Getting Up With Fleas (Trace 7) (10 page)

“I need a drink,” he said.

“You need to sleep.”

“I have to get a pill.” He brushed by me again and went into the bathroom.

I followed him and as he picked up one of the vials of drugs, I caught his hand. “Don’t take them,” I said.

“Why not?”

“It’s a long story. Trust me.”

“I can’t sleep without pills,” he said.

“Tonight you will,” I said.

I steered him back into the bedroom and pushed him down, fully clothed, onto the bed.

“You know we’re blood brothers now, don’t you?” he said. “It’s like we cut our wrists and mingled our blood.”

“Why?”

“An old Chinese proverb,” he said. “Once you see a grown man heave, you have a responsibility for his life.”

“Especially if your company is carrying an insurance policy on his life. Go to sleep.”

“I’ll try if you make me a drink.”

“Okay.” I went outside, found a glass, filled it with ice cubes, and poured a little gin on top.

“Lots of ice,” he yelled from the bedroom.

I handed him the drink. He raised it to his lips, spilled most of it on his face, and passed out. I took the drink away and put it on the end table. Then I went into the bathroom and collected all his pills and took them with me. When I got back to my room, I stuck them in a dresser drawer and went to bed.

McCue was snoring well. I fell asleep to it.

Later I woke up. My luminous wristwatch said it was almost four A.M. I never wake up in the middle of the night. Why this time?

I was listening and I heard a sound in the hallway.

That was why. That son of a bitch was trying to sneak out again. I got up and walked to the door and opened it softly. I’d trap the bastard.

But I didn’t see McCue. Instead, I saw Tami Fluff, wearing a satin gown and maribou slippers standing outside his door. She opened the door and went inside.

For a moment I was annoyed that I hadn’t locked McCue’s door, until I remembered that I couldn’t have. The door locked only from inside the room.

What the hell did Tami Fluff want?

I lay back down and got my answer. McCue’s snoring stopped and Tami Fluffs sounds started. She squealed a couple of times. She let out a cry of delight. It took about twenty minutes. Then I heard McCue’s snores reverberating again. A minute after that I heard soft footsteps going past my door.

Good. Now if maybe everybody was finished jiving and chucking, maybe I could get some sleep.

Good night, world.

The phone woke me up before I was ready to get up. I know there are some people who can ignore phones, even sleep through them, but I’m not one of them. Suppose it’s the lottery office telling me I won? Suppose it’s the IRS telling me that they made a mistake and they owe me fifty thousand dollars? Suppose it’s my ex-wife calling to tell me that she is going to jump off the George Washington Bridge? Upper deck. Suppose it was Sarge calling back?

Unfortunately, this call wasn’t any of those. It was Tony McCue, who said, “Good morning, old sport.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to get up,” he said.

“Here,” I said. “Hoist yourself to a sitting position, then swing around on your ass until your feet are hovering over the floor, lurch forward, and you’re up.”

“Easy for you to say,” McCue said.

“Easy to do.”

“I can’t get up. You took my pills, you Irish bastard. I need a pill in the morning to get my heart started.”

“Fake it with the heart,” I said. “Nobody will notice.”

“You give me my pills or I’m calling the police,” he said.

“Why do
I
have your pills?”

“You took them last night.”

“Let me think,” I said. I thought a long time and then I remembered taking them. Then I remembered why. “You can’t have those pills,” I said.

“I’ll never be able to get out of bed without them.”

“You’d be better able to get out of bed if you didn’t spend all night screwing,” I said.

“Screwing?”

“Yes. I heard you.”

“Damn. I thought there was somebody here last night,” he said.

“Look,” I said, “I’m awake now. Why don’t you get dressed and we’ll go get breakfast.”

“Screwing, huh? Can you tell me something?” McCue said.

“Try me.”

“Was it good for her too?”

“She sounded happy,” I said.

“Good. Can you tell me something else?”

“What?”

“Who was it?”

“Get dressed,” I said.

As long as I had the damned telephone in my hand, I decided to call Sarge. He was at the office early. Why not? If I lived with my mother, I’d be at the office 168 hours a week.

“Tracy Investigations.”

“Hi, Sarge.”

“Listen, son. You asked me to check on that accident?”

“Right.”

“It doesn’t quite go down right,” Sarge said.

“How’s that?”

“The guy who got killed was just a guy. Single, assistant credit manager at a bank, nothing to worry about.”

“So?”

“But the guy who drove the car,” Sarge said. “There were witnesses there, son. They said this guy ran down the other guy and then peeled off like he was on his way into orbit. But at the end of the block, he broadsided a cab and got his head smashed up. Killed instantly.”

