The Man Who Loved Women to Death (14 page)

“What else?”

“I folded my laundry,” he replied, with growing impatience.

“Were you alone?”

“Does that sound like a hot date to you?”

“You still have the same place?”

“On East Sixty-fifth. Yeah.”

“What about Friday?”

“What about it?”

“Where were you?”

“I was here.”

“All evening?”

“Of course all evening. I was
working.
Ask Mal if you don’t believe me.” He’d had just about enough of this. A vein in his neck was beginning to throb. His eyes had turned to chilly blue slits. I knew this face well: This was his game face. “Why did you come here, Doof?” he said between gritted teeth. “What do you want?”

“This guy who is sending me chapters of his book—he’s doing some pretty terrible things to beautiful young women.”

“Like what?” Tuttle demanded.

“Like, they’re dead.”

“He’s
killed
two women?” This stopped him cold. Or seemed to. “Whew, bad business.”

“Couldn’t be worse from their point of view,” I said. “He calls himself the answer man. He’ll be all over the news tonight, in case you want the gory details. For now, the details that may be of interest to you are as follows: He’s a master pick-up artist, recognized wherever he goes. He likes women with nice legs and nice smiles. He’s a big fan of mine. Even uses some of my favorite expressions. He’s not picky, though. He uses some of yours as well. He uses an Olivetti that is a dead ringer for your Olivetti—”

“I told you—I don’t have it anymore.”

“And he’s a huge Ring Lardner fan. Help me out here—didn’t you used to like Lardner?”

Tuttle didn’t reply. I studied his face for a reaction. Something. Anything. He just sat there, thumbing his square jaw, listening. He wasn’t about to make this easy for me. Not that I had expected him to.

“His novel-in-progress,” I went on, “is an updated version of
You Know Me Al.
Except his correspondence is between E and T. As in, say, Ezra and Tuttle.”

Now he shifted in his chair, sniffling. “I see … okay,” he said slowly. “And, naturally, your first thought was to come see me. Especially after what I did to Tansy. I get where you’re coming from, Doof. Only—”

“Only?”

His eyes met mine across the desk. There was pain in them. There was hurt. Or at least a pretty good imitation. “If I
were
this guy, this answer man, do you honestly think I’d be stupid enough to use my own first initial?”

“I don’t know what to think, Tuttle.”

“But you think it might be me, don’t you?” he demanded.

“I don’t know what to think,” I repeated. “Help me.”

He looked away, blinking rapidly. Outside, I heard hearty male voices. The buzzer went off again. He ignored it, ran a hand over his puffy face. “I—I guess this answers any questions I might have had about where I stand with you. Not that I ever doubted.”

“Tuttle, I haven’t said anything to the police yet.”

“That was big of you,” he said bitterly.

“I had to talk to you myself first. I had to ask, under the circumstances.”

“Sure, sure,” he conceded, turning gracious. Maybe a bit too gracious. “No offense taken. You’ve behaved admirably. You’re a true friend, Doof. And as far as I’m concerned there’s no need to shield me any longer. Go ahead and tell them everything you know. I don’t care. Hell, what difference does it make? What difference does
any
of it make?” He stared down at the desk, pulled the top drawer open, then pushed it shut. Open, then shut. Open, then …

Then he grabbed a pair of scissors out of the drawer and dove across the desk at me with them. We went over the back of my chair together—me wedged against the door with him on top of me trying to stab me in the chest with those scissors, his breath hot and sour in my face. I fought him off, gripping his stabbing arm by the wrist, grappling with him, but he had his knee in my groin. And he was still so goddamned strong.

“You pimp,” he spat. “You whore.”

“Make up your mind which it is,” I gasped, straining against him, “so I’ll at least know how to dress.”

“You squat to pee!”

“Well, that narrows it down some.”

And then suddenly the door flew open and we went tumbling into the doorway and Malachi was pulling him off me, clucking at us. “Will you two lunatics cut it out? It’s happy hour, for crissakes. You should be out front, Tuttle, not horsing around in here.”

“You’re right, Mal,” Tuttle panted. “You’re absolutely right.”

