In Plain Sight

by Barbara Block

  “I take it you mean from Marsha?”

  Shirley nodded.

  I suppressed a groan. I hoped I wasn’t going to hear one of those “his wife doesn’t understand him” routines. I’d heard it too many times from friends who were sleeping with the husbands of other friends. But Shirley surprised me. She said something else entirely.

  “You see,” she told me, “Marsha gambled.”

  I leaned forward. “You mean like buying a ticket for the lottery?”

  “No. I mean as in going to the casinos, going to the race track, betting on football games.”

  I sat back a little. This was going to be a case of making a big deal over nothing. “So she dropped twenty, a hundred dollars once in a while. Lots of people do.”

  “This was different. She was into the loan sharks.”

  “For how much?”

  “Thousands.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true. A couple of years ago Merlin took her to Atlantic City for a weekend. One session at the blackjack table and that was that. She was hooked.” Shirley grinned, obviously pleased to be the bearer of such tidings. “Merlin told me he begged her to stop, but she wouldn’t. That’s why they were getting a divorce. He couldn’t stand it anymore. People were making threatening phone calls. They were coming up to the house and demanding payment. It was horrible.”

  I suddenly remembered Merlin’s reaction at the cemetery to the man in the white caddy. This would certainly explain it, but like Shirley’s line of chatter the explanation was a little too pat to suit me. I kept that thought to myself, though, and asked Shirley another question instead. “Did you ever see Marsha gamble?”

  “No, but she was always taking trips.”

  “To the casinos?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever go with her?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know where she went? Did you ask her?”

  Shirley tugged at her hair. “Merlin told me,” she said reluctandy. “We weren’t talking.”

  “Because she found out about you and her husband?”

  “She overheard us on the phone,” Shirley whispered. “I felt really bad.”

  But obviously not bad enough to stop, I thought uncharitably. “So what you’re telling me is that your sole source of information on Marsha is Merlin. Not very reliable, I’d say.”

  Shirley flushed. “He wouldn’t lie.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think that killing Marsha’s dogs and stuffing them indicates a man whose statements about his wife might be a little biased?”

  Shirley’s face turned beet red. “I should never have let you in. Merlin said you were an asshole.”

  I laughed. “Well, it’s good to know he’s right about something.”

  “Get out,” she ordered. “Get out before I call the police.”

  “Fine. I’m going.” I stood up. “Just tell me one thing: Is Merlin worth the price?”

  “You’re a fine one to talk about prices,” Shirley sneered. “Don’t think I don’t remember you and Murphy and all the women he used to ‘entertain’ when you were at work.”

  Now it was my turn to flush. “That’s not true!” I cried.

  “Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t.” Shirley leered at me. “But you don’t know which, do you?”

  She was still smiling when I slammed the door. The moment I hit the fresh air I took a few deep breaths. Jesus, I thought as I tried to get myself under control, thinking about Murphy could still do this to me. It was amazing. I had to get a life. I mean even if what Shirley said was true. So what? Who cared? The man was dead. It didn’t matter. By the time I got to the cab I almost believed it.

  When I opened the cab door Zsa Zsa jumped out and made straight for the grassy verge. I lit a cigarette and smoked it while Zsa Zsa ran around chasing God knows what, and I watched the lightning off in the distance. The storm was definitely heading our way. It was time to go. I picked up Zsa Zsa and put her in the car and headed off to Pete’s. After my scene with Shirley I needed a Scotch.

  By the time I got to the bar the storm had arrived. The rain was coming down in sheets. Branches of lightning filled the sky. I parked as close to Pete’s as I could, grabbed the dog, and ran for it, but even so we were both soaked by the time I got inside.

  Except for George, Connie, and a small bunch of college kids down at the other end of the bar, the place was deserted.

  “You guys look like drowned rats,” Connie informed me. “Here, take these.” She reached under the counter, took out a couple of towels, and threw them in my direction.

  I caught them with my free hand, wrapped Zsa Zsa in one, and began rubbing her down as I walked toward George.

  “She smells like a wet dog,” he said to me as I put her on the stool next to mine.

  “That’s because she is.” I began blotting the water out of my hair. “You look very prep this evening.”

  George fingered the collar on his blue oxford shirt. “That’s the idea,” he said. “You know you just missed Tim.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. We had an interesting conversation about a twenty-two.”

  Trust Tim not to be able to keep his mouth shut, I thought as I hopped up on the stool between Zsa Zsa and George. “You’d like it. It has a pretty pink mother-of-pearl handle and everything.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” George said as Connie sent a double shot of Black Label down my way and set a small saucer of beer in front of Zsa Zsa. She began lapping up her Molson. “I’d be worried if the gun were ugly.”

  I took a sip of Scotch. It warmed by mouth and throat when I swallowed.

  “Don’t you think this Merlin thing is getting out of hand?” George asked.

  “Well, he certainly is.”

  “Exactly my point.” George took a swallow of his beer. The bottle looked small in his hand. “That’s why you should drop it.”

  “That’s what Tim said, too. The only problem is I don’t think I can.”

