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The Jersey Bounce

By Marvin Rose

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 Marvin Rose

See other titles by Marvin Rose at Smashwords.com

This book available in print at Amazon.com

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter 1

Using a phony name, Myra Manning placed a collect call to Atlantic City. When her party got on, she said, "Hello, Mr. Financial Advisor. This is Eunice. I'm out."

Surprised, the man whispered, "Don't say my name." Then, his voice filling with gladness, he said, "Good. I got your letter. Where are you now?"

"Still in Indianapolis. I'm in the bus terminal. I should get in sometime in the morning.”

"You got where to go?"

"I got."

"It's on Bacharach Boulevard. Just off the city library."

"I know. I remember."

"After six years, you remember this town?"

"I remember six years away from you."

"We'll make up for that, I promise. It wasn't supposed to be six years—it was supposed to be till the heat was off. But you couldn't keep your hands in your pockets."

"Don't scold. I've been over it in my head a thousand times."

"Sorry. I missed you. I can't wait to do it again."

"The Gorilla and The French Chambermaid?"

"I hope I remember how."

"I'll teach you all over again. That was half the fun."

"No secrets this time, Eunice."

Myra Manning laughed. "You're as sick as your secrets."

You're as sick as your secrets. Myra struggled to get rid of the refrain, but it hung in her head, tangling her attention. She tried to listen to the woman on the neighboring chair.

"No, Honey, you can't get unemployment payments unless you first had employment. Not in New Jersey, anyway. You can do Welfare, if you got the stomach for it." The woman yawned deeply and shifted her suitcase further under her seat where it would not cramp her legs. She set her pocketbook on the floor between her feet and shinnied herself into a more comfortable position.

Myra Manning nodded her thanks for the information to the sleepy woman who sat next to her in the crowded offices. Gold-leafed windows said N.J. Employment Service. People hustled all around her, most of them to run outside and take their places in the vast hall next door at the end of long lines designated by groupings of Social Security numbers. She hunched her shoulder forward, shielding her purse from the yawning woman, and counted her money again. Thirty-five dollars and change. The purse itself was discolored and peeling. She liked the purse. It had seen her through the bus ride from Indianapolis to Atlantic City while she refined her plans and thought about her future.

The N.J. Department of Labor offices vibrated with a deadening hum. Myra Manning allowed two men to circle around her to the counter where they got busy with paper forms supplied by the young clerks. She pulled her shopping bag closer to her chair. Indiana luggage, she thought, with all my basics. Underwear and toothbrush. She was satisfied. This was the place to be. Her friends had told her that bus terminals, airports and local unemployment offices were the best locations to start her work. Because people there were jammed up with their own hassles.

The woman next to her snored lightly. Myra considered boosting her suitcase. She could ease the bag from under the woman's chair, hit the street and be gone like air. But her friends had said, Cut your risk and go with the odds.

Myra decided against the suitcase. It was too far under her neighbor's chair, protected by a forest of chrome legs and the woman's own thick body. Instead, she bent to inspect the heel of her shoe and slid the woman's pocketbook along the floor to a place between her own two feet. She rummaged the bag expertly, found a wallet, rifled it, yanked a credit card and driver's license, replaced the wallet and slipped the pocketbook back to its original position.

The sleeping woman didn't stir. Busy people tramped past, and no one gave a second glance. Don't look around first, it attracts attention, her friends had instructed. Do it like it's something you're supposed to be doing. Her business advisor had given her the same counsel. Ten seconds, maybe less, and Myra Manning had herself a credit card and ID. She waited for her heart to thump in her chest. The fear reaction, her friends had warned, Let it pass. But it never came. There was no fear, no reaction of any kind. Myra Manning lifted her hand, covered her mouth and yawned softly. In her palm she held a plastic blaze of color with a name stamped and blocklettered: Katherine McColl. She scratched her chest and studied the sleeping woman. Katherine McColl, waiting to apply for unemployment benefits with a credit card in her wallet. So this is the way they do it in the real world.

"Time to get up, lady."

"Huh? What?" Myra Manning swallowed. Her throat was dry.

She realized that she had fallen asleep. All the chairs around her were empty.

A city police officer stood over her. He was young and his voice was kind, but he seemed tired and bored. "It's 3:30—this place closes at 4 o'clock. They're locking the outside doors now. If you're putting in a new claim, you'll have to come back tomorrow."

"No, no, I was waiting here with a friend. Keeping her company." Myra stood up and scanned the carrels and glass-enclosed offices. "Did you see her? She was sitting right next to me here, a heavyset woman. She had a suitcase."

"No one's here, ma'am. You can see for yourself. What's left is next door in the payment lines. Maybe your friend didn't want to disturb you. Maybe she forgot about you." He smiled at his gentle joke.

Myra made an impatient, distressed sound. "It sure looks that way. Is there a public phone in this place?"

The young cop pointed, "Sure, over there by the toilet, see?"

"Thanks." Myra picked up her shopping bag and slung her purse strap over one shoulder.

