Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

A pleasantly crafty look crept into her eyes. A feminine look, pleasant to a male; a filmed, narrow, seductive look; a look with a little smile about the eyes. She came very near to me now, and she put her arms around me. Her lips came to mine and opened softly against my opening mouth. She kissed, soft-lipped and close. I stood as though rooted, savoring her, her arms tightly around me, my own arms behind my back. That’s a lousy way to make love.

She released me, moved back, seemed shy.

“Gimme,” she said softly.

I swallowed to find voice.

“Not yet,” I croaked.

Her hands flung up. “Why? Goddamn you, why?”

I went into the living room, and she followed me.

“Sweetie,” I said, “not yet. You’ve got to string along with me. I’m working on this thing and I can’t turn anything over to anyone before I get it straightened out.”

“But why? I don’t understand.”

“I suppose you’ve got to be a man,” I said seriously, “to be able to understand. With a man there’s work and there’s love. So I’m not turning anything over to anyone, not until this thing is cleared up and wrapped away. That’s my work,” I said stubbornly.

Somehow it got through.

She went for her coat, lifted it by its collar, and threw it over one shoulder like a knapsack. “What do you want me to do?” she said quietly.

“Go to my place and wait there for me. Phelps is there.” I grinned. “You two ought to be able to spend an interesting evening together until I get there. You ring five short rings, wait a second, then one long one. He’ll open up for you.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll leave here with you. I’ll put you in a cab.”

“You coming with me?”

“No.”

“Where you going?”

“Maybe to get killed,” I said.

I got her a cab and I got me another. I sat and sifted it around in my head as I was driven toward 244 West 65th Street. I had it. I had most of it. A lot depended on Kenny Masters, nee Malone, alias Kiddy. I sifted it around, and I liked what I had.

The stoolie-genius was correct again: the entrance door to 244 opened to a push. The hallway was dim and dank, with an old smell of cooked fish. I climbed to the first floor, went to the rear apartment on the right. There was no bell. Paint peeled from the top of a green door. I stood in front of it for a long moment, rubbing my lips against my teeth. Then I knocked.

There was no answer.

I knocked again. And again and again.

I was worried that I might wake a neighbor, but I kept knocking, rapping softly but continuously.

At long last there was a sound, footsteps, a Soft barefooted patter.

I stopped knocking. The muted sounds inside ceased.

I knocked again. Once. Hard.

“Yes?” It was a woman’s voice, soft-pitched. She was in darkness. No light had come on in the slit beneath the door. “Yes?” she said. “What is it? Who is it?”

I put my mouth close to the crack of the door.

“Open up,” I said.

“Who is it? What do you want?”

We were speaking in whispers.

“I want Kiddy Malone,” I said urgently. “Open up.”

“There’s no Kiddy Malone here,” she said.

“You want cops, lady?” I whispered.

There was no answer.

“I’m a friend of Kiddy’s,” I whispered.

“Who are you?”

“Tell him Pete Chambers. Tell him, quick.”

Silence. Then the shuffle of the bare feet.

I leaned my forehead against the door. When I moved it back I saw the dark stain of my perspiration. I took out my handkerchief and wiped my face. I put it back.

I touched myself, almost involuntarily, touching for a gun. I had no gun on my person. I wished I did have. Then again, perhaps it was better that I didn’t. A cokey is a tricky individual to cope with. You cannot predict his mood. Perhaps an approach with a gun would frighten him. I waited, rigid, leaning against the door. It seemed a long time before I heard her again. This time it was the tap-tap of high heels. I moved from the door and braced myself. She was going to open up, otherwise she wouldn’t have put her shoes on. A woman is a woman: a woman does not open a door to a stranger when she is barefooted. She had also probably primped a bit, which is why she had taken so long. A woman is a woman.

I heard a click. A strip of light appeared beneath the door.

“Are you there?” she whispered.

“Right here,” I said.

I heard a bolt pull away. The door opened wide and I entered directly into a living room. I did not see the woman. She had remained behind the door as I had entered. Now the door closed and I heard the bolt shoot back into place. I still did not see the woman. She was behind me and I did not turn. I saw Kiddy Malone and that is why I did not turn.