“Of course.”
“You won’t mind if I smoke, Desiree,” da Silva was kind enough to inform me now—just prior to removing a silver cigarette case and lighter from his inside breast pocket.
Well, I did mind. In my minuscule office with its single small window sealed up tight, this is not at all a healthful practice. But I was too intimidated by the man to voice an objection. “I’m afraid I don’t have an ashtray, Mr. da Silva,” was the best I could do, in the vain hope this might discourage him.
“There is no problem,” da Silva responded, lighting up and then turning over this small glass dish on my desk to relieve it of about a dozen paper clips and a few rubber bands. Voilà! He had his ashtray.
He took a long drag on the cigarette, exhaling slowly and filling every last inch of space in my impossibly close quarters with thick, eye-stinging smoke. For a moment I could barely make out his face—although he was sitting not much more than two feet away from me. And breathing from here on in was no picnic, either.
A few seconds later he resumed his narrative. “At any rate, one night Frankie and I were at dinner—he used to like this place in Little Italy—and in the course of our conversation he casually mentioned that the greatest satisfaction he could have in life would be to serve his country. For the first time I became aware of his interest in holding public office. I said to him, ‘Is this really what you want?’ He told me that yes, it was. But he was concerned that unlike most politicians he had no legal background. I said never mind about that. If he was sincere about this, I would make it happen. I told him to leave everything to me. Had he lived, Frankie would have been a senator one day—I am talking about a United States senator. Maybe even president. Trust me, I could have delivered.”
“I’m sure you could,” I responded. But, of course, it was just to be agreeable. Da Silva might have his connections, but Vito da Silva a president-maker? Come on!
“He was already on his way, too. I saw to it he was given a shot at the New Jersey State Assembly last year. There was never any hope of his winning that one—the Republican incumbent was pretty much of a shoo-in, which is why nobody else was anxious to go up against him. But winning wasn’t the purpose of Frankie’s running. I regarded it as an opportunity for him to get his feet wet, to get himself known. All that he needed to do was to make a respectable showing. Well, the fact is, he did a great deal better than anyone expected he would. With the exception of yours truly.”
And then, for the first time, da Silva smiled. It was a decidedly smug smile, I should add. “At any rate, even though he lost, neither Frankie nor I was too disappointed. He got to attend many lavish functions, where he made valuable contacts. And he thoroughly enjoyed himself, too. But what really mattered is that after this election the party regarded Frankie as a vote-getter, a definite up-and-comer. He was being groomed to run in the Democratic primary for Congress two years from now, Desiree. And he had already begun to receive a little media exposure. You may have seen him on television recently. Only three or four weeks ago he was on this panel, talking about reducing automobile insurance in our state. It was on Channel 13.” Da Silva glanced at me inquiringly as he took another long pull on his cigarette.
“I’m afraid I missed it,” I was able to manage—right before I started hacking away.
Da Silva sat there quietly, hands folded in his lap, until the cough subsided. Once he could be reasonably certain my struggle for oxygen wouldn’t be disrupting his monologue, he went on. “That TV appearance gave the women voters a chance to get a good look at Frankie. Which would not have hurt his prospects at all. In case I haven’t mentioned it, this was a very handsome boy.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, now he can never reap the benefits of any of these things.”
He looked so grief stricken at this juncture that I almost reached out to pat the well-padded shoulder—but just in time I remembered who the shoulder belonged to.
“I suppose you want to hear how Frankie was murdered,” da Silva said then.
That’s what you think sprang to my lips. But, naturally, it never passed them. Instead I answered, “Yes, of course.” Mealy-mouthed coward that I am, I was postponing the moment of truth—the time when I’d have to make it unmistakably and irrevocably clear to this man that I was not going to be accepting any assignment from him.
“Frankie was murdered across the street from his office the night before last, as he was leaving for home,” da Silva informed me. “At first, the word was that the shooting occurred during a robbery attempt. A woman who was out walking her dog witnessed the entire episode, including the killer bending over Frankie and starting to relieve him of his valuables. I do not know that he actually took anything, however, because she screamed and frightened him off.”
“You said that at first it was believed Frankie died during a robbery attempt.” I couldn’t help it. My curiosity had been aroused.
“That’s right. Now it appears that it was supposed to seem as if robbery was the motive. But it was not.”
“You sound pretty positive of that.”
“I am. The woman gave the police a description of the car, the one the killer drove off in. And yesterday someone who works in that neighborhood came forward with the information that this same car—a tan 1986 Toyota Camry—had been parked opposite the building for hours.”
“I don’t quite—”
“And there was a man in it.”
It was a couple of seconds before this registered. “So you think whoever did this was lying in wait for Frankie?”
“Don’t you?”
“It looks that way. Any idea who might have wanted Frankie dead?”