"Gonna call her up and chew her out, huh?" the policeman chuckled.

But Myra was on her way to the telephone and didn't answer. She pulled the phone directory from its shelf and made an irritated show of checking numbers. When she saw the cop wander away, she flipped the book and rifled through the yellow pages.

The cabbie, a sullen scruffy man, double-parked in front of a store on Atlantic Avenue. A weathered sign read South Jersey Uniform Co. He blew his nose in a soiled handkerchief and waited for his passenger to check the meter and pay her fare. When he saw that she was just sitting, staring at the storefront, he said, "This is it, lady."

"They sell all kind of uniforms?"

"Lady, all I do is drive a hack. I ain't in the theater."

"Pull up and let me off at the curb."

"Huh? What for? There's a space between them cars. You can skip right on through there."

When the cabbie counted out her change, Myra gave him a ten-cent tip.

"Jeez, what's that for?" he mocked a tone of impressed gratitude.

"Your personality."

In the store, Myra asked a pretty saleslady if the Grand Mariner casino was still southernmost in the city.

"Southernmost?" The saleslady wore a nametag that said Beth.

"South, southernmost. It used to be the Grand Mariner last time I was in this town."

"I'm afraid I don't know my directions very well. Wait, I'll get someone to help you."

"How about the closet to Ocean City?"

"What?"

"Which casino is closest to Ocean City?"

"Ocean City? You must be new in town—all the casinos are in Atlantic City. It's the law in New Jersey."

"Thank you, Beth, I know that. What I mean is, which casino in Atlantic City is closest to Ocean City?"

"I'm sorry, I don't—"

"If you were going to Ocean City, point in the direction you'd take."

The saleslady smiled and pointed.

"Good, that's South. Now which casino is the last of those in that direction?"

"Oh, I get it," Beth tapped her forehead. "How stupid. That is the Grand Mariner. Actually, it's the last casino on the whole boardwalk. But you said that yourself, didn't you?"

Myra was satisfied. She pulled a list from her purse and read it, ticking off items of apparel. "I need a chocolate-brown maid's uniform, a white apron, brown tinted pantyhose, brown pumps—one-inch heel, a hair net, and latex gloves."

"You need the whole outfit, right? Certainly, we're a one-stop shop. If you'll give me your sizes, I'll be glad to put everything together for you. You're a big strong person, aren't you? I bet you work out. I do aerobics, myself."

"You take credit cards, don't you?

"I'm sorry, no. Casino folks move around so much—in and out of town, I mean. We've been burned a few times. Do you know what some of them do? They actually trade cards and identification. Then they buy big-ticket stuff. Then they report the cards stolen, the main office invalidates the cards and we're left holding the bag." The saleslady clucked her tongue and shook her head.

"That's terrible."

"It is, isn't it?"

"I only have about thirty dollars cash in the whole world. I'm desperate. I really need this job, and I can't get the job without these things. Will it come to more than thirty dollars?"

Beth winked, "Give me your sizes. I'm sure we can work something out."

The bill came to $32.85. New Jersey's 6% sales tax made it $34.82. Myra Manning sighed sadly, "I'll have to leave something out. The gloves maybe, how much are the gloves?"

The saleslady shook her head, "You can't do without the gloves. You can't work as a maid without the gloves. It's a policy in all the casinos. Housekeeping departments make their people wear gloves. It doesn't mean anything, but the customers think the casinos are protecting them against AIDS."

"I can't pay for all this."

Beth glanced toward the back of the store. She lowered her voice, "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll ring up the uniform and the apron, the shoes and the hairnet and the pantyhose. I won't ring up the gloves—they're $4.95—so that'll bring the charges below thirty dollars."

"You said I need the gloves."

"They'll be in the bag."

"Thanks, Beth. I appreciate it."

"I've been broke myself. I know what it's like."

"Is there a drug store nearby?"

"On the corner, south," Beth grinned and pointed.

Myra Manning walked to the drug store and bought a roll of adhesive tape, two inches wide, an array of cheap toilet waters and a dozen combs. Then she made her way to the boardwalk a block distant. A damp wind blew in off the ocean, and she shivered. Two blocks North she saw the huge marquee of the Grand Mariner Casino, its name ablaze in running lights. She clutched the collar of her thin jacket to her throat and hurried up the splintered walkway into the great bright building.

People were everywhere, bustling about, standing in groups, sitting in the ice cream parlor and sandwich shop. The humming escalators were crowded and sprawling knots of people gathered in front of the elevators. Flashing arrows pointed the way to the casino, and large transparencies of entertainment stars lined the walls, glowing in chrome and glass cases. Myra recognized Kenny Rogers and Diana Ross.

She elbowed her way onto an escalator, clutching her bags tightly, and rode up to the mezzanine level. She saw that it was filled with boutiques and restaurants. The mobs were thick and didn't seem to be moving. She took another escalator to the next level above. Here there were more shops, but several of them were closed, and only a dozen people passed back and forth. She got off at this floor, stirred by the feel of thick carpeting that seemed to swallow her soles, very different from the concrete floors she had been walking on for the last six years.

