"Go to hell," Johnny Ricco said quietly. He got up from the sofa and stalked for the hallway, hands hooked into the pockets of his bellbottom trousers. Terry Ricco, torn between his rotten behavior and wanting to stick around to talk to me, hastily gathered herself together and followed, flinging a despairing look back at me.
It was instant electricity.
The smile she gave me in parting was a woman's smile, the kind that encourages follow-ups, phone calls and another close contact with whatever magic it was she possessed. She was one devastating female, and in spite of her trying to sound cultured and well-bred, the tigress lay not too far beneath the surface. It was amazing, really. Terry Ricco, whatever she was, had been or would prove to be, had very obviously been a woman for a long, long time. Coupled with her incredibly youthful body and face and look, it was a staggering paradox.
Rather like what some child-brides in the Ozarks might be.
Or the nubility of some lissome, fourteen-year-old women.
I'd know where to find the Riccos. In the phone book or out of it.
When brother and sister had been gone for some two minutes, I walked to the wide windows of the apartment, drew the curtains and watched the front of the building. It was nine floors down but I could see the white Thunderbird glistening near the canopied entrance. I saw the sibling Riccos pile in. Terry drove. It was pretty clear they both had been arguing all the way down in the elevator: Johnny was as agitated as hell.
John Junkyard might have been dead but the young flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone were both very much alive—right in there pitching. Young and kicking and scrambling. And clawing for survival.
Generation gap, my eye. That's why I kept Johnny's gun . . . to be safe.
There was dirty work at the crossroads. Both in and out of the junkyard where a simple-minded, pleasant old Italian-born immigrant had dug out a fortune in scrap metal and old iron. And finally gotten himself ambushed.
Mallorca was a million miles from my thoughts when I finally turned in that night, yielding to the release that sleep might bring.
Much, much further than it was on any map. Mallorca, that is.
I was back in Manhattan again and that old neighbor, Trouble, had made me more than welcome, one more time. Moving in with me, as usual.
Trouble never pays the rent, either.
The half of a silver dollar, a semi-circle of the old kind of coin of the realm—with genuine silver in it—still lay on the mosaic-tiled coffee table where I had left it for the night.
It might have glistened like a half-moon in the gloom of the living room. I don't know. Either way, it couldn't get lost this time.
Not unless somebody broke into the apartment and stole it.
One thought kept bugging me as I tried to drop into Nodland. I'd lost the coin in a gunfight with two Conroy goons and then it turned up in a dead man's office. The same dead man who had been having his woes with the same Conroy, in some way. Coincidence? I didn't believe that for a second. I couldn't believe that and stay in business.
You got dead in my racket if you believed in coincidences.
Ask any manhunter.
Several other interesting ideas and questions ran around in my mind but they would all have to wait until I had more to go on.
I tried manfully not to think too much about Terry Ricco.
Manfully, I lost.
Even though I was just about old enough to be her father.
Like every other dirty old man.
COP
Melissa Mercer at her desk pounding the Olivetti when I marched into the mouse auditorium the next morning promptly at nine-fifteen. My Girl Friday had always lent a new meaning to Black and Beautiful long before it became a battle cry. And just about when I fell in love with her and took her to bed, we had stopped being Boss and Employee. Bigots said I had crossed the color line, well-meaning friends shook their heads and lamented, but the people involved told everybody to go to hell and mind their own business.
"Hi, Noon," she said, looking up from the smoking machine and smiling, robbing the poor pun of all its inherent corn, and sounding just as if he had seen me only last night. Which she had. I had gone to her West End apartment straight from the airport and then come home to run into Johnny Ricco and his mixed-up .45. Melissa was one big bother to me at all times. We should have chucked the business, set up light housekeeping and stayed away from all red-white-and-blue telephones that summoned me into Presidential confidence work, but it never seemed to work out. I was too old to change. I can't do any other kind of work and somewhere down through the years I'd lost the art of common sense. It had been misplaced along with my basic instincts for peace, tranquillity and mutual good will among men. I'd become a dropout, too.
