The Key to Karen by Larry Kent

Author:Larry Kent
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: murder mystery, detective fiction, crime and thrillers, piccadilly publishing, don haring, larry kent, crime fiction ebook, curare
Publisher: Piccadilly

7 ... a pattern forms ...

A cab took me to the Esso station at the bottom of 57th Street. Inside the garage were three men working on cars. There was also a short, fat man in a business suit. The latter was talking to himself and didn’t have any grease on him so I figured he was the boss and I walked up to him.

“If you’re waitin’ for your car,” he said, “I’m sorry but I got all kinds of trouble. Which car is—”

“I’m looking for Dell,” I said.

“Eh?”

“Warren Dell.”

“That punk.” He squinted at me. “You a cop or a bill collector?”

“No.”

“Too bad. You know what that punk did? Right in the middle of the busiest day in the week, with work up around my ears, he tells me he’s got to clear out and he wants his pay.”

“And did he clear out?”

“He didn’t get his pay up to the minute, I can tell you that. He’ll wait.”

“Then he’s gone?”

“Left an hour ago.”

“Can you give me his address?”

“You sure you’re not a cop or a bill collector?”

“Sorry.”

“I’d just love to ram it up his rear. You want his address, you go straight to Irene there in the office.” He jerked his bald head in the direction of a dirty-windowed room at the back of the garage. “We ain’t supposed to give out the addresses of employees to just anybody, but in that punk’s case I’m glad to make an exception. You tell Irene that I said she’s to give you his address. You say Des Dunne gave his okay.”

“Thanks.”

Irene turned out to be a fat giggler of a girl with a face full of pimples. She took a card from a file drawer and read out the address of Warren Dell. 54th Street between Tenth and Ninth Avenues. Apartment ten, number 1154.

Number 1154 turned out to be a narrow tenement that was a twin to all those around it and across the street. I had to climb four narrow flights of stairs to get to apartment ten. On the third landing was a blowsy blonde in a negligee. I caught her in the act of picking up two bottles of milk. She patted at her peroxided hair and smiled at me.

“Can I do somethin’ for ya?” she asked in the best of New York accents.

“No, thanks,” I said.

“Too bad.”

“Hey, Wanda,” boomed a male voice from behind the door nearest the blonde, “where in hell are ya?”

“The voice of the toitle,” she said with a lop-sided grin, giving her hair another few pats.

“Wanda!”

She half turned around. “Awright, Harry, I’m comin’.” She gave me a wink. “Some other time when the traffic ain’t so heavy, eh?”

“Haven’t had a better proposition in a month,” I lied.

Another wink. “You don’t know the half of it, doll face. If you don’t see any milk bottles, then Harry ain’t here. I get up early when Harry’s away on his truck. See ya?”

“Without a doubt,” I lied.

“Just bring a bottle of Four Roses and a great big smile.

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