Chapter 15 Chapter fifteen

Walk straight back to the hotel.Liquor stores are closed, but bars are still open.I walked through the gates without too much trouble, resisting the calls of street hookers on Fifty-seventh Street flanking the Holiday Inn.I nodded to Jacob, made sure my phone wasn't there, and headed upstairs. Pretentious bastard.You are no better than me.He was very drunk, and after the alcoholic exposed himself too much, he was in a defensive aggressive state.His words don't mean anything.He can speak to whoever is with him, or to the night sky.Yet they still echo in my head. I went to bed, but couldn't fall asleep, so I turned on the light and sat on the edge of the bed with my notebook.I went over some of the notes I had taken, and jotted down a sentence or two of our conversation at the Tenth Avenue bar.In addition, I wrote down some of my thoughts, playing with them like a cat playing with a ball of thread, until the thoughts became shorter and shorter, and the same idea appeared repeatedly, so I had to put down my notebook and pick up a paperback book I bought earlier. But I can't always see it.I read the same article over and over again, and I just don't know what to say.

For the first time in hours I wanted to drink.I was restless and wanted a change.There's a deli three storefronts away from the hotel, and the fridge is stocked with beer, and beer won't make me pass out, will it? I stayed where I was.Chance didn't ask why I was working for him.Deggin thinks making money is a legitimate motive.Elaine would like to believe that I did it because it was my profession, like she was a prostitute and God forgives sinners.That's also true, I do need money, and solving crimes is the only thing I can do at the moment, and that's sort of my career.

But I also have a motive, and possibly a deeper one.Finding Kim's killer could be a substitute for drinking.Even if it's temporary. When I woke up, the sun was shining.By the time I got out of the shower and shaved and came out into the street, the sun was gone again, hiding behind thick clouds.All day long the sun just flickers on and off, like the guy in charge of the weather isn't doing his job.I had a light breakfast, made a few phone calls, and walked over to the Galaxy Hotel.The clerk who registered Charles Jones was off duty.I've read the transcript of his interrogation in the file, and don't really expect to learn more from him.

An assistant manager showed me Jones' registration card.He printed "Charles Owens Jones" in the name column and "C. O. Jones" in capital letters in the signature column.I pointed these out to the assistant manager and he told me the discrepancy was not surprising. "People put their full name in one column and their initials in another," he said, "and both are legal." "But it's not a signature." "Why not?" "He used print." He shrugged. — Stick School · E Book Group — “There are people who write everything in print,” he said. “This guy called to make a reservation and paid cash up front. In this case, I don’t think my people will be able to pick a signature.”

My point is not here.What I noticed was that Jones deliberately avoided leaving handwriting samples, which was interesting.I looked at his full name in print.I found myself thinking that the first three letters of ChaLles are the same as the first three letters of Chance.God knows what that means?Why try to implicate your customers? I asked him if our Jones had been here in the past few months. "Not in a year," he assured me. "We put the names of previous customers into the computer in alphabetical order, and a police detective went over the information. If that's all—"

"How many other customers signed in capital letters?" "I have no idea." "Can I check the registration card for the past two or three months?" "What are you looking for?" "Look who signs like this guy in print." "Oh, I don't think so," said he. "Do you know how many katchas there are? We have six hundred and thirty-five rooms in our hotel,—sir." "Scudder." "Mr. Scudder. More than eighteen thousand registration cards a month." "Unless all your guests are only staying for one night."

"An average of three nights per person. Even so, there are more than 6,000 registration cards in one month, and 12,000 in two months. Do you know how long it will take to read 12,000 cards?" "A man can probably look at thousands of sheets an hour," I said, "because all he has to do is check that the signature is capitalized. About a few hours will suffice. I can do it, or you can have a few of your clerks do it." He shook his head. "It's not up to me," he said, "not really. You're a citizen, not a policeman. I'd love to cooperate, but I have limited powers. If the police formally ask—"

"I know I'm asking for your help." "If I have the right to do this kind of favor—" "I know it's a bit demanding," I went on, "and I'm going to pay for your time and inconvenience." In a smaller hotel this should work, but here, I'm wasting my time.I don't think he even realized I was bribing him.He repeatedly said he would be happy to help if the police ordered it to.This time I didn't insist.I asked if he could make a photocopy of Jones' registration card. "Oh, we have copiers right here," he said, glad to finally be able to help. "Just a minute, please."

