“Slowly. I might have to give up on the girl if I’m going to do Wood any good.”
“That’ll be too bad for her.”
“Yeah,” I said, “maybe. I’m going to go in the back and catch a shower. Could I get some French onion soup and veal parmigiana?”
“A crock.”
“What?”
“You want a bowl or a crock?”
“The bigger the better.”
“You got it.”
“I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.” I waved my thanks and went up the steps to the kitchen. Exchanging greetings with the cook, I walked through and went out the back door. It was already getting dark out, but in that enclosed space behind Bogie’s, it was already pitch black, so I didn’t see or hear him coming. I had started up the steps to the office when somebody hit me with a good kidney punch from behind. Paralyzed, I fell to the steps on my left side, reaching for my right kidney. My stomach was exposed and I was struck a second blow there, just as good as the first.
My nose was pushed into one of the steps as I fought for breath.
“Get up,” a man’s voice said. His tone of voice was flat, without emotion, and he spoke barely above a whisper.
I opened my mouth to answer, but hadn’t yet recovered enough breath to do so.
“Come on,” the man said, his tone changing to one of impatience. “I didn’t hit you that hard.” I felt his hand on my shoulder, and he turned me over so that I was lying on my back. All I could see was the silhouette of what appeared to be a fairly big man. I couldn’t see any part of his face at all.
“I said up,” he said, reaching down to grab me by the front of my coat. As he pulled me to my feet I was able to take my first decent breath, and it was like ambrosia, but I had the feeling that he didn’t intend to give me much time to enjoy it.
“Wait—” I croaked.
“What for?” he asked. He spun me around and propelled me toward a brick wall with enough force to bounce me back off it. He was waiting for me and hit me with a well-executed roundhouse kick. I went flying back toward the wall, hit it, and slid down onto the cold ground. My lip was split and I could feel the blood running down my chin.
Bells were ringing in my head and for a moment I thought I was back in the ring, with the referee counting over me.
The Ricardi fight, I thought. My last fight. The ref could have counted over me all day in that one.
Putting my hands behind me, against the wall, I pushed myself to my feet.
“Why—” I started to say, but he cut me off, planting his foot on the other side of my face. I slid along the wall until I fell on my left side, spitting blood. That time he’d hit me harder, and if that trend continued I figured he just might end up beating me to death.
I had to do something. If I didn’t fight back, then I had to make enough noise to attract some help.
If I could get up again.
Come on, Jacoby, I told myself, planting my hands on the wall again, beat the count . . . seven . . . eight . . . nine . . .
I was up, leaning against the wall, and the silhouette of my attacker was coming closer. Behind him were the lights of Bogie’s kitchen, shining on the bank of garbage pails.
As he moved toward me I marshaled whatever reserve strength I had for a final round flurry. Pushing off the wall I shouted at the top of my lungs and lunged for him. He was faster, as I knew he would be, and stepped aside, tripping me up. I was losing my balance, but I pumped my legs as hard as I could, desperately trying to stay on my feet until I could reach the trash pails.
I hit the pails like a bowling ball mowing down ten pins, only I made ten times as much noise. There was some shouting from inside the kitchen—in Korean, from the cook—but by the time the back door opened, bathing the area in light, the silhouetted figure had gone.
That made the time right for me to close my eyes and take a little nap. . . .
When I woke up I was in the office lying on the bed, and one of the waitresses was bathing my face with a damp, warm cloth.
“He’s awake,” she said to someone behind her.
Over her shoulder I saw Billy come into view, a look of concern on his face.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet,” I said, sitting up. The waitress stood up and went into the bathroom to dampen the cloth again. When she came back I said, “Thanks,” and took it from her.
“That’s okay, Alison,” Billy said. “Thanks.”
“Sure.”
She left and I got to my feet, dabbing my mouth with the damp washcloth.
“What happened?” Billy asked.
“Somebody was mad at me,” I said, walking into the bathroom. I ran the cold water over the cloth and applied it to the back of my neck.
“Did you see who it was?”
“It was too dark,” I said, “but I know one thing.”
“What?”
“He had more than a working knowledge of karate. I don’t know who he was, but at least that narrows it down.”
“Somebody from the institute?”
“Maybe,” I said, pulling the chair out from behind the desk and sitting down.
“Why?”
I shrugged, fanning the cloth out to wipe my face. I smelled pretty ripe from the garbage pails, and had several ugly smears on my pants. My coat was on the floor and bore similar splotches.
“I don’t know, unless—” I started to say, but we were interrupted by the telephone.
“I’ll get it,” Billy said, and picked up the receiver before it could ring again. He spoke briefly and then held it out to me.
“It’s for you. A woman.”
I took the phone and said, “Hello?”
“You creep!” a woman’s voice said.
“Who is this?”
“Pig!” she said. “You may have fooled Ginger, but you can’t fool me.”
“Fallon? Is that you?”
