Friday for Death

  Friday for Death

  Lawrence Lariar

  PART I

  The Murderer’s Kiss

  CHAPTER 1

  THE JONAS TRIPP COMPANY

  OFFICE COPY LOCATION DEPARTMENT

  Customer:

  Godey Department Stores

  Fulton Street

  Brooklyn, New York

  Subject: Burton K. Lempke

  Last known address:

  564 Tarbell Street

  Brooklyn, New York

  (Telephone listed)

  REMARKS:

  Subject was phoned at last known address, using old number. Phone operator informed locater that number was discontinued. Phone operator had no new number for subject. Locater found phone number for the apartment house superintendent. Apartment house superintendent did not know or would not divulge new address of subject. Locater then phoned a resident of apartment house, named John Murray. Mrs. Murray answered phone. Locater told Mrs. Murray that he needed subject’s new address to inform subject of a legacy. Mrs. Murray did not know subject’s new address. Mrs. Murray suggested that locater try Francis Lempke—a relative of subject in Bronx. Locater phoned Mrs. Francis Lempke and told her same story about legacy. Mrs. Francis Lempke said subject’s new address was in Hackensack, New Jersey—at 569 Oak Road, private house. Locater checked with Hackensack directory and discovered 569 Oak Road recently rented to a David Loomis.

  SUGGESTIONS:

  Locater suggests operator H.T. visit 569 Oak Road in Hackensack, to serve Supplementary Proceedings on subject Burton K. Lempke, now living under alias: David Loomis.

  Locater: Steve McGrath.

  I finished typing my report. It was a quickie, one hour and ten minutes by the clock. I buzzed Linda.

  I said, “I made the locate on Lempke. The subject was a rank amateur.”

  Linda’s laughter tinkled over the interoffice phone. “The locater is modest,” she said.

  “The locater is bored. Maybe it’s the weather. Is Harv in yet?”

  “Not yet. Do you want another one, Steve? I’ve got a call here from Ace Credit, a tough one, a free rider they’ve been after for two years. Does it intrigue you?”

  “What’s the subject’s name?”

  “She’s a young one—an expert, they told me. Young and pretty. The type that gets around fast. Her name was Cynthia Galahad on their books. Her last address was—”

  “A phony,” I said. “The last name is certainly a queer. But I’m not in the mood, Linda. I’m sitting here chewing my nails about the old man. Do you think Harvey’s up at the hospital?”

  “I don’t think so. He would have phoned in. I think Harvey’s just sleeping late today. He’s been doing it often, ever since Jonas took sick. He’ll wander in any minute, I’m sure.”

  “I’ll wait for him then, I’m going to sit here and close my eyes and dream of fields of daisies. I’m going to dream that I’m on the outside for a change, on a plant for a wood nymph, a deadbeat sprite who frequents the remote forests of Central Park. The subject’s name is Spring, and your locater will catch her one of these days, even if it means playing hookey from the Jonas Tripp Company.”

  “The locater has spring fever,” Linda said. “Relax, Steve. I’ll buzz you when Harvey comes in.”

  I relaxed.

  A fat black bee hummed through the open window. He buzzed over my desk. He circled my office angrily and headed back to the light. I didn’t blame him. He had taken a dead-end route. There was nothing in my dusty cubicle to charm him. He returned to the window and commenced to beat his brains against the glass. His lunges were born of desperation. I felt a surge of sympathy for him. I went to the window and opened it wide and watched him highball it out into the sun, hang in the air for a flick of time, and then buzz away. I stared at him jealously until the sun ached my eyes.

  After that, my room seemed suddenly darker. After that, I dreamed at my desk. I heard the muted beat of Linda’s hands on her typewriter. I wondered whether Linda felt the season’s change in there. It was a fine day for the outdoors. My eyes were held at the window, seduced by the bright sky, the clouds, the sighing May wind. A sudden gust crackled the yellow sheets on my blotter. I looked at Gwen’s framed picture and thought of our courtship, when days like this meant a trip to the beach, or a long walk in Central Park—a thousand miles away now, beyond the claustrophobic walls that bound me to my job at the Jonas Tripp Company.