He came back with a copy, I thanked him, and he asked me if I had anything else, his tone suggested he thought there was none.I said I wanted to see the crime scene. "But the police have checked in there," he said. "The rooms are being renovated. The carpets have to be changed, you know, and the walls have to be repainted." "I still want to see it." "Not much to see, really. I think there's a workman there today. The painter's gone, I suppose, but the rug-man—" "I won't get in the way." He gave me the key and let me go upstairs by myself.I found the room, thankful that my case-handling ability is so strong.

The door was locked, the rugman appeared to be off to lunch, the old carpet had been removed, the new carpet was about a third of the way down, and the rest was still being rolled up.I was there for a few minutes.As the assistant manager said, there was really nothing to see in the room. It was empty, with neither furniture nor traces of gold.The freshly painted walls are gleaming, and the bathroom is gleaming. I walked around like a psychic, trying to get some sensations with my fingertips, but if there were any, I couldn't feel them.The window faces the city center, and the view is cut by other tall buildings.In the gap between the two buildings, I glimpsed the World Trade Center towers in the distance.

Does she have time to look out the window?Did Mr. Jones ever look out the window, before or after killing Kim? I take the subway to the city center.The trains are the new ones, and the interior of the carriages is composed of yellow, orange, and brown to form a pleasing pattern, but the graffiti artists have completely destroyed these, and all the spaces are covered with their indecipherable messages. I don't see anyone smoking. I got off at West Fourth Street and walked south and west to Morton Street, where Fran Schechter had a small apartment on the top floor of a four-story brownstone. I rang her bell, called my name over the intercom, and the vestibule door buzzed open.The stairwell was full of smells—toast on the first floor, cats half a floor up, and marijuana smoke on the top floor. I was thinking that you could outline a building by the smell in the stairwell. Fran was waiting for me at the door.Short light brown curly hair framed a round baby face.She has a round nose, upturned lips, and puffy cheeks that even a chipmunk would envy. She said, "Hi, I'm Fran. You're Matthew. Can I call you Matthew?" I said sure, and she put her arm on mine and led me into the room.The smell of marijuana is stronger in the house.This apartment is a studio.The room was large, with one wall recessed to form a small kitchen.Furnishings include a deck chair, sofa chair with pillows.Several plastic milk crates stacked on top of each other hold books and clothes.There is also a large water bed topped with a fake fur coverlet.A framed poster of an interior scene hangs on the wall above the waterbed, and a locomotive emerges from the fireplace. I declined alcohol, accepted a can of Diet Coke, and sat on the pillow-pillow sofa, finding it more comfortable than it looked.She was sitting on a canvas recliner, and she thought it was more comfortable to sit than to look at. "Chance said you were working on the King case," she said, "and he wanted me to tell you all you wanted to know." Her voice was a bit out of breath like that of a little girl, and it was hard to hear how much it was deliberately put on.I asked her how her relationship with Kim was. "Not very well. I've met her a few times. Sometimes Chance would take two girls to dinner at once, or to a show. I think I've probably met everyone. I've only met Donna once, and she was immersed in In my own world, it's like being lost in space. Have you seen her?" I shake my head. — Stick School · E Book Group — "I like Sunny. I don't know if we're friends or not, but she's the only person I talk to on the phone, and I call her once or twice a week, or she calls, you know, and we can chat." "But you never called Kim?" "Oh no. I don't even have her phone number." She thought about it. "Her eyes are beautiful, I can still see their color when I close my eyes." Fran's own eyes were also very large, with the kernels somewhere between brown and green.Her eyelashes were so long that it occurred to me that maybe they were fake.She was diminutive, a so-called "pony" size, in Las Vegas cabaret parlance.She wore faded Levi's jeans, rolled up at the hem, and a bright pink sweater tucked tightly over her high breasts. She doesn't know Kim plans to leave Chance, and finds it funny. "Well, I can understand," she said after a moment of thought. "He doesn't really care