Chapter IX (3)

    "Come to the show Sunday," Lennox called after him. "The Venice Theater at nine o'clock. Ask for Jordan Lennox." He issued the same invitation to the Shroff and the Killer.
    "What show?" the Shroff asked.
    "A television show called 'Who He?'"
    "Who's Jordan Lennox?" the Killer inquired.
    "Him," Gabby said. "His pen name. A one and a two and a zig-zag-zig." They piled into the car. "Are we through, Jordan? Have we failed?"
    "You seem pretty cheerful," Lennox laughed.
    "I am. So are you."
    "Must be hysteria. I'm so loused up now that I don't give a damn any more."
    "That's a relief."
    "Why do you say that?"
    "You get so oppressive when you're filled with resolve."
    "You sound like Sam. Well.... There's one last chance. I'll give it a play after I take you home."
    "The blonde?"
    "Keep out of this part, Gabby."
    "Aimee Driscoll with two E's?"
    "Yes."
    "Do you really live in Brooklyn, Mr. Hamburger?" Gabby asked.
    "Yes, Ma'am."
    "Could you drop Mr. Fu at Chatham Square before you go across the bridge?"
    "Sure, Ma'am."
    "And could you drop us on Third Avenue at.... What's the name of the place, Jordan?"
    "I don't want you in on this."
    "Where did you pick her up?"
    "I think it was Ye Baroque Saloon."
    "At ... you should excuse the expression ... Ye Baroque Saloon, please, Mr. Hamburger. It isn't a dead-end yet."
    The inside laugh on Ye Baroque Saloon is that it's named after the proprietor, Chris Barokotrones, who came to The Rock and shortened his name to Baroque before he understood enough French or English to know what he was doing. By the time he found out, he had enough money to buy a building on Third Avenue and build a saloon. He had it decorated in American Baroque ... the exaggerated theatrical style that was the vogue in saloons before the turn of the century.
    Everybody in the business goes to the Baroque for a nightcap. The joint was jumping when Gabby and Lennox entered. It was a piratic crowd, very young and very handsome. Crop-haired boys with hornshell glasses who would become the Audibons and Bordens of the next decade.... Striking young girls who would become their wives and mistresses.... A leavening of the older men and women whom success and good living had kept young.
    Gabby and Lennox went down the bar, past the booths and into the back room. Lennox saw Aimee Driscoll sitting alone at a table behind the telephone booth. Her high fat bosom pushed out over the table. Her wide fat bottom spread over the chair. Through the smoke and haze she looked, at first glance, like a lusty Swede farm girl from Minnesota; but the second glance shamed Lennox.
    "Nope," he said to Gabby. "She's not here. We'll go out the side door."
    They threaded their way between tables and went out the side door. Lennox took a deep breath of the fresh air and looked around for a cab. A small man in a derby, pea-jacket and white duck trousers came around the corner. He spoke to them in a bright voice. "Hi, Joe. H'ar ya? Hi, Sally?" He continued down the street, addressing empty doorways in friendly tones.
    "Ah," Gabby said compassionately. "He's lonesome, poor soul. He wants friends. Do you think he's afraid of people, Jordan?" She came around a corner abruptly. "As afraid as you are of Aimee Driscoll?"
    "W-What?"
    "Listen to me." Gabby backed him against the wall and pointed a finger at him. "I know she's in there. At the table behind the phone booth. You should have seen your face when you saw her. Are you afraid to speak to her?"
    "Yes. I'm ashamed. Revolted."
    "Why?"
    "Gabby, don't be naive. Suppose you picked up a strange man and—Would you want to see him again?"
    "I did," Gabby said. "Last Sunday night."
    "No. No, darling. It's different with us. We.... Did you see her? What she looks like? I could kill her."
    "Have I seen you? What do you really look like? Maybe there'll come a day when I'll really see you and want to kill you."
    "Gabby!"
    "Don't do that to me. Don't shame me now."
    "What do you want me to do?"
    "Don't be angry and hateful. I want you to be honest and kind to everybody. I want you to go in there and speak to her like Jordan Lennox.... Not like Roy Audibon."
    "Gabrielle," he said, "You're a great woman ... but I'm not a great man."
    He kissed her, then turned and re-entered the back room of the Baroque. Gabby followed him. He walked directly to Aimee's table and smiled down at her as pleasantly as he could fake.
    "Good evening, Aimee," he said. "Mind if we join you?"
