by Lutz, John
He was only about five-feet-four, and reached that with his built-up shoes. His pinstripe blue suit must have cost a thousand dollars and had probably paid for itself many times over in court. A gold watch peeked out from beneath white French cuffs fastened with gold cuff links. There was a huge gold nuggetlike ring on his left hand, a smaller gold pinky ring on his right. He had a handsome if somewhat pinched face, dark eyes, thinning black hair that was combed severely sideways in a careful but futile attempt to disguise a bald spot, and a smile that sort of crept onto his features like something that might suck eggs. It was a smile that seemed to conceal rather than express amusement. He looked exactly like what he was, a high-priced criminal lawyer who could connive and arrange the best possible deals for his clients. Phil couldn’t have afforded him on his own; Singer was on a retainer in New Jersey.
“Trying to trick my client into giving up his rights?” he asked, using the weasel smile even though he was serious about his question.
“Sure,” Oxman told him. “We can’t shut him up. Something about shooting the president.”
Singer left the oily grin on, introduced himself formally, and officially told them he was representing Phil Malloy. Then he sat down next to Phil. Tobin sat down across the table from Phil. Oxman remained standing.
“They say they’re from Homicide,” Phil said.
Singer looked alarmed, but only for an instant. “I thought this was a possession charge,” he said.
“It is,” Oxman said.
“So. You think my client knows something about a murder,” Singer said. “You want him to tell you what that something is, in exchange for dropping the possession charge.” Quick little bastard. He didn’t have time to fence with them, he was letting them know. Get to the point; busy, important attorney they were dealing with here, representing bigger fish than Phil Malloy.
“Dropping the charge?” Oxman said, pretending to be thoughtful. “Well, I don’t know about that …”
“Don’t be a hard-on, Sergeant.”
“It’s not up to me to make any deals,” Oxman said.
“I suspect that at this point it is. I think the matter’s been cleared. I think that’s why Mr. Malloy was arrested in the first place.”
“That wouldn’t change anything,” Tobin said.
Singer nodded. Light glanced off the bald spot beneath strands of greasy black hair. “No, it wouldn’t,” he said. “May I talk to my client alone?”
“Sure,” Oxman said.
He and Tobin left the room.
They waited about ten minutes, then returned and took up exactly the same positions. Singer and Phil appeared not to have moved at all. Everyone was being very careful now.
“Mr. Malloy says he knows nothing about a murder,” Singer said.
Oxman put out a palm and propped himself against the wall. “It’s the people he deals with who might know about murder,” he said.
Singer’s dark eyes shifted between the two detectives. His mind must be going like a rat in a cage, Oxman thought. Phil rested his arm on the table and leaned forward. The table wobbled and he withdrew the arm and sat back.
“This has nothing to do with drugs,” Oxman said, and watched Singer relax. His real clients in New Jersey weren’t the supposed killers. The establishment wasn’t being threatened.
Singer said, “If Mr. Malloy cooperates, will the possession charge be dropped?”
“If he cooperates fully,” Oxman said.
Singer looked at Phil, who looked back eagerly but with doubt on his rounded features.
“Lance Jardeen,” Tobin said. “Tell us what you know about him.”
Singer nodded, giving the okay.
Phil shrugged. “He’s an old guy I sometimes run errands for, is all. Lives in the Waywind, where I work in maintenance.”
“No bullshit, now,” Oxman cautioned.
“I really do work at the Waywind.”
“Your boy’s gonna log some jug time,” Tobin said, “if he don’t loosen up.”
“You deliver drugs to Jardeen,” Oxman said. “That’s what we want confirmed.”
“I want our deal in writing,” Singer said.
Tobin let out a long breath. “Fuckin’ writing, no less.”
Singer smiled. “That’s how it is, business being business.” He reached into his thin black attaché case. “I’ve got a form.”
“Jesus,” Tobin said, “he really does.”
Singer made a few initialed changes on an agreement of immunity-in-exchange-for-information, then handed copies to Oxman and Tobin.