“You bet it is, cop.”
“Fallon, I’m no cop—”
“If you’re not, you’re something worse. You’re a spy.”
“Fallon, listen to me—”
“I don’t know what you were trying to pull with that story you told Ginger—”
“What I told Ginger was true,” I said, interrupting her. “I am looking for Melanie Saberhagen.”
“I didn’t like the little bitch,” she said, “but it’s still her right not to be found, if she doesn’t want to be. You won’t get any help from us.”
“Fallon, look, let’s meet somewhere and talk about this. Maybe I can make you see—”
“Forget it. I don’t like cops, spies, or whatever the hell it is you are.”
“Fal—”
“And don’t come around the institute,” she said, plowing right on. “Greg and the others wouldn’t mind giving you a lesson in full contact karate.”
I started to reply, but abruptly she hung up and I was left with a dead line.
“That was one of the girls from the institute?” Billy asked.
“Yeah,” I said, hanging up. “Damn it, Billy, I blew it. I pushed too hard. Ginger must have told Fallon I was there this morning, and Fallon’s smarter than her roommate.” I threw the washcloth down on the desk in disgust and said, “None of them will talk to me now, that’s for damn sure.”
“Well, look at the bright side,” Billy said. “You can work on Wood’s case now.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
I took the washcloth back into the bathroom with me and began to strip for a shower.
“You still want that soup?” Billy called to me.
“You bet,” I said, realizing that I was chilled to the bone from rolling around on the ground and in the garbage.
“Hey, Jack.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think what happened out here tonight has anything to do with that phone call?”
“It had occurred to me, but there’s another question I’d like answered, too.”
“What
’s that?”
“How did she know to call me here at Bogie’s? And how did my friend know to wait for me out back?”
“Somebody’s following you?”
“Looks like it, which brings up questions I’m just too beat to think about right now. All I want is a hot shower, some hot food, and then I’ll roll all those questions up, stick them underneath my mattress, and sleep on them.”
I took a long, leisurely shower, secure in the thought that Billy would keep my food hot. My face ached on both sides, and as I stood beneath the hot spray, I hoped my jaw wouldn’t swell up too badly. A few other aches and bruises were slowly manifesting themselves, but there was nothing that seemed too major.
When I finally made it to the restaurant, Detective Hocus was already seated at my table, enjoying a plate of linguine with clam sauce. I looked at Billy, who simply shrugged and then looked away guiltily.
“On duty or off?” I asked Hocus, seating myself across from him.
“What’s the difference?” he asked. “Either way a man’s got to eat.”
“Billy call you?”
He looked up at me over a forkful of linguine and said, “Yeah, he did. He said somebody had bounced your head off a wall a few times, and he didn’t think you were going to call me.”
“Why should I call you? If I wanted to make a complaint I’d go down to the local precinct.”
At that point Alison came over, a pretty, dark-haired girl who had only been working at Bogie’s for about a month, and asked me if I was ready to eat. I said I was, and she went off to get my long-awaited crock of soup.
“Where’s your partner?”
“Wright can’t eat this stuff, you know that,” Hocus said. “Not with his ulcer.”
Alison brought my soup over and told me to let her know when I was ready for my veal.
“Your face looks like shit,” Hocus said.
“Thanks. It feels like it, too.”
“What happened?”
I ran it down for him while trying not to let my soup get cold, and then he asked, “You never got a clear look at his face?”
“Not once.”
“Any ideas?”
“One or two . . . maybe.”
“What are you working on?”
“You know that. A missing girl, and the Knock Wood Lee case.”
“You think this had anything to do with Wood’s case?”
“I don’t see how, or why. I haven’t really come up with anything, or stepped on anyone’s toes.”
“What have you done?”
“I’ve put out a few feelers,” I said, waving to Alison that I was ready. “I’m looking for a couple of guys.”
“Who?”
“Mort Snow and Leo Piper.”
“Bookies.”
“Yeah, so?”
“You want a drink?”
“A beer.”
Alison brought my dinner over, and Hocus asked her to bring us two beers. He watched her walk to the bar, then looked back at me.
“Leo Piper’s nobody to play with,” he said.
“Piper? Why is he any different from Snow, or Arnie Court?”
“Arnie Court?” Hocus said, laughing. “Is that old geezer still making book?”
“When he can find his phone.”
“You looking for him, too?”
“I already found him.”
“Was Cross into him?”
“For seven grand.”
“And you’re looking to find out if he was into Snow or Piper, too?”
“Sure. It’s the logical move, isn’t it?”
“Oh, it’s logical, all right,” Hocus said. “And maybe one of them decided it was logical to have someone come over and bounce you around a little.”
“Maybe.”
“You’ve been in the ring with men who were trying to hurt you,” Hocus said. “Was this guy trying to kill you?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, then added, “well, not at first, anyway, but he might have been working his way up to it.”
He finished up his linguine just as Alison came with the drinks, and she took his plate.
