Once a Mutt (Trace 5) (8 page)

Then he got up and put on his underwear. He always wondered why he insisted upon wearing his underwear even though he was alone and not likely to be unalone.

He could never figure it out. Maybe it was some fear of a flash fire. If the building caught fire, he would at least be able to run out without first looking for clothes to put on. It was bad enough being a pauper, but being a pauper, standing in front of a burning motel, with kindly policemen wrapping a blanket around his naked cold body was more than he could take.

Wearily, his mouth thick with too many cigarettes, his head thick with too much vodka, he started to dictate into the golden-frog microphone on his tape recorder.

Trace’s Log
: Devlin Tracy in the matter of Helmsley Paddington, Four A.M. Tuesday, Tape Number One.

Hello, tape recorder, old friend. My only friend.

This is what you’ve driven me to, Chico. I’m sitting here, oversmoked, overdrunk, my natural juices all gone from my body because you wouldn’t lend me the ten thousand dollars I needed when I needed it. Well, fourteen thousand.

I like to think that if you had but known what it would do to me, you might have acted differently. That you might have said, “Trace, sure, I’ll lend you the fourteen thousand. More than that if you need it. I’ll buy half your interest in the restaurant.” I really like to think that, Chico, because I’d really like to give you one more chance to show that you’re a worthwhile person.

But I won’t call you anymore. I’m finished with that. You can call and tell me if you want.

In the meantime, you’ve got me reduced to this. Drinking, smoking, rutting with a total stranger. God, I hope you hear this tape. I’m going to put it in a metal box so that if this place goes afire and I incinerate because I was busy looking for my underwear, the tape will still be there for your ears to hear. I’ll leave a message on it that it goes right to you, forget Walter Marks.

That’s right, Chico. In the sack with a strange woman, all to try to make some money from this stupid Paddington case. God, I hate this kind of work.

Tonight wasn’t all a waste, though. While I was making love to Elvira—do you hear me, Chico? Long slow sensuous love—I had this wonderful idea.

I bet I could make a lot of money if I printed up a little button that said, “I’ll tell you I love you.” No, the hell with a button. A gold-plated lapel pin. Might as well go the whole route.

You probably wouldn’t realize it because you’re so filled with yourself that you don’t think you need anybody, but this button would make men who wear it the scourge of singles bars or networking centers or wherever it is that men go now to pick up women.

Because I have found out a great truth. Most of the women who jump into the sack at the twitch of an eyebrow do it only so that someone will say to them, “I love you.”

So you get a lapel pin to identify the men who’ll do that and it would make a lot of men and women happy. Men because they wouldn’t have to waste money on false alarms, women because they’d know in advance they were getting what they wanted.

This is a wonderful idea, Chico, and when it is successful and I am rolling in wealth, don’t ask me for any money. If your sister’s plumbing breaks down again or your Japanese mother decides to take English lessons—and it’s about time too—don’t look to me for the money. I’m going to keep it all, every damned last cent of it, and invest it in restaurants. I know, the failure rate for new restaurants is seventy-five percent, but I’m going to change all that.

Revenge. Ahhhh, revenge. Who said that it was a dish best eaten cold? Just when you think I’ve forgiven and forgotten, I’m going to stomp down on your ass. You’ll see. You’ll get yours. My day will come.
Der tag
. You’ll see.

But in the meantime, I am reduced to this. Reduced to worrying about lovable Helmsley Paddington and his buck-toothed wife, Nadine, who have devoted their lives to getting rich off animals. That’s right, world. Rich. I don’t buy that love-the-animals bullshit. I think people love animals because they want to get something out of it. If you own a dog, you can’t afford a wife but you want affection anyway from some dumb brute. You own birds because they prettify the house, fish because watching them is cheaper than watching television. You own a cat because something deep inside you craves the smell of urine on ashes.