Myra spotted the ladies' lounge and was relieved when she found it empty. She passed through the mirrored sitting room, first pausing to squeeze the crushed velvet overstuffed chairs. The carpeting was even thicker here, and the indirect lighting made everything appear deep and rich. She was pleased with the material pleasures that life offered in the real world.

Pushing through a wide double-hinged door, she heard the solid sound of her heels clicking on the tiled floor of the lavatory. It vaguely displeased her, too much like the concrete floors she remembered so well. She checked all the stalls to make sure they were empty. The last stall in the row was double-sized, with a wide door, taller commode and hand rails for the handicapped. It also contained a bidet. Myra entered a stall and changed into her new maid's uniform, folding her street clothes neatly and arranging them in the paper carrier. Only the hairnet gave her trouble because she was unfamiliar with it. She had never worn a hairnet. She left the stall and worked quickly in front of a large mirror, tucking ends into the frail elastic band and shaping her thick brown hair until she was satisfied with the look of it. Finally, she snapped the white latex gloves onto her large hands and studied her reflection. The person who stared back could have passed for a ladies' lounge attendant anywhere.

Feeling an urgency now, Myra dumped the contents of the drug store bag onto the broad formica panel that held six gleaming washbasins. In one corner, she spread four paper towels and lined up the tiny jars of toilet water. She spread the dozen combs side by side in a neat picket-row. As she was ripping lengths of adhesive tape and sealing the keepers on the stall locks, two women came in, chattering excitedly.

One of them, a short stout person dressed in gaudy mismatched prints, hurried to Myra and spoke confidentially. "I have a problem, Hon. I got so crazy at the slots downstairs, I peed myself. D'you have a bidet in this place?"

"Yes ma'am, in the end stall over there. The big one."

"You wouldn't have any spare panties, would you?"

"No ma'am, I'm sorry." Myra made a mental note to buy an assortment of underpants.

"Thanks, Hon. You're a doll." The woman dashed into the stall as her friend went into another.

"What's wrong with this lock?" the first woman called. "It don't work."

"Neither does mine. It's got tape or something on it," her friend said.

Myra answered, "I'm sorry, the locks are broken. Vandals, we think. When you close them, they won't open. We had two ladies locked in there for an hour this morning. The maintenance crew will be here soon to fix them. They told me to tape them in the meantime, so nobody else gets locked in. I'll watch out here and see that no one bothers you—" She was interrupted by the sound of water gushing forcefully.

The women paid no more attention to the lavatory attendant. When they left the stalls and washed their hands, Myra handed each of them two paper towels. They left her fifty cents apiece.

During the following half hour, several more women used the lounge, all of them in pairs or groups of three. Myra tended to them silently, courteously. She collected another three dollars in tips.

At last a woman came in alone. She was middle-aged—late forties, Myra guessed—stylishly, expensively underdressed in a wine-colored velour warmup suit. She carried a spacious handbag with Givenchy imprints all over it. Myra's friends had once told her that these handbags were priced at $300 and more. The woman also wore a gold snake necklace. Two fingers on each hand had flashy rings, not counting a wide wedding band on the third finger of the left hand.

The woman entered a stall, taking care to avoid looking into the eyes of the attendant in the brown uniform. Myra knew intuitively that this was a sign of someone who would not leave a tip. She had done it herself sometimes in the old days. These people also declined to wash their hands to evade any sense of obligation forced on them by an attendant with a handful of paper towels. The idea made Myra feel better, considering what she was about to do.

The woman uttered a soft oath when she discovered the taped lock. Soon, Myra heard the familiar sounds of bladder relief. She stepped to the door, pulled it open and punched the surprised woman sharply in the eye. Crying out as she began to topple, the woman extended her arms to support herself on the stall sides. Myra hit her again, swinging from the waist as her hips pivoted to transfer leverage from her legs to her upper body. The power-ful blow caught the woman at the temple, and she collapsed insensibly between the commode and the wall. Myra ripped the tape from the keeper, twisted the knob and locked the door shut. In cramped quarters, she dislodged the woman, pulling her free by her feet. Then she taped the woman's mouth shut, adding a second strip for insurance, which also covered the nose. She turned the unconscious body, taped the hands together behind the back, and the legs together at the knees and ankles. Then she dumped the woman's handbag, snatched a wallet as soon as it hit the floor. A handgun tumbled out. Myra picked it up and collected all the loose cash. She saw that there were several hundreds among the bills. She shinnied the wedding ring from the woman's finger, but left the other rings. She thought twice about the necklace, deciding finally to leave it.

First opening the door a crack and peering around to be certain the lavatory was still empty, Myra ran out, grabbed the paper carrier that held her belongings and hurried back into the stall. She tore the hairnet off, untied her apron, slipped out of the uniform and changed back into her street clothes. Finally, she pulled the latex gloves from her sweating hands. She dumped the wallet, gun and cash into the bag, then shoved the maid's apparel on top of them. She forced the wedding ring onto the third finger of her left hand.

