The Disappearance of Penny Page 11

  We shook hands again.

  “I’ll do my best to get you that film” he promised.

  “I know you will, Chris, thanks. I’ll call you later.”

  Actually, I didn’t really have anything specific in mind to do, but I’d had that late breakfast and didn’t really feel like a long, sit down lunch.

  I took the subway back downtown to get my car. The only real lead I had on Penny was that movie and I wouldn’t know what to do next until I saw it. I figured I might as well go back out to the Downs and keep my ears and eyes open.

  Who knew? If I did I might even get a hot tip.

  On Penny Hopkins, that is.

  Well, I stepped in a lot of horseshit as the afternoon went on, but I came up empty on tidbits about Penny. I did get a few more opinions about her character, but nothing new, and nothing that I put any credence in. I think the only thing I could put any stock in would be my own personal opinion — my opinion of a girl I had never met. I’d find out what she was really like once I found her.

  If I found her.

  I was beginning to have some serious doubts.

  At three-thirty I couldn’t wait any longer. I called Chris at his office. He had good news for me. He’d been able to secure a copy of the film and we arranged for a screening at his house in Queens Village at nine that evening. He was sorry that he’d be unable to get home any earlier than that, but he had a half-dozen different stops to make before going home — as usual. I thanked him and told him that he had done enough without disrupting his schedule for me.

  I went looking for Brandy after that. I figured we could go out and have dinner together.

  Then I’d take her to a movie.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Some date,” Brandy muttered as we pulled up in front of Chris’ house at eight-fifty. “First Nathan’s, now this.”

  Nathan’s on Woodhaven Boulevard, was where we had dinner, because it was only five minutes from Chris’ house.

  “This movie had better be good.”

  I neglected to mention just what the television guide description had said about the film and remarked, “All movies made during the forties were good.”

  She smiled sweetly. “I wouldn’t know. That was before my time.”

  As soon as Chris opened his door and saw Brandy he scolded me.

  “You should have let me know you were going to bring somebody. I would have cleaned up.”

  “Don’t bother on my account,” she told him. “As a jockey, cleanliness is something I’m not that used to, anyway. I spend most of my time getting dirt tossed into my face.” Then she looked at me and added, “Until the finish, that is.”

  Chris was elated. He reveled in meeting new people, especially interesting ones.

  “You’re a jockey. That’s fascinating.”

  When Chris becomes excited, he also becomes very animated. He began asking her all sorts of questions about what it was like to be a female jockey when I interrupted.

  “Excuse me you two, but I came here to see a movie.”

  “But this is fantastic,” Chris expounded. “I’ve never met a jockey, let alone a female jockey.”

  “But you hate horse racing,” I told him.

  “I don’t hate horse racing, I hate racetracks.”

  “Why?” Brandy asked.

  “Well, there are no phones,” he explained.

  “Chris has to have a regular dosage of Ma Bell,” I explained, “or he starts to go cold turkey.” I turned to him. “Why don’t you set me up downstairs with the film and then you two can talk while I watch.”

  “I’d love that,” he told her.

  “I’m game,” she agreed, and that’s what we did.

  He took me downstairs, set the projector up for me, showed me how to turn it off when the film was finished and then he and Brandy went upstairs for coffee and conversation.

  The house had two stories and a basement, but Chris spent most of his time in the basement. He had a cot, a typewriter, a television, a stereo system, his projector and a lot of his books down there. The rest of the books fill up the garage.

  I sat amid the comfortable clutter and watched what the guide had described as a “silly love story.” They were wrong.

  It was less than that.

  However, I was able to understand how Penny might have identified with it. Basically, the story was the same as hers. The girl in the film loved her father and her lover, who in turn hated each other. Nothing she did could bridge the gap that existed between the two men, until finally, at the end of the film, she was killed in an auto accident and the two men were finally brought together by their grief.

  It was not only idiotic drivel, it was badly acted drivel. When I had finished, I called Chris down to take care of the projector.

  “Well?” Brandy asked as he rewound the film.

  “What a piece of shit,” I told her.

  “All movies made in the forties were good, “she mimicked sweetly.

  “That was when I thought you were going to watch it, too.”

  “Well, what did it tell you?”

  I shrugged and gave her the general plot and outcome of the movie. “Penny got something out of that,” I concluded. “Something that Louie Melendez could help her with.”

  “Maybe he was going to run her over with a car, “Brandy suggested.

  “What?” Chris asked, looking up from his projector.

  “Nothing, she was just kidding,” I assured him. “Brandy — ”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry So what could he have helped her with?”

  “I’ll have to find out more about Melendez before I can answer that.”

  Chris packed the film back into its can, shut down the projector and we all went back upstairs.

  “Did you two have a nice chat while I was down there having my brain turned to oatmeal?” I asked them.

  “Oh, we had a marvelous time,” Chris exclaimed.

  “We’re good friends now,” Brandy added.

  “Good, I’m glad,” I said, sincerely.

  “We’ll all have to go out some night,” Chris suggested.

