The Lime Pit by Jonathan Valin Read Free Book Online

figured he didn't
know. Like Pete O'Brien he was only a hired hand and, as far as he
was concerned, everything in the store came from Gem Distributors.
    If I was going to go any further, I would have to
talk to someone higher up, either to Rich or to whoever owned the
porno shop. That is, if as Pete O'Brien said, they were willing to
talk to me.
 
 
    5
    IT TURNED out that I didn't have to make that choice,
because Pete O'Brien got talkative after I couldn't find anything in
the ledger book. Like Hugo Cratz, he was an old man with a heart, and
he felt badly enough about Cindy Ann to let drop the fact that Morris
Rich not only supplied Adult News, he owned it. Rich had an office in
the Dixie Terminal Building on Fifth Street. O'Brien gave me the
address as I left, along with a piece of advice.
    "Morrie's a family man. The more you say about
his kids, the better you make him feel. Just keep talking about his
sons and you might make out O.K."
    Judging from the decor of Rich's handsome office, I
thought O'Brien was probably right. The Rich boys looked down from
every wall and up from every end table in the room. And, in case you
missed the point, Morrie Rich reminded you by tapping constantly on
the dozen picture frames that crowded his desk. I had the
disconcerting feeling that his family was sitting there with us. And,
eventually, I realized that Rich felt that way, too. Occasionally his
nasal voice seemed to soften, and he'd be talking familiarly to one
of the boys in the photographs, as if the kid were standing there by
his desk, asking his dad for another twenty or for the keys to the
Seville.
    Morris Rich was a sly, sentimental man of about
fifty. A Reds Rooter. A Shriner. A big contributor to the Ruth Lyons'
Christmas Fund. A soft touch to his children, who would probably pay
for that generosity in later years when someone finally got fed up
and told them what selfish, soulless bastards they'd grown up to be.
But he was first and foremost a thief I knew that as soon as I saw
him at his huge kidney-shaped desk, sitting behind that photographic
phalanx of family and kin. Some men wear their consciences on their
sleeves; Morris Rich had his arranged like an army at his feet.
    He was a short man with a smooth, hairless head the
exact size of a schoolyard kickball and the bright, famished eyes and
tiny upturned mouth of a rat. I didn't like him or trust him. And,
after a few minutes of listening to him talk about his boys, I
realized that he wasn't going to tell me a thing about where the
three photographs I'd shown him had come from. Not unless I made
finding Cindy Ann a family affair.
    "Oh, we ship from all over the world, Mr.
Stoner," he said, making a globe with his stubby arms and
hugging it to his chest. "It would really be impossible for me
to say exactly where this item or that item from a lot came from. You
see, we're just distributors here at Gem. We don't pack no goods. We
don't have no say over what goes into a crate we deliver. Of course,
a customer gets mad if what comes out don't tally with what was
shipped." He chuckled blandly and dropped his arms to the desk.
    "That's too bad," I said. "The girl's
family will be very disappointed."
    He shook his head sadly. "To be a parent is
sometimes a terrible burden. I know. Believe me. Cory, my youngest,
is just turning eighteen. I give him a car and he wrecks it. I warn
him about girls and he goes out and knocks one up. Cost me eleven
hundred dollars to send her to a clinic in New York. And he's still
hanging around with her. You explain it."
    "I wouldn't know what to say," I said,
making my voice cozy and sympathetic. "Hell, I don't know what
I'm going to tell the girl's parents as it is. It looks bad when a
politician's daughter goes as wrong as this girl has. I don't know
what he's going to do. Make a real fuss, I guess."
    He bit. Just like I thought he would. His bright,
beady eyes danced across the photos and he said, "In the
government," in a voice as tight as his