Getting Up With Fleas (Trace 7) Page 19

  “So what can I do for you?” he asked me.

  “Ask her.”

  “Did you throw out today’s garbage yet?” Chico said.

  “Huh?”

  “Today’s garbage. Did you throw it out?”

  “No. It’s over there.” Clyde waved an arm in the general direction of the other end of the kitchen. “Are you interested in any special garbage or just garbage in general?”

  “I’m interested in that plastic container you took out of the dumbwaiter shaft.”

  “It’s in the bag,” he said.

  “Do you remember?” Chico asked. “Was it wet?”

  “Wet? I got to think. Yeah, I guess it was a little wet.”

  “Good.”

  “Good,” Snapp repeated. “See, Tracy? It’s good that it was wet.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “She always makes it make sense in the last chapter.”

  Chico went over to the side of the stainless-steel table, where a large green plastic garbage bag was puffed up full with waste.

  She opened the top of the bag. “Uggggh,” she said. “What a mess. Trace.”

  “Not me, pal. You’re on your own. It’s your dumb idea.”

  “Tricking along together,” she began to sing.

  “All right. Blackmailer,” I said.

  She handed me a fresh hefty bag. “I just want you to hold,” she said. She asked Clyde, “This is tonight’s dinner garbage?”

  “Aaay-p,” he said. He went over and sat on his cot to watch. I guess he didn’t get much chance to see garbage-pickers in action.

  Chico had put on jeans and a sweatshirt; she pushed her sleeves back and with no visible sign of distaste plunged both her hands into the garbage bag. For a moment I thought she was going to eat her way through it, but no, she pulled up a handful and dropped it into the open top of the bag I was holding.

  She kept that up, bringing out sodden handfuls of food, dropping them in the open bag, and I was just glad, all of a sudden, that Clyde hadn’t decided to cook chicken à la king for dinner.

  “This is disgusting,” I said.

  “Hey. I’m doing the disgusting part,” she said. “Just hold the bag.”

  Halfway down in the garbage bag, she came across a plastic margarine tub, one of the large two-pound sizes.

  “This it?” she asked.

  “I think so,” I said.

  “That’s it,” Snapp said.

  The tub was filled with paper towels and Chico took them out.

  I said, “Hold it. Those were the towels Clyde used to blot up the water.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “She put the plastic container on the table, wiped its outside with a clean paper towel, and told me, “Tie up those bags, will you?”

  She went to the sink and washed her arms and hands under the running water while I rewrapped garbage.

  Snapp said to her, “It’s time for the septic tank to be flushed. Don’t suppose you’d be interested, would you?”

  “Depends on what it pays,” she said. She scrambled lightly, like the dancer she was, up onto the stainless-steel-topped table. “This is the dumbwaiter shaft?” she said.

  “Yeah. Scott’s suite is right above it.”

  “Mr. Snapp, have you got a flashlight?”

  “Sure, little girl,” he said. “People have a habit of calling Chico “little woman” or “little girl.” I think this is because she’s little, but somehow she thinks it’s because men are disgusting sexist pigs who should all be castrated, the sooner the better. Generally, I don’t agree with that position.

  He handed her the light and said, “You really a detective?”

  “Aaaay-p,” she said.

  “Are you detecting now?” Clyde asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Detect anything yet?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I think so.” She stood up inside the dumbwaiter shaft. Only her legs from about mid thigh were visible.

  I noticed that she was wearing white leather running shoes, and by God, she even managed to look sexy in sneakers.

  She squatted down and stuck her head out of the shaft. “Three doors up there. That’s Scott, Birnbaum, and McCue, right?”

  “Right,” Snapp said. “This shaft services all those rooms, but it’s not in service anymore.”

  “All right,” she said, and disappeared into the shaft again. “God, this is dusty,” she said softly.

  “You mean you’re traveling without your killer wash rag?” I said.

  “Be quiet,” she hissed back.

