“Here’s the part that’s drivin’ me nuts. The guy reminded me of some character actor. At first I thought it was Victor Mature, but I knew straight off that the guy was too ugly to remind me of Mature. And then it hit me yesterday: This actor I was thinkin’ of, he was in a picture with Mature, see?”
“What picture?”
“I can recall the story, but for the life of me, I can’t remember the title of the pic. There’s this guy, see — Vic Mature — and he’s in love with this dame who gets scratched.”
“Who’s the actress?”
“Carole Landis is the one gets murdered. My God, Landis has this set of tits on her like—”
“Go on, Matty.”
“So Mature, he falls in love with Landis’s sister, played by Betty Grable. It’s the only picture I ever saw Grable in where she didn’t sing. Anyhow, there’s this cop, he’s after Mature for the murder, even though Mature, you know from the start he didn’t chill Landis. But this cop is screwsville over pinning the crime on Mature. He can’t let go of it. In the end, you see the cop, he’s gone over the deep end with his obsession. He’s built a shrine in his apartment to Landis, like a church or somethin’, with candles and shit, the whole nine yards.”
“Who plays the cop?”
“I don’t know! I seen him in a lot of pictures, but I don’t remember his name. Funny thing is, he killed himself a couple of years ago, on account of he couldn’t live with being so ugly and fat. Ugly and fat, officer, like this character I saw in the bar the other night.”
“You didn’t happen to lift this guy’s wallet, did you, Matty?”
“Ixnay. I wouldn’t of thought of such a thing in a million years.”
“Matty—”
“And anyway, he never checked his coat.”
“I’m gonna get back to you on this.”
“Always happy to keep you up on things.”
“You think of the name of that actor, you let me know.”
“Believe me, it’s killin’ me that I can’t.”
“You just keep thinkin’.”
Boyle racked the phone. He looked across his apartment to the hall mirror. He’d had the appetite of a bird for the last week, and he’d lost a good ten pounds. His cheeks looked drawn, and black circles ringed his hollow eyes.
Boyle went to the bathroom, got his pep pills from the shelf. He palmed one into his mouth, threw his head back, dry-swallowed the pill. He’d felt himself notch down in the middle of his talk with Buchner. The pill, that would shoot him back up; if he was going to catch a break now, he’d need all the energy he could get.
Karras spun the wheel of the big Custom V8, cut left off 14th onto New York Avenue. The Ford fishtailed, straightened coming out of the turn. Florek glanced wide-eyed across the seat.
“I ain’t much of a driver,” said Karras. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t done it all that much.”
“That’s all right,” said Florek.
“Anyway, you ought to be happy right now, instead of worryin’ about my driving.”
“I am happy. Happy and a little nervous at the same time.”
“I know it, kid. I’m a little nervous, too.”
“It was nice of Nick to loan you his car.”
“Nick’s all aces. But he doesn’t have to know anything about your sister. As far as he was concerned, I was just running you across town to see your girl. Get it?”
“Sure.”
Karras had trouble getting the shifter into third gear. An awful sound came from beneath the car. Florek sideglanced Karras.
“You know what they say,” said Karras. “If you can’t find ’em, grind ’em.”
“Pete?”
“Yeah.”
“How are we going to get Lola out of there?”
“We’re gonna take her.”
Five minutes later, Karras slowed the Ford, stopped beneath a street-lamp, read the address on the piece of paper given to him by DeAngelo Ray. Karras parked the car in front of the house.
“Let’s go, kid.”
Florek got out of the car, walked quickly up the stone steps to the front door. He waited for Karras, who had to use the handrail for support as he made his way. Karras stood next to him then. He tapped Florek on the arm.
“Go on, Mike. Ring the bell.”
Florek pushed on the buzzer. The door opened quicker than he had expected, and a soft, small man stood before them in the frame. He kept himself behind the door as he leaned his bald head forward.
“Yes?”
“We’re here to see Lola Florek,” said Karras.
The man looked Karras over, ignoring Florek. “There’s no Lola at this address.”
Karras put his good foot to the door. The small man stumbled backwards, caught himself on a foyer table. Karras and Florek stepped into the house. Karras shut the door behind him.
A healthy-looking woman sat drinking a highball in the living room, while two women in satin dresses danced together to a Bing Crosby number coming from a Victrola set in the center of the room. They continued to dance slowly, their bodies pressed together, as they watched impassively the entrance of the two strangers.
“You Morgan?” said Karras.
Morgan held his nose where the door had bumped it. “What of it?”
“Just want to know I’m talking to the right man.”
“I’m going to call the cops,” said Morgan. “That’s what I’m going to do. And I’m going to do it right now.”
“Call ’em,” said Karras.
Morgan did not move.
“Where’s Lola?” said Florek.
“You fellas have an appointment?”
“Where is she?” Florek balled his fist.
“Why, you lookin’ to bust your cherry or somethin’, sonny?”
“We’re takin’ her out of here,” said Karras. He slipped his hand inside his topcoat, scratched his chest. He kept his hand there, looked down menacingly at Morgan.
“Go on and get her, then,” said Morgan. “She’s useless to me, anyway. The way she looks now, I couldn’t give that snatch away for free.”
Florek moved forward, pivoted his back foot, threw a straight right. He connected at the bridge of Morgan’s nose. Morgan was on the carpet before Florek even realized that he had thrown a punch.
Karras looked at Florek. Florek rubbed the skinned knuckles of his right fist, smiled thinly through a tight jaw. The dancers stopped moving; one of them stifled a grin.
Blood dripped out of Morgan’s nose and inched down over his lip. He got himself up on one elbow. “Upstairs, second door to the right. Take her and go.”
Florek glanced briefly at Karras, then took the stairs two steps at a time. Morgan began to get to his feet.
“Sit there,” said Karras. “Get up and I’ll knock you down myself.”
“You bastards,” muttered Morgan.
Karras said, “And keep your mouth shut.”
Five minutes passed. Karras stood over Morgan while the dancers in the living room took a seat on the sofa and the healthy woman built herself another drink. Karras said nothing more to Morgan. Then he heard the creak of footsteps and looked up.
Florek had his sister by the arm and was leading her down the stairs. Lola wore a dirty beige dress decorated with blood-red roses. An overcoat had been draped around her shoulders. As they took the last step, Karras saw her face, colored almost entirely by a large gray bruise. The bruise obscured the great swelling in the area of her nose. Smaller purple bruises sat gorged beneath both eyes. Her two front teeth had been knocked out, a white line of pus oozing there along the gums.
Tears ran down Lola’s face; tears clouded Mike Florek’s eyes. Karras looked away.
“Get her in the car,” said Karras.
Florek led Lola out into the night.
Karras said to Morgan, “Who did that to her?”