A Killing in Comics (11 page)

Then she said, “There’s . . . something you should know.”

“Okay.”

She swung those baby blues my way. If she were any lovelier, I’d have thrown myself out her window. “I . . . I know someone who might have wanted Donny dead.”

I knew a dozen or more, but said, “Who?”

She looked away again. “I don’t want you to think badly of me.”

“My opinion of you isn’t half as important as Captain Chandler’s and the state of New York’s.”

“. . . Donny only spent two nights a week with me. It was . . . very regular—Monday and Thursday. Mostly we were here. Sometimes we went out, to a show, to Twenty-one, somewhere. We went to the restaurants and attractions here in the hotel, of course. But it was a . . . limited relationship. And, unless he . . . and sometimes we . . . were traveling, it was Monday, Thursday, like clockwork.”

“Why is that?”

“He had excuses arranged, work-related, for his wife and family. And he was a good husband and father, and spent lots of time with Selma and his son and daughter. He would even cancel a Monday or Thursday with me, if one of his kids had a school event or synagogue function or something.”

What a guy, our Donny.

“Okay,” I said. She was clearly having trouble spitting something out. “Where are you headed, Honey?”

She sipped the martini. Leaned forward to set it down. Leaned back and folded her arms over the black halter-top-like portion of her dress. “I had my own life. Which Donny didn’t know about. But I . . . I had my own life.”

Oh. A Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday life.

“Other men?”

She nodded curtly.

“Anybody . . . in particular?”

She heaved a sigh; a really, really big one. “Yes. I think you know him . . . Rod Krane.”

I restrained myself from blurting,
That jerk?

Instead I asked, “Are you . . . still seeing him?”

“No! He’s a jerk.”

Ah. One for my side . . . .

“I mean,” she said, “he can be a charmer, and he’s handsome and has a nice way about him, till . . . till you find out he’s mostly in love with himself.”

“You broke it off with Krane?”

“Yes . . . about . . . about two weeks ago.”

“And Rod didn’t like that?”

“No . . . not at all. He kept calling. Kept threatening to tell Donny about us, if I didn’t take him back.”

If Krane were the corpse, Honey would have a hell of a motive. Unfortunately, the
Batwing
creator was still breathing . . . .

She was saying, “And I know
Rod
despised Donny. Had utter contempt for Donny. He kept saying he was really going to . . . what did he say exactly? Stick it to him.”

Or to his insulin bottle, maybe?

“Honey, can you think of anybody else who had a particular reason to want Donny gone?”

“Probably my list is about the same as yours, Jack. What about Louie Cohn?”

“What about him?” I shrugged. “I thought the two of them were joined at the hip. Donny and Louie, brothers in business.”

She shook her head, firmly. “I don’t have to tell you they were opposites, in personality and approach. Louie thinks Americana is going to grow and change, in this postwar world.”

“How do you know this?”

“Donny told me. He said Louie was getting big for his britches, getting uppity, with unrealistic dreams about where Americana Comics was heading.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Sure you do. Louie has always thought Donny was an embarrassment—loud, an old-fashioned back slapper, and really past his time, out of step, out of place in this great new sophisticated world of business.”

She had a point. I could see it. Already I was glad I’d talked to her, first.

“Jack, would you turn those lamps off? They’re hurting my eyes.”

“Sure,” I said.

I got up and did that.

When I returned, the only light in the room was coming from the open door to the bedroom.

As I settled in on the sofa, she moved closer to me, so close that I just had to slip my arm around her.

“You think I’m terrible, don’t you?” she said. It was just a question, no little-girl voice, no self-pity.

“No. I think you’re beautiful.”

“I know I’m beautiful. I’m afraid you think I’m
terrible
, which is something altogether different.”

“I think . . . I think you’ve learned to look after yourself in a tough town.”

She snuggled closer. That Chanel No. 5 scent still clung to her, and my nostrils. “You could say that about a whore, Jack.”

I almost said,
Some of my best friends are whores
, but luckily my mind vetoed the motion.

“I’m not in the judgment business,” I said. “I’m in the comics game.”

She touched my cheek; her hand was cold and my cheek grew hot. Then she kissed me on the mouth, a long kiss, soft and sweet and, right at the end there, her tongue flicked at mine.

“I’m not drunk,” she said.

“I know you aren’t.”

“But I am lonely and upset.”

I kissed her. Short but sweet . . . .

“If I asked you to keep me company tonight,” she whispered, “would you?”

“Sure. I could . . . camp out on this couch.”

“I mean . . . I don’t want to be alone, tonight. I don’t want to sleep alone. And I don’t want to have to take any more pills . . . . We don’t have to . . .
do
anything. Just keep me company, Jack. Keep me warm. Just, you know . . . cuddle.”

“No promises,” I said, and kissed her again.

CHAPTER FIVE DON’T WORK YOURSELF INTO A LATHER, MR. STARR!

Plus, she could cook.

Despite the meager contents of her refrigerator, Honey Daily whipped up a light delicious omelet that we shared, with a side of buttered toast and coffee for her and tea for me.

Apparently I’d cuddled her out of mourning, because she was in another gauzy dressing gown but this time white with pink here and there, some of it ribbons, some of it her. Her mood had brightened, as well.

