by Parnell Hall
“What?”
“Shoe-shine boy. Don’t you love it? Whole world’s gone bust, no one can afford a quart of milk, people really gonna waste their money on a shoe shine. But Milton Castleton takes the money he saved up serving his stint in the army and opens a hole-in-the-wall-shoe-shine parlor on Flatbush Avenue. By rights he should go bust, right?”
“Right.”
“Wrong. He prospers. The whole world goes in the toilet and Milton Castleton cleans up.”
“Shining shoes?”
“No. I would imagine that wasn’t so prosperous. But Milton Castleton had a sideline.”
“What’s that?”
“Bathtub gin.”
Steve stared at him. “You’re saying he was in the mob?”
Taylor shook his head. “No. That’s the remarkable thing. He wasn’t. He was totally independent.”
“No shit. How the hell’d he do that? You move into that territory, you’re just asking for it.”
Taylor shrugged. “Apparently Milton Castleton could walk on water. He was smart, he didn’t make waves, he didn’t step on anybody’s toes. Plus he was protected. If there were problems, they were on a lower level. It never got up to him.”
“Jesus Christ. How long did he get away with it?”
“Till repeal. Which, of course, was the end. That’s when the mob had to diversify, get into other things. Gambling had always been big, and drugs were the coming thing. A lot of bootleggers started leaning that way.
“But not Castleton. ’Cause all through the Depression he’d been using the money he’d been making to snap up real estate at bargain-basement prices. Now, with the economy slowly beginning to recover, he was able to rent out space to businesses— Castleton Realty. Also to start a few small businesses on his own—Castleton Manufacturing.
“At the same time he’d been dabbling in the stock market. He had a genius for it. He was making money hand over fist. So much so, people were noticing. People started coming to him for advice, which he was only too happy to give. As long as they wanted to join the fold—Castleton Investments and Securities.
“By the time World War Two came, Castleton had a lot of real estate, a lot of manufacturing companies, and a lot of friends in high places, and guess who wound up with a whole bunch of lucrative defense contracts?”
Taylor shrugged. “It goes on and on. Castleton Industries just kept growing, gobbling up property and business. Mergers, buyouts, hostile takeovers, what have you.”
Taylor turned the page. “Now, here’s where we gotta talk. You told me I got a free hand. That’s fine, but let’s get serious here. A preliminary look into Castleton Industries tells me I could investigate it till doomsday. He’s been pulling shit for nearly sixty years. That fifty-thousand dollar settlement’s nothing. I could use up your share and your client’s share, and never even scratch the surface. I figure what you want is whatever’s most recent, so that’s what I’m looking into. I’ll give you what I got.
“Four years ago you got a hostile takeover of Fielding Tool and Die. Castleton bought up a controlling interest in the stock, then liquidated the company, took a tax loss and is using the shell of it for one of his other ventures. Fine on paper. In practice, it put ten thousand employees out of work. That’s just one instance, one of the more recent. If you’re looking for people with a grudge against Milton Castleton, you’d have to rent a football stadium to seat ’em.
“Three years back there was a scandal at Castleton Investments and Securities. Insider trading. Two vice presidents actually indicted. Nothing was proved, and the charges were eventually dropped. Both guys were promptly fired. Frank Heckstein and Alan Carr. Young men in their thirties, aggressive go-getters with a little too much initiative. Still, with the charges dropped, their dismissal has to be a kick in the teeth. I mean, what ever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”
“That doesn’t work with employers. What else?”
“Two years back you got another scandal. Castleton Investments and Securities. A mere matter of a hundred-and-some-odd-grand embezzlement. That time the charges weren’t dropped. The bookkeeper, one Herbert Clay, took the fall and is currently doing five to ten.”
“Anything to that?”
Taylor shook his head. “The guy may be sore, but he’s got no beef coming. He liked to play the ponies, apparently wasn’t too good at it. Typical embezzlement situation. Misappropriation of funds. Hands-on bookkeeper diverts money into his own pocket for gambling—no problem if he wins and can pay it back. Faced with an audit, he plunges, loses, and that’s all she wrote. Anyway the people who would have a beef would be the people who got ripped off, but Castleton made good on it, so that’s that.”
Taylor looked up from his notes. “Now, that’s just scratching the surface. There’s a lot more to get and I’m trying to get it, but I’m telling you, it’s gonna be overwhelming. Castleton was a ruthless businessman. There’s gonna be people he screwed on business deals, people he drove out of business, companies he bought and liquidated like this tool-and-die place, employees he fired and screwed over. A real mess. Anyway, I’m looking into it.
“Castleton retired two years ago, shortly after the embezzlement fiasco. That’s why it’s the last thing I dug up. Anything more recent would be while his son, Stanley Castleton, was in charge. Not that it necessarily makes a difference, but there you are. Anyway, in the last two years there’s been nothing significant enough to hit the papers. But, as I say, we’re still digging.”
Taylor ran his hand over his head. “And that’s just the business side.” He flipped through the notebook. “On the personal side, the guy’s been married four times. Two of the marriages ended in divorce. Two of his wives died.”
“Anything there?”
“Suspicious, you mean?” Taylor shook his head. