The Wizard of Death (12 page)

Lyon leaned against the doorway as the two police officers began to go through the first room. With precision and little wasted motion, they unspokenly divided the rooms between them and began their search. The rooms themselves were nondescript, grime and must matching the colorless decor.

The first room had obviously been occupied by the women. Two hairpins were found on the floor, along with a lipstick, smudged pieces of tissue in the wastebasket, and a pair of panties in the otherwise empty bureau.

More visible traces of the man remained in the second room. An open suitcase was on the bed, partly packed. A razor and shaving cream were still in the small bathroom; a chair had been overturned in the center of the floor.

“Looks like he was in a hell of a hurry to leave,” Pasquale said.

“Only one suitcase left,” Lyon said. “The clerk said he checked in with two.”

“Oh-oh, lookee here,” Pasquale said as he took a picture off the wall separating the two rooms. With the picture removed, a one-way mirror was revealed in the wall. A window in the man's room, a mirror in the women's. Sawdust near the baseboard indicated that it had been recently installed.

“A little voyeurism while the girls turned tricks,” Rocco said.

Lyon knelt on the floor under the mirror. “Ten to doughnuts it's more than that.” He felt along the dusty floor molding a moment, then went into the women's room and did the same.

“What do you have?” Rocco asked.

“Freshly bored holes through the dividing wall.”

“He wired the joint,” Pasquale said.

Rocco rocked on his heels. “Extortion.”

“Classic,” Pat replied. “The hookers set up next door, he gets his mark up here for a good time, pictures and sound of the whole party.”

“Who?” Lyon asked.

“Well, we've got a hell of a lead,” Pasquale said. “Two hookers, Penny and Boots—we'll put a make on them. I've never heard of a hooker yet who hadn't been pulled in half a dozen times. We'll get the room clerk to go through the mug shots.”

8

Warren chuckled as he turned the heavy pages of pictures. “These aren't mug shots. This is a gallery of the hotel's guest list.”

“Quit the comedy and keep looking,” Pasquale said and signaled to Rocco and Lyon to follow him back to his office. They sat in the small room holding paper cups containing some sort of machine-made instant coffee. It was hot, and little else.

“What about vice?” Rocco asked.

“Lots of it,” Pasquale replied with a laugh. “No, seriously, we don't have a vice squad anymore. Gave up busting queers two years ago, and if we had to check out the massage parlors we'd need twice as many men. We handle the real weirdos as part of each section's general function.”

“I thought the men on the beats might have come in contact with Penny or Boots.”

“I put out the word at shift change a few minutes ago,” Pat said. “No luck.”

“Not surprising,” Lyon said. “I don't think Warren will turn up anything either.”

“Why's that?”

“This Rainbow, if he is involved in a little dirty-picture extortion, isn't about to use local talent for the job. Too risky.”

“Imported stuff.”

“I would think so,” Lyon replied.

Warren knocked hesitatingly at the edge of the door. “I looked through the books you gave me, Sergeant. I know a lot of the girls, but didn't see Penny or Boots.”

“But you would recognize them?”

“Oh, sure.”

“All right, thank you very much for your time, and stay where we can find you.”

“What about the rooms and the things in the room?” Lyon asked as Warren left.

“Negative,” Pasquale replied. “Your Rainbow may have been in a hurry to leave, but not so much of a hurry that he didn't wipe the place clean. No usable prints, and the things he left were items that could be purchased at any discount store.”

“I think we should try the photographs of Mackay on the room clerk and the motorcyclist again,” Rocco said.

“It bombed out,” Pasquale said. “Why bother?”

“Suppose we touch up the photographs, have an artist color the hair brown as they both describe it, even brush in sunglasses, we might get a possible.”

“It's worth a try. We have somebody who can do it.”

“I think we should find the local importer of talent,” Lyon said.

“What?”

“There must be someone in town who is the local importer of ladies of the night.”

“Christ, Lyon,” Rocco said. “Ladies of the night? No one uses that anymore.”