about her, you know. And you don't stay with a man forever who doesn't care about you." "Why do you say he doesn't care about her?" "It can be seen in many small things. He is very happy to have her around, because she does not cause trouble and is a cash cow. But he has no feelings for her." "Does he have feelings for other girls?" "Yes to me," she said. "What about the others?" "He likes Sunny. Everybody likes Sunny, she's fun to be with. I don't know if he cares about her. And Donna, I bet he doesn't care about Donna, but I don't think Donna cares about him either. I guess They're purely business. Donna, I don't think Donna cares about anyone. I don't think she knows there's anyone else in the world." "Where's Ruby?" "Have you seen her?" I don't. "Well, you know, she's kind of exotic, so he likes it. Plus, Mary Lou is super smart, and they go to concert shit together, go to Lincoln Center, listen to classical music, but that doesn't mean he's crazy about her have feelings." She started giggling and I asked her why it was so funny. "Oh, it just occurred to me that I'm the typical dumb whore who thinks I'm the pimp's favorite. But you know what? He can't be completely relaxed until he's with me. He can come here, take off his shoes, and think about it .Do you know what a 'marriage from a previous life' is?" "have no idea." "Uh, it has something to do with reincarnation. I don't know if you believe it or not." "Never thought of that." "Uh, I don't know if I believe it or not, but sometimes I feel that Chance and I knew each other in a previous life. It doesn't have to be a couple or a husband and wife relationship. We may be brother and sister, or he is my father or I am his mother .We might even be the same sex, because genders can change after reincarnation. I mean we might be sisters or something. Really, it could be.” A phone call interrupted her train of thought.She went across the room to answer, with her back to me and one hand on her hip.I can't hear her talk.She spoke for a while, then covered the microphone and turned to look at me. "Matthew," she said, "I don't want to rush you, but do you know how long we're going to talk?" "Not for long." "Then can I make an appointment to come over in an hour?" "no problem." She turned back, finished speaking, and hung up. "A regular customer of mine," she said, "was a really nice guy. I told him to come back in an hour." She sat down again.I asked her if she had lived in this apartment before she took Chance.She said she had been with Chance for two years and eight months, no, before that she shared a larger place in Chelsea with three other girls.Chance had prepared this apartment for her, she just had to move in. "I brought the furniture here," she said, "the water bed is from here. I threw away my old single bed. I bought the poster of Marguerite, and the mask is from here." .” I didn't notice the mask, and turned to see three solemn ebony carvings on the wall behind me. "He knows that kind of stuff," she said. "Which tribe made the masks and all that. He's good at that sort of thing." I said this apartment is not suitable for prostitution.She frowned, confused. "Most of the girls in your line live in buildings with porters," I said, "with elevators and such." "Oh, yes. I didn't understand you just now. Well, yes." She laughed cheerfully. "It's different here," she said. "The clients who come here don't think of themselves as clients." "how to say?" "They think they're my friends," she explained. "They think I'm Miss Greenwich Village on LSD, which I am, and they're my friends, yes. I mean , they're here to have a good time, it's true, but it's quicker and easier to go to a massage parlor, straight up, plain and simple, get it? But come here, they can take off their shoes, smoke some weed, and here we go Cozy and sexy little apartment in Greenwich Village again. I mean, you have to climb three flights of stairs and roll around on a water bed. I mean, I'm not a whore, I'm their girlfriend. I No charge. They pay me because I have to pay rent, and you know, I'm just a poor Miss Greenwich Village who wants to be an actress, but never gets it. I can't be an actress, but I don't care, I I still have dance lessons two mornings a week, acting lessons with Ed Covance every Thursday night, and I did three weekends at the Rebecca Theater last May. We played Ibsen "When We Resurrect From the Dead", believe it or not, there are three prostitutes going to cheer me up?" She chatted about the drama and then started telling me about her customers sending her gifts in addition to money. "I don't have to buy booze at all. I actually give it away because I