So I think that Hemmie and Nadine, yeah, maybe they liked animals some, but basically they were in business. Quick. How many dogs does Nadine Paddington have now? Answer. Zero. With that big place in Westport and two servants, answer, zero.

So much for love, puppy or otherwise. And when Helmsley Paddington flew off, seven years ago, on a flight to save the seals, I wouldn’t bet that he didn’t have a deal to sell artificial seal coats and he was just trying to dry up the competition. And then no more of him. That’s all.

And now Nadine wants her two million dollars in insurance.

Let’s see how that scans.

Big house in Westport, standard. Two cars in the garage, one a gray Mercedes, standard. Two servants, standard.

Well, maybe not standard. Anything involving Ferd is definitely substandard. Ferd is the guard or caretaker or whatever he is, and he looks like Sergeant Slaughter, the wrestler. Somehow he took a dislike to me right away and for the life of me, I can’t understand why. Maybe he doesn’t like the way I sing “Abdul the Bulbul Emir.” Holy Mother, is it time for new material? But anyway, my charm got me in to see Nadine.

Nadine, I guess, is pretty sick. I saw a wheelchair under the stairs. She’s got pinkeye. I thought only babies got pinkeye. And I guess she’s distraught. If I had teeth like that woman and my spouse died, I’d be distraught too. But I’d still go and get my teeth fixed.

Hemmie, she said, was an exceptional man and they were as happy as clams. And then he vanished and she waited seven years for him to come home. Maybe she’s a Greta Garbo fan. She wants to be alone. Anyway, that’s why she moved out of New Hampshire, this all happened then, and went to Westport, where she lives with Ferd, ugly and nasty, no dogs, and Maggie, maid, unseen, but if she’s beautiful I’m going to pork her, Chico, because what else do I have in my life?

Anyway, I couldn’t find out anything from Nadine, except that she spent too much time in the sun when she was younger ’cause the skin on her face is all cracked like an old wallet.

I’ve got an awful lot of work to do to try to prove something in this case. I guess it’d be easier if there was something to prove. Nadine Paddington isn’t the insurance-scam type. Her husband, I don’t know. A good-looking man can twist a homely woman around his finger—I know that firsthand, Chico—but I don’t know.

Nadine’s a hermit anyway. They turned down the next-door neighbor’s garbanzo loaf, although that might not mean anything more than rampant good taste still lives.

That was neighbor one. She jogged up and down while we were talking. Neighbor two, Chico, that was Elvira, the one I slept with tonight. She and I hit it right off. She tantalized me in a bikini, and even without knowing me real well, I know she would have lent me the ten thousand or fourteen thousand dollars I need, but she was a little short of spending money this month.

A nice woman too. Her husband’s a marriage counselor and works in New York and has a mistress there. Elvira and the girlfriend have lunch together. Isn’t that cozy? I wonder what Bart, the husband, thinks about having two women comparing him over a lunch table. Jeez.

She invited me to take her out and then she told me good stuff. How Helmsley Paddington was doing the Hollywood wealthy-investor number and romancing starlets. Elvira says that’s an angle.

It goes like this. Hemmie is out sporting on Bucky Beaver, the wife. He’s not terribly discreet about it because his name winds up in supermarket newspapers. And Nadine finds out and gets so damned mad that when he goes to save the seals, she sticks a bomb on his plane and sends him to that big igloo in the sky.

Motive. An ugly woman scorned always has a motive.

Aaaaah, why am I jerking myself off? I don’t believe Nadine Paddington’s a killer. And even if she was, how am I going to prove anything about a murder seven years ago? I have trouble finding the ashtray in a rental car, now I’m going to find a seven-year-old clue? Forget it.

Maybe I will just con Mrs. Paddington into coming out and liquor her up and make love to her. I’ll wear my lapel pin that says ‘I’ll tell you I love you’ and she’ll fall at my feet. I’ll kiss her from the side to avoid collision and I’ll wangle the truth out of her.