“No.” Da Silva had three quick, short puffs of his cigarette, then purposefully ground it out in the makeshift ashtray. The intensity with which he applied himself to the task gave me the impression he was taking out his pain on the stub—or maybe it was serving as a momentary stand-in for Frankie’s killer. Anyhow, following this he looked over at me, frowning. “That is, not really. Frankie and Sheila—his wife—well, the fact is, they did not have a very happy marriage. But Sheila was in Europe two days ago. Of course, there is always the possibility that she had someone else dispose of her unwanted husband. It is also a possibility, however, that she had nothing at all to do with Frankie’s death. I will leave it to you to find out the truth.”
And now there was no more postponing it. “Uh, Mr. da Silva,” I protested, “I wish I could help you, but—”
“You can. And you will.” I was speculating about whether I was being threatened—it certainly sounded like it—but da Silva spoke again before I could make up my mind. “I have already had a talk with the mayor of Riverton. He has seen to it that you will be provided with whatever you need at the station house—it is best if you work out of there—and he has assured me that the police will cooperate fully with you. Naturally, my name is to be kept out of this.” Reaching into his pants pocket now, he removed his wallet, extracting what I assumed was a business card. Then he helped himself to a pen from my desktop and made some notations on the card before handing it to me. “If you should have reason to speak with me, you can contact me at either of those numbers. Otherwise, I will be in touch with you. I assume you have no objection to giving me your home telephone number.”
I was trying to work up the nerve for another attempt at setting da Silva straight when he put in, “I want you to start tomorrow morning. I have written the address of the police station on the back of the card. Ask for the chief—his name is Hicks, and he is expecting you. As for your fee, I believe you will find your compensation more than adequate.” And after a short interval that was obviously employed for effect, he quoted a figure that took away what little breath I had left. I’d never made even half that much on any investigation I was involved in before. “Is that satisfactory?”
He didn’t wait for a response. Which was fortunate because my mouth was still hanging open when he wrote out a nice, fat check as a retainer.
Well, that clinched it.
It’s more than likely that I’m the most cowardly member of my profession. Maybe the greediest, too (although this is something I seriously doubt).
But on the plus side, for a very brief time I was certainly the most expensive.
Chapter 3
As soon as da Silva’s footsteps echoed down the hall, I inspected the card he’d given me. Centered on it was “Allied Plumbing, Inc.” And then about three-quarters of an inch below this and to the left: “Vito da Silva, President.” In the lower right-hand corner was an address and phone number, while scrawled just above that was another set of numbers, which I presumed belonged to da Silva’s home telephone. I flipped over the card. On that side he had jotted down the location of the Riverton police station.
Now that the threat of da Silva in the flesh was removed from my office, I was thoroughly disgusted with myself. How could I have become so intimidated by the man that I was unable to reject him as a client? I had another peek at the hefty check that was still clenched in my tight little fist—on the remote chance it might take a little of the edge off things. But it only got me thinking about how da Silva made his money. Good Lord! And I’d just been put on his payroll!
It was in the midst of all this angst that Jackie burst into the room.
Before I go any further, I suppose I should say a few words about Jackie. When I rented my office space, part of the agreement was that I would get to utilize her services. And, let me tell you, Jackie is without a doubt one of the premier secretaries in New York—if not the premier. Of course, this only partially makes up for her also being the most aggravating. Although when she’s not lecturing me about my tardiness or getting on my back about my work habits, my thoughtlessness, my love life—or a dozen other things I could name—I don’t even have to remind myself that I’m really extremely fond of her.
At any rate, making a face, Jackie frantically waved her arms through the air in a fruitless attempt to dispel the cigarette smoke. Then she crossed the very few steps to my desk. Placing her palms flat on the top, she leaned over until we were practically nose-to-nose. “Was that the Vito da Silva?” she demanded.
“Exactly which Vito da Silva are you referring to?” I responded coyly, attempting to make light of the whole mess.
“Don’t be cute. I almost fainted when he walked in and gave me his name. But anyway, what did that crook want with you?”
“Whaddaya mean crook? Mr. da Silva’s a legitimate businessman.” I held out his card. “Have a look.”
“Allied Plumbing, Inc., my ass. Heads Busted, Inc. would be more like it. So? Why was he here? And lose the smart talk, if you don’t mind.”
“He wants me to find out who killed his friend.”
“Why you? And how did he even get your name?”
“You’re not, by any chance, intimating that the Desiree Shapiro agency doesn’t have a worldwide reputation.”
Jackie frowned at me. “All kidding aside, huh?”
“Okay.” And I explained about da Silva’s having had an acquaintance of his call Elliot for a recommendation.
“You mean our Elliot? Elliot Gilbert?”
“Uh-huh. But don’t breathe a word to him about this. I’m sure he thought he was doing me a favor. After all, he had no way of knowing who that information was intended for.”
“You did say no to da Silva, didn’t you?” Jackie asked, eyeing me suspiciously.
“I tried to, honestly, but he wouldn’t let me.”
“Oh, come on,” she retorted. “How could you have agreed to work for someone like that? You should have told him you were too busy to accept another case or that you were going on an extended vacation in the Himalayas or that your poor old granny had just taken ill—anything!”
“Listen, I did everything I could to get out of this, believe me.”