"You," I said, scoring a ringer with my porkpie on the tall, familiar clothing tree just to the left of the pebbled-glass front door that said: ED NOON—PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS. Only it was saying it backwards now: SNOITAGITSEVNI ETAVIRP— NOON DE. "Nobody should look so good so early in the day. Been here long?"
"Same as ever. Nine sharp. There's mail on the desk. Nothing that looks important and——"
She had to stop talking because I'd leaned over her, tilted her exquisite kisser and said good morning very, very properly. I made Nice.
We broke free of each other and she smiled again. Her smash smile.
"Nobody should kiss anybody like that so early in the day and expect a proper secretarial performance the rest of the day."
"Says you. Anybody hanging around this morning?"
"Such as?" The suspicion in her voice was a natural. She had learned the hard facts about my life very early in the game. The bullet facts.
"Oh, Hippies, wild young kids, militant teenagers or just anybody."
"Something come up, Ed?" I could never fool her.
"Yeah. Tell you all about it later. I'll be inside talking to Mike Monks. And meanwhile, if you really and truly love me, you'll order a coffee and Danish. You may also join me when it comes."
"Oh, Ed." She shook her head and a mist passed over her eyes. "You only just got home from Mallorca. Not already?"
"Already," I agreed. "We have to pay the rent, don't we?"
"The red-white-and-blue phone?" she asked in a funny voice. "Him again?" She was referring to the psychedelic-colored "Ameche" on the desk in my office. The private hot line to the President of the United States, which had made an executioner and hatchet man out of me in the last few seasons. A wire that had almost led me to the graveyard more than once. An extension I'd just about disconnected.
"You're forgetting something, Mel. Our Man isn't in the White House anymore. He didn't get re-elected. I doubt very much that the new guy knows anything about me. I won't know until that phone rings again . . . if it ever does. Personally, I'm not so sure that I care."
"Oh." She brightened somewhat. "That's right. I did forget."
"Sure you did. Coffee and Danish, huh?"
"With love and kisses," she said softly, eyes shining.
The office was like an old friend. Same old desk, chair, four-drawer files, telephones, all harmoniously matching, because Melissa had picked out everything in the long ago. Being the Boss's lady had never impaired her efficiency. Even the calendar pad on the desk was already advanced to the proper date. Today. The Forty-Sixth Street view was still the office building across the way with busy and multiple secretaries seated at their desks, pounding away. I never had bothered to learn just what company it was. Sunlight streamed in through the slatted blinds and pale golden cobwebs filtered across the furnishings and the floor. I parked myself in the swivel and reached for the regular black telephone. The Technicolor one was but inches away, mute and screwy-looking. Like a prop for a Broadway musical comedy. The Story of Alexander Graham Bell, set to rock, starring Danny Kaye or somebody. I dialed Police Headquarters and asked for my favorite cop.
He's a very busy policeman for a Captain of the Homicide Department but he always seems to have tim
e for me. His familiar growl when we made connections, was like the olive in the martini. Refreshing.
"Michael Monks, as I live and breathe. Well, you sound as peachy as ever. I hope I didn't knock a police steno off your lap."
Repartee is not Michael Monks' long suit. He never jousts with me.
"How was Mallorca?" he asked curtly, sounding busy.
"Sand, sun and sour-faced divorcees. Did you miss me?"
"Like the baseball strike. And how come you send me a bullfight poster with my name on it, along with those other matadors? You sick in the head or something? What am I supposed to do with it?
"Give it to one of your nieces or nephews. Just a tourist gag they have down there. Wanted you to know I was thinking of you."
"So now I know. I think maybe the bull idea appealed to you. You know—cops, bulls—boy, you're the corny one, Ed."
"Michael, I've misjudged you. There's a sense of humor somewhere under the hide of you. Cops—bulls, that's really very good."
"Can it," he growled. "What else did you call me for?"
I stared at the phone. Like I said, he knew me better than anybody.