“Well? Who's our importer?”

“Big Nose,” Pasquale said.

“Who?”

“Big Nose Carrelli.”

The Grecian Urn Massage Parlor was quite attractive if you didn't look too closely and notice that the marble pillars of the reception room were papier mâché. It was located on the fifteenth floor of one of the newer office buildings, next to a stockbroker's office. As Lyon stepped into the reception area, he noticed two things: the young woman behind the desk, with the deodorant-commercial face, wore a transparent toga, and the music piped over the stereo system was a Bach fugue.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Well, yes.”

“Name?”

“Lyon Wentworth.”

“Only the first name.” She laboriously printed L-I-O-N on the first line of a receipt pad. “Would you like the regular massage at twenty-five dollars or the de luxe executive massage at thirty-five?”

“I really didn't come for a massage.”

“Have you ever been to a massage parlor before?”

“I once had a rubdown at the New York Athletic Club after a handball game.”

“Are you for real?”

“I'd like an appointment with Mr. Carrelli.”

She gave Lyon an oblique look, picked up a pink phone and pressed an intercom button. “There's a Mr. Wentworth here to see you, Mr. Carrelli.” She listened for a moment and then replaced the receiver. “Straight through that door and second door on your left.”

Lyon followed her directions, wondering over the difference between the regular and the executive massage.

Big Nose Carrelli was immersed in a sunken tub smoking an Egyptian cigarette in a chartreuse holder. His massive head with its large nose protruded from the colored bath bubbles that hid the bulk of his body.

“Close the door and sit down, Mr. Wentworth.” He shifted his weight to get a better view of Lyon sitting on a straight chair. “Pasquale phoned and said you'd visit my establishment and asked me to give you my fullest cooperation.”

“That's very considerate of you.”

“Not really. He said that if I didn't, he'd bust the hell out of me and my place.”

“He thought you could be helpful in locating some—some ladies for me.”

“Do you like Proust, Mr. Wentworth?”

“No. In all honesty, even though I taught literature for a number of years, I have to confess I never finished
Remembrance of Things Past.
”

“Of course. I don't believe anyone has except me, Mr. Proust, and the typesetter. Pity.”

“I'm trying to locate two girls, Mr. Carelli. They're in their twenties, not from Connecticut, and are called Boots and Penny. One's a blonde and the other's a redhead, if that's any help.”

“You understand, Mr. Wentworth, that in addition to running this establishment, I have occasion from time to time to act as an employment intermediary.”

“So I've been informed.”

“Recently there's an extensive market for cooperative young ladies, go-go dancers, exotics, masseuses. The demand is often hard to fill.”

“I'm sure it is.”

“However, at Sergeant Pasquale's urging, I will do my best to cooperate. Why do you want these particular young ladies?”

“Let's say that they have been highly recommended.”

“We have many applicants, some with college education. I'm sure we can find two very satisfactory ladies.”

“Not just anyone. I want Penny and Boots.”

“Not uncommon appellations for my applicants. I'm not sure I can help you.”

“These are specialists. They have a different thing, so to speak.”

“That might narrow the possibilities. What is their area of entertainment?”

“Stuffed animals and little-girl dresses.”

“Personally repugnant, but that does narrow the field. It is truly a time of specialization.”

“We're not sure where they're from. It could be Boston, Providence or New York.”

“Not New York. The ladies from Fun City seem to think that Hartford is the end of the world. Vegas they'll go to, Hartford never. Boston or Providence. I will make inquiries.”

“I appreciate your aid, Mr. Carrelli.”

“Any time. But you really should dip into
Swann's Way
again. A gold mine, a veritable gold mine. I will call you.”

Big Nose called him four hours later. “The items you are interested in can be found at the Penobscot Hotel in Providence.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

If the Arriwani Hotel in Hartford had been transported in its entirety to Providence, and had there been a bar on the first floor, Lyon would not have realized that he'd changed cities. The Penobscot Bar was entered from the hotel lobby through swinging leather doors.