  “I’d like that,” Brandy said.

  “That’ll be up to Chris,” I put in. “He’ll have to let us know when he has a hole in his schedule.”

  He was the only man I knew who could tell me where he’d be three months from a week ago, Wednesday.

  I thanked him and told him that we certainly would get together one evening, the three of us, and check out the buffet at the Playboy club.

  “I like him,” Brandy said outside.

  “I’m glad. He liked you a lot, too.”

  “I know, I could tell. It’s nice to meet someone that open, that sincere. He’s not a phony at all, is he?”

  We got to the car and I opened the door for her.

  “Chris? He’s the most honest person I know. If he likes you he lets you know, and it works the other way, too — ”

  I shut her door, went around and slid behind the wheel.

  “Your place or mine?” I asked.

  “For the night?”

  “Talk about straightforward people,” I commented.

  “Well, then let’s see you be just as straightforward in your reply,” she told me.

  I nodded and said, “Of course for the night.”

  She smiled. “Your place.”

  That’s where we went.

  For the night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The phone rang at four A.M.

  I reached across Brandy for the receiver.

  “Yeah, what?”

  “Po, is that you?” The voice was urgent, frightened.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Who are you?”

  “Mapes, Eddie Mapes. Look, man, you said if I ever needed help to call you.”

  “Eddie, it’s four o’clock in the morning.”

  “Hey, man, I need help now!” he almost shouted. It was then that I noticed that he was practically whispering up to that point. The
re was an edge of panic in his voice.

  I woke up.

  “Eddie, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m about to get both my arms broken, man, and that’s if I’m lucky.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t have time to explain, man. I need help!”

  “Why not call the cops?”

  “No, no cops. Look, man, get over here and then later I’ll answer all your damn questions, okay?”

  “Tell me something now.”

  “Shit! Look, I was supposed to lose that race Sunday, okay? Now get over here!”

  He was in a hotel in the Village, a flea bag he had registered in to get away from three guys who were chasing him. He had barricaded himself into his room and was calling me while he watched the street from the window. I got the address from him and then told him, “I don’t know how long it will take me to get there.”

  “Well, I don’t know how long I have before they decide to come in and get me.”

  “Hang loose, pal, I’m on my way,” I said, swinging my legs out of bed.

  “Hey, Po!”

  “What?”

  He hesitated. “These guys play rough, man.”

  “Then get off the fucking phone so I can get dressed,” I told him, and hung up.

  “What’s wrong?” Brandy asked sleepily.

  “That was Eddie Mapes. He’s in a jam and needs someone to get him out.” Propping herself up in bed she tried to wipe the sleep from her eyes with the heels of her hands.

  “Why you and not the cops?”

  “I’ll find that out when I get there.” I pulled a shirt over my head and was dressed. Next I went to the closet and reached up on the top shelf where I keep my .38 revolver, which I rarely carry and have only fired three times outside of a firing range. I slipped the shoulder rig over my head, checked the cylinder and slid the gun into the holster.

  When I turned Brandy’s eyes were fixed on the gun.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked her.

  “Uh, nothing,” she answered, shaking her head. She smoothed her hair back from her forehead. Her eyes never left the gun.

  “Doesn’t Race Williams carry a gun?” I asked her, teasing.

  “Yes, but that’s make believe, Henry. This is for real. You could leave here tonight and never come back.”

  “That’s a possibility,” I admitted, with a bravado I didn’t feel.

  “Damnit, you could get killed! “she snapped. “Don’t go out, tonight. Call the police.” She was kneeling in bed now, her hands resting on her thighs. “Don’t go, Henry.”

  “I’ll be back in a little while,” I assured her, slipping into a windbreaker and zipping it up.

  She opened her mouth to argue, but then seemed to think better of it. Instead she simply said, “You better.”

  I tweaked her nose and said, “Go back to sleep.”

  She grabbed my wrist in sort of a reflex action, then let it go and whispered, “Sure.”

  I went down and got my car. The address he had given me was on Jane Street. It took me fifteen minutes to get there. I parked two blocks away from the hotel and started walking.

  When I reached the block that the hotel was on I could see the neon sign outside of it. I kept to the shadowed doorways, hidden by the darkness, and tried to see if anyone was on the street.

  It took some patience, and about ten minutes, but I finally caught some movement in the doorway directly across the street from the hotel, plus the glow of a cigarette.

  I backed up a few doorways, then crossed over. Once I was on his side of the street I worked my way toward him, again moving doorway to doorway.

  When I was in the doorway next to his I slid my gun out and moved in on him as quietly as I could. The gun felt alien in my hand and I started to feel like one of Brandy’s fictional private eyes.

  When I jammed the gun into his ear — with all the dexterity of a Mike Hammer — he dropped his cigarette from the one hand, and his brown paper bag from the other.

  The bottle in the bag shattered when it hit the ground.

  That’s when I realized that he was just a wino.

  “Shit!” I cursed out loud, disgusted with myself. I had spent all that time stalking a wino who had found himself a nice warm doorway for the night.