  Abe Freedman jerked me out of my reverie. He came in after his usual soft warning, two knocks on the frosted glass of the door and then his round and smiling face, complete with derby, waiting for my expected nod. He ambled across the room toward me, still smiling, still saying nothing. He sat down in the comfortable chair near my desk and put his feet up on the window ledge and took one of my cigarettes, inhaling with eyes closed.

  I waited for him. For four years Abe Freedman had entered my room in this way, a man of habit, a little machine who rested between starts in any friendly chair. Especially mine.

  I said, “Spring is here, Abe. You should be out in Central Park, serving a few squirrels.”

  Abe smiled at the end of his cigarette. “At my age a man doesn’t feel the spring, Steve. Also at my age a man doesn’t chase squirrels. You got anything more interesting?”

  I told him about the Burton Lempke locate. He smiled at it the way he smiled at everything else, waiting for the final address, and sighing briefly when I told him it was Hackensack this time, if Harvey didn’t want to take it. Abe was unenthusiastic about Hackensack.

  “Does it have to be today, Steve?”

  “You haven’t got it yet,” I said. “Harvey might want to ride out there. Just for the air, on a day like this.”

  “Harvey can have it,” Abe said. “Today I would rather go to the races. I have a horse—”

  I listened to him and his tale of horse flesh. Abe was a flibbertigibbet racing fan, an oracle of the track, a sage who loved to talk and plan his operations in great detail, saving his eager bankroll for one special day, one special set of races which he would invariably attend at Jamaica, bet his wad, and return with a handsome profit. On these festive occasions, Abe always came my way to share his methods and his profits. I had earned many an extra dollar through him and our intermittent gambling had made us close friends, especially on those days when Abe went to the track.

  I said, “I’ve got twenty-five bucks in the bottom drawer, Abe, but I have a hunch we can’t bet today. Unless you want to play the dough through a bookie.”

  “No bookies,” said Abe, shaking his head lazily. “If we got to wait, we wait, Steve.”

  Linda buzzed me, and I shook my head at Abe sadly.

  Abe said, “Harvey won’t be in?”

  “Not until later. You’ll have to take the Lempke thing now, Abe. We don’t want to give him time to smelt us. That relative of his might call him, and you know what that means.”

  Abe knew. Abe knew all there was to know about the sly business of serving papers. Abe had been serving all kinds of legal foolscap for the past twenty years. He had a way with papers. He was everything a professional process server should be, and a little bit more. His appearance worked well with his business. Abe was a short man, but not too short. His height might be considered average for a man in the meat business, or the plumbing business, or the grocery business. He had a face to match his figure, round and bright and yet clouded with the anonymity of the man in the street.

  You would never suspect Abe Freedman of anything. His perpetual grin, his horn-rimmed glasses, his ill-fitting costume—all these things established him as jus
t another pedestrian on a busy street, just another home owner in the suburbs. And when he handed you the paper, you couldn’t hate him for it. He smiled at you. But, then, Abe always smiled. It was probably his good-natured affability that threw many an unsuspecting subject on his ear. You looked at Abe and liked him. He radiated a friendliness that was hard to deny, and he and I would have been really close, had it not been for Gwen’s annoyance with him. Gwen called him “common” and “cheap.”

  “Your friend Abe belongs in a two-bit pinochle game on the Long Island Rail Road,” she told me. “Entertain him in the office. He makes me yawn when you bring him home with you.” And without my telling him, Abe understood, from the first time he met Gwen. “She doesn’t like process servers,” said Abe, never for a moment abandoning his smile. “I can’t say I blame her, Steve. We haven’t got much to offer aside from our lousy stories about the trade.”