Although it was only four thirty in the afternoon, Lyon's eyes had to adjust to the dim interior. The bartender's elbows were propped on the bar as he leaned over in conspiratorial conversation with a woman in the corner.

Lyon slid onto a backed stool and waited to be noticed. Finally the woman tapped the bartender on the arm, and he turned to scowl in Lyon's direction. He moved along the duckboards in a painful shuffle.

“Feet hurt?”

“You know it. Bunions. What'll you have?”

“Sherry. Dry Sack if you have it.”

“No sherry. I got some red on ice. It's not bad if you drink it fast.”

“That'll do. I'm looking for some girls.”

The bartender poured wine and shrugged his head toward the woman at the end of the bar. “Want me to buy her a drink for you?”

“I do if she's Penny or Boots.”

“They're not here.”

Lyon shoved a ten into the bartender's shirt pocket. “They come highly recommended.”

“Drink's on the house. I might be able to reach them.” He shuffled painfully across the floor and dialed a phone hidden behind the Carstairs. After a whispered conversation he came back to Lyon.

“They'll be down.”

The blonde sat on the stool next to Lyon and pressed her knees tightly against him.

“You must be Penny?”

“My fame precedes me. I'll have a scotch and water.”

“Where's Boots?”

“On her way. Takes her ages to get dressed. We usually don't come out this early. You want a party?”

“I thought perhaps we could all have dinner together.”

“Dinner?”

“You must eat sometime.”

“What about the party? We do some interesting things.”

“Party?”

“It's sixty for both of us. We show you a real good time.”

“I just want to talk, to ask you a few questions.”

“You some kind of weirdo?”

“I don't think so.”

“Boots and I like to go together whenever we can. Sometimes we go solo, but we prefer it together. We do almost anything you want—no whips or that sort of thing.”

“I wasn't really dwelling in that area.”

She gulped her drink, and another appeared before her. Lyon slid a bill across the bar.

“You some kind of cop?”

“No. I want to ask you about your recent visit to Hartford.”

Penny pushed her drink back across the bar and stood up. “Uh-huh. No deal. It's been nice talking with you.”

She turned to go as Lyon grasped her arm. “Wait. A friend of mine in Hartford said you—you were terrific. He gave me a recommendation.”

“Sixty for the two.”

“All right,” Lyon said as he slid off the stool and followed her into the lobby of the hotel, wondering if he had sixty left.

They lived on the sixth floor of the hotel. Boots, the redhead, dressed only in bikini panties and bra, stood before the bureau mirror working on her hair. She turned to smile as Lyon followed Penny into the room.

“Hi, sweetie. Good deal—now I won't have to get dressed the rest of the way. Or does he want the little-girl bit?”

“Don't stop on my account,” Lyon said.

He looked around the room. It was fairly large for that kind of hotel. He was taken aback by the number of stuffed animals that covered the chair, the dresser and the bed. Teddy bears, pandas, stuffed ducks, cats and dogs. A stuffed Wobbly doll sat on the windowsill. Oh, Jesus, he thought,
The Whores and the Wobbly
. It would never work.

“Put the money on the dresser, hon,” Penny said as she slipped out of her blouse.

Lyon found he had three twenties and three ones in his wallet, and hoped he had enough gas to get back to Murphysville. He put the money on the dresser and turned toward the two women, who were busily clearing stuffed animals off the double bed.

“Come on, baby, take it off,” Penny said as she slipped out of her skirt.

“Want me to warm you up a little, hon?” Boots asked as she twined her arms around Lyon's neck.

Lyon smiled at her and ducked his head under her arms and sidestepped away. He noticed that she slipped the money from the dresser.

“You want to play or not, baby?” Penny asked.

“He's the shy type,” Boots said.

“I want to talk about Hartford.”

Boots turned vehemently toward Penny. “He's a goddamned cop!”

“He sure didn't look like one.”

“I'm not,” Lyon said. “I want to know who hired you for the Hartford trip, and whom you entertained.”