The freezer was loaded with meats—steaks, cans of livers, pork loins, tripe, pig's feet, turkeys and chickens—all of them frozen stiff and neatly packed in plastic bags with tags on them. From the wall hooks large turkeys and sides of meat hung, all wrapped in bags. On the sawdust floor I saw large wooden and cardboard boxes full of slabs of fat, pig's knuckles, cans of lard. I tried opening one of the bags of steak, but the meat was hard as a rock.
It was so cold I could barely breathe and every time I glanced at the thick door I felt like I was locked in a tomb. I unscrewed the bulb and there was a bad moment when I finally found the door and couldn't open it. You had to press the handle hard and hit the door with your shoulder. I came tumbling out into the dark store, shook for a second with a chill, then the muggy heat got me and I started to sweat, or thaw out.
I shut the door and the boom of the door closing filled the store and I stood very still for a moment, hand on my gun. But everything was all right. I went into Lande's office, pulled out two drawers and took them back into the freezer, screwed the light on. All I saw was bills and orders. I went through his checkbook and everything looked okay. These wholesale cats even had a daily news bulletin giving them the names of all restaurants and stores being sued.
I screwed the light off, went out and put the drawers back, picked up some mail and a cashbox, went back to my ice den. There was a key sticking in the tin cashbox and about six bucks in change, petty-cash vouchers for stamps and string. The mail seemed all ads and bills. I went out, slamming the door in a hurry so the light wouldn't be seen, returned the box and mail to the office. The store was a bust as far as I was concerned, although if he was running dope that would be the link, and you can have a fortune of the junk in a pound candy box.
I took the ham and the tongue, made sure the street was empty, then stepped out and walked up Front Street. I dumped the glass and tape from the door down a sewer opening, left the tongue and the open can of ham atop a garbage can—if the cats didn't get it, the market bums would when they made rounds, collecting for their Mulligan stew.
Via the fire escapes I got back into the Grover, put the gloves, flash, and gun in my room, then walked casually out to the desk. I'd been gone exactly an hour and thirty-three minutes. “How's things?” I asked Dewey.
“Nothing much. Marty, this Doc Dupre called again. Why don't you call him and get him off my back? You owe him money?”
“He wants his pound of flesh, rotten flesh,” I said, enjoying my own little joke again and suddenly realizing that for the first time in days, at the moment I felt swell, no stink in my mouth, no tight feeling in my gut.
Dewey said, “Also, I keep telling you to call King. He said to call him at his house tonight.”
“All right, you told me. Dewey, anybody check in today?” If my tail was a clever slob he might be stopping at the Grover.
“Those kids. And a trucker.”
“The trucker—old customer?”
“Yeah, the fat one who hustles watermelons up from Georgia.”
“Where's your empty-room check sheet?”
He arched the shaggy eyebrows over his watery eyes. “One minute you're stroking the duck, the next you're an eager beaver. Here's the sheet.”
“Dewey, I want a favor. Keep your bottle under the desk, don't go into the back room tonight, don't leave the desk. If anybody looks funny, or if anybody registers, call me in my room at once.”
“In a jam?”
“I don't know, could be.”
I went into the-office and phoned King at his house. He shrilled, “It's near eleven—what do you mean by calling me so late, Bond?”
“Want me to hang up?”
“See here, Bond, I'm sick of your high-handed ways. Either you stay on the job or...”
“Oh what? King, people in glass cat houses shouldn't talk so loud, or make any trouble.”
“How dare you talk to me like that? I'll have you thrown out of your room and ...!”
“I didn't call to hear you blow your nose. Listen, King, far as you're concerned I'm on vacation for a few days, so stop pestering me, keep out of my way.”
“As manager of the Grover, neither I nor the office will stand for such impertinence from...!”
“Bag of bones, J won't tell you twice to stop running your mouth. As for that fancy office, tell them I'm coming down and underneath all the gold lettering on the door, where it says real estate, appraisals, insurance, I'll add... pimping. Now, don't make waves!” I hung up, then went from floor to floor, starting with the check room in the basement, full of a lot of old trunks and boxes, checking the empty rooms. It isn't hard to sneak into a hotel, especially the fourth-rate ones, and there's little chance of getting caught if you only stay a night.
The rooms were okay. I dropped into, the girls' room. Barbara was playing cards with a new babe—a tall strong blonde who looked fresh from the farm. Barbara asked, “Marty, where you been? Still feeling punk?”
“I'm okay. Who's this?”
“Agnes. A friend of Harold's is breaking her in and since Florence was sick tonight, Harold sent her.”
“Isn't Jean here?”
“Sure, she's working. Why?”
I went over to the closet. Next to Barbara's square makeup bag—“like all the show girls have”—there was a small cardboard suitcase that would be Agnes's. As I opened it the big blonde asked, “What's the idea? Who you?”
“'Who you?' is Marty the house dick,” Barbara told her. “What you looking for, Marty?”
There wasn't much in the bag—a dress, stockings, a change of underwear. If this was the syndicate I was wrestling with, a woman hood wasn't impossible.
Agnes came over and asked again, “What's the idea, lumpy?”
“Watch your mouth, honey,” I told her, “or you'll be packing your vaseline and on your way out of here.” I put the suitcase back and walked out into the hall—only had to wait a moment before Barbara came out, asked, “What's wrong, Marty?”
“Nothing, thought she might be a junkie. You know this hick?”
“I've seen her before, if that's what you mean.”
I squeezed her hand. “All right, that's good enough for me.”
“Ain't like you to be jumpy. Something up? Hope there ain't going to be a damn raid. I hate the...”
“Everything is okay, honey.” Looking at her closely I saw the remains of a black eye expertly covered by make-up. “Rough customer?” I pointed at the eye.
“Harold. He never understands that when it's so hot and muggy, business slumps. I'm glad you're back. I feel better with you around.”
“I bet you tell that to all the boys.”
She gave me a startled look, burst out laughing. “Get you, old two-ton turning coy.” She dug a ringer into my stomach. “Seriously, you know what I mean.”
“All right,” I said, to say something.
She dug a finger again. “You're losing weight, Marty.” She slapped my pockets. “Knew you'd forget it.”
“Forget what?”
“The perfume you promised me.”
“You're wrong, I did buy it, but it broke in my pocket.” I took out a couple of bucks. “Do me a favor and buy it yourself. You know what you want.”