  “No,” George corrected. “You can, you just don’t want to.” He took a potato chip out of the bowl in front of him, fed one to Zsa Zsa and put another in his mouth. “So where have you been?”

  I told him about my conversation with Shirley, taking care to leave out her comments about Murphy. It was too painful, and anyway I didn’t want to discuss the subject with George. He’d been Murphy’s best friend. I mean what was he going to say? That the man was an asshole? He was too loyal to do that. It was one of George’s more admirable but annoying traits. I finished my Scotch and was just about to signal to Connie when she drifted back up from the other end of the bar. I ordered another Scotch and on a hunch described Merlin and Shirley and asked Connie if they’d ever come in.

  “Not when I’ve been on,” she told me as she set my glass down in front of me.

  “But Marsha has been, right?”

  “Like I said before, every Friday with the Wellington crowd.”

  “What did she talk about?”

  Connie flicked a strand of hair off her forehead with a wave of a finger. “The usual.”

  “Which was?”

  “Her classes. The weather. Her latest diet.”

  “Did Marsha ever talk about her husband?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Did she ever talk about gambling?”

  “I heard she’s a player,” Connie said cautiously.

  “How big a player?”

  She gave me an angelic smile. “Now that will cost you twenty.”

  My eyes widened. I knew Connie cared about money, but this was ridiculous. “You’re kidding.”

  “Do I look like I am?”

  “I thought I was your friend.”

  “You are. Anyone else I’d charge forty.”

  “Jesus,” I grumbled.

  Connie shrugged. “Hey, I’m sorry but I got expenses. I’m just trying to get along same as anyone else.”

  “All right,” I grudgingly a
greed. “But this had better be good.”

  “Oh, it is,” Connie assured me.

  I turned to George and said, “Do me a favor and give her twenty.”

  He choked on his beer. “What?” he asked when he could talk again.

  “You heard me. I asked you to give her twenty.”

  “What’s wrong with your money?”

  “Nothing. I just don’t have any.” I pointed to my glass. “I spent it all on my drinks.”

  “You’re really unbelievable. You have more chutzpah than anyone else I know.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled sweetly. “I try. It’s taken a lot of work and training to reach this advanced state, but despite unbelievable odds I’ve managed to persevere.”

  George snorted. “I want this back,” he said, reluctantly pulling out his billfold and extracting a twenty.

  “Don’t worry,” I told him as I took it and handed it to Connie. “I’m good for it.”

  “Yeah, right,” George muttered.

  “Don’t I always pay you back?”

  “In a word—no.”

  Before I could reply Connie leaned over the bar and plucked the twenty out of my hand. “Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?” she demanded.

  “Yes,” George and I said simultaneously.

  “Fast Eddie Marino.”

  “Who the hell is Fast Eddie Marino?” I asked.

  George took another gulp of beer. “He’s a bookie over on the North Side. He’s connected. He handles big stuff. Moves a lot of cash.”

  “That’s right.” Connie nodded her head vigorously.

  Zsa Zsa jumped onto the bar and headed for the potato chips. I pulled her down and put her on my lap. “And?” I said to Connie.

  “Marsha owed him.”

  “How much?”

  “I heard four or five figures.”

  I choked on the sip of Scotch I’d just taken.

  Chapter 13

  George became absorbed in peeling the label off his bottle of Molson. When he looked back up he had on his cop face. I half expected him to reach into his pocket and take out a pad and a pen and start taking notes. I guess once you’re a cop you’re always one even if you quit the force. You just can’t help it. Or maybe he wanted to make sure I got good value for his twenty bucks. Zsa Zsa reached over and licked the edge of his hand. George gave her an absentminded pat and began drumming his fingers on the bar.

  “So Connie,” he rasped, “where’d you get this information from? Did Marsha tell you?”

  “Not exactly,” Connie hedged.

  “Then who did?” I demanded.

  “My ex-brother-in-law.”

  George rolled his eyes. “Je-SUS.”

  I put out my hand. “Give me back his money.”

  Connie took a couple of steps to the left. “Hey, lighten up. The information’s good. Reggie used to work for Fast Eddie.”

  “Doing what?” I demanded.

  “Reclaiming Eddie’s lost assets.”

  George raised an eyebrow. “You mean he was an enforcer?”

  Connie nervously rubbed her top lip with a knuckle. “What can I say? My sister has lousy taste in men. Put her in a room full of good ones and she’ll come out with the loser every time.”

  George clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Can we talk to this guy?”

  “You can if you can find him.”

  George’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Where’d he go?”

  “Good question.” Connie scratched her cheek. “I don’t know. Nobody does. My sister came home from work last week and he was gone. He’d taken her Trans Am, cleaned out her checking account and split.”

  “She file a report?” George asked.

  “Of course. But nothing’s turned up.”

  I used one of my fingernails to make a “t” on the counter with George’s potato chip crumbs. “So how come Reggie told you this stuff about Marsha?”

  “Because he was here when she walked in. She took one look, turned sheet white, and ran out the door. When I asked him what was going on he told me she owed Fast Eddie some serious money.”