    "Hi, Clarence," Aimee said. "Your friend deliver that coat and book?"
    "That's why I'm here. Have you got a minute?"
    "Sure."
    Lennox and Gabby sat down. As Lennox held Gabby's chair for her, Aimee darted her a look of hostility. "Taking it from the top," Lennox said. "My name isn't Clarence Fox. It's Lennox. Jordan Lennox."
    "Naughty, naughty!" Aimee said coyly. "Say, are you really the guy which writes that TV show like you said?"
    "Yes."
    "How about me? Popular with the big-shots. I should've asked for your autograph." Aimee glanced at Gabby.
    "This is Miss Gabrielle Valentine ... Aimee Driscoll."
    "Miss Aimee Driscoll," Aimee snapped.
    "Of course. I'm sorry." Lennox hesitated and finally forced himself to meet Aimee's eyes. He saw in them an anger that startled him. He'd been too drunk to notice that photograph of Aimee's father in her apartment, and even if he had noticed it, he wouldn't have seen the connection.
    No one knows what happened between Aimee Driscoll and her father. Anyone can guess, but it doesn't matter. The important result was that the particular chasm over which she walked her tight rope was an inescapable physical attraction for any man who resembled her father plus an uncontrollable hatred for him. Lennox hadn't gone to bed with Aimee that Saturday night. She was relieved, professionally, and infuriated, emotionally. She looked at him now with hatred and at Gabby with venom, completely unaware of what she was feeling or how she was showing it.
    "Sweet guy you are," she said archly. "Sweet guy ... making a sucker out of a poor working girl from the lower classes. You owe me ten bucks."
    "I do? What for?" Lennox was terrified of what the answer would be.
    "The doctor. I had to see him Monday on account of what you done to me. You practical jokers don't know your own strength." Aimee winked at Gabby. "Your boy friend's a funny guy with a Christmas tree, Gabrielle. We had a million laughs. He tell you?"
    "No," Gabby said quietly.
    "I guess he wouldn't at that."
    "Do you want to tell me, Aimee?"
    "Me? No." She laughed, concealing her teeth with her hand. "I'm a good kid. I can take a joke. Anyway your boyfriend don't owe me a cent, not after the gorgeous Christmas present he give me."
    Lennox swallowed painfully. "It was a television set, wasn't it, Aimee?"
    "Modest, ain't he? What a sweet guy. What did he give you, Gabrielle?"
    "Something I've always wanted, Aimee."
    "Jesus! Mink?"
    Gabby shook her head and smiled.
    Aimee examined the smile and tried to answer it. "Look at you. Up there on Cloud Nine, ain't you?"
    "Yes."
    "Well, fall easy."
    "Were you hurt when you fell?"
    "Me? I never was up." Aimee laughed and covered her mouth. "Strictly the subway type."
    "Listen, Aimee," Lennox smiled painfully. "I'd like to sit here yakking it up, but I'm in a jam and I need help."
    "You're our last hope," Gabby added.
    "Me? No." Aimee looked from one to the other and the archness peeled away from her malice. "Don't tell me a big-shot which can afford two names and two girls needs help."
    "I do," Lennox said. "Look, we met here Saturday night. What time was it?"
    "What are you checking up on?"
    "It couldn't have been too late because a store must have been open. We were able to buy you that set."
    "Strictly your idea, Clarence. You kept on running off at the mouth about bull fiddles."
    "Yes. I found out. So we went to a music store and ended up buying you a television set. Where?"
    "Who can remember?" Aimee answered, enjoying Jake's misery.
    "Please, Aimee," Gabby said. "This is very important."
    "Why is it important? I had enough trouble with your boy friend Saturday night. I don't want no more."
    "He's been getting threatening letters from a man he met some time Saturday night.... A man named Knott. Dreadful letters. We're trying to find Knott."
    "Did you go to the cops?" Aimee asked sharply.
    "Yes, I did."
    "You mention me?"
    "No. I'm working this out on my own. Let's see if we can't put it together, Aimee. I left Harlem and wandered down here. We met and went to a music store and bought the set. Right?"
    "It was around half past one," Aimee said grudgingly. "That place on Forty-second and Third. They was closed and doing up their accounts. You banged on the door until they let us in."
    "Thanks. Then what happened? We took the set up to your place?"
    "You got a hack and put it in. We must of hit a dozen joints on the way. Then we ate. We didn't get home until light."
