Rita opened the envelope and examined the contents as she propped the receiver on her shoulder.
"One of my better productions if I do say so." Vin beamed down the line. "What do you think?"
She did admire the work but it was wasted now and she scrunched her shoulders and aimed for an apologetic tone. "I'm really sorry, Vin."
"What! What's wrong? They're perfect!"
"I know. I know... but things have changed since yesterday. I'm going to have to start from scratch with another look. It really only means a new picture and some description chang—"
"Aw Jesus, that means all new. Everything has to be done over. Why the switch?"
She sighed into the mouthpiece. "I'm good for the money, Vin... please?"
He listened to her plea and swore softly. "Okay, when and where?"
"Here? Tomorrow?" He agreed. She smiled and oozed praise. "Thanks, Vin. You're a prince."
Vin agreed, chuckling with a sound that spelled out what it would cost Rita for his compliance. She replaced the receiver, chewing her top lip with tiny teeth.
Carl Dortman rinsed his mouth at the sink and looked past his shoulder in the mirror at the nude young man stretching on the huge bed. It was cheating, there was no doubt but what William didn't know wouldn't hurt him... too much. Carl enjoyed his situation with William but he still wanted—no, needed—to spread his wings among the flocks of beautiful young men whose paths he crossed. After all, who knew what William got up to at his club, and he was almost certain he did. He slipped on his shirt and went back to the bedroom, gathering the rest of his clothes and finishing dressing.
"Do you have to go?"
Carl smiled. "Yes. I have some business that I should have been doing instead of this."
"I'm flattered you chose to do me."
"I've left an envelope on the dresser, you have the room until noon. Don't be naughty."
"You've spoiled me."
"I'm not as susceptible to flattery as you, dear." Carl's smile turned a tad grim. "Until the next time then." He blew the young man a kiss and left the room, covering his eyes with a large pair of dark glasses.
His contacts, other young men that William knew nothing about, had come up with an address for Hatti Ambrose that had been leaked from the club where she worked and circulated among interested members of their community, a community that Roger frequented as well, and since it was a fair distance away, Carl decided to go there before contacting William. He wondered if William was having any success and secretly hoped that he would be the one to find Hatti and ingratiate himself doing it. He needed more reasons for William's loyalty.
He climbed into his Mazda Sports Coupe and slid smoothly into the traffic on the cross-town highway. Peggy Lee drummed out her rendition of Fever on the CD player and Carl turned the volume way up, singing along in the same voice as he sped through
traffic with an easy confidence.
******
2317 Montrose Avenue was a shabby looking shoe store with a small apartment over top. The window was dusty, partially covered by a faded awning and the half-hearted display behind the glass appeared faded as well from too long in the sun. Bettmeir pushed through the door and pulled a face as the chime rang out a few notes of Nancy Sinatra's only hit.
"How original." Jerry scanned the inventory with a doleful glance. "Not a goddam boot in the place."
A tiny woman waddled out from behind the counter and sneered at Jerry before turning to Bettmeir with a questioning look.
"You here to get him some footwear?" The voice belied her size and Bettmeir couldn't restrain a grin peering down at her.
"No ma'am... we can shop for my dad later." Jerry growled noticeably. "The apartment upstairs, is that yours or do you rent it out?"
"It's rented."
"Aha, and uh may I ask the name of the tenant?"
"No."
"No? Ma'am... oh, sorry." He took out his badge and showed it to her. "This is a police investigation."
She humphed and gave it a cursory glance. "He a cop too?"
"Afraid so."
She humphed again. "So what's this about?"
Bettmeir ignored her question. "The tenant?"
"Don Tell. He hasn't been using it for some time though."
"Don Tell? Is she kidding?" Jerry slapped his thighs with his hands.
"We'd like to see the apartment, Miss...?"
"Marsha Grande!" She shouted at Jerry, her eyes reduced to dangerous slits. "And that's the name he gave me. He's a nephew I never knew I had before he came here."
"I apologize for my partner Miss- Miss Grande, we've been under quite a strain with this case... may we see your nephew's apartment?"
The woman turned on her tiny frame and disappeared behind
the counter. Bettmeir shoved his partner and frowned darkly.
"Here's the key, I can't make those stairs anymore. Just make sure you don't take anything and lock it up when you're done."
"Thankyou ma'am, we'll be extra careful. When was the last time he was here?"
"Month or so, I don't know. He comes, he goes."
"Alone?"
"Sometimes a friend comes with him."
"A friend?" Jerry leaned forward at a dangerous angle.
"Doubt he'd be bringin' enemies, would he." She turned and waddled into the back room.
"Goddamn little troll," Jerry ranted, as he scuffed about the one room apartment, kicking at the cot legs and pushing drawers shut with a bang. "Thinks her name takes away from her size?"
"I admire your sensitivity, Jer. Not many people—"
"Screw off!"
"You have to admit, either Cullen had one hell of a sense of humour—I mean, Don Tell? And she didn't either." He laughed." Either that or he didn't rent this place and the nephew is real and really named Don." Bettmeir giggled to himself.
"Bullshit! Look at this." Jerry snapped out a hand with a card in it and Bettmeir studied it with a slow nod. "Bootheel guest tag."
"Whose name?"
"Pay dirt!"
"Is that another play on words?"
Jerry mouthed an obscenity. "Hatti Ambrose ... also known as Rita Cornell."
"Huh, thought she was an employee, why would he have a guest tag for her?"
"Good question. Better one: how did he get it out past Miss Receptacle and the walking coat hanger?"
"Not relevant today. See anything that might take this key?"
"Nah." Jerry opened the closet and rummaged through the clothes. "Somethin' screwy here though. These duds are definitely not the mover and shaker Roger Cullen was supposed to be. They look like costumes for Christ's sake." He lifted a hanger with pair of pale mauve pants. "Fag's rags."
"Another politically correct designation."
"Bite me."
"Think about his other place; Spartan at best." Bettmeir came over and checked the clothes. "What's this?" He squatted down and pulled out a shoebox and lifted the lid. "Under the rags—Bingo!"
The key from the safety deposit box opened the small jewel box inside the shoebox and Bettmeir removed an old floppy disk labeled, insurance and the initials, R.C.
"That sort of clinches the fact that good old Don is also dead old Roger."
"Thought you said it would be a briefcase or a piece of luggage?"
"Does that really matter, Jer?"
"It does when I'm trying to learn under the master."
Bettmeir handed the disc to his partner. "Come on, let's go and find out what's on this. Do our computers still take these things?"
"I wouldn't know, I write everything by hand."
"Sure you do. It's lunch time, where shall we eat?"
"You're right again, Sherlock. How about Italian?"
"Perfetto!"