Oxman read his copy, wadded it tightly into a ball, and tossed it onto the table. “You’re going to have to take our word that nothing said here gets outside this room. We’re working a murder case; we don’t give a damn about this piss-ant junkie delivery boy.”
Phil looked injured. Singer’s expression didn’t change. He considered, tapping his gold pinky ring lightly on the table.
“The choice is that or Narcotics puts Phil away until the twenty-first century,” Oxman said.
Singer said, “You’re a hard man, Sergeant.”
“Honest one, too.”
“And your friend?”
“I vouch for him.”
“Means nothing.”
“Of course not. But you’ve got no alternative but to buy what I say.”
Singer looked at Phil. “I think you better tell them what they want to know,” he said.
“You believe these guys?” Phil asked.
“Yes. And I know the room’s not wired for sound or tape.” Again the creepy smile. “I’ve checked these things out, Mr. Malloy. And as the sergeant promised, it’s talk and walk. I believe him. And we can deny the conversation if he breaks his word.”
“Yeah,” Phil said, “okay,” liking the idea of walking out of the station that day.
“Lance Jardeen,” Oxman repeated.
“He pays me and I deliver drugs to him,” Phil said.
“And Marv Egan?”
Phil glanced at Singer, who nodded.
“Same deal with Egan,” Phil said.
Tobin said, “Tell us what you know about them.”
Phil thought for a moment. “Just a couple of burned-out old guys. Actors. But they ain’t acted in years.”
“Where’d you meet them?” Oxman asked.
“A shooting gallery. That’s where people go to shoot up on drugs.”
“We know. In the Village?”
Phil looked worried.
“Don’t answer,” Oxman said.
“I seen ’em now and then at The Last Reel,” Phil said.
“What’s that?”
“Place down around Eighth and Broadway, where a lotta washed-up show-business types hang out. I mean really washed up. They get a buzz on, mostly on cheap liquor, and bitch about things in general.”
“Who else do you deliver to, who hangs out at The Lost Reel?” Oxman asked.
“Last Reel,” Phil corrected. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Singer now. He was nervous.
“Who else?” Oxman repeated.
“Nobody. Not anymore.”
“Why not anymore?”
“Well, the guy was killed, I read in the papers. Friend of Jardeen’s and Egan’s. I seen ’em drinking together lotsa times.”
Oxman looked over at Tobin, who was studying the burnt matches and butts in the beanbag ashtray.
“Lassiter,” Phil said. “Another old actor. Burt Lassiter, I think his name was. Is it his murder you guys are trying to solve?”
“Among others,” Oxman said. Singer was observing him with exaggerated casualness. “Did you hear about his death from Egan? Jardeen?” Oxman asked.
“Naw, it was in all the papers. You know, the way he was the ‘Shadowtown’ vampire. But I guess that turned out not to be so, huh?”
“Seems that way,” Tobin said.
“You mean Jardeen or Egan didn’t even mention Lassiter’s death?” Oxman asked.
“Nope. And I didn’t bring it
up. Shit, I only saw those guys a few times a week.” He glared at Tobin. “And one of ’em, you had to be there.”
“The breaks,” Tobin said, pulling his gaze away from the ashtray and smiling at Phil.
“What did the three old actors talk about when they were together?” Oxman asked.
Phil put on an earnest expression. “Now, that I don’t know. I mean, I wasn’t one of their buddies, you see. Ours was a strictly business kinda relationship. You gotta be show-biz if you wanna get treated human by those people at The Last Reel. Tell you true, I don’t even understand what they’re telling each other half the time. Show-business words and sayings. And show business is all them has-beens at The Reel ever talk about, like they was still getting movie parts instead of scrounging for a living.”
Oxman stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes. Then he lowered his eyes again to look at Phil. “That’s it,” he said.
“That’s it?” Phil said unbelievingly.
“Uh-hm. You can go. Thanks, Mr. Malloy.”
“Come on,” Singer said, and stood up.
Phil grinned, just like Mickey Rooney after Andy Hardy and the gang had raised enough money with their play to save the starving widow.