don't drink it myself. And I haven't bought weed in years. You know who has the best weed? The Wall Street guys. They'll buy a Ounces, let's suck some and give me the rest." She flashed her long eyelashes at me. "I kind of like smoking," she said. "Guess." "Why? Do I look delirious?" "smell." "Oh yeah. I can't smell it because I live here, but every time I go out and come back, wow! Like a friend of mine who has four cats and she swears they don't smell, but the smell can smoke It's you. It's just that she's used to it." She changed her sitting position: "Do you smoke, Matthew?" "No smoking." "It's amazing that you don't drink or smoke weed. Shall I get you another Diet Coke?" "No, thank you." "Are you sure? Uh, do you mind if I smoke a little? Relax and relax." "Please." "Since that guest is coming, a little bit will help build the mood." I said it's okay.She took a plastic bag of marijuana from the stovetop rack and rolled it into a cigarette, expertly. "He might want to smoke too." She said, and rolled two more.She lights one, puts the others away, and sits back in the deckchair.She smoked the joint, chatted about her life as she puffed, and finally extinguished the remaining stub of the joint for later.Her demeanor was not significantly different from smoking marijuana.Maybe she's been smoking all day and I'm in a trance when I arrive.Maybe taking drugs doesn't make her lose her mind easily, just like some people don't show drunk easily when drinking. I asked Chance if she smoked when she came here, and she was amused. "He never drank or did drugs, like you. By the way, is that why you met him? Both of you spend your time outside of bars? Or is it because you don't use drugs?" I managed to bring the conversation back to Kim.If Chance doesn't care about Kim, does Fran think Kim might be dating someone else? "He doesn't give a damn about her," she said. "You know what? I'm his only love." I can feel the marijuana in her words now.Her voice hadn't changed, but her mind had wandered elsewhere with the pot. "Does Kim have a boyfriend?" "I have a boyfriend and Kim has clients. All the other girls are clients." "If Kim has someone special—" "Of course, I understand. There's someone who's not a client, that's why she wants to break up with Chance. Is that what you mean?" "It's possible." "Then he killed her." "Chance?" "Are you crazy? Chance doesn't care enough to kill her. Do you know how long it will take to replace her? Damn." "You mean that boyfriend killed her." "certainly." "Why?" - Stick School · E Book Group - "Because he's in a bind. She left Chance and was going to live happily ever after with him, but what does he want? I mean he's got a wife, a job, a family, a house in Scarsdale— " "How do you know this?" She sighed, "I'm just talking nonsense, baby. I'm just making up stories. Do you understand? He's a married man who likes gold. It's fashionable to fall in love with a whore and tell her to fall in love with you, so you can have sex with her for free Go to bed, but you don't want people to turn your life upside down. She said, hey, I'm free now, get rid of your wife, and let's go to the sunset, and the sunset is nothing more than him sitting on the balcony of the country club. He didn't want to change what he had seen from afar. The next thing you know, she died and he went back to Larchmont." "It was Scarsdale a minute ago." "Where it is." "Who could he be?" "The boyfriend? I don't know, anyone can." "A prostitute?" "You don't fall in love with a client." "Where will she meet men? What kind of men will she meet?" She struggled with the question, then gave up with a shrug.Our conversation hasn't progressed here.I used her phone and wrote my name and number on a note next to the phone. "If you think of anything—" I said. "I'll call you if I think about it. Leaving? Are you sure you don't want another can of Coke?" "no thanks." "Okay," she said. She came over, covered her mouth with the back of her hand and yawned lazily, looking at me through her long eyelashes. "Hey, it's really nice to have you here," she said. "If you want a company, you know, you can call me anytime, okay? Just come and talk." "definitely will." "I like that," she said softly, tiptoing up to give me an unexpected kiss on the cheek. "I really like you, Matthew," she said. Halfway down the stairs, I started laughing.How good she was at it, with the spontaneity of a whore and the warmth of her farewells.No wonder the stockbrokers didn't mind climbing the stairs, no wonder they went to see her perform.Heck, she's an actress, and she's not bad at it.After walking two streets, I can still feel her kiss on my face.