    "Did we meet anybody named Knott? Did I talk to anybody named Knott? Did you see anybody write anything in this notebook of mine?" Lennox pulled the book out of his pocket and displayed it.
    "You're really leveling with this, huh?" Aimee said slowly. "You're really suffering, huh?"
    "Yes."
    "This Knott wrote something in your book?"
    "He did."
    "And you got to locate him or else?"
    "I do. Before Sunday."
    "Why before Sunday?"
    "Because that's the day he lowers the boom."
    "So you're going to have a tough couple of days sweating it out, ain't you, Clarence?" Aimee stared at him with delight. "Ain't it a shame I can't help you out? Tsk-Tsk! No. We never come across nobody named Knott."
    "In this place?"
    "Nope."
    "In the music store?"
    "Nope."
    "Afterwards? In the bars? Where we ate?"
    "Nope."
    Lennox opened his mouth to ask another question, then faltered. Gabby asked it for him. "And in your apartment, Aimee?"
    "He couldn't talk to nobody," Aimee snapped. "He passed out soon as we come in. Big shot! And when he come to he ran right out." She intercepted the look of salvation and relief that passed between Lennox and Gabby and began to shake with rage.
    "And afterwards?" Gabby asked.
    "What about afterwards?"
    "The notebook was there for twelve hours after Jordan left. Did anybody named Knott have a chance to leave a message in it?"
    "The only body in that apartment is named Driscoll."
    "Your friends?" Gabby persisted.
    "I got no friends."
    "Your ... clients?"
    "What's that crack supposed to mean?"
    "Look, Aimee—" Lennox began.
    "Shut up, big shot. I asked her. Leave her answer."
    "It wasn't a crack," Gabby said composedly. "I wouldn't dream of insulting you, Aimee. I simply meant—"
    "Not now!" Lennox interrupted in alarm. "Don't be honest now, dear."
    "I meant that we know you're a prostitute," Gabby continued candidly, "And one of your clients might have been Knott."
    "Suffering Jesus on echo!" Lennox groaned. "Listen, Aimee, she's just kidding. She—"
    "Yeah. She's a sweet little kidder. And what price does she put on her sweet little ass that makes her so high and mighty?"
    "What are you ashamed of, Aimee?" Gabby asked quietly. "I'm not ashamed of you."
    Aimee turned on her in fury. "The come-on's your racket, huh? The tickle and tease. You save your ass for the big price and after you're married it turns out nothing. But nothing!"
    "You're old-fashioned," Gabby smiled. "We aren't amateurs any more."
    "And they come crying to me and taking it out on me, like Clarence.... Because you save it so hard you don't know what to do with it but lay on it."
    "Shut up," Lennox growled.
    "You must of got him plenty hot Saturday night, sister. You're so God damned glad he never touched me. You want to see how he touched me? I'll show you." Aimee stood up so violently that her chair toppled. She yanked up her skirt and displayed her naked behind, criss-crossed with black and blue welts. Then she dropped her skirt and burst into hysterical laughter, covering her teeth with her hand. "It was like old times when my old man took a strap to me after he.... I felt like a kid again. We had a million laughs."
    Lennox grunted in anguish. Gabby looked at him, then stood up impulsively and took Aimee's hands. "He did a dreadful thing, Aimee. He's ashamed and so am I. Please let us make it up to you. We'll do anything."
    "You can suffer," Aimee spat, jerking away from Gabby's touch. "You can sweat. You can fry in hell until Sunday. Because I know who Knott is. This guy you're looking for. I know him. Sure he left a message in your book. I saw him."
    "Aimee! For God's sake, who is he?"
    "I ain't going to tell you. Suffer, you son of a bitch! God knows you made me suffer with your God damned morals and your God damned strap. Suffer!"
    "What strap? Make sense. Who is he?"
    "Go on. Ask a little. Beg a little."
    "What do you want?" Lennox demanded roughly. "Money? How much?"
    "I want you to suffer, big shot with your comical Christmas tree. We had a million laughs. Now sweat it out, Mr. Lennox." She pushed past Lennox and Gabby and waddled across the back room of the Baroque, honking with laughter, covering her mouth with her hand. The crowd gaped at her.
    At the side door she turned and screamed: "I know him and I ain't going to tell. Never. But I'll be up to the show Sunday, watching. And when Knott catches up with you ... remember my ass!"