  “Oh, please, mister, don’t shoot me. I ain’t done nothing.”

  He smelled of booze, and he smelled scared.

  Suddenly I heard the sound of breaking glass. I looked up in time to see something hit the ground and break. It had fallen or been thrown from a second-floor window, shattering the glass.

  “Shit!” I shouted, and took off across the street. I just knew that had to be Eddie Mapes’ room.

  I was halfway across when I heard the shots, three of them in quick succession, quick enough to have been fired from three separate guns.

  I cursed again and exploded through the front door into the lobby.

  On the stairway two men were in the process of running down, guns in their hands. When the front guy saw me he yelled something to the other one and started to raise his gun.

  It was one of those long, slow moments that usually happens in your dreams — only I wasn’t dreaming. I saw him start to raise his gun and I started to raise mine, only it had suddenly become very, very heavy. I could see him very clearly, his eyes, the sweat on his brow, the beard stubble on his face. I finally got my gun up before he had me sighted and pulled the trigger — five times. I saw three of the slugs hit him in the chest and throw him back against the wall. Then he was falling and I could see the other guy. One of the shots had taken off the top of his head and he too was falling down the steps. The desk clerk was screaming like a hysterical woman.

  I started up the stairs and it occurred to me that I had heard three quick shots. Had there been three men? When I reached the top of the stairs I decided that there had been three, because there was number three, waiting for me.

  What followed was another dream sequence shoot-out, only I wasn’t as lucky this time. I had one shot left and we both fired at the same time.

  I don’t know what happened to him, but this time I felt as if the top of my head had been shot off. My whole world exploded into a shower of fireworks, then the rug got pulled out from under me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Eddie was curled up in a comer of the room, as if he had been trying to dig himself a hole. He had three slugs in him and his blood was working its way across the floor in small rivers.

  “If I hadn’t spent so much damn time stalking a fucking wino …”

  “Your mistake, Mr. Po,” Detective James Diver said, “was in not calling the precinct first. That’s why your friend is dead meat, now.”

  Diver’s face had been the first thing I saw when I came to in the hall. It was florid, with gray hair and a gray mustache, a face that had been around for almost fifty years and had seen it all.

  Apparently, the night clerk had called the cops after he had finished screaming. A radio car had responded, surveyed the scene and called Homicide.

  Diver was Homicide, along with his partner, Detective Stapleton, who was about ten years younger. Both men were thick bodied and time hardened. I got no sympathy from either one, but then I hadn’t expected any.

  I didn’t have any for myself, because the odds were that Diver was right. If I had called the cops, like Brandy had asked me to, Eddie Mapes might still be alive.

  They had gone so far as to help me to my feet and into Mapes’ room, where the ambulance attendant pronounced Eddie dead and treated me for a scalp wound.

  The body count was one in the hotel room two in the lobby. The mutt who had shot me, and apparently thought he had killed me, had split.

  I was still dizzy, and all the activity — Forensic, the Medical Examiner, Crime Scene Unit, ambulance people, detectives, occupants of the hotel — wasn’t helping any.

  “I want this man to go to the hospital for X-rays,” my ambulance attendant told Diver.<
br />
  “Then hang around, you can have him when we’re done.” To me he said, “I have your gun. I’ll need it for a while.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “I don’t need this anymore,” he added, handing me my wallet, with my ID in it. “It looks good,” he said, referring to my identification.

  Stapleton came in and Diver asked, “What’s the verdict?”

  “The clerk’s story jibes with Po’s,” the blond detective told his partner. “He came running into the hotel and the other two guys were running down the stairs. The first shot was fired by one of them. After that, Po opened up and blew them both off the stairway. Then he saw Po run up the stairs, heard two shots, saw another guy go running down and take off out the door. That’s when he called 911.”

  They were zipping Eddie Mapes into a body bag and getting ready to move him.

  “Okay, Po, your story checks out,” Diver said. “I have one of your cards so I know where to reach you if I need you. What’s this N.Y.S.R.C.?”

  “New York State Racing Club.”

  “Oh, you mean like horse racing?” I nodded.

  “Okay. Look, are you sure you played square with me as far as your story goes?”

  I nodded again, then regretted the action.

  “I just met Mapes a few days ago when I broke up a fight between him and another jockey,” I explained, wishing my head would stop pounding. “You can check that out yourself. I also got him out of a jam that night in the city, when two guys jumped him. You can check that part out in the bar where I met him — accidentally — that evening. My story will check out all around. I don’t need to jeopardize my license by being uncooperative in a homicide investigation. That kind of grief I don’t need.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I only hope you’re sincere.” He turned to his partner. “We got everything we need?”

  “Yeah, for now.”

  Diver waved the ambulance attendant over. “You can have him now. Keep him alive, huh?”

  With the attendant’s help I walked down the stairs just behind the two guys who were carrying the body bag that contained what was once Eddie Mapes.

  Sure, guy, I thought, just call me if you ever need help.

  Shit!