  I finished sealing the two garbage bags, pushed them into a corner, and shrugged toward Snapp, who was monitoring Chico’s progress with a bemused expression on his face. I had forgotten my cigarettes, so I took a pack out of the tall cupboard and lit it from the gas stove.

  Chico finally came out of the shaft and closed the door behind her. “The rope was wrapped around Scott’s neck?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Once around.”

  “That rope’s strung real tight,” she said. “How’d you get him out? There’s no play in the rope.”

  “Sheriff Tillis is this guy who looks like Gorilla Monsoon,” I said. “He reached up and rassled around and untwisted it from his neck.”

  “Does this all mean something?” Snapp asked.

  “It means I’m going to sleep,” Chico said. “I’m really tired.”

  “At last,” I said.

  Chico said, “Mr. Snapp, how early do you think you could call the sheriff? You know him, right?”

  “It’s Sunday. Maybe seven, seven-thirty.”

  “Good. I’ll be down around then. We can talk to him.”

  “I look forward to it, little girl. Should I save any garbage or anything for you?”

  “No. Just don’t let anyone mess with the dumbwaiter,” she said. She took the margarine container and started for the door. Then she stopped and went back to the large commercial refrigerator in-the center of the kitchen, took a piece of Danish from inside, and left the room chomping happily.

  31

  Chico was under the sheet, astride my body, when I woke up. It’s one of my six favorite ways to wake up. The other five also involve Chico, but they require marching bands, prothonotary warblers, sixteen cases of pressurized whipped cream, and the roof from the Astrodome, so they’re kind of hard to put together at a moment’s notice.

  “Yankee soldier want to play around?”

  “No. I’ve had so much fun in the last six months, I’ve decided to remain celibate for the rest of my life.”

  “Okay,” she said brightly, and turned to spring out of bed. “Breakfast is ready anyway.”

  I grabbed her wrist and pulled her to me. “Get back here, you half-breed savage.”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Okay, but make it fast, will you, ace? I don’t want to miss breakfast.”

  “Wait. Weren’t you supposed to see Clyde this morning?”

  “I did. That’s how I know breakfast is ready. I helped him cook. He’s an awful cook.”

  “If you helped him cook, then I know you’re not hungry. I’ve seen you cook.”

  “You’ve found me out, big fella. Do with me what you will,” she said.

  “You know what you’re letting yourself in for, don’t you?”

  “Oh, no, not that. Not that.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “The dreaded Himalayan Highway Hump.”

  Halfway along, I said to Chico, “The nice thing about sex is that it’s like riding a bicycle. You never forget how.”

  “Pedal faster,” she said.

  When we were done, we showered together, which raised a new problem to which we found a solution right in the bathtub. We then went down to breakfast, even though by that time, I’d rather have gone back to bed. Sometimes showers don’t know.

  Chico apparently had some pride of authorship in what she had helped Clyde cook for breakfast, because she had a double helping of everything and th
en went back for more and came back balancing two plates, one of them for me.

  She brought me the plate because she is, after all, both my consort and a lady.

  A. She hoped I would eat something if it was placed in front of me and usually I would pick a little bit.

  B. More important, what I didn’t eat, she would, and that way she could have three plates full without anyone seeing her go through the food line three times. As she told me once, it helps to plan ahead.

  Birnbaum, Sheila, and Roddy Quine were at the table in the far corner when we arrived. Sheila and Birnbaum had nodded toward me, but Roddy Quine did not acknowledge our presence.

  Birnbaum walked quickly past our table. He was wearing a jogging suit.

  “Who’s that?” Chico asked with her mouth full.

  “That’s Birnbaum,” I said. “He must have bad kidneys because he’s always on the run out of the dining room.”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  She had finished her plate and was halfway through mine when Birnbaum came back to the room, now wearing his Mets jacket. He plopped down at our table.

  “They’re back, they’re back,” he said so quickly it sounded as if he were being charged for air time. “Those damned reporters are back.”