  I never thought Abe’s stories at all lousy. In his long experience at doing odd jobs of detection and discovery he had become rather famous in the small circle of skip-tracers and private investigators. Abe could have been a detective at any time he chose. He had a keen and able brain, a perception that elevated him far above the run-of-the-mill breed of cheap leg men who inhabit lawyers’ offices and do the small jobs for the credit agencies. He was equipped to think on his feet. His modest adventures had all the elements of mystery and intrigue, for he was always selected by those clients who had a special chore beyond the reach of the midget brains who only rang doorbells and handed in papers. He had an exclusive and well-paying list of customers, and only moved when called. Harvey considered him better than Griffin or Priachell, his closest competitors, and so did I.

  Abe said, “I could wait until after the races for this Lempke character, Steve. He won’t be home during the day.”

  I shook my head at him, “Harvey wouldn’t like that, Abe. You better forget about that horse.”

  “Seven to one, Steve. And he’s going to run first.”

  “He’ll run again.”

  “Not with the same field.”

  “Use a bookie.”

  Abe shrugged and got up. “I waited him out until now. I guess I can wait him out again.”

  I said, “Maybe I can go down to the track with you the next time he runs.”

  His smile broadened, but the real humor came through his eyes. They were pale gray, but they shone with delight. “You thinking old man Tripp might cash in his chips?”

  “I’m sitting here and digging his grave, Abe.”

  He wagged a finger at me. “You can’t hate him that much.”

  “More. I’m not working at it right now. You should see me when I’m really mad at him.”

  “The poor old duck,” Abe said. “He was born with chronic indigestion, is all.”

  “He could die of it.”

  “You’re a bad, bad boy,” Abe said, and went out.

  I watched him go, staring at the dirty door long after he had disappeared, overflowing with a sudden envy, a restlessness, a feeling of queasy annoyance, an itch to follow him, to run after him into the street, to Hackensack, to any spot in the great outdoors. I stood at the window and stared hard at the skittering clouds. I smoked one cigarette after another, until the taste of them was gall on my tongue.

  I was reaching for a fresh one, when Harvey came in. He had the look of stuffed sorrow that cats reserve for small birds. His, eyes were loaded with suppressed hilarity. He lowered them, closed them, and leaned his fists on my desk top. “The king is dead,” he said.

  The news brought me around in my chair. “When?”

  “Just now, Steve, I got a call from the hospital. Our friend Jonas is no more. The old boy never came out of the ether.”

  I said, “Pardon me if I don’t break down and cry.”

  Harvey sighed and raised his eyes in mock solemnity. “We do not speak ill of the dead, son. We bury the dead with respect and decorum. We can begin the ceremonials this minute. Come into my office and we’ll bury Uncle Jonas together. I have a bottle of embalming fluid—a fifth of Teacher’s.”

  “I’m Teacher’s pet,” I said, and followed him through the door of the reception room. Linda Bridges smiled up at me. She had soft eyes. Her eyes were not sad now, despite the fact that she might be upset over the old man’s death. Linda always got along with Jonas. But then, Linda got along well with everybody. She had a sweetness that came through to you and an inner calm that went well with her quiet beauty. And when she spoke, she talked sense. I found myself comparing her with Gwen again. In moments like this she put Gwen to shame. For Linda Bridges seemed genuinely interested in me. I couldn’t hate her for it.

  Harvey said, “Wouldst share the festive cup, Linda? This is a big day for all of us.”

  She shook her head, still smiling at me. “I know how you two feel about it. I’m happy for both your sakes.”

  But she couldn’t have meant Harvey. She was speaking to me and I felt a sudden warmth run through me, a sudden thrill to her words.

  I said, “It’s going to be good for you, too, Linda. I’ll bet Harvey is all set to give you a big raise, any minute now.”

  “And why not?” Harvey asked himself. “How long have you been working for the old bat, Linda?”

  “I don’t like to mention it,” she said. “It dates me. It ages me. But it’s been over five years.”

  “A true and faithful servant,” Harvey said. “And you shall be rewarded, my girl—just wait and see. The members of the board will now meet in solemn session. The members of the board will discuss the employees of the Jonas Tripp Company.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Your friend Mr. McGrath here will plead your case. How can you lose?”