Conversation ran to smiles and giggles, the sort of morning-after shared embarrassment of two people who didn’t know each other all that well and just shared the most intimate of human acts. And I don’t mean an omelet.

But when I helped her clear the table and transport the dishes and silverware to the sink, she turned to again show me how lovely that blonde-framed heart-shaped face could look sans makeup, and to ask, “Do you know Will Hander? I mean, does the Starr Syndicate deal with him at all?”

“Yes,” I said to the first part of her question, “and no,” to the second.

She spoke up a little as she ran water over each dirty dish. “I just ask because it’s a fairly open secret that Will is the co-creator of
Batwing
.”

“I’ve heard that rumor,” I admitted.

“No rumor,” she said. “More tea?”

“Sure.”

“Shall we take it out into the living room?”

We did, and soon we were seated back on that couch, her cup of coffee and mine of tea on the glass table. The suite’s atmosphere had changed entirely, the geometric drapes drawn to let in mote-sprinkled sunshine and to reveal a dazzling cityscape highlighted by the Empire State. Also highlighted was that gray corpse-size smear on the floor.

Honey said, “Understand I didn’t get this from Rod—if you ask him, you’ll get a very different story. But Donny always said that Will and Rod created
Batwing
together, only because of sleazy tactics on the part of Rod and his lawyer father, Will got taken.”

“Donny knew this, and didn’t do anything about it?”

“Right. He said it wasn’t
his
fault that Will was stupid, and Rod was slick. But he said Will had been hounding him about it lately. Making ridiculous demands.”

I nodded. “I don’t remember seeing Will at the birthday party.”

“Because he wasn’t there! Don and Louie rarely invited any of the talent, but Rod Krane and Spiegel and Shulman had contracts coming up, and represented the top properties, so they were an exception.”

“I see.”

She shrugged. “Hander was an unlikely guest in any event, considering how he and Donny had been getting along lately, or I should say hadn’t been getting along.”

I knew Will Hander had been the primary writer on
Batwing
, both the comic book and the strip, since the very beginning. But it was common practice for artists like Rod to hire freelance writers, and also to hire assistant and ghost artists, and yet still take all the credit—you think Disney draws all those ducks and mice himself?

So having help on
Batwing
was hardly unusual. If anything, the shared Spiegel and Shulman credit on
Wonder Guy
was the oddity.

I was just starting to follow up with something when a knock, knock, knock at the door startled both of us.

Checking my watch—8:30—I said, “Little early for visitors, isn’t it?”

But she was already up and moving past me, in a rustle of white taffeta, saying, “I’ll see who it is.”

I was only barely presentable, in my shirtsleeves with no tie and an unshaven mug. My hostess had been good enough to provide a brand-new toothbrush as well as access to her tube of Ipana, so my breath was no danger to the civilized world. And I’d been offered the use of Honey’s shower, but instead had merely splashed some water on my face in the bathroom sink, and figured I’d just head back to my own apartment for the amenities.

But, still, I was in no fit state to receive company, and that wasn’t even factoring in embarrassment for Honey for having this unshaven obvious houseguest . . . or suite guest or . . .

Out in the entryway, I heard her say, “Mr. Morella,” couldn’t make out the rest and then a big guy in a chauffeur’s uniform came striding on in. A broad-shouldered forty-ish character, he had a strong chin and dark handsome features undercut by the small, almost black eyes hugging his roman nose, under careless black slashes of eyebrow.

He planted himself over by one of the Balinese-dancer lamps and took off his cap. The uniform was a light green and went with the general green-and-coral decor, which still didn’t make him seem to belong here.

“Mr. Starr,” he said, with a nod. He had a pleasant baritone but Sinatra had nothing to worry about.

I got to my feet. “Hank Morella—haven’t seen you for ages. Don’t stand on ceremony—it’s still ‘Jack.’”

“I’m here to pick up Mr. Harrison’s things,” he said.

Honey moved past him, and me, muttering, “Couldn’t this have waited?”

At the bedroom door, she said to me, “Jack, I won’t be long—I just have to gather Donny’s things for his driver.”

“No big deal,” I said with a shrug.

I asked Morella if he wanted some coffee. He said no, just standing there frozen with his chauffeur’s cap fig-leafed in front of him. He wore no gloves but did have the kind of black leather boots that had made the Nazis so darn stylish.

“For Christ’s sake, Hank,” I said, “come over and take a load off.”

He thought about that for a moment, then lumbered over and sat opposite me on one of the emerald chairs, cap in his lap.

“How’s Mrs. Harrison holding up?” I asked.

“Okay, considering.” He was perched on the edge of the comfy chair. “How is Miss Daily doing?”

“Okay, considering. Were you here for the party, Hank?”

He shook his head, but then contradicted himself with, “Yes, but I waited downstairs. In the lobby.” Again he shook his head, only in a different way. “That was one of the . . . awkward ones.”

“Donny dying? Yeah, damned awkward.”

“I . . . I didn’t mean that.” He sighed. “I don’t know if you know it, but I do as much driving for Mrs. Harrison as for Mister. More, really.”

Noise from the bedroom indicated Honey wasn’t bringing a gentle touch to the gathering of Donny’s things.

“I didn’t know that,” I said. “How did the Harrisons split you up?”