If I can get her out. She doesn’t go out much. That’s what everybody says, including Adam Shapp—he’s her lawyer. She types him neat little notes. Probably on paper with puppies’ pictures on it.

So that’s the case, and if that wasn’t enough to make it a terrible day, that bandit, Eddie, wants fourteen thousand to fix the restaurant. And he’s trying to sell out himself. What a pain in the balls that is. Never do business in New Jersey. I should have learned that a long time ago.

I think I’m getting ripped off and every penny I have in the world, forty thousand, is in that place. I hate the restaurant business. Seventy-five percent of all new restaurants fail.

I’m going to apply for one of those grants that they give every year to big thinkers to give them a chance to do their work without having to worry about making a living.

The Japanese declare people national treasures and venerate them. For your information, Chico, even though you’re partly one of them, the Japanese won’t declare you a national treasure. Maybe the national treasury, you cheap thing, but not a treasure.

But why doesn’t America do that? Why doesn’t someone come up and give me money and say we know you’ve got a large and really important mind and we want you to brainstorm for the next five years without having to worry about making a living. The things I could invent with such freedom. The questions I could answer. I could find out how airport restaurants can turn bread into brown toast without ever getting it warm. I have this idea for a great new product. A combination mouthwash and after-shave; one big bottle to do both things. Travelers would go crazy for it.

More big questions. Why can’t you find a mailbox on the street outside the main New York City post office? Important questions, and I could answer them if I had the time.

Never mind. I’m plugging through on this case, Chico. My day will come and you are not going to share in it. Trust me.

Anyway, I think tomorrow I’m going to do some checking up on good old Hemmie Paddington and find out if there were any skeletons in the closet that might make his wife want to murder him. How I’ll prove that, though, I’ll never know.

And I won’t have much time tomorrow. It’s five A.M. now, maybe even later, and I’ve just finished making love to a beautiful redheaded woman and it was wonderful, Chico, wonderful. She told me she loved me. And I believe her.

Most people do, you know. Except for those who are cheap and tightfisted and think that anyone who’s nice to them is trying to borrow money.

I drank and smoked too much today. That’s the good news. Somehow I forgot to eat. I’ll think about that tomorrow.

It’s all your fault, Chico. If I do die in a fire, with or without underwear, and you get this tape, make sure the insurance company reimburses my estate for my expenses.

I did almost everything today by credit card, except tonight I spent a hundred and fifty dollars on cocktails with Elvira. You hear that, Chico? A hundred and a half. I spend money like water on people who deserve it.

And I guess I spent another fifty dollars on miscellaneous things. So make it two hundred dollars. Hell, round it off. Two-fifty. Deduct a dollar for the cheap ballpoint pens I stole today from the lawyer’s office. Two-forty-nine.

Chico, make sure my estate collects. But don’t go looking for any of it yourself, because I’m writing you out of my will. That’ll fix you.

Devlin Tracy signing off.

“Hi, Sarge. How goes it?”

“What’s wrong, son?”

“What do you mean what’s wrong? Does something have to be wrong for me to call my only father? How’s the private detecting business?”

“Not bad. I got a big industrial client who wants me to find out who’s stealing paper clips and I’m starting to get a few regular cases.”

“What’s a regular case?”

“You know, missing husbands, cheating wives, that kind of things. It’s starting to go real well.”

“Let’s get down to the important stuff,” Trace said. “Is it getting you out of the house?”

“Yes. Every blessed day,” Sarge said.

“Praise be God.”

“So what’s wrong?” Trace’s father asked again.

“I really resent it when people think there’s got to be something wrong when I call them,” Trace said.

“When you start resenting things, I
know
something’s wrong. Besides, you sound like death warmed over.”

“I’ve been drinking too much,” Trace said.

“Why?” Sarge asked.

“I need ten thousand dollars,” Trace said.

“A sex-change operation? At your age?”

“Not until I get this one down right first,” Trace said. “You got ten thousand dollars?”