He stood and said, “Thank you, Sergeant Oxman.”
“Let’s go,” Singer insisted. “The sergeant might be fickle.” He shepherded Phil out the door ahead of him. Didn’t say good-bye.
“What do you think, Ox?” Tobin asked, when they were alone.
“I think tomorrow’s Saturday,” Oxman said.
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” Oxman extended his arms and stretched the kinks out of his back. Shadowtown Productions would be closed down for the weekend tomorrow, he knew. It provided a perfect opportunity to snoop around the place without interruption and see what evidence against Zach Denton was available. But it would be better not to mention to Tobin what he had in mind. Tobin would cluck at him like a moralistic old maid and suggest Oxman was going out of his way to nail Zach Denton.
Oxman wasn’t sure; Tobin might be right.
Phil Malloy—10:15 P.M.
Fuckin’ cops! Phil was still shaking, even after downing half a bottle of Laurel Springs bourbon in his room at the Waywind. They’d sure as hell messed up his evening. Murder, was it? He looked at the bottle on the table by the bed; that was the only thing he’d ever killed—a bottle.
That and a toke or two of Mexican brown. He could use a hit now, that was for sure. Instead all he had on hand, all he could afford, was booze. Well, a man had to make do with—
The door opened.
Phil sat straight up on the sagging mattress, where he’d been reclining and half-watching something on television; it had a lot of sexy-looking women in it, so he’d left the set tuned to that channel and put down the remote control and picked up the bottle.
But he wasn’t looking at the women on TV now; he was staring at a tall guy dressed in a dark overcoat. He had a long blue muffler wrapped loosely around the lower half of his face, like he didn’t want to be recognized. Or on the way in he hadn’t unwound it all the way. Not that it mattered; his face was in shadow anyway, what with the only illumination in the room coming from the flickering TV screen.
“Who the fuck are you?” Phil asked, trying to bluff away his fear. It had all happened so suddenly, the way the guy burst into the room, it didn’t seem quite real. It might have been something happening on TV to somebody else.
“I came to see you about that talk you had with the police,” the man said softly, from behind the blue muffler.
Phil thought back through his alcoholic haze; he’d locked the door he was sure of it.
“How’d you get in?” he asked.
“I got a knack with locks,” the man said, and crossed over to stand near the bed.
Phil didn’t like the guy looming over him like that, so he climbed up out of bed and stood facing him. The intruder was an easy six inches taller than Phil’s five-foot-ten.
“So whaddya want?” Phil asked.
“To talk,” the man said, “like the cops.”
“So sure, I’ll talk,” Phil said, relaxing a little. He was getting some idea where this guy was from.
“You’ll listen,” the man told him, still in that soft voice. He had on black gloves, Phil noticed.
“This is my place,” Phil said, determined not to take any more shit than he had to. He’d had a rough night already and wasn’t in the mood for any more shoving around, with him the shovee. He’d done what Singer said, nothing more. He had nothing to hide or be ashamed of, did he?
“Yeah, your tough luck,” the man said, unperturbed. “Thing is, Phil, it’s no good you chatting to the law. It’s no good them being onto you. Once they stick to a fella they keep on sticking, like Velcro. They won’t shake, not the cops.”
“You’re from Jersey,” Phil said.
“Half the people in Manhattan are from Jersey,” the man said. “This is an island, Phil. A small island where once somebody like you comes to the attention of the law they try to bend him. They do bend him.”
“I won’t bend.” So that was it! Phil tried to laugh and almost choked. Nerves! He didn’t really want to laugh anyway at a time like this. He sure as hell didn’t! He said, “I don’t cooperate with cops. Don’t matter how small Manhattan is.”
“It matters.”
“I got friends, though. They know the ins and outs and can keep the cops off me. Like the song says, ‘No man is an island.’ Jack Jones, I think, sang it. Or maybe The Commodores.”
“Sounds like Barry Manilow shit to me,” the man said. “This is an island, full of millions of people who’re islands themselves, just like you. Only now there’s a bridge to you, Phil.”
