The name is Arnold. That's all you need to know. I run a one-man office. Don't need a well-intentioned but nosy dame knowing my business, and maybe putting the kibosh on my racket. Also, I can half-doze in the swivel chair in front of my roll-top desk in peace and quiet.
What do I do? The (late) D.A. called it "extortion". That's an ugly word. The harsh "ex" sound, the "tor" as in torture, the "tion" as in "shun." But all I am is a private investigator. Young, sure; in the prime of my life, as the geezers and dotards would say. But old enough to know what a whole bunch of nines are. Certainly old enough to know how it all adds up.
Shoot dice long enough with born gamblers and you're bound to come up snake-eyes. So I never gamble. I'll have a drink, sure. And sleep will come. Bed, bed, soft bed. I wanted to be there now. I was sleepy because it was raining.
Don't get me wrong. I like the rain. It gives the world a chance to wash away all its dirty mistakes, if only for a spell. Fair with some rain, the radio said. Bingo! For once they were right.
I'm always very careful. Office rented under an assumed name. My few clients know me only as "Arnold". It's better that way. I eat my lunch in a different joint and at a different time every day. Kresge's, Woolworth's, Howard Johnson's. Paranoid? No. Just careful. I'll tell you who's paranoid. About seven months ago, some screwball on the radio said that the rain we'd been having was on account of "the gummint" conducting "secret H-bomb tests." The D.J. cut him off in mid-rant. Good I thought. There was already enough craziness around without encouraging goofballs to be spreading screwy rumors around.
Nearly all of my business is done over the phone. The number is unlisted. I change it often. You never know if Hoover's boys are listening in.
I heard a jangle. I picked the horn up midway though the second ring. Only one man had my new number. Mr. S. The Big Man.
"How was New Hampshire," he said. He wasn't big on amenities such as "hello" or "how are you". That suited me.
"It was Vermont. Just over the border. "
"I know. Trying to keep you honest."
I half-suppressed a bitter laugh. It came out like this: "HAH! MM."
"Did you like the Woodstock Hotel?"
"Very nice. Rained the whole time."
"Good for the crops," he said. What crops, I knew not to ask.
I wanted to ask the Big Man what was shaking but I knew better than to open my yip. I chose my words carefully. "I don't mind the rain."
"I liked that news about the D.A. I need another favor. This time you're solo. It's the apartment of Mademoiselle Fifi." He spoke carefully. "2435 East Carson Street. Got that? Now step on it," he hissed. And he hung up.
Mademoiselle Fifi Urbanska's apartment was in a dreary industrial section of the city. She was billed as "The Parisian Bombshell" but she was a dumb long-legged Polack blonde, with a peach-like complexion and gams that wouldn't stop. In ten year's time, I figured, she'd be a frump; she'd marry down and hook up with some dumb Bohunk who didn't mind that she had been a stripper. But at twenty-two she was prime.
There was a stiff on the floor next to her bed. A shrimpy guy. From the way he was dressed, he looked like a swell. "We had it out. He wouldn't leave his wife," she said. "So I shot him."
"That's more than I need to know," I barked. She started crying. I let her have a slug of rye from my flask. And another. Her eyes teared up, but she stopped her blubbering. I gave her one more jolt. She simpered. Slithered up to me; gave me those panther eyes.
"What are we going to say?"
"YOU are going to say nothing. Here's a hundred. Go out and buy some glad rags. Make a big splash. Be gone until eight. And give me your spare key."
"Didn't cash your name," she said, tipsy, sulking.
"Call me Mr. Arnold. I'm your pal. Do just like I say and it'll all be like a dream that never happened. And you'll never see me again. Have you made any calls?"
"No. Just one. I called Mister--"
"Don't say his name. He was a good man to call. You done good, Fifi."
"Call me Lenka."
"You done good, Lenka. Now scoot." And I slapped her on the rump. She vamoosed.
Long story short, I went out and bought a big carpetbag. I waited until dusk. It was pouring down rain. I wrestled the stiff into the bag and dragged it down the rear stairs to the alley back of the house and stuffed it in the big trunk of my '61 Caddy. I drove out to the canal. The rain was coming down in sheets. I weighted the body down with rocks and junk and threw the dead man into the drink.
Yesterday they found the body, during the spring thaw. It was so badly decomposed they couldn't even move it. Dental records showed that it was the Assistant State Treasurer, who had been missing since last September. He had defalcated with a cool half-mill, and most folks thought he was in Mex, or maybe Argentina or Europe.
So maybe it wasn't a lover's spat. So maybe brainy Miss Urbanska wasn't quite so dumb after all.
That forecast had it right. Fair with some rain.
Now you can see why I like a rainy day more than ever, now.
Great!