Manhattan Noir - Lawrence Block [27]
“Oh, fuck,” Darla said.
“Stay right where you are, sweetheart. Be quiet.”
“How the fuck you find me? That little prick downstairs at the desk, he dime me? I know it. I’ma pee on that boy next time I see him. I’ma—”
“You’re not going to do anything but shut up,” Bernbaum snapped. In a ghetto accent he added a sarcastic, “Yo, got that, girlfriend?”
“Man oh man.” Darla tried to wither him with a gaze. He just laughed and cuffed her.
Schaeffer put his gun away and said to the man, “Let me see some ID.”
“Oh, please, officer, look, I didn’t—”
“Some ID?” Schaeffer said. He was polite, like always. When you had a badge in your pocket and a big fucking pistol on your hip you could afford to be civil.
The man dug his thick wallet out of his slacks and handed it to the officer, who read the license. “Mr. Shelby, this your current address? In Des Moines?”
In a quivering voice, he said, “Yessir.”
“All right, well, you’re under arrest for solicitation of prostitution.” He took his cuffs out of their holder.
“I didn’t do anything illegal, really. It was just … It was only a date.”
“Really? Then what’s this?” The detective picked up a stack of money sitting on the cockeyed nightstand. Four hundred bucks.
“I—I just thought …”
The old guy’s mind was working fast, that was obvious. Schaeffer wondered what excuse he’d come up with. He’d heard them all.
“Just to get some food and something to drink.”
That was a new one. Schaeffer tried not to laugh. You spend four hundred bucks on food and booze in this neighborhood, you could afford a block party big enough for fifty Darlas.
“He pay you to have sex?” Schaeffer asked Darla.
She grimaced.
“You lie, baby, you know what’ll happen to you. You’re honest with me, I’ll put in a word.”
“You a prick too,” she snapped. “All right, he pay me to do a round-the-world.”
“No …” Shelby protested for a moment but then he gave up and slumped even lower. “Oh, Christ, what’m I gonna do? This’ll kill my wife … and my kids …” He looked up with panicked eyes. “Will I have to go to jail?”
“That’s up to the prosecutor and the judge.”
“Why the hell’d I do this?” he moaned.
Schaeffer looked him over carefully. After a long moment he said, “Take her downstairs.”
Darla snapped, “Yo, you fat fuck, keep yo’ motherfuckin’ hands offa me.”
Bernbaum laughed again. “This mean you ain’t my girlfriend no more?” He gripped her by the arm and led her outside. The door swung shut.
“Look, detective, it’s not like I robbed anybody. It was harmless. You know, victimless.”
“It’s still a crime. And don’t you know about AIDS, hepatitis?”
Shelby looked down again. He nodded. “Yessir,” he whispered.
Still holding the cuffs, Schaeffer eyed the man carefully. He sat down on a creaky chair. “How often you get to town?”
“To New York?”
“Yeah.”
“Once a year, if I’ve got a conference or meeting. I always enjoy it. You know what they say, ‘It’s a nice place to visit.’” His voice faded, maybe thinking that the rest of that old saw—“but you wouldn’t want to live there”—would insult the cop.
Schaeffer asked, “So, you got a conference now?” He pulled the badge out of the man’s pocket, read it.
“Yessir, it’s our annual trade show. At the Javits. Outdoor furniture manufacturers.”
“That’s your line?”
“I have a wholesale business in Iowa.”
“Yeah? Successful?”
“Number one in the state. Actually, in the whole region.” He said this sadly, not proudly, probably thinking of how many customers he’d lose when word got out about his arrest.
Schaeffer nodded slowly. Finally he put the handcuffs away.
Shelby’s eyes narrowed, watching this.
“You ever done anything like this before?”
A hesitation. He decided not to lie. “I have. Yessir.”
“But I get a feeling you’re not going to again.”
“Never. I promise you. I’ve learned my lesson.”
There was a long pause.
“Stand up.”
Shelby blinked then did what he was told. He frowned as the cop patted down his trousers and jacket. With the guy not wearing a shirt, Schaeffer was ninety-nine percent sure the man was legit, but had to make absolutely certain there were no wires.
The