Not My Thing

At midday, Lepski stormed into the Detectives’ room and flung himself down at his desk. He tore off his hat and rumpled his hair, then glared at Beigler who had just come on duty and was about to read the night’s crime sheet.

Beigler, sensing trouble, regarded Lepski uneasily.

‘Hi, Tom,’ he said. ‘You’re early. How did it go?’

‘Listen, Joe,’ Lepski snarled, ‘when next you offer advice, I’ll spit in your right eye! Flowers! Perfume! Candy! When I got home, Carroll actually apologized to me! She said she had told her girl friends and they had split their sides, and she was all over me in the sack! Then when we went down to get lunch, she saw the flowers, the perfume and the candy. Okay, I forgot to put water in the vase and the roses looked terrible. She said the perfume was fit only for a hustler and she didn’t eat candy as she was weight-watching. Then she flew in a rage and accused me of being drunk last night and squandering money! So, okay, I blew my stack, and we had a row that brought the goddamn neighbours into their gardens to listen. So, from now on, keep your big mouth shut!’

Beigler heaved a sigh, drank some steaming coffee by his side and shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, Tom. These things happen.’

Lepski snorted.

‘And how come you are always drinking hot coffee? Charlie never bothers to give me any.’

‘Well, Tom, it’s a quid pro quo.’

Lepski gaped at him. ‘

Quid pro… what?’

Beigler looked smug. In his spare time, he studied a book of quotations and, when the opportunity arose, he trotted out a cliché.

‘That’s Latin, Tom.’

‘Latin, huh?’

‘That’s right. Translated it means ‘You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours’.’

Lepski made a noise like a train approaching a dark tunnel.

‘Who the hell wants to scratch Charlie’s hairy back?’

‘Never mind, Tom. I’ve got a little job for you,’ Beigler said. ‘Right up your alley. I could have given it to Max or one of the other boys, but I kept it especially for you.’

Lepski regarded him suspiciously.

‘Oh, yeah? What job?’

‘I have a complaint from the Mayor’s office about Lucy Loveheart. According to the complaint she is getting a shade too blatant.’

Lepski’s face showed interest.

Every cop, every wealthy resident, every rich visitor, knew Lucy Loveheart. She ran an expensive, de luxe brothel on a side street off Ocean Boulevard. She owned a five-storey house with twelve lush-plush apartments, a vast lounge, a bar, and a black band that provided soft, good swing.

Lucy Loveheart had become a tradition in Paradise City. Born of Russian parents with an unpronounceable name, she had come to the city in her early teens. Her beauty and sexual technique quickly found her rich clients. She saved her money, bought this house and set up a de luxe call-girl service. None of the girls lived on the premises. They came to work when Lucy called them, did what was required of them, received a handsome fee and returned to their own apartments. Lucy’s establishment was the acme of discretion.

‘What’s she been up to?’ Lepski inquired.

‘The complaint comes from the Mayor’s secretary: that prissy old fink who would complain if she saw a dog water a tree,’ Beigler said. ‘She writes that when passing Lucy’s house, she observed an intimate woman’s garment out on one of the balconies.’

Lepski pointed like a gun-dog.

‘What garment?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. The old fink didn’t say. You’d better go talk to Lucy. The old fink could cause trouble. Just nice, gentle stuff, Tom. Don’t forget Lucy sends us all a turkey and a bottle of Scotch on Thanksgiving Day.’

Lepski put on his hat and got to his feet.

‘Right up my alley, Joe,’ he said, his good temper restored. ‘I haven’t chatted to Lucy in months.’

‘Don’t forget you are a married man, Tom,’ Beigler said gravely, concealing a grin.

‘Just pipe down, Joe! You talk too much!’ and Lepski hurried out of the Station house. He paused long enough to eat a hamburger at Joe’s bar, wondering what Carroll was giving herself for lunch, and now wishing he had kept his cool when she started to bawl him out. He hoped, by the time he got home, all would be forgiven, and she would have cooked him an edible dinner.

Leaving his car on Ocean Boulevard, he walked the short distance to Lucy’s residence, mounted the marble steps and rang the bell.

The door immediately opened, and Lepski was confronted by a gigantic black, dressed in a purple shirt, black silk trousers, his black shaved head glistening. Lepski knew of him. This was Sam, who took care of the trouble-makers, who vetted all visitors, who was Lucy’s right hand.

The black regarded Lepski, then his thick lips peeled into a water-melon grin, showing big white teeth.

‘Mr Lepski,’ he said and bowed. ‘A pleasure, sir.’ ‘

Is Mrs Lucy available, Sam?’

‘For you, Mr Lepski, sir,’ Sam said, stepping aside. ‘It is a mite early, but if you wait a few minutes.’

He conducted Lepski to a luxuriously furnished ante-room.

‘Perhaps a drink, Mr Lepski?’