Outside, the upper lobby was beginning to fill, and as Myra started for the down escalator, she had to step aside for a woman who was hustling toward the ladies' lounge. On the boardwalk again, she saw that dusk was falling. The evening was balmy and warmth filled her. She strolled unhurriedly down the long ramp to Pacific Avenue where she hailed a cab.

"Ocean City," she told the driver.

"I can't go to Ocean City—it's another county. My license—"

"You're an independent. Shut your meter off and go off-duty."

"It's Cape May County—"

"I know where it is. Do it anyway. There's an extra fifty in it for you."

The cabbie flipped his meter. "Good day at the tables, huh? It'll cost you a hundred."

"I won't argue. It's Spring."

Chapter 2

"You ever notice how these floors have square tiles? Remember when they all had hex tiles? They could do diagonal designs with hex tiles. You can't do that with square tiles." John Joseph Esterly sipped his diet Coke and dabbed his mouth dry with a paper towel. He was tense and uneasy.

"I don't give a shit about tiles. What do I look like, a plumber?" Charley Hurst growled. He tossed a gum wrapper into a basket.

"The arthritis again, huh?"

"I don't have arthritis. I never had arthritis. You keep talkin' about arthritis."

"Anybody'd think you'd be happy today—Detective Charley Hurst back on homicide duty. You've been in the doghouse so long, a dead body must look like a gift from Heaven."

"I am happy today. Look at me, I'm here in a toilet. My mother would be glad to know her only son is working in a toilet. I have a dead body in a toilet. It ain't much, but it's a step up. A toilet is a step up from a doghouse. But when we clear this up, I'll be back in the doghouse again. You know what they had me doing?"

"No."

"Pot detail. Somebody in Atlantic County is farming marijuana. I've been in a helicopter for two weeks. I hate helicopters."

The upper level ladies' lounge was full of milling people, all but one of them men. In the tiled lavatory, a female corpse lay on its stomach, the bottom half of a velour warm-up suit gathered below the knees. A small pool of darkening blood had collected under one ear, and its wrists, knees and ankles were taped tightly together. Two fingerprint technicians were finishing up, and Lou Finney, the Medical Examiner, leaned against a stall divider trying to light a damp cigar. Two uniformed policemen were doing their best to take a statement from a distraught woman, and three medics made ready to hoist the body onto a collapsible carriage. At the door, a detective was talking to a slick-looking young man who had been the victim's escort. Although there were several ashtrays scattered across the broad formica vanity, cigarette butts began to clutter the tiled floor.

"Helicopters are helicopters. It's burnout, Charley. You should pack it in and vest your pension. Take a security job like me."

"Like you, huh? Joe Easter, Retired. Very important work, Security. Much more important than homicide where you were over your head anyway. Now you spend your time making sure nobody goes into the casino without shoes."

John Joseph Esterly had been called Joe Easter for so long, he had accepted it as his name of choice. He even signed his checks with it. "I recognize the signs. You're burnt out, all right."

"What signs?"

"Sarcasm, spite, envy—"

"Envy? I envy you?"

"Your face is getting red, Charley. High blood pressure is a sign of envy."

"Roll it up an' shove it where the sun don't shine."

"It's the arthritis, right? That's what you told the department when you took all those nights off and left me on the shift alone."

"That was five years ago."

"Six. And don't sulk. I know you were out with the ladies. I figured you had one joint that didn't suffer from arthritis."

"I did you plenty favors," the detective said. His friendly tone had withdrawn a little, showing a hard edge.

"It paid off too, didn't it? I remember you had plenty money to spend—new clothes, that big screen TV."

A muscular young man in a Security uniform approached them cautiously. His shirt was tan, with chocolate brown piping around the pockets and collar. The trousers were chocolate brown, with tan piping down the length of the outside seams. It was the same uniform worn by Joe Easter, but the young man's was neatly pressed, and there were military creases steamed into the shirtback. He tapped a notebook in his hand to get Joe Easter's attention. "There's no ID in anything she was carrying, Joe. No wallet, no cards. But that fancy suit she's wearing, it's got nametags sewn in—pants and top. Her name's Margaret Lansberry Howell."

"I could've told you that," said Charley Hurst.

"We have to do our own investigation," Joe Easter told him. "You've got to find the killer, we've got to find an explanation that won't panic our customers and send them out to another casino. Like last time, Charley—six years ago?"

"I have to find the explanation too."

"Sure, but your main job is to catch the killer, with or without an explanation. We don't care a whole lot about the killer. He's yours."

The detective slouched away to talk to the M.E.

Joe Easter turned to the young man and asked, "What else, Lloyd?" His face had fallen into a mask of strained grief.

"From the mark on her finger, it looks like a wedding ring was pulled off. But she's got other rocks—and that necklace, it's real gold. Why would someone take a wedding ring and leave that other stuff?"

