“What was Anton really like?” she mused aloud. “That’s not hard. He was fun. He was fun when I needed fun and he was good to me. He liked to drink and he drank a lot, but he was never a sloppy drunk. We’d go out a couple of times a week after I’d finish at the club. We’d hit most of the all-night spots.
“Anton loved what he called
I filed what she had told me in my mind. They were important bits of information. He was gregarious, a jazz buff and a big drinker, all habits which were bound to assert themselves.
“Who else might know more about him?” I asked. “He must have had other friends.”
Athena leaned back in the chair, and her nipples pushed hard against the silk, forming twin pink points, unmistakably unconfined. She was seemingly unaware of the thrusting provocativeness of her breasts.
I forced my mind back to the subject we were discussing, Karminian, the disappearing importer.
“Look, honey,” I said soothingly, “maybe he’s in trouble. Maybe he needs help and that’s why he disappeared. If I can track him down I’ll let you know.”
It was an unsubtle ploy but it hit home. She really felt for the guy, and her face reflected unconcealed anxiety.
“I know,” she said. “That’s what I keep thinking about. All right, go see Yussif ben Kashan, the rug dealer, in the Arab quarter. Anton used to talk about him often. And the bartender at the Chez Caliph on the Boulevard Zerktouni.”
“Thanks, Athena,” I said. “Or should I call you Aggie?”
She thought about it for a moment and then smiled. It was the first time she’d smiled since I met her, and there was a great sadness in it. “You use Aggie,” she said. “Because you’re American and because I haven’t been called Aggie in a long time.”
I stood up and drank in her compact little body, my eyes lingering on the sharp, upturned points of her breasts.
“I thought artists looked at girls differently,” she said quietly.
“How do you mean ‘differently?’ ” I asked grinning. I knew damned well what she meant.
“Differently,” she repeated. “More like it didn’t mean anything.”
“Only when they’re painting them, honey,” I grinned. “And sometimes not even then. It always means something. We artists appreciate beauty. Beauty excites us even more than most people.”
“Do I excite you?” she asked, the female conceit immediately leaping to the fore, the eternal female built-in need to be desirable.
“What do you think?” I countered. I felt like telling her I wanted very much to slam that firm little body down on the bed and explore its curves and hills, to see if that exotic dance act of hers could be translated into reality. But I held back as I saw the growing interest in her eyes. I wanted to keep it growing, for a while anyway.
Maybe she had told me all she knew about Karminian and maybe she hadn’t. I wanted to find out. I was mildly surprised by her answer to my question, but then it was merely another facet of that same female need.
“Would you like to paint me?” she asked slyly, casting a sideways glance.
“Yes,” I said. “Let’s talk more about it tomorrow.”
She nodded and her eyes were no longer suspicious and defensive. I was making fast headway with Aggie Foster. I hoped I could do as well in finding her boyfriend.
More and more I was becoming convinced that it wasn’t going to be merely a question of finding him but a race as to who would find him first. Whatever Karminian had gotten hold of, that “something big” he’d contacted Hawk about, involved more people than I realized.
Aggie Foster watched me walk down the stairway and I knew she was already anticipating my next visit. That was always the best way to leave them, waiting, anticipating, intrigued.
I slept well after shoving a heavy table against the door as a precaution. In the morning I began to go over the apartment and Karminian’s things with a fine-tooth comb, starting at one end of the place and painstakingly examining every inch.
My first surprise was his collection of records stacked alongside a small, portable record player, an American machine. From what Aggie Foster had told me about the man I expected a collection of good jazz, Muggsy Spanier, Pee Wee Russell, Buck Clayton, Goodman, Armstrong, Eddie Condon, the greats, at least.
Instead, the records were Bach, Mozart, Palestrina, Scarlatti and some Gregorian chants. Many of the record albums bore handwriting in a lovely, feminine script, small, brief messages: “Anton, just saw this and had to pick it up for you.” Or, “Hope you like this.” All were signed “Marina.”