  “I guess we can assume he’d already spoken to her,” I said.

  “I think we can,” George agreed. He turned back to Connie. “Your brother-in-law say anything else?”

  “Not about Marsha,” Connie replied. A couple of the college kids down at the other end of the bar started yelling for Connie. She turned and waved at them. “Gotta go,” she told George and me. “My fans want me.”

  I fed Zsa Zsa a potato chip. “What do you think?” I asked George after Connie left.

  “I think your friend had a serious problem.”

  “Besides that.”

  He cracked a knuckle. “Are you asking me if I think Marsha was killed for a gambling debt?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t. These guys don’t kill people. They scare them, maybe mess them up, but that’s about it.”

  I restrained Zsa Zsa from getting on the bar. “Yeah, but sometimes things get out of hand. Sometimes things don’t always go as planned.”

  “True. Except if I remember the newspaper article about Marsha’s death correctly, it stated that no marks of violence were found on her body. Believe me, if Reggie or one of his friends had had a session with her, she would have had bruises all over.”

  “You’re probably right.” I took a cigarette out of the pack in my backpack and lit it.

  George scowled and waved the smoke away with his hand. “There’s no probably about it. I’ve seen these guys work. Owing that much money however does give her a good reason for suicide.”

  “Or her husband a reason for murder,” I mused. “I know if I had a wife like that I’d want her out of the way. She’d be a real liability.” I thought again about the limo I’d seen at the funeral and Merlin’s reaction to it. “I wonder if Fast Eddie considers Merlin responsible for Marsha’s debts?”

  “Interesting question,” George observed.

  “Think about it. Here you are putting in fifty hours a week on the floor of a furniture store working your ass off selling sofas to ladies who can’t decide between chintz and plaid, and your partner goes out and not only spends everything you bring in but runs up an enormous debt as well. It would sure piss me off. Maybe it pissed Merlin off, too. Maybe that’s why he killed her. He just couldn’t stand it anymore.”

  “You’re conjecturing.”

  “I know, but it makes sense,” I argued.

  “So would a lot of other reasons. The fact is, you want to kill someone, one reason is as good as another.” George twisted his voice into a savage whine. “Officer, he beat me. Officer, she cheated on me. He owed me money. I loved her. I was drunk. She was stoned. It was an accident.” He stopped and took a couple of breaths. “It all comes down to the same shit in the end.”

  “That’s a pretty bleak view.”

  “Most murders are pretty bleak affairs.”

  I flicked my cigarette ash into one of George’s empty Molson bottles. “Well, Marsha’s certainly was.” Zsa Zsa woofed and I scratched her back. “Merlin must have really hated her to do what he did to those dogs.”

  “I’d say so,” George agreed. He took another drink of beer. “One thing you might want to bear in mind,” he continued. “That stuff about Marsha and her gambling problems ...”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s all hearsay.”

  “I know.” I took a moment and rubbed the front of my calf with my toe. My burn scar was itching, a sign I was tired. “Maybe I should just go to Fast Eddie and ask him.”

  He stared at me. “You really are crazy.”

  “Why?”

  “What you gonna do, wear a short skirt, tight sweater and high heels and waltz in there?”

  “Why? Will that help?”

  “No.”

  “Good, because I was planning on wearing jeans and a T-shirt and sneakers.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “I�
��m glad you approve. Anyway, I thought I’d go in and tell him I was a friend of Marsha’s and that I understand they did business together and that I’m very interested in getting in on the action.”

  “And you expect him to tell you—what?”

  “At the very least I’ll find out whether or not Marsha was a customer of his. As for anything else, I guess that’ll depend on how chatty he is.”

  “He’s not.”

  I stubbed out my cigarette and tossed it in the Molson bottle. “Maybe he’ll talk to me.”

  “Why should he do that?”

  “Because I’m good at getting people to talk. When I worked for the paper I used to make my living coaxing people to tell me things.”

  George leaned back and laced his fingers together and put them behind his head. “Gentleman’s bet he won’t say a word.”

  “You’re on.”

  George grinned. Looking at the width of his smile I had a strong feeling there was something he wasn’t telling me. Oh, well. I guess I’d find out what it was soon enough. “Now, you said this guy has ties to the mob.”

  “That’s what I’m told. All these guys do. Central New York is like their summer camp.”

  “So where does he live?”

  “On Pond. He shares an apartment over a sleazoid bar called Outlaw with his mother.”

  “His mother? You’re kidding.”

  “No. I’m serious. She takes care of him. He’s got emphysema or some sort of lung thing really bad. He can’t get around much.”

  “Why do they call him Fast Eddie, then?”

  “Because he’s got this souped-up electric wheelchair he speeds around in. Except of course when you want to arrest him. Then the damn thing won’t move. The prick,” George said with feeling. “Last time I brought him in I had to call two other guys to help me pick Eddie up and put him in the van.”

  “I didn’t think wheelchairs were that heavy.”

  “They are when you have someone weighing over three hundred pounds sitting in one.”