"Okay. I am bothered about something. John Junkyard was a pretty prominent citizen. He was also a friend of mine."
Monks grunted. The old do-tell? grunt. Edged with suspicion.
"Sure. And you're just calling me up because you're a concerned citizen. Okay. I know all that. Anything else you care to know you can read in The Daily News. Of course, The Times is more your speed now. Excuse me, Mr. Noon. I forgot how you've come up in the world."
"Come on, now, oldtimer. Friends?"
He sighed. His sighs were the ear-fracturing kind, coming over a telephone wire. "Okay, okay. We're working around the clock on this one. Ricco was a good man. No, a fine man. Thinking down here is that it was an organized kill. A contract. We don't know why because Ricco was out of that picture altogether. Still, you know these old beefs. Somebody could be squaring things for all the bucking that the old man did way back when—when he wouldn't cut anybody into his junkyard pie."
"Yeah. It's easy to go back to being Italian, sometimes. A good old-fashioned vendetta kill. An eye for an eye."
"So this isn't a social call, Ed. Right?"
"Half and half. Just interested because I knew the old guy. What's the scoop on Frankie Conroy? If a guy wanted to see him, where would he be likely to find him? Besides the nearest sewer or rathole."
"For what, his autograph?" Monks swore. A blistering oath. I held the phone away from my ear and then replaced it. ". . . don't tell me you've got your big feet planted in this one too? Or is it just a lousy coincidence, Mr. Noon, that Frankie Conroy is our prime suspect in the Junkyard kill?" His voice lowered, helplessly, knowing he wasn't going to get much satisfaction out of me. "What do you want to see Conroy about?"
I laughed. Ever try lying to your father when you were a kid?
"I could tell you I'm selling subscriptions to TV Guide so I'll tell you the truth. Conroy has some property of mine I'd like to recover. So tell me. Where does he hang out these days?"
I could hear Monks pretending to riffle some papers on his office desk. Standard stalling tactics, while he thought fast. I knew he was getting clever again but I didn't mind. He's always on my side.
"Haven't you heard, you bargain-basement Sam Spade? Conroy is backing The Blue Lady. One of those old strip clubs on Fifty-Second that changed into a supper spot. He's turned it into a flossy front for his Conroy Enterprises, Ink. You know—narcotics, call girls, numbers. Frankie's seen too many gangster movies. Wants to be the big shot with his own private playground. We're just waiting for some more goods on him before we close up his books fast." Monks tried an offhand voice but he was always a lousy actor. He never knew how to underplay. "You could probably find him there on any given night. But stay out of his hair. He's bad news."
"I love you, too."
"Yeah. Well, Ed, I'm up to my ears this morning. Maybe we can have dinner some night this week——"
"It's a deal. And just for nothing and to show you my heart's in the place it ought to be, you might poke around into the backgrounds of John Junkyard's heir and heiress. There might be some interesting data there. How come they're both so godawful young anyway?"
"Ricco didn't marry until he was past forty, with his fortune made, which was unusual for a man like him and——" Monks swore again. "Why, you double-crossing so-and-so, what are you giving me? How come you're onto those kids already when you only just got in from out of town? Ed, if this is a holdout of some kind, again, so help me——"
You had to hang up on him when he started from the top like that all over again and there wasn't any more that you were going to tell him. So I hung up on him. Doing so, in order to accomplish two things:
One, he would be alerted to the Ricco kids and just might come up with some necessary facts and clues, thereby doing some of the legwork for me, with his larger, more far-reaching organization: NYPD.
Two, he'd be a cinch to put a police tail on me, which was exactly what I wanted this time. All my experience suggested it.
If I was going to go messing around in gangland parlors, with armed hoods and tough guys within spitting distance, I wanted all the official help and protection I could get. You can also get killed when you tread in a racketeer's domain. They don't look very kindly on private snoops and lone guns—who are easy to stop and easy to silence. No lone wolf can buck the Mob and make it work, no matter what they show you in the movies. It simply can't be done. No way, as Johnny Ricco might say, if I'd asked him. Bullet holes and cement overcoats and a swampy graveyard in New Jersey are not that hard to come by, either.