“No,” Sarge said. “Every penny I had is in the new agency. You know how much office chairs cost?”

“For Christ’s sakes, Sarge. You didn’t have to go wasting your money on chairs and stuff. Didn’t you ever learn the joy of being frugal?”

“The last time you were here, you told me my office looked like a locker room,” Sarge said.

“I said it smelled like a locker room. A seventy-nine-cent can of air freshener would have done just as good as new chairs. And anyway, you don’t have to take everything to heart. If you spend all your money everytime somebody complains, what are you going to have left for a rainy day?”

“Hopes for sunny and clearing,” Sarge said. “Listen, I don’t have the ten, but I can get it.”

“From the sharks?” Trace asked.

“Of course, from the sharks. Where else would I get ten thousand dollars?”

“Pop, if I wanted to go to the loan sharks, I’d go myself,” Trace said. “I don’t need you to go for me.”

“Then why don’t you go and get the ten thousand from the sharks?”

“’Cause I can’t pay it back,” Trace said.

“Well, I’ve got to admit it,” Sarge said. “That’s a new wrinkle in borrowing. It might make it a little tough for you at first, until people catch on to your new system.”

“You’re not being helpful,” Trace said. “I’ll be able to pay it back eventually. Just not right away. And not on any schedule.”

“Look,” Sarge said. “I could get it from the sharks and I could pay it back. Then when you get it, you can pay me back.”

“Naaah, I don’t like dealing with middlemen. You think Mother’s got ten thousand?”

“Probably, but she wouldn’t lend it to you,” Sarge said.

“Why not? I’m her son.”

“She doesn’t trust you,” Sarge said.

“I said I’m her son, I didn’t say I was trustworthy. What has trust got to do with anything?”

“Got me,” Sarge said. “She wouldn’t lend me anything to start this business, I don’t think she’ll lend you money for a sex-change operation.”

“I’d bet she’d lend it to one of those idiotic cousins I’ve got,” Trace said.

“What cousin?”

“I don’t know. Try Bruce. They’re all named Bruce.”

“I imagine she’d lend it to Bruce,” Sarge said.

“Why would she lend it to a nephew and not to me?” Trace demanded.

“It hasn’t got anything to do with you, except that she doesn’t really like you. Ever since you got divorced.”

“That’s why she doesn’t like me?”

“Don’t feel bad. She doesn’t like anybody. She doesn’t like Cousin Bruce either.”

“But she’d lend him the money,” Trace said.

“Not because of him. It’d just be to show her relatives that she can afford to lend somebody ten thousand dollars. Your mother is a very prideful woman.”

“If she lends it to me, I’ll promise her that I’ll tell all the relatives. I’ll send them telegrams and Mass cards.”

“Hold the Mass cards,” Sarge said. “All the relatives are Jewish.”

“All right, scrap the Mass cards. You think it’ll work?”

“No. She still won’t lend it to you.”

“I shouldn’t even ask?” Trace said. “What can she do except refuse?”

“You underestimate your mother. First of all, she’ll refuse for sure. But then, she’ll always remember. For the rest of your life, you’re going to hear her telling everybody about the time you tried to get her to give you her last ten thousand dollars, which would have put her in poverty and taken away all her security because, well, you know, her husband drinks and no one seems to care about whether she lives or dies in her old age, not like some children who seem to care about their—”

“Enough, enough,” Trace said. “You’re bringing tears to my eyes.”

“Did you try borrowing from Chico?” Sarge asked.

“Of course I did. She was my first hope. She wouldn’t lend it to me.”

“Why not?” Sarge asked.

“She said I’d lose it.”

“Got a good head on her shoulders, that girl,” Sarge said. “If you married her, maybe under the law you’d have a right to loot her savings account.”

“I’ll have to think about that,” Trace said. “It’s not a bad idea. Anyway, I just called to see how things were. I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Mother and I are both fine. I’m out working, so I’m happy, and she’s staying home, complaining about being neglected, so she’s happy. What do you need ten thousand dollars for?”

