugged each other. I hadn't seen her in close to a year. Shelley was my sister. She was five years younger, and for a long time there it looked like Shelley might turn out like me. She was hanging around with the same people and getting into the same trouble and sniffing the same dope. But somehow, while I was busy wondering where my next fix was coming from, she pulled herself out of it. She stopped hanging out with the old crowd. Moved out of Hell's Kitchen, where we grew up, and got a job checking coats at a supper club where she'd meet the right people. Now my scrapbook was almost full of pictures of her from magazines and playbills from shows she'd been in. She even had photos printed up, glossy pictures of her face with a thick coat of makeup and her name underneath, her stage name—Shelley Dumere. I guess Flannigan had a low-class ring to it, and besides, it wouldn't do any good for anyone to know who she was related to or who she used to be.

“Jesus, Joe,” she said, with a big smile like the one in her photo. A big fake smile. “It's good to see you. But I've only got a minute.” She started fixing her makeup in the mirror. I leaned against the wall and watched her. She didn't just powder her face like most women did. Instead she put a spot here and a spot there, carefully, like she was painting a picture.

“Who's the guy?” I asked. I couldn't help but smile. I was happy to see her.

“He's producing a show,” she said. She sounded excited. “Not theater. That ain't nothing now. A television show!”

“That's great,” I said. “What kind of a role is it?”

“It's this new show. It's gonna be on every Thursday night at eight o'clock, it's part of the Vita-Crunch Cereal Family Hour. They don't have a name decided on yet, but it's all about this goofy broad, a housewife, and all the funny things she does. You know, like burn dinner for her husband and things like that. I think I'm perfect for it!” She looked in the mirror and smiled at herself. “You know, there's a lot of out-of-work actors in this town, Joe. I know people who'd kill for any kind of work. It ain't easy to get a part like this.”

“I bet,” I said. “You still taking acting classes?”

“Nah,” she said, dabbing powder on her forehead just so. “Honestly, Joe, now that I'm in show business, I see how it really works. It's all about who you know. I mean I can act just as good as any of those other whores, right?”

“Sure,” I said. “Sure you can.”

She frowned at herself in the mirror and began touching up around her eyes with a black eye pencil. “How about you?” she asked. “What are you and Jim doing out so late?”

“Actually,” I said, “I've been looking for someone—you might know them. This girl, her parents hired me to find her—”

She raised her eyebrows. “What are you, like a private dick now?” She laughed. “Can you imagine? I mean you, of all people! Well, anyway, who is it?”

I showed her the picture of Nadine Nelson and Jerry McFall.

She glanced at the picture. “You know, I think I might have met him before. Years ago.”

“Oh yeah? Where?”

“I don't know, Joe. It could have been anywhere. He just looks familiar, that's all. I mean, you know I don't hang around with people like that no more. I mean,
anymore.
Jeez, Joe, if you're gonna be a private dick you gotta learn who to ask what.” She laughed again.

“Yeah,” I said. “Anyway, everything's good? I saw you in the paper a few times—”

She smiled. “Oh yeah? Did you see the one for soap? I looked pretty good, right?” She put away the eye pencil and took out a lipstick in a gold tube. “Anyway, everything's been real good, Joe.
Real
good. This guy, he thinks I'm gonna be a television star.” She dabbed at her lips with the lipstick. “Whadaya think of that? Me, a television star!” She looked pretty pleased with the idea. She put the lipstick back in her pocketbook and stood up to face me. “Well, I guess I ought to get back. He's probably wondering where I've been.”

“Okay,” I said. She didn't have to say that I shouldn't let on that I knew her in front of the producer. That went without saying. We hugged again.

“I'm sorry it's been so long,” she said. “But I'll call you real soon, Joe, okay? I promise. You still at the same place?”

“Yeah,” I said. “The Sweedmore.”

She smiled. “Okay. I'll call you soon.”

“Sure,” I said. “Anytime.”