The anxious lady who was being questioned by two officers now turned frantic. "I want to get out of here. I don't know anymore than I've told you!" she yelled, watching the corpse being rolled out.

"Go rescue her, Lloyd," Joe said. "Calm her down and see what you can find out. Tell her she'll have to hang around until the police are finished. Treat her like you'd treat your mother.

Then do the same with that young guy who brought her. Can you do that?"

"Sure, Joe, the woman already knows me. JoeCyou all right?"

"I'm fine," Joe waved him away and watched as Lloyd Holmgren approached the agitated lady. It was true that she already knew him. He had been on upper-level duty when the woman had discovered the corpse and barreled screaming out of the ladies' lounge. He had brought her carefully under control. He had also been the first Security staff member to see the body. Lloyd was working his way up through Security training because he wanted to be a cop. Joe Easter was working the same track, but in the other direction.

"Hey Joe," Lou Finney, the medical examiner called called.

"Hi, Doc. Haven't had a chance to say hello. "

The medical examiner said, "I'm sorry, Joe. This must be tough for you. This is the same place, isn't it? Your wife—"

"Yeah, she was killed here. I can handle it, Lou. Thanks for the thought."

Charley Hurst said, "Lou here says it was asphyxiation."

"Strangled? I didn't see any marks."

"Not strangled," the medical examiner shook his head. He was a large mussed man, gentle as a koala.

"Suffocation?"

"Suffocation causes asphyxia. You've been away from the races too long, Joe," Lou Finney grinned tentatively. "But it must be nice; I envy you."

"So's he," Joe thumbed toward Charley Hurst.

"It was the tape. Whoever did it taped the victim's mouth and nose. An airtight stretch, sealed like a refrigerator baggie. No air. Zero."

"Zero?"

"Zilch," the M.E. nodded. "Somebody very strong."

"In that case, it could've been unintentional."

Charley Hurst shuffled, "I'll decide that."

"You can decide what you want," Joe Easter told him, "but if I can show my people it was an unintentional death in the course of a robbery, it'll be a lot better than trying to put a good face on an honest-to-God killer."

"Put a good face on? What are you, a public relations man?"

the detective said.

Dr. Lou Finney cleared his throat and took a long drag on the cigar he had finally succeeded in lighting. "I don't know about anybody's intentions, but that poor lady was also beat up pretty good. Her nose is broken, and there's a rupture inside the left ear from a blow to the temple."

"Uh-huh," Joe Easter finished his diet Coke and tossed the empty can into a trash panel made to collect soiled paper towels, "the well-known and everpresent blunt instrument, right?"

"No. The well-known and everpresent human fist."

Joe scoffed, "How do you know that?"

"My magical medical training," said the M.E.

"So it had to be a male perpetrator," Charley Hurst said, musing. "Somebody strong enough to bust up a face with his fist and stretch the adhesive tape so tight it asphyxiated the victim."

Joe Easter said, "It was a woman—like before."

"For shit's sake, Joe, why do you always have to disagree with me? How the hell can you know for sure if it was a man or a woman?" the detective griped.

"My magical law enforcement training. See those little bottles of perfume over there in the corner—see, on the sink-top? See those combs? Like before, Charley. You remember."

"So?"

"This is what management calls a daytime underutilized level. Even the shops don't open till 5 PM. So there's no lounge attendant in here all day, until the last shift. That's eight at night till four in the morning. And that perfume, or cologne—whatever—it doesn't have the Grand Mariner logo on the bottles. Neither have the combs. What it is, Lou, it's a carbon copy of the muggings in this same lounge six years ago. I should know, shouldn't I? When Julie was killed, they stopped."

"You're saying somebody planned this? Somebody bought that stuff and brought it in here—a woman? She impersonated a lounge attendant?" Charley Hurst pulled out his notebook and clicked his ballpoint ready.

"I'd call it an eighty percent chance that's right."

The detective looked up from his jotting, "Eighty percent?"

"Since I retired from the force, I've lost about twenty percent of my confidence," Joe Easter explained.

Lou Finney interrupted with the aroused curiosity of his profession. "If it was a woman, she's as strong as a man."

Joe Easter bit into the Danish and made a sour face. "Where'd you get these, at the month-old bakery outlet?" He dumped the pastry, paper plate and all, into the trash basket.

"That one's been here about a month," Lloyd Holmgren laughed. "The fresh ones are in the refrigerator."

Joe shook his head, "I'll never get used to that—keeping cake in the refrigerator. Where'd you say you learned that?"

"My wife. That's where she keeps it. Danish stays fresh an average of three-point-four days longer in the refrigerator."

"Three-point-four? You're sure about that are you? Not three-point-three or three-point-five?"