“He was hit-and-running, though?”

“Looks that way,” Sarge said. “Anyway, the dead driver was this Mafia goon from around Albany. A very bad actor with a long record. And He was carrying an unlicensed gun.”

“I see,” I said.

“So you tell me. Why’d you want me to check out an accident and how come it just turns out that the driver is a mob guy?”

“This dead driver?” I asked. “Would he be the kind of guy who might take a contract to kill somebody? Could that explain the gun?”

“This guy was bad, son. He’d take a contract to do Godzilla if it paid enough. What’s it all about?”

“The guy who got killed,” I said. “He was wearing Tony McCue’s white hat and coat. I just wondered if maybe that hit-and-run accident was meant for McCue.”

“You might be onto something, son,” Sarge said.

“I think so. Last night I think somebody was messing with McCue’s pills.”

Sarge was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “It’s starting to look like you might have to earn that five hundred a day. Want me to come up and give you a hand?”

“Not yet, Sarge. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Okay. I’ll tell you one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m just glad you’ve got that gun I gave you,” he said.

“I’ll call you later,” I said. I showered, and when I came out of the bathroom, McCue was sitting in my bedroom, looking through a four-year-old copy of
Reader’s Digest
and looking as if he had just emerged from a health spa. He wore an open-throat red-striped shirt, white jeans, and tan buckskin shoes.

“Put on some clothes, you’re disgusting,” he told me.

“That’s nothing compared to watching you toss your cookies into the toilet bowl,” I said.

“I heaved?” he said.

“Yes.”

“No wonder I didn’t throw up this morning. I took care of it last night.”

“Get up. You’re sitting on my clothes.”

I dug a clean shirt and clean socks out of the pile in the drawer and used a bottom drawer as a hamper for my dirty clothes. McCue moved over and sat on the bed as I put on the same slacks and jacket I’d worn yesterday.

He looked at me and said, “Traveling light, I see,”

“The mark of the experienced traveler,” I said.

“The mark of the slob.”

“Did you come here to hassle me on my wardrobe?”

“No,” he said. “On my pills. Where are they?”

“See, you don’t need them,” I said. “You said you couldn’t move in the morning without one, and here you are, snotty, well-dressed, pampered, and much too rich. And without taking a pill.”

“Without a pill, my ass. I had to dip into my emergency supply. I keep them inside a hollowed-out bible.”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I think somebody was messing around with your medicine last night. When I was in your room early, all the containers were neat behind the faucets, but when we went back in there later, some of them were spilled out. That’s why I didn’t want you to take them.”

McCue was pensive. “No great problem,” he said finally. “I’ll have Doctor Death run into town and get me fresh prescriptions. She owes that to me for making love to her last night.”

“It wasn’t Ramona,” I said.

“Oh, my God. Who was it?”

“Dahlia Cod well,” I said.

He shook his head. “I’ve really got to start watching my drinking.”

We walked downstairs, and on the first-floor landing he touched my arm. “Trace?”

“What?”

“Why would somebody mess with my pills?”

“I don’t know, but I’m beginning to get a hunch that maybe somebody’s trying to kill you. You have any enemies?”

“Everyone here. All of them.”

“Maybe one of them hates you worse than all the others,” I said.

“Well, that isn’t nice,” he said with a voice slow and deep with sorrow. “I’m turning over a new leaf, Trace. From now on, I’m going to be nice to everybody. Everybody.”

As resolutions go, it was a good resolution, and as resolutions go, it went, because the first thing McCue did when he walked into the dining room was to pose in the open doorway, shout “Good morning, you murderous bastards,” and then walk up to Arden Harden, who was sitting alone at a table and say, “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Jolly Green Midget.”

Harden refused to look up. Last night, when he dressed like a human, he had looked like Mel Tormé gone sour with his little F U sweater. Today he looked like a break dancer out on parole. He was wearing a one-piece red satin jumpsuit, but it was cut like a jet pilot’s uniform with zippered pockets running every which way.

McCue said, “Mind if we join you?”

“Yes,” Harden said.

“Thank you. That’s very gracious,” McCue said. We sat down and McCue poured us both coffee from the large stainless-steel pitcher already on the table. Also on the table was an open paper bag that looked as if it held birdseed.

McCue looked around the room. Dahlia Codwell was sitting with the Scotts and Roddy Quine. Mrs. Scott seemed to have gotten into the Hollywood swing of things because she was wearing makeup that looked like it belonged on stage at the Folies Bergère and black wraparound sunglasses. McCue favored Dahlia Codwell with a big wave and a warm grin. She gave him the finger.