Melissa Mercer showed up with the Danish and coffee about fifteen minutes later, so we put our chairs together and I filled her in about Johnny Ricco, his .45, the missing half-coin found in front of the safe and the equally dramatic appearance of Terry Ricco in my apartment. I didn't leave anything out, not even my masculine opinion of the woman that glowed from beneath the bursting lines and curves of Terry Ricco's body nor the ancient wisdom and sensuality that showed in her young face.
Melissa got the picture, all too well.
For a very long moment she said nothing and quietly sipped her cardboard container of black coffee. I could see the wheels turning in her sharp mind and knew the effect my account had had on her. There was something almost wistful and a shade poignant in her incredibly lovely eyes. Once again, it was very easy to know why I had fallen for her, hook, line and .45. She was all the women I had ever known and everyone that had ever walked proudly in the land of the underdog and the loser.
"How old did you say she was, Ed?"
"Twenty-one—twenty-two, tops. Why?"
"Some of us grow up pretty fast. Some of us learn all about men at a very early age. Terry Ricco sounds like one of the club. She must be something for you to sound off like you have."
"Show that much?"
"Uh huh. And I'm not jealous. Just curious. She must be a real out-of-sight article, old man. You were trying not to drool."
"Ouch. I had that coming. And what else did you figure out from my case report? I told you I'd ask questions."
Melissa arched her eyebrows as if sorry for my simplicity.
"Oh, I picked up the ball, all right. It's kind of plain, isn't it, that the Police Department didn't find that silver-dollar trophy of yours? Johnny Ricco found it only because the coin was parked under that rug after everybody packed up their tools and went home. You were set up for a fall guy; no two ways about that."
"Have you always been so smart or just since you met me?"
"Oh, way before I met you. I used to be able to tie my shoelaces, write my own name, read a little and everything."
"Okay. I won't fire you. But I'll give you more work to do. Anything and everything you can find on John Junkyard and Family. As far back as old newspapers will take you. If you get stuck, you could ring up those reporter types in the address
book on my desk. And I am more interested in Terry Ricco than I am Johnny. He's still a few light-years from any kind of interesting past, but, based on what I told you, Terry's got to be hotter stuff. Her track record up to now ought to make very colorful reading. I'll give odds on it."
"Don't expect Peyton Place, Ed. You could be wrong."
"There's always a chance of that, isn't there?" I smiled at her because she was easy to smile at. "But I'll tell you one thing I am sure about. It won't be Rebecca of Sunny-brook Farm, either."
After Melissa had gathered up the refuse of our coffee-break and gone back to her desk to start her own homework for the balance of that day, I formulated my plans for the evening ahead. The pleasurable reflexes left over from the Mallorcan jaunt hadn't quite dissolved in spite of the fireworks of the evening gone by and the troublesome aspects of the night ahead.
I was intending to visit Frankie Conroy's The Blue Lady. On a fishing expedition into Godfather country and it could cost me my neck. So I checked my own .45, re-examined Johnny Ricco's Army model which I had brought to the office with me, and then tucked both destroyers into the center drawer of the fancy office desk. The desk couldn't be like anyone else's in town. It was as neat as a pin, holding only a green blotter in its 24 x 38 pad, a matching stationery rack (that held very little) and a metal three-section tray that showed clips, rubberbands and thumbtacks. No paperwork ever piles up on that desk. Most of my business is not on paper at all. I carry it in my head like a bunch of dreams. Like memories.
I dug into my pocket and produced the shining half of a silver dollar that John Junkyard gave me in the long ago, when both he and I were a helluva lot younger, and when Johnny and Terry were still kids lugging schoolbooks and excited by banana splits and joys like that. And now the half-coin meant a great deal more. The half that was buried with John Junkyard had not been very lucky for him. It had not stopped a .45 slug from blowing the back of his head off.
The Girl in the Cockpit Page 3