“Did you find out anything about the guy?” he said, lifting his bottle of St. Pauli Girl.
“Yeah,” I said, touching my jaw, “he hits hard, and he knows karate.”
“Karate?”
“Yeah, he threw a couple of roundhouse kicks that were things of beauty.”
“Wood knows karate.”
“That’s a coincidence,” I said, and then added, “hell, so does Billy.”
“What about this missing girl thing?”
“Didn’t I tell you about that?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Just a missing girl,” I said. “Her old man sent her to New York to go to school, and she split.”
“That’s it?”
“What more could there be? It’s a simple case, but it’s time-consuming. I think I’m going to turn it over to someone else so I can work exclusively on Wood’s case.”
“That makes sense,” he said, draining his beer bottle and setting it down on the table.
“Another?”
“No, I’ve got to get back,” he said, standing up. “Sorry I can’t stay and watch you eat. Are you going to make a complaint?”
“There’s no point,” I said. “I can’t give a good description of the guy.”
“Be careful, then,” Hocus said, “especially around Leo Piper. He is not a nice man.”
“I’ll remember.”
“You, uh, want me to run that girl’s description downtown for you?”
“I already did,” I said, smiling. “I’ve got a contact in the MPU.”
“I don’t want to hear about your stoolies in Missing Persons,” he said. “Just remember what I said. Be careful, and watch your tail.”
“It’s not my tail that got beat up on,” I said, wiggling my jaw and rubbing my sore kidney, “but thanks for the warning.”
After Hocus left I stared at my veal morosely, acutely aware that I hadn’t given Robert Saberhagen his money’s worth. I was halfheartedly buttering a piece of bread from the bread basket when Billy came over and sat down.
“Mad?”
“At you? For what?”
“Why are you looking so down, then?”
“Guilt, I guess.”
“About what?”
I put the bread and knife down and said, “I blew it, Billy. I was so concerned with Wood’s case that I pushed too hard and didn’t give my other client a fair shake.”
“There’s still time.”
“Wood can’t wait.”
“What are you going to do, then?”
“Call him, explain it to him.”
“Give him his money back?”
I made a face and said, “I don’t know if I feel that guilty.”
“You could get someone else to work on it for you.”
I picked up the bread and said, “I’ll call him first, let him decide what he wants to do. He should know that I fucked up.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I know one thing.”
“What?”
“You’d better eat that veal before it gets cold,” he said, standing up, “or you’ll have my cook to answer to, and he’s mad enough at you for upsetting his garbage pails.”
“Yeah,” I said, “when it rains it pours.”
I had just slid between the sheets when the phone rang. That late at night it just had to be for me. I also had the feeling that it had to be bad news.
“Jacoby,” I said.
“Jack, it’s Heck.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I just thought I’d let you know . . . Knock Wood Lee was arraigned today, without bail.”
“What charge?”
“Murder one.”
“I thought they only said that on television.” Heck recognized that for the feeble attempt at humor that it was and ignored it.
&nb
sp; “When’s his trial?” I asked.
“Three weeks.”
“That’s kind of soon, isn’t it?”
“There was an opening on the calendar, and Judge Willis doesn’t like bookies, Chinamen, . . . or murderers.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks for the call, Heck.”
“You’re welcome. Goodnight.”
“Not so far,” I said, and hung up.
Thirteen
In the morning I left through a small alley between buildings that leads to Eighth Avenue—which was probably how my attacker had gotten in and out the night before—and crossed the street to have breakfast at McDonald’s. I lingered over it long enough so that when I did call Saberhagen in Detroit I was fairly sure he’d be in his office. It was bad enough that I didn’t have good news for him, without waking him up to tell him so.
Saberhagen listened patiently while I explained that I hadn’t yet found his daughter, and that another matter concerning murder had come up. I didn’t bother going into detail.
“I see,” he said, finally.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Saberhagen. I think if I had more time—”
“Couldn’t you have another operative work on finding my daughter?”
“It would cost more,” I said, feeling just a hint of guilt about bringing it up.
“That doesn’t matter. You must be close after all this time. Another man might be able to pick up where you left off.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll be in touch as soon as we find out anything.”
“Remember,” he said, “just let me know where she is when you find her. Don’t approach her, or she might disappear again.”
“I’ll remember, Mr. Saberhagen.”
“Thank you for staying on the case, Mr. Jacoby.”
“Thank you for understanding my situation. I’ll be talking to you soon.” And thanks for keeping me among the gainfully employed, I added mentally.
“I hope very soon,” he said, and hung up.
I hung up, hoping the same thing.
I already knew who I wanted to use to find Melanie Saberhagen, and I made that my next call.
Henry Po was a friend of mine, a licensed P.I. who worked almost exclusively in the world of horse racing. He was employed as an investigator for the New York State Racing Club, but on occasion he had been willing to help me out.
Full Contact Page 7