Lulu wandered in now, too, speaking of hot and sour breath. She seemed totally unfazed. She was used to finding me sprawled out on various floors in various states of consciousness.

Tuttle got to his feet slowly, massaging his knee. He dropped the scissors on the desk. He straightened out his clothes, smoothed his hair. “It was good to see you again, Doof,” he said, gazing down at me there on his worn office rug. “But don’t ever bother coming back here.” Then he went out front to play host.

Malachi helped me up from the floor. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, but you sure did save
his
butt. Another minute and I would have lost my cool.”

He let out a laugh. “You? That I’d pay to see.”

“Mal, did you just call me unfailingly cool or unfailingly wussy?”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he pointed out, brushing carpet lint off my back.

“Okay, I won’t.” I took the gun out of my pocket. “Don’t let him play with this anymore, all right?”

He eyed the Smith & Wesson with concern, his tongue flicking at his lips. “Sure thing.” He stuffed it in the waistband of his slacks, under his vest. Then he stood the chair back up and started to straighten out the mess we’d made.

“Was he here Friday night, Mal?”

Malachi hesitated. “Dunno, that was my night off.”

“He said you could vouch for him.”

“He’s confused.”

“That’s certainly one word for it. I understand he takes Mondays off.”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Ain’t as if he keeps to a regular schedule. What can I tell you—he’s The King. He comes and goes as he pleases.”

“Is that why the partners are …?”

Malachi’s face dropped. “Oh, he told you, huh?”

I nodded.

“All they want out of him is a good day’s work for a good day’s pay. That’s not asking so much, is it?”

“I wouldn’t know. My last steady job was delivering newspapers door to door. What are his hours, Mal? When he shows up, I mean.”

“Four until whenever. Usually one or two. Depends on the crowd.”

“Will you call me if he takes off?”

“When?”

“Today. Tonight. Any time between now and two.”

He stuck out his lower lip. “Why?”

“For old times’ sake.”

“Which old times are those?”

“His and mine. I need to know, Mal. It’s important.”

A smile creased his round pink face. “You’re worried about him, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“Okay, sure. I’ll call you.”

“Friday’s a pretty busy night around here, isn’t it?”

“Busiest night of the week.”

“Since when do you take it off?”

“Since the kids have all moved out. The wife don’t have nothing to do, nobody to talk to. She gets lonesome.”

“You two have been together a long time.”

“Twenty-seven fan-fucking-tastic years,” he answered cheerfully.

“I meant you and Tuttle.”

He got busy again straightening the top of the desk. “That’s right. We have.”

“I suppose you’d do just about anything for him.”

“That’s right. I would.”

“Would you lie for him?”

Malachi didn’t touch that one. Just kept on cleaning up. When he was all done he stood there rubbing his pudgy hands together. He glanced at the door. I was blocking it.

“Is Tuttle seeing anyone special these days?”

“Not really,” he replied. “Not since Luz. She dances over at Ten’s. Only that ended two, three months ago. He told me he broke it off with her so he could devote more time to his writing.”

I tugged at my left ear. “Oh?”

“But I didn’t buy it.”

“What did you buy?”

“That she’s the one broke it off—on account of Tuttle wasn’t good enough for her. She got wise, that’s all.” He shot another glance at the door. He was getting anxious.

“Why don’t
you
get wise, Mal?”

“Who would take care of him?”

“Maybe he’d have to take care of himself.”

“Maybe you see more than is there, Hoagy. Ever think of that? Maybe his real problem is that he’s the second smartest man in the whole wide world.”

“Who’s the smartest?”

Malachi winked at me. “Everyone else.”

I let him go. Outside, the place was filling up. A gang of out-of-town sportswriters were in for the Heisman Trophy presentation. John Madden was seated at a table with a trio of network executives, regaling them with stories. Dave DeBusschere and Walt Frazier, two of the Knicks from their glory days, were deep in conversation together at the bar. Tuttle was over by the pool table with the two Yushies who’d been there when I came in, all three of them flushed with drink. All three of them laughing the forced, hearty laugh that men laugh when they are telling dirty jokes. I made my way through the crowd to the front door, Lulu on my heel. Something made me stop when I got there. Stop and turn around.