Phil wanted to bolt for the door, but his legs were trembling, threatening to buckle. The effects of the bourbon were fading fast. “You think I don’t know why you’re here? Listen, we can talk this out!”
“Sorry, Phil, the world don’t work that way.”
“It can! There’s as many worlds as there are people. All them islands you mentioned. You’d be surprised what can be worked out!”
The tall man’s eyes darted to the TV and then back to Phil. “You watch that crap?” he asked, as if amazed. Guy was a snob.
“Yeah, sometimes.”
“Then you deserve what you’re getting,” the man said. There was a metallic click and his gloved hand darted forward so fast Phil thought it might have been an illusion. Like a magic trick.
Suddenly there was a numbness all over Phil’s body, except for something very cold low and deep in his chest. There shouldn’t be any coldness way in there, his dazed mind realized. “Wha—what is this?” he asked indignantly. Not understanding. Not wanting to understand. What was going on here couldn’t be real. Impossible!
“This is death,” the man said, and Phil saw him lean forward and twist his right arm and hand that seemed attached to Phil’s chest.
Nothing happened at first. Then the room got dim, then black along the edges of Phil’s vision. The black area closed in, gradually at first, then very fast. Faster.
The pain! …
Scene 6
Art Tobin—1:45 P.M.
Tobin liked the way things had been breaking lately. He could sense that the case was drawing to some kind of close, in the way an old war-horse senses when it’s headed toward the barn. Nothing factual, but a tightening of the psyche, a familiarity with the landscape. As if the subconscious mind were operating on a sublimely logical level impossible to the conscious; fitting facts together, shuffling through mental file cards and selecting and rearranging until finally a pattern appeared.
He had a feeling that, if he could delve into his subconscious, he’d get some inkling of the meaning of the murders and the vampire scare, and the “Shadowtown” mania that had swept the country and boosted TV ratings—and network advertising revenue.
Elliot Leroy didn’t understand the importance of those ratings,
and the immense sums of money that pivoted on a tiny percentage of audience share. Ox wasn’t a show-biz kind of guy. Maybe that was why Lana Spence was hot for him. Or pretending she was. Ox was something different for Lana the black widow; a diversion. Poor Ox.
Bullshit! Tobin smiled. Lots of men would gladly trade places with Ox in Lana Spence’s affections, whether she was sincere or acting. What the hell, the lady was a star.
As Tobin left his car and walked toward Marv Egan’s crummy apartment building, he concentrated again on the specifics of the case rather than on Lana Spence. Couldn’t blame a vampire for nibbling on that neck, though, he thought, before he cleared the vision from his mind. Tobin the black vampire, having a hell of a good time. White meat and red blood, all the same to Count Tobin.
The background investigation of Lana and Burt Lassiter had led to a link—other than Lana—between Lassiter, Egan, and Jardeen. They were all down-and-out semijunkies who frequented the same haunts and even shared the same supplier. Tobin was sure that if he questioned Egan and Jardeen again, carefully, he’d learn something pertinent. He could let them know that drug charges might be brought against Phil Malloy, and good old Phil might talk and the drug investigation might spill over to them. Better to nip that in the bud, Tobin would assure them, and keep the police department’s attention focused on the “Shadowtown” case.
He stood in the vestibule that smelled like aged paint and boiled cabbage and pushed the button beneath Egan’s brass mailbox.
There was no answer on the intercom. No sound from up above.
Tobin stepped back and shook his head. The damned bell and intercom had worked the last time he was here. But that was last time. Maybe vandals had gotten to it. Or maybe Egan wasn’t home. That was the most likely explanation, though Tobin didn’t want to believe it. He knew he’d have to take the stairs and check, and he didn’t want to do that. He’d rather simply leave the building and drive over to try to catch Jardeen at home and question him first. But he wouldn’t; he’d climb the stairs and knock on Egan’s door. Every year, it was harder to be a cop.
“You policeman?” a voice with an Oriental accent asked from the lower landing.