And now Jackie plopped herself down on the chair. “I don’t like this, Dez,” she said earnestly. “Da Silva—well, he’s a dangerous man. A very dangerous man. Don’t you know how many people he’s supposed to have had shipped off to the great beyond? And I’m sure there are plenty of guys who’d be only too happy to send him on the same kind of trip. It’s not safe even being around your Mr. da Silva. What do you think he has a bodyguard for?”
“A bodyguard?” I echoed stupidly.
“That’s right. And I wish you’d seen him. Big, burly type. The kind that, take it from me, you wouldn’t want not to like you. Da Silva parked him outside the office when he went in to meet with you, and I was watching the guy through the glass doors for a while. He was pacing up and down by the elevators, and he kept looking over his shoulder every few seconds.”
“I appreciate your concern, Jackie, but if you’re worried about my safety, don’t be. I’ll be fine. Besides, I already accepted a retainer from da Silva—a very large retainer.”
“I don’t care how large it is. And since when did you get so mercenary?”
“Since he told me what he’d be paying me.” And because this was the only thing I had to smile about, I smiled.
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” Jackie snapped. “No matter what you’re making, it won’t be much good to you if you’re in your grave.”
“Gee, there’s a lovely thought.”
“I’m trying to talk some sense into you, Desiree Shapiro. Suppose da Silva decides that he . . . well, that he can’t stand the color of your hair. He wouldn’t even hesitate to have you rubbed out.”
“Oh, puleeze!” I protested, absently patting my glorious hennaed locks. “Don’t you think that’s maybe a little far fetched?”
“Of course it is. I didn’t mean for you to take it literally. I only want you to wake up. Let me give you a real possibility, though.
“Say you learn that one of da Silva’s cohorts—or whatever you want to call them—committed the murder.” Anticipating (incorrectly) that I might interrupt her here, she hurriedly answered the question I was not about to ask with a brusque “for whatever reason” before going on.
“The thing is, though, it turns out that da Silva is very close to this particular cohort, and he refuses to accept that the man murdered his friend. Do you think da Silva would allow you to go to the cops with what he considers your unfounded suspicions? Not on your life. He’d see to it you were put out of commission—permanently.”
It was more the dramatic reading it had been accorded than the word itself, but when Jackie said permanently, a knot began to form in my stomach.
“And that’s only one example of what you could be facing. Return the check, Dez. Please.” Even her eyes were pleading with me.
“I swear to you, I’d do it in a second if it would get me off the hook.”
“All right then. What if I call da Silva? You know how convincing I can be. I could give him some story like . . . like you’ve just been rushed to the hospital with a heart attack.”
I guffawed at that one. “You don’t think he would want to know which hospital? And that he might go just a tad ballistic when he found out I wasn’t a patient there?”
“I suppose,” Jackie conceded dejectedly. “Oh, how I wish that man had never walked in here.”
“So do I, Jackie,” I told her as the knot tightened. “So do I.”
I took off for home at around four-thirty, soon after the conversation with Jackie.
My answering machine was winking at me when I got in. I pressed Playback.
“Aunt Dez?” said this close-to-hysterical voice. “Call me right away. I’m at the store.”
Now, I know my niece well enough to recognize that this kind of urgency in her tone is not necessarily an indication that the sky is falling. Nevertheless, I dialed her number at Macy’s, where she works as a buyer, even before taking off my suit jacket.
She picked up on the first ring.
“What’s wrong, Ellen?”
“Why would you do that?” she screeched. A few notes higher, and the question would have been audible only to
dogs.
“Do what?”
“How could you put yourself in jeopardy like this?”
“Would you mind telling me what you’re talking about?” I said, although the fog was beginning to lift.
“I called you at the office before, but you’d just left. Jackie told me you now have a gangster for a client? Have you got any idea at all what people like that do to someone who crosses them?”
God! As Yogi Berra would say, it was déjà vu all over again. I wanted to scream. But realizing that, like Jackie, Ellen was sincerely worried about my welfare, I made an almost Herculean effort to keep my tone level. “Listen, I don’t intend to cross the man, so I’ll be perfectly all right.”
“I understand he even has to have a bodyguard! It’s like a movie, for heaven’s sake.”
Damn Jackie and that big, overworked mouth of hers! I slipped off my jacket.
“Well, uh, it’s the kind of business he’s in,” I offered lamely. “There’s a lot of money involved.”
“It has nothing to do with money, and you know it,” Ellen retorted. After which she threw in the proof: “Not even Donald Trump has a bodyguard.” (Although it was delivered with a great deal of conviction, this information should not be taken as gospel, since Ellen and The Donald rarely hang out together.) “Jackie told me the bodyguard looked really menacing, too.”
I am going to strangle you, Jackie. Just you wait!
“Anyhow, you have to get out of this,” Ellen insisted. “You’ll be able to think up an excuse. Tell da Silva you have a health problem or something.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that easy.” And then resignedly, as I kicked off my shoes: “Let me explain . . .”
Well, I talked my heart out about how determined da Silva had been that I take him on as a client—and that at this point there was nothing in the world I could do about the situation.
Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite Page 2
