So Nude, So Dead by Ed McBain Read Free Book Online Page A

in the city.
    He rolled down his sleeves, fastened his cuff links.
    All right, he’d find the murderer.
    He almost laughed out loud at this. Sherlock Stone Holmes, hophead. How does a hophead go about finding a murderer in a city like New York? In fact, how does anybody find anybody in New York? He grinned at his own predicament, realizing it wasn’t at all funny.
    And the old thought came back, the bittersweet thought, the thought that quickened his blood and tightened his muscles: how could he get another shot? And soon?
    He put this out of his mind, convinced he could get all the heroin he needed if he could clear himself. He had to shake the monkey, and to do that he had to shake the cops. He remembered the newspaper clipping and the picture of Eileen with her husband. Dale Kramer, a name familiar to Ray. Kramer had once fronted a society outfit, sweet music with a boop-boop-be-doop beat. Strictly crow material, with muted horns and groaning saxes. He’d traded this in for a new combo when bop came into fashion, and had managed to keep up with the better bands, pulling in the kids all over the country on his personal-appearance tours.
    If Ray had some questions to ask, Dale Kramer would be a good place to start.
    Ray put on his jacket, locked his room, and buzzed for the elevator. When the car stopped at his floor, the elevator boy didn’t seem to notice the changed color of his hair. The elevator stopped, and Ray walked across the lobby, avoiding the desk and heading straight for a phone booth.
    He looked up the number of the Trade Winds, then rapidly dialed it. It was too early for Kramer to be at the club, but perhaps he could get his home number. At any rate, it wouldn’t hurt to—
    “Trade Winds, good afternoon.”
    “Hello—ah—I wonder if you could give me some information?”
    “What kind of information, sir?”
    Ray hesitated. In the background, he heard a trumpet reaching for a high note. He listened as saxes joined the blaring brass. Then the entire ensemble came to an abrupt stop.
    “Hello?”
    “Yes,” Ray said. “I’m still here.”
    “What kind of information did you wish, sir?”
    The band started again, in the middle of a number, and the trumpet hit the upper register, with the saxes joining in again. This time they kept playing.
    “I was wondering if you could let me have Dale Kramer’s home number?”
    There was a discreet cough on the other end of the wire.
    “I’m sorry, sir. We’re not allowed—”
    “That’s all right. Thanks.”
    He replaced the phone on its hook. That had been a rehearsal, all right. He’d been to enough of them to know what they sounded like. That meant that Dale Kramer was now at the Trade Winds. Ray nodded, and stepped out of the booth.
    A pain sliced into his stomach, ripped across his gut. God, oh God, holy mother of— He gripped the door of the booth, held tightly, while the wave of pain looped over and then subsided. The hell with Kramer, the hell with Eileen, the hell with everybody. He had to get a shot. He’d die; he’d drop dead right here on the floor if he didn’t get one.
    You can’t get one, his mind mocked. The cops are looking for you, you stupid bastard.
    He shook his head, wiped the sweat from his forehead.
    Outside, he hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to the Trade Winds.
    * * *
    The sounds came to him as he stood at the bar, the old familiar rehearsal sounds. They came from behind a closed door at the other end of the room, and a bouncer sat in front of that door, his heavy legs straddling a chair. Ray downed his drink hastily, put his trembling hands into his pockets, and walked across the room.
    He stopped directly in front of the bouncer. The man had a wide face with heavy black eyebrows and cauliflower ears. His nose had been broken more than once.
    Ray tried to look bored as he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He flipped it open to his driver’s license, closed it again before the bouncer took a good