  “Probably forever,” I said. I noticed Chico was giving him a close inspection.

  “So introduce us,” he said.

  “This is my associate, Chico Mangini. This is Biff Birnbaum, the producer.”

  He shook her hand. He said how happy he was that she’d come to visit; he said everyone felt better now that she was there, and then, almost in midsentence it seemed, he jumped up and walked back to his own table.

  “That’s what I call a case of nerves,” I said.

  She held her right hand out before her and with her left index finger pointed to a white smudge of powder on her hand.

  “Not nerves,” she said. “And not bad kidneys either.”

  “What?”

  She leaned forward and whispered. “He’s a cokehead, Trace. He went out of here to go do a line.” She tapped the powder on her hand again, then wiped it off with a napkin and kept eating.

  Tony McCue wandered into the dining room, saw the two of us, came, sat down, and said to Chico, “Will you marry me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? I’m rich and famous,” he said.

  “You drink too much,” she said.

  “I’ll bet he told you that,” McCue said. “Do you know that since I’ve been here, I’ve done nothing but try to keep him sober.”

  “You did a lousy job,” Chico said.

  “Just the other night I had to pull him out of a barroom brawl before he got himself hurt. I’ll bet he didn’t tell you that.”

  “Not in so many words,” Chico said.

  Snapp walked over to our table and whispered something in Chico’s ear.

  She told me, “I’ll be right back, Trace.”

  McCue rose as she left the table, making me feel self-conscious about my lousy manners. When he sat back down, he said, “She’s not an actress, is she?”

  “All women are actresses,” I said.

  “But does she make a living at it?”

  “No. She’s a detective.”

  “What a waste,” he said.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” I said.

  Ramona Dedley joined us at the table. She was wearing abbreviated shorts and a tight halter top. She and McCue were getting food when Chico returned.

  She looked around as she sat down, and said, “Who’s the bimbo with McCue?”

  “Careful. That one’s the shrink,” I said.

  “If analysis makes you look like that, I may sign up,” she said.

  “You don’t need it.”

  McCue made elaborate introductions when they came back to the table, getting Chico’s name right. Ramona did what women almost always do: she took the measure of Chico as possible opposition and decided that Chico won. That was a thing Chico never did: she never measured herself against others. Some might think it was because she was so arrogant she was sure she’d win, but the truth was that she didn’t really care. For certain, I had never met any other woman in my life so quick to compliment another woman on her beauty.

  We made small talk until Tony left for the men’s room.

  Chico said, “Doctor Dedley…”

  “Ramona, please.”

  “Okay. Ramona, if Tony took potassium chloride, what would happen?”

  “He’d probably die. Why?”

  “Just bear with me a moment. How would that happen? Is it because he’s taking digoxin?”

  The doctor nodded. “Digoxin slows down the heart rate generally in a patient like Tony. You could say that it lets the chambers fill better and pump better. Now if you took potassium chloride at the same time, the two of them together would probably smother the heart. They could cause cardiac arrest.”

  “Is it easy to detect?” Chico asked.

  Ramona shook her head. “A good forensic man could find it if he were looking for it. But chances are it would just slide by undetected. I have to ask you why?”

  “Yeah. Why?” I said.

  “I think those pills that Trace took out of Tony’s room might have potassium chloride in them,” Chico said.

  “Oh, my God.” Ramona shrugged her shoulders in irritation. “I haven’t even had them analyzed yet.”

  “I’ve got a lab technician available,” Chico said. She looked at me. “A friend of the sheriffs. He’ll test them out for us right away.”

  “I’m going to my room and get them,” Ramona said.

  As she stood to leave, Pamela Scott entered the room, wearing the same black dress and sunglasses. Biff Birnbaum met her and walked with her to his table. She nodded at me as she walked by, and I saw Chico staring at the two of them.

  “Mrs. Scott,” I explained to her.

  “Good,” Chico said. She stood up and said, “I’ll be right back.” She grabbed her big purse from under her seat and walked quickly from the room. She was back in less than two minutes, with a quiet smile on her face.