“I invested in a restaurant. Some start-up expenses that I didn’t expect.”

“A new restaurant?” Sarge asked.

“Yes,” Trace said. “Down the Jersey shore.”

“Did you know that seventy-five percent of all new restaurants go under?” Sarge asked.

“No fooling, Pop. I never heard that.”

“It’s true, son.”

“I’ll never forget it again. Give my love to Mother.”

“You’re not going to call her?”

“Of course not. I never call her,” Trace said.

“Hey, if I win the Pick-Six lottery, I’ll give you the ten grand outright,” Sarge said.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Trace said. “Try fourteen grand.”

Trace pressed the handset button with a finger, dropped the receiver on the bed alongside him, and lit a cigarette. This was getting serious. Chico wouldn’t give it up, Sarge didn’t have it, and the only one left was Bob Swenson, the president of Garrison Fidelity, and that was a dead end without making a telephone call. Despite being a millionaire, Swenson never had any money. He was always stiffing Trace on bar tabs and hotel bills. Any money he might have in his pocket, he always spent on women. He frequently complained to Trace that his money was tied up.

“When does it get untied?” Trace once asked him.

“The minute I die. Then watch my wife untangle the twisted web of my finances. She’ll have me liquidated before I’m cold. Until then, I can’t touch anything. It’s the only reason I don’t leave that woman.”

There was nobody else. There was no hope. It was all over.

When disappointed, lash out. That was Trace’s philosophy. He called Walter Marks’ office at Garrison Fidelity.

“Let me talk to Groucho,” he told the woman who answered.

“I beg your pardon,” the woman said.

“You’re new there, aren’t you?” Trace asked.

“Who is this calling?”

“You know how I know you’re new? Because only the new ones ask ‘who’ when I ask for Groucho. Walter Marks. Groucho. I want to talk to him.”

“And you are?”

“Trace. Devlin Tracy. And now you’re going to say that you’ll see if he’s in. Trust me, he’s in. Just punch this call right into his office.”

“I’ll see if he’s in, sir,” the young woman’s voice said coldly.

The secretary put him on hold. Trace hung up.

He got up and finally unpacked his clothes. He put his kit of toilet articles in the bathroom and wondered why everybody laughed when he suggested that someone manufacture a joint mouthwash and after-shave lotion.

He found an ice-cube machine in the hall and put some ice cubes and the rest of his dwindling vodka supply into a plastic water glass.

He sang three choruses of “Finlandia, Finlandia All the Way,” lit a cigarette, smoked it, and tossed it into the butt can, then lit another. He turned on a soap opera, but after three minutes, despairing of ever understanding any of it, he turned it off and dialed Marks’ number again.

“Hello,” said the same woman’s voice. “Mr. Marks’ office.”

“Hello, my dear,” said Trace, dripping oil. “My name is Devlin Tracy and I would enjoy greatly the honor of speaking with Mr. Walter Marks if you would be so kind as to put me through.”

“Did you just call?”

“I?”

“It was you, it was you, and when he wanted to talk to you, you weren’t on the line, you hung up, and he yelled at me for cutting you off.”

“Do not worry, my dear. I will set things aright.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“But that’s what you get for being a peckerhead,” Trace said.

Marks’ voice clicked onto the line. “Who you calling a peckerhead?” he demanded.

“Not you, Walter, old friend. It would be too hard to explain. Why don’t we just let the subject drop?”

“All right. Let it drop. What did you want?”

“I just wanted to report in and tell you that everything is going swimmingly on the Paddington case,” Trace said.

“Really? You figure out yet how you’re going to save us two million dollars?”

“I expect a major breakthrough in a day or two,” Trace said.

“Are you serious? Is there something there? He’s alive, isn’t he? That prick is alive and trying to steal money from us.”