  Linda blushed and held her eyes away from me. “Seriously, Harvey, I’m happy here. I’ve always been happy. Jonas was an eccentric old man and I got used to him—long before you two came out of the army. You tell the members of the board to let me have just a little bit more money to cover the high cost of living. That will do it for me. It was something your uncle could never understand.”

  I said, “Consider it done, Linda. I vote for a twenty-five buck raise in pay, Harv. Is the motion carried?”

  “Carried.”

  She thanked both of us. The little moment had built itself into something between us and I found myself wanting to talk more with Linda. She had a simplicity that drew you to her. She had all the charms that Gwen thought “corny” and “syrupy.” Her frankness and good nature were real and honest. She had a round, school-girl’s face that radiated warmth, and when her eyes met mine they told me only that she was fond of me, and that was enough for me. Linda and I had been close friends ever since I came to work for Harvey’s Uncle Jonas. But when we walked up Broadway, we always parted at the subway entrance. And going down the steps to the train, I remembered the sudden emptiness inside me. And greeting Linda in the morning, I remembered the fullness.

  Harvey waved a hand dramatically. “You may take tomorrow for mourning, Linda. And if it’s a good clear day you can do your praying at the Polo Grounds, behind third base. I’d be there myself, but I’ve got to lead the wailing over the dearly departed up at Cousin Arthur’s. I’m going to chant over the casket when they bury the dear old boy. I’m the cautious type—I won’t feel safe until I see him snuggling under the pansy beds up in Connecticut.”

  We closed the door on Linda. I picked up the telephone and called Gwen. I heard it buzz in the apartment, and buzz again. This was a new experience for me. When Jonas Tripp was alive, I wouldn’t have dared to call home at any hour. Not from the office. The phone buzzed again. It could be that Gwen was still asleep. I considered hanging up. I didn’t want to disturb her, antagonize her. But I didn’t drop the phone. This was a big moment for us. Harvey would come through for me now. He would free me from the horrors of office routine. I’d go out soon, into the more interesting jobs
in the streets of the city. I’d be getting more money, and perhaps a partnership.

  But the phone only buzzed, a dead sound, an empty hum, as annoying as the wave of frustration that threatened to stifle my excitement. I tried to reason that Gwen was out shopping, gone only for a moment. This did not kill the tenseness in me. She should have clung to the phone all morning, waiting for my call. I had told her to wait. I had begged her to wait, last night. And now the good news rankled me. Now the business of Jonas Tripp’s death meant something else. My hand went hard on the phone. I dropped it.

  Harvey poured another drink, surveying me with a sympathetic eye. “The subject wasn’t in? Shopping, I suppose?”

  “Shopping.”

  “Listen, Steve,” he said seriously. “Hit me on the head if I’m sticking my nose in your affairs, but is everything all right with you and Gwen?”

  It would have been good to tell him. But I couldn’t bring myself to share my marital woes with him. Harvey had never approved of Gwen. He had been with me the night I met her. He seemed always more mature about women than I. He had labels for them, each type; each personality. He pinned his tags on them with a confidence born of experience. He had tagged Gwen that very first night. He had called her a “round-heel” then. He was frank and forthright about our marriage. He didn’t approve. We had fought about it. But, when the chips were down, Harvey came through for me. He apologized and we made peace. He had come to our house only once, after the quick wedding at City Hall.

  It was a small, drunken jamboree, limited to the handful of close friends we had in the strange big city. Gwen had treated him with more than her usual coldness. She seemed to sense that he didn’t like her. He had a sharp tongue when he wanted to use it. Gwen responded in kind, and before the evening was over, Harvey had walked out. I’d tried since to change Gwen’s attitude toward him. But my arguments for Harvey only widened the breach. She began to harass me about him. She invented a series of little Harvey jokes, cruel and cutting. And after a while I decided to forget him when I went home. His name never came up unless Gwen wanted to goad me, to tease me, to torture me about the office.