“There’s your answer,” he whispered to me. “It wasn’t good for her either.”

For a moment I didn’t know what he was talking about. Then I remembered telling him he had taken Codwell to bed last night. He must have believed it.

I looked for Tami Fluff. She was at another table with Ramona, Birnbaum, and Sheila Hallowitz. Everybody was chatting merrily.

I lit a cigarette and remembered I had to get more today.

Harden looked up from his cereal bowl and said, “Are you really going to smoke at the table? It makes me sick.”

“It makes us sick to see people eating unwrapped Mouse Knots,” McCue said.

I told McCue, “Nice, nice. Remember. Be nice.”

“Oops. Right. You’re really looking fine today, Arden,” he said. “I really love your suit. Did Diana Ross mind selling it to you?”

“Another thing,” Harden said. “How am I supposed to get any work done if you’re going to be parading up and down the hall all night, you and your gang of visitors?”

“Simple answer to that,” McCue said mildly. “Don’t work. We don’t. Why should you be any different?”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “What visitors?”

“Who knows?” Harden said. “Did you know, Tracy, that actors have the lowest IQs of anybody smarter than a garden snail? There’s a special category for actors, halfway between moron and imbecile.”

“Yes. They call it rich man’s land,” McCue said. “Don’t be bitter. You may still have a growth spurt. Trace, I need breakfast. You too?”

“Yes.”

“What’ll you have?” he asked me.

“What’ve they got, do you think?”

“Vodka and gin.”

“I’ll have vodka,” I said.

“You two are disgusting,” Harden said. When McCue walked to the bar, he said to me, “I thought you might be able to civilize him while you were here, but you’re just as bad as he is.”

“I’m sorry about the disturbances last night,” I said, trying to sound sincere. “You were in your room working?”

“Yes. I work all the time. And I need peace and quiet.”

“You didn’t see who went to McCue’s room?”

“No. A lot of people. All night long.”

“But you didn’t look out, maybe, to see who they were?”

“No. Why should I?”

“And you were in your room all night?”

“Of course. If I left, some idiot might come up and start messing with my script. I couldn’t have that. The goddamn doors don’t even have locks on them. I hate this place. My room’s too small. And too cold. I slept with towels on top of my blankets last night.”

McCue came back with two glasses stuffed with ice and liquor. He set them on the table, then walked past me to the table where Birnbaum was sitting with Sheila, Tami Fluff, and the doctor. McCue tapped Ramona on the shoulder and the two of them walked a few steps away from the table. McCue was talking earnestly; Ramona looked annoyed. The actor shrugged and returned to our table. Harden stood up and folded his paper bag tightly. From under the table, he took a leather overnight bag, put the paper bag inside, and zipped it up. I could see the leather bag held a pile of yellow legal-size pads.

He said nothing to us but turned to the door.

Then Dahlia Codwell called out his name, “Arden.”

He turned and she motioned him to come sit alongside her. I didn’t know; maybe she was going to tell him how little he knew about the movie business.

What I was thinking about was what kind of staff the hotel had. Except for Clyde Snapp, the old guy I’d met at the gate, and the uniformed cretin on guard duty last night, I hadn’t seen anyone. But last night, there had been steak and eggs and fish and four different kinds of vegetables for dinner, and today there were large stainless chafing dishes filled with eggs, pancakes, sausage, bacon, and Danish pastries. I never saw a cook or a waiter or a busboy. I never saw anyone take away the dirty dishes. I never saw anyone on the front desk. Whoever was running this place should be hired by the Pentagon, I thought, because this was real efficiency. And I hoped they were efficient enough to have a cigarette machine on the premises because I had only one left and then it was gone because McCue took it and lighted it.

He and I were the only smokers. I used to wonder why drinkers smoked so much until a doctor cleared up the mystery for me. This doctor told me that the body was a perfect biofeedback machine and it tried all the time to keep the body itself in perfect equilibrium.

Now, when you drank, your blood vessels dilated and got larger, which the body didn’t like; it wanted them normal. So messages passed back and forth between the glands and the brain, and suddenly the body told you it wanted a cigarette. Taste had nothing to do with it. The body wanted nicotine because nicotine helped close down those dilated blood vessels. It was all part of the body’s way of maintaining equilibrium.

“Is that really true?” I asked the doctor.

“Damned if I know. But you’ve got to admit, it is one marvelously elegant theory,” he said.

That it was. But the truth might be a more common stone. I think sometimes that people who drink a lot do it because they’re social misfits. And social misfits who get out in public never know what to do with their hands, so they fill them with cigarettes. That’s elegant too.