It was Tuttle. He was staring at me from across the restaurant, his eyes boring into me. I stared back at him, our eyes locking together. His expression was utterly blank, his face like stone, hard and unyielding.

Until he relaxed into that familiar, lopsided grin. “Hey, Doof, who’s The King?” he called out to me.

This was a thing he’d taken to doing as he got older. He needed to hear the words out loud. Kind of sad, but as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, there wasn’t much about Tuttle Cash that wasn’t sad.

I left it hanging there in the smoky air for a second. Just long enough for him to wonder if I wasn’t going to respond. “You are, Tuttle!” I called back finally. Strictly for old times’ sake. Then I went out the door as fast as my feet would take me.

THE PRESS THING
had happened.

The sidewalk outside our building was jammed with reporters and cameramen, all of them shouting and shoving and jockeying for prime position. The local TV crews were there. The tabloid TV rat crews were there. The newspapers were there. Everybody was there—spilled out onto Central Park West, their vans double-parked up and down the block, cables snaking everywhere. I’m talking pandemonium. This was no mere cash-for-trash scandal, after all. This was a bona-fide serial killer on the loose in the streets of Manhattan, some nut who had killed two beautiful single women and branded their foreheads with orange lipstick and written me detailed accounts of his exploits.

Let’s face it, this was a story with a huge upside.

The commotion was courtesy of Cassandra, of course. I had no doubt she’d already spread word that she’d be outing the answer man on her seven o’clock broadcast. One thing she is not bashful about is self-promotion. Now everyone wanted a statement from me for the six o’clock news. They wanted it live. They wanted it now.

“Is it true?”

“Has the killer contacted you?”

“Why does he call himself the answer man?”

“Why did he pick you?”

“Is it true?”

I fought my way through them, elbows flying. Made it to the blue police barricades that had been hastily set up on either side of the front doors. A cop in uniform was there to give me a hand. The only problem was I’d somehow lost Lulu along the way. I found the little ham flirting shamelessly with Channel 2’s ace crime reporter. She’ll do anything to get her big black nose on the air. I suggested she join me or else. She did, and the cop helped us inside. Mario the doorman was only too happy to help, too. And get his own ugly face on camera.

“Evening, Mr. Hoag,” he said crisply, tipping his hat at me. “Quite some commotion out there this evening. Yes-sir.”

Then again, maybe this was just him sucking up for his Christmas bonus. If he didn’t watch out he was going to end up with a signed first edition of my second novel, which was presently fetching 99 cents down at The Strand.

I grumbled something surly at him and started for the elevator.

But the fawning clod just wouldn’t be denied. “Oh, hey, Mr. Hoag? This got put in Mrs. Nussbaum’s mailbox by mistake this morning. Her nurse just brought it down.” He held it out to me.

I froze, staring at it. It was a nine-by-twelve manila envelope. My name and address had been typed onto a stick-on label. There was no return address.

D
EAR HOAGY,

I hope I’m not imposing too much on your valuable time, but I’ve been so productive lately I thought I’d go ahead and send along another chapter. The stuff is just really starting to flow now. I can’t wait to get to the typewriter every day. I feel I’m really getting to know our hero’s character. In a weird sort of way it’s almost like he’s taking on a life of his own now. I can really hear his voice. It’s almost like HE controls ME. I’m curious—is it like that for you sometimes when you really get into it?

I hope you’re making progress from your end. I’ll be checking the
Times
every day for word from you. I’m feeling real close to you as I write this, Hoagy. I’m told that a collaboration can be very intimate this way. I’m starting to feel like we’ve known each other forever. I know it’s too much to expect, but I hope we can someday be friends.

Yours truly,

the answer man

p.s. You don’t mind that I think of you as my partner now, do you?

3. the answer man takes a plunge

New York City, December 5

Friend E—Health clubs, man. One thing I’ve gotten hip to since I’ve been back here—talking to the people, riding the subway, doing the thing that I do—is that the women all hang in health clubs, hoping to tone up those thighs and maybe meet some guy who’ll save them from the desperate loneliness of their pathetic, miserable lives. If your mission in this life is to perform a random act of kindness, then you can do no better than to go grazing at one of these clubs. They are just full of women in need.