They sat at their desks in the small secondary Security office at the rear of the huge building. The primary office next door, four times as large, was reserved for the use of Otis Toussaint James, Chief of Security for the Grand Mariner Casino Hotel. Chief James rarely used the office during the late shift, believing that a good security man should be seen by the public at peak business hours. So he spent generous blocks of time touring the casino floor, the restaurants and shops and the theater. Tonight, however, he was at his desk fielding media questions on his constantly jangling telephone. Joe and Lloyd could hear his agitated voice through the thin walls. Everybody wanted to know about the dead woman in the ladies' toilet.

"The Chief's a good man, a tough man," Lloyd said with admiration. "He knows what makes people tick. I'll never under-stand why he left real police work. Montgomery, Alabama, wasn't it? My God, a major city. You could go right to the top in a big town like that."

"He's black."

"I know that."

"Then you should know why he left police work in Montgomery, Alabama."

"The Atlantic City department could sure use him."

"He makes twice the money doing what he's doing. And he's got a benefits package the city couldn't touch. No junkie subordinates under him, no bigmouth city council on top of him. You should have a job that good."

"I want to be a cop."

"I know. Poor you. What did you get out of the witnesses?" Joe changed the dead end conversation.

Sighing, Lloyd flipped the pages back in his notebook. "Not much, I'm afraid. The woman's name is Mary Ruth Scansi. She's a slot machine junkie. She says she's scared to death of authority figures, like anybody in a uniform. She does secretarial temp work part-time because she's separated from her husband and he refuses to kick in with support. On her off days, she hits the casinos looking for the big win."

"What about the young guy who was with her?"

Lloyd Holmgren riffled through his notebook and clucked with exasperation. "I've got his name here somewhere. He's a part-time pro—escort service bait. Works as a librarian for the city, or something like that on his regular job. He didn't see anything. But the woman, Scansi, she remembers she saw a female coming out of the ladies' lounge as she was going in."

"Description?"

"What's the difference? Women go in and out of the ladies' toilet all day. Besides, didn't I hear Lou Finney say the killer had to be strong—very strong? So the police are looking for a man, right?"

"They're still thinking it over. They'll probably form a committee. Now Lloyd, I know you're young and eager as hell to make a name for yourself in law enforcement—and I like you, I really do—but no one gave you the authority to decide what's important and what isn't. So I'll ask you again, did Mrs. Scansi give you a description of the woman she saw leaving the ladies' lounge?"

Chastened, Lloyd Holmgren yawned nervously. Then he cleared his throat, "She's a big woman—maybe six feet, maybe not quite. White, between thirty and forty, that's as close as Mrs. Scansi was willing to guess. She was wearing a denim skirt and a summer jacket—both of them some kind of blue, Mrs. Scansi said, but not matching. And pretty threadbare. And brown shoes, definite-ly brown shoes. She remembered the shoes because women don't usually wear brown shoes with a blue outfit—I didn't know that, did you?"

"Hair color, eye color, distinguishing marks or characteristics?"

"Nothing."

"Anything else?"

"She was carrying one of those paper shopping bags, the kind with handles, you know? It said Homberger’s Indianapolis on it."

Chapter 3

At the Club, Myra Manning had told anyone who asked that she was six feet tall because she had been pregnant four times. She claimed to have been six-two originally, but each of four pregnancies had taken a half-inch off her height. This hormonal hazard was well known but undocumented in medical journals, she said, because of the Conspiracy. The Conspiracy was one between the medical profession and the government, formed of their mutual desire to avoid tampering with the birth rate. Although it seemed hopeless that the US population could ever overtake Russia's, this grand scheme was nevertheless born in the bones of politicians. They feared the consequences should this height-shortening obstetrical curiosity become widely known. Many women would stop having babies, and the population count would suffer. Look at all the women under five-foot-two, Myra Manning urged, they fuck like minks.

The Club was otherwise known as the Indiana State Penitentiary for Women, a medium-security facility located in Hartsville, a fading industrial town in the north central part of the state which had recently removed its Pearl Harbor Memorial Fountain and advertised for Japanese rejuvination. Microchips or automobiles, it didn't matter which. Myra told her friends there that she had been jugged for misjudgment, which was not a felony, as far as she knew. She had misjudged the commitment of the Indianapolis police force, believing that credit cards, traveler's checks, coins, stamps and small appliances were less compelling magnets of attention than drugs in the schoolyard. But the cops, instead of doing their proper job, hassled small independents like her. She avoided mention of her impressive record of mugging and physical assault. When the judge had given her one-to-three for her list of petty scams, she looked him in the eye and said, "I can't do a year inside, Judge."

"Do as much as you can," he said.

Myra survived by filling her time with new experiences. She took up smoking, sex with inmates under five-two, general reading and body building. In self defense instruction, she paid particular attention to boxing in preference to the Asian arts. The nerve-path of a jarring punch that passed up her arm to her heart yielded an exhilaration unmatched by any number of studied flips and poses. She gained permission to spar with the guards' team and subdued every male under one hundred sixty pounds. Her reading led her to study the records of boxing champions in every weight class. Eunice Beautemps provided her first test.