Biff Birnbaum came over to the table and said to McCue, “Roddy and I are going out to look at the grounds, to see where we’re going to shoot some of the stuff. Come on out with us.”

“Must I?” McCue said.

“Only if you want to get paid,” Birnbaum said.

“Why don’t we go out and look at the grounds to see where we’re going to shoot some of the stuff?” McCue said.

“Good idea,” Birnbaum said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now. Can Trace come?”

Birnbaum looked pained. “Actually, Roddy would rather he didn’t.”

“Why’s that?” McCue asked.’

“He thinks, well, Tracy’s a civilian, he’ll ask a lot of stupid questions.”

“He couldn’t ask them of a more likely person,” McCue said.

“That’s all right, Tony,” I said. “I have to get cigarettes anyway.”

“If you have to go out, try to hold off till I come back. That way we can ransom your car.”

Birnbaum said, “Let me get my jacket. I’ll be right back.” He was already wearing his New York Mets jacket. Maybe, I thought, he put another jacket over it when he went outdoors.

After he left the table, McCue said, “Are you sure I screwed Dahlia last night? She didn’t seem real warm to me today.”

“It sounded like her,” I said. “I could be wrong.” For some reason, I didn’t want to tell him I had lied to him. It had seemed funny at the time, but it didn’t seem so funny now.

Later Ramona Dedley came to my table and sat across from me. She was wearing very short shorts that threatened the hotel’s PG rating and a scoop-necked blouse that really scooped.

“’Morning, Doctor.”

“Did Tony sleep with that little tramp last night?”

“Which little tramp?” I said.

“Fluff. Did Tony sleep with her?”

Sleep with? I loved people who used euphemisms because it always gives the dedicated professional the chance to mislead without actually technically lying. I learned that early. Sarge had sent me to a Jesuit college—I think largely to bust my Jewish mother’s chops—and one day I was waiting to see the dean when the dean’s secretary, also a priest, got a telephone call. “No,” the secretary said. “The dean’s not here.” When he hung up, he must have seen me looking at him quizzically. He smiled and asked me, “Is he here? No, he’s not. I don’t see him. You don’t see him, do you? He didn’t ask me if the dean was in his office. He asked me if the dean was here. The dean’s not here. He’s in his office and you can go in and see him now.”

When I came out, the priest secretary said to me, “It’s called a mental reservation. Hang on to it, a very useful technique.”

“I’ll keep it in mind the next time I go to confession,” I said.

He shook his head. “It doesn’t work on God,” he said. “Only on people. When you use a mental reservation on God, it counts as a lie.”

“Sleep with” her?

“You’re not God, are you? “I asked Ramona.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Never mind. I don’t think Tony slept with her. Why?”

“She was dropping hints about it at the table,” Ramona said.

“Why would she do that? She doesn’t even like Tony.”

“Hollywood,” Ramona said. “Who knows? What was Tony telling me that you took his pills?”

“Yeah. I had an idea that somebody might have been tampering with them last night.”

“What gave you that idea?” she asked.

“When we came in last night, the pills had been moved. Some of them were spilled out.”

“Sounds like Tony to me. He’s always spilling things, knocking them over.”

“He wasn’t there when it happened,” I said. “He was with me.”

“Who, then?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know that either,” I said. “Could you look at the pills and tell if something had been done to them?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Ramona said.

“I’ll drop them at your room, but I don’t think Tony ought to take any of them. Let him get new ones. He can afford them. He takes too many pills anyway.”

“Is that meant to be critical, Trace?” the woman asked. I had hit a nerve because she was bristling.

“No, ma’am. You’re the doctor, he’s the patient, and I’m nobody. I just think any pills are too many pills.”

“You’re one of those hardy types? Never sick. Never take medicine. Never see a doctor.”

“Something like that.”

“Well, Tony’s not. He has low blood sugar. He has a kidney disfunction. He’s had a heart attack. He has thyroid problems. The pills…Dammit, you call them that but I don’t. Pills make them sound like recreational drugs. There’s no recreation here. The medication I prescribe for Tony is exactly what he needs, no matter how much bullshit he shovels at you. Pills? He takes Digoxin, 125 milligrams, orally, once a day. He takes…Oh, the hell with it. He takes what I tell him to take, when I tell him to take it.” Her voice was chilly and brisk. “And I don’t like being called Doctor Death.”

“Maybe somebody’s trying to change his prescription, Doctor,” I said.

“What?”

“To poison,” I said. “I’ll drop those pills off at your room.”