“Right now,” Trace said unctuously, “I could speak naught but supposition to you. In a few days, I should have everything tied up.”

“That’ll be real good if you can do it,” Marks said.

“Yes. The other side seems to be impressed also,” Trace said.

“What do you mean?”

“Just that…Well, it was made clear to me by certain people involved in this matter that perhaps certain silences on my part might lead to financial reward later on.”

“You mean they’re trying to bribe you?” Marks demanded.

“I couldn’t really comment on that at this time.”

“How can they do that? The nerve of those bastards. How can they do that? The nerve of those bastards. How can they do that? Who did it?”

“Perhaps they inspected my bank balance,” Trace said. “Perhaps they’ve heard that I am in a small financial pinch right now and could use some monetary assistance.”

“Monetary assistance?” There was a long pause, then Marks said, “Wait a minute. Are you trying to con me into lending you money for that bound-to-fail restaurant?”

“Did I mention a restaurant to you?” Trace asked.

“No. That’s why I’m suspicious.”

“I don’t need any money from you,” Trace said. “In fact, in the near future I may never need money again. And as for the restaurant, I would rather not be involved in any project that has you associated with it, however slightly.”

“Well, I’m glad of that,” Marks said.

“On the other hand, I might be more resistant to temptation if I had an advance on my retainer,” Trace said.

“Your retainer’s already been paid six months in advance. As soon as I did that, you started talking about quitting. Not a chance.”

“How about paying me in advance for this Paddington case?”

“You haven’t found out anything yet and I want you to know that I don’t believe for a minute your bullshit about being on the verge of a great discovery. We had detectives, real detectives, look into that case and they couldn’t find anything. I just put you on it so you’ll at least do something for your retainer.”

“Real detectives, Groucho, huh?”

“That’s right. Real detectives. With license and so forth.”

“Your goddamn detectives couldn’t find a freaking bass drum in a phone booth,” Trace snapped.

“How’s that?”

“They never found out, did they, these real detectives, that Helmsley Paddington was the big man around town in Hollywood? They never found out that he was out traipsing around with Hollywood starleteenies while Mrs. P. was home minding the dogs. They didn’t find that out, did they?”

“I never heard that,” Marks said.

“Of course, you didn’t. You know so little, Groucho. But I, Devlin Tracy, I know all.”

“I’ll believe it and you when I see something concrete.”

“I’d like to see something concrete. Wrapped around your ankles,” Trace said. “As you bubble downward.”

“Sticks and stones may break my bones,” Marks started.

“And concrete boots can kill you,” Trace said.

“I don’t want to listen to any more of this. I think you’re drunk.”

“Well, listen to this for a moment. That big goddamn package you gave me with the file on the Paddingtons…”

“Yes.”

“It didn’t have their insurance application. I need their doctor’s name in New Hampshire.”

“All right. Hold on and I’ll look for it.”

“No,” Trace said. “I’ve got other things to do. You get it and ship it up here by messenger. Leave it at the desk of Ye Olde English Motel. Groucho, I’ll never forgive you for making me stay in a place like this. I’ll pick it up when I get back from my travels today.”

“Travels? Going somewhere?” Marks asked.

“Always on the job,” Trace said.

“I’ll have the stuff delivered. It should have been in the folder.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Are you sure? Or did you just overlook it?”

“I would much rather have looked hard for it than to have to talk to you on the phone and ruin an otherwise perfect day,” Trace said.

“You’ll have it today,” Marks said.

“Thank you, Groucho.”

“And don’t call me Groucho to my secretaries anymore.”

Trace hung up.

He took a shower and, when he came out of the bathroom, saw that the level of vodka in his bottle was perilously low. He knew the motel didn’t have room service, but he called the front desk to see if someone was available for running an errand. He dialed the three-digit number and let it ring ten times before hanging up. Then he dialed the hotel operator and got no answer from her either. Finally, he dialed nine, got a local line, and dialed the motel’s outside telephone number.