Eunice was in the Club for having axed her neighbor's husband, and her reputation for this lethal violence caused most of the other inmates to avoid her. However, a small band of eerie faithful clung to her, inventing hair-do's and cosmetic identities with barnyard dung and nontoxic food colors. In their hearts they strove for class distinction.

Myra Manning caught up with Eunice Beautemps on Walpurgis Night when her weird clan was about to begin its diabolical revelry. "Tomorrow's the first of May. I can lick you tonight," Myra said.

"Do you really believe that your boyfriend will divorce his wife and marry you?" Eunice asked.

"I never had a boyfriend." Myra split her eyebrow with a stiff left jab and crossed the right to her jaw. Eunice fell in a heap.

After that, Myra had her sexual choice of short girls, cartons of smokes and sparring partners. The short girls admired her thick and shining brown hair and told her she made Heidi Klum look like Whoopie Goldberg. Eunice Beautemps made a single unsuccessful comeback attempt. Because, in prison, faith is an antidote for hopelessness, inmates seek a power higher than man's law. Eunice had the dressmaking shop—in which she still counted two faithful followers—cut and sew a flowing burnoose which she then wore as a religious habit, the sign of a new order, Sisters of Sweat, dedicated to chastity, obedience and toil. She was able to gather a half dozen unbalanced converts, but when Myra started calling them The Sweat Sisters, it had a numbing effect on the undecided.

Myra never shirked a day's work and labored in the fields, inspiring others and helping the farm program to its best harvest in Indiana's penal history. She was given an award for her part in this imposing event. She felt regret when she was released early for good behavior.

"I'll need your driver's license, please, to confirm the ID," said the young man, hollowly. "We have to do it on all credit card registrations." He was tall and emaciated. He wore a nametag that said Deadstead, and he used his elbows expertly to pry space for himself behind the crowded counter. Five other clerks were busy with check-ins. The lobby was full and guests formed short ragged lines in front of each clerk's station.

Myra handed the license to the ascetic young man. It had been laminated between two sheets of pliable plastic. "I want your best rooms, you understand. I want a stocked bar and a sitting room—"

"At the Diplomat Suites, that's all we have, ma'am. You'll find a kitchen, a parlor, separate bedroom and bath—"

"Pretty fancy for a motel, Mr. Deadstead," Myra said.

The young man seemed to pull himself to full cadaverous height, "Deadstead is my first name, ma'am—Deadstead Gruen Miles." He pronounced the first name carefully, as if it had been spelled Deedsteed. "And we don't think of ourselves as a motel. You'll be staying in our Elegancia suite. We have the most exclusive convention facilities in Ocean City."

"Whoopee."

"And how long will you be staying?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe a week, maybe longer. It all depends on how long my business takes me." Myra disliked people who started their sentences with And.

"And may I ask what business that is, ma'am?"

"Consumer protection. You have weekly and monthly rates?"

"Yes. The daily rate for an Elegancia suite is two-twenty-five. Weekly, it's fourteen hundred. That's a saving of—"

"One seventy-five," Myra said. "In my line of work, you have to be good with numbers."

"Margaret Lansberry Howell," the clerk pronounced as he ran the credit card through his machine. "And is that Miss or Missus?"

Myra held up her left hand which had her victim's wedding ring displayed. "Would you like to see the inscription?"

"That won't be necessary ma'am." He pulled a key from its hook and handed it to a bellman. "And shall I have the boy help you with your bags?"

"I'll take the key, and my bags are coming later."

"I hope you enjoy your stay with us. If you'd like anything from room service, all you have to do ring the desk."

"Just make sure the bar is stocked." Myra glanced at the rich contemporary furnishings in the lobby—upholstered furni- ture with chrome insets, large potted plants, shining glass tables—then kept her eyes down as she squeezed her way through the crowd to the elevators. Her friends had told her that eye contact makes people notice other details about you. She allowed herself to be bullied into a deep corner of the elevator and hugged her shopping bag to her chest with both arms.

Suite 423 was located on the west side of the building, the rear side. Elegancia suites on the east side—the side that overlooked the Atlantic—probably went for a million a day, Myra thought. She let herself in.

Two large seascape prints and a dozen small lithographs were screwed to the wall of the small living room in a vaguely geometrical arrangement. Vertical blinds—hanging from ceiling to floor—let in enough light for her to see where the chairs and tables were placed. Threading among these, she snapped on a lamp, then pulled the blinds open. The solid click of lucite grips as they gathered at the end of the traverse rod was oddly satisfying to her. The room was cluttered, but neat, filled with institutional furniture in serviceable earth tones. The chairs, ottomans and tables were the same decor-keyed color. Two vases of freshly cut carnations sat on the tables. The nylon carpeting was textured and thick. She checked the bedroom and bath, opening closet doors and cabinet slides. She pulled the drawers on the dresser and chiffonier, sat on the queen-sized bed and bounced. Then she shut the ringer off on the telephone and went to the bar, a bamboo cube with a woodgrained fiberboard top. She found opened jugs of Jim Beam and Tanqueray, full bottles of Seagram's 7 and Bacardi. There was a single split of Cinzano dry vermouth, a half pint of lime water, and in the back row, a dusty 750 mll of Dewer's.