  “You look like you swallowed the canary,” I said.

  “Better than that,” she said. She opened her purse on her lap and pointed inside. I looked.

  “That looks like an ice-cube tray,” I said.

  “It is,” she said.

  “You’re reduced now to carrying around your own ice-cube trays?” I said.

  “Don’t be a dork,” she said. “It’s not my ice-cube tray. For God’s sakes, I’m staying with a man who doesn’t even rate a refrigerator in his room. The shame of it all.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “It came from Mrs. Scott’s room,” Chico said, and winked at me.

  Ramona came back and handed Chico a small paper bag, which she dropped into the maw of her purse.

  “All the drugs are labeled,” Ramona said.

  “Good.” Chico said. “I’m going to give these to Clyde. He’ll have one of his guards run them up to the hospital lab.”

  “The ice-cube tray too?” I said.

  “Of course,” she said. “That’s the most important thing of all.”

  32

  We went up to Tony McCue’s top-floor suite after breakfast. Chico had borrowed Clyde Snapp’s flashlight.

  She walked over to inspect the dumbwaiter door.

  “Trace, look at this,” she said. “You told me this was locked, right?”

  “Sure.” I pulled on the small metal handle. “It’s still locked.”

  “But look at the screw,” she said. “The paint’s chipped.”

  “So what?”

  “So Clyde locked all these dumbwaiter doors by driving a screw into the frame. And then he painted over them when he painted the rooms. He told me that. Somebody has opened this door.”

  “I didn’t do it,” McCue said. He went to the refrigerator, took out a tray of ice cubes, emptied it into the ice bucket atop the refrigerator, a
nd started to make himself a drink.

  “I know you didn’t,” Chico said. She rooted around in her purse and came out with one of those things called a Swiss Army knife, which has scissors and screw-drivers and nail clippers. I always wondered how there could be a Swiss Army knife when there wasn’t even a Swiss Army that I knew about.

  She started removing the two-inch-long brass screw from next to the door handle. “See? Somebody opened it, and then put the screw back in later. When they opened it, they chipped the paint.”

  She opened the door into the dumbwaiter and leaned in with the flashlight.

  “Ahhhh,” she said. It was a purely animal sound of satisfaction and it occurred to me that it was a sound I didn’t hear much from her. Maybe sex wasn’t the same as riding a bicycle, but was it my fault I didn’t get more practice? Going straight sucks.

  “Look, Trace,” Chico said.

  I leaned in alongside her as Ramona walked up behind us. McCue was sitting on the windowsill, sipping his drink, looking out over the grounds, appearing bored with it all.

  “Look at the pulley,” Chico said softly. The pulley was about five feet above where our heads were, and Chico shined the light on it.

  “Nice pulley,” I said.

  “Dimbulb,” she whispered. “You see the rope on the other side of the pulley? It’s coated with dust. But on this side, look.” She shone the light on the rope, from the pulley, past our eye level, then down into the shaft. About fifteen feet of the rope had no dust on it.

  “You see?” she said. “The rope’s been moved. The dust was scraped off as it came through the pulley.”

  Ramona leaned over my shoulder to look. I felt her breasts against my back.

  “So what?” I said to Chico. “Probably Jack Scott’s weight pulled the rope down.”

  “No. There’s a lock on the pulley down in the basement. You remember seeing it?”

  “Yes. But maybe Scott’s weight was enough to pull it down anyway.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” she said. “Look.” She clambered up onto the shelf from the doorway to the dumbwaiter, crouched there, and handed me the flashlight. Then she put her hands on the dumbwaiter rope and let her body hang into the shaft.

  “Careful, dammit,” I said.

  “Shhhh,” she answered. She swung lightly back inside the room. “See? My weight didn’t even move the rope and Scott was a little guy. His weight wouldn’t have moved it either.” She looked at Ramona. “You examined Scott’s body, Ramona?”