Myra took a hit of the Bacardi, neat, shuddered, then grabbed the plastic ice bucket and went out to browse the hallway until she heard the hum of an icemaker. In an alcove next to a seven-foot soft drink machine, she found it and filled her bucket with coinsized chips. The ice clacked and sloshed as she loiter-ed back to her suite. She was in no hurry. She had Margaret Howell's cash—she remembered the hundred dollar bills—two credit cards and backup ID for both of them. What she needed was a soaring buzz, a cool shower and a long sleep. She had had a busy day.

A stiff four fingers of the rum, seasoned with a splash of lime water, raised the ice to the glass's rim. Myra sipped as she settled into a chair and shook out her shopping bag. The silver handgun hit the floor first, then the hastily bundled maid's uniform. Margaret Howell's wallet followed, and then the shower of legal tender. She picked up the gun. It was an automatic pistol with the word Ruger cut into the barrel. She pressed a cross-scored button and the magazine shot into her palm. The elevated slug said .32 cal on its rim. She slammed the magazine in, feeling pleased at the sound of its solid seating. The gun's handle was paneled with plastic simulated mother-of-pearl. The whole piece fit nicely into her big hand as she hefted it and shot imaginary holes in the lithographs, accompanied by a medley of vocal pops and pows from her pursed lips. The gun was giving her a new feeling.

She finished her drink and counted the money as she picked the bills from the floor, fingering them for the pleasure of it. Three hundred thirty dollars in bills. Counting the hundred she had given to the cabbie, she knew that three of the remaining bills she had first identified as hundreds were actually tens.

Myra Manning was a person who hated to make mistakes, yet she had made one. Feeling her buzz begin to churn, she undressed and stepped into the shower.

Naked in bed, with a fresh Bacardi on the night table, she picked through Margaret Howell's wallet. A plastic snake of photographs unhinged from her hand. Fat, self-satisfied children, arrogant adolescents and young adults with determined optimism on their faces stared out at her. Three different dogs also appeared, allowing Myra to deduce the emerging forms of a single generation—Margaret Howell's children as they grew from stupid egocentricity to enlightened frustration. She tossed the pictures angrily aside. Lottery tickets, theater passes, dry-cleaning stubs and a mangled cash register tape were dug from one compartment, name-brand coupons and a shopping list from another, and from a hidden flap, a fresh, carefully folded hundred dollar bill. Adding it to her cache, she gloated, Four hundred thirty now. Not bad.

She leaned over the bed's edge and plucked a sheaf of papers from the floor. Pinned with a paper clip, these were replies to employment applications from all the Atlantic City casinos, alphabetically arranged. They were made out to M. Manning, MedSec, CJ System, Hartsville, Indiana. She leafed through them. The housekeeping departments in each had specified requirements for uniforms—particular items, and the color of the items—as well as notice that the purchase and maintenance of uniforms were responsibilities of the prospective employee. Myra tore the response forms in quarters and tossed them high in the air. She laughed and fell asleep.

"Is this Deedsteed?"

"Yes, this is the desk, 423. And how may we help you?"

"I want room service—how do I reach room service."

"I can take your order, Mrs. Howell. And are the accommodations satisfactory?"

"How come there's no Canadian Club up here?"

"I'll have it sent immediately, Mrs. Howell."

"I want a BLT on rye toast—in half, not quarters—mayo on the side, and cole slaw. And a diet Pepsi, not Coke."

"Thank you, will there be anything else?" Voices chattered musically in the background. The lobby was still bustling.

"Is there an escort service in this town? You said the Diplomat is the most exclusive convention center—"

"Not in Ocean City, Mrs. Howell. There are several escort services in Atlantic City. You may dial direct. The listings are in the yellow pages."

"Thanks Deedsteed. Rush the Canadian and the BLT, will you?"

"Right away, Mrs. Howell. Thank you for visiting the Diplomat S—"

Myra was already riffling the Atlantic City Area yellow pages as the clerk's voice cut off abruptly in the cradled phone. She found Dedicated Escorts, Imperial Escort Service and Velour Systems in the display ad section. Small-print listings showed a dozen others. She lifted the handpiece and punched in the number for Dedicated Escorts. After a single ring, a milky voice answered. Myra couldn't tell if it was male or female.

"We are Dedicated, may we help you?"

"Hello Dedicated, your phone book ad says you have male and female escorts."

"We have. Would you like a reservation?"

"My name's McColl, and I'm the personal secretary to a very important executive. We are in Ocean City at the Diplomat Suites for a convention—"

"May I have his name, please?"

"Whose name?"

"The executive—your employer, Miz McColl."

"It's Miss McColl, and my employer is a woman. K.L. Howell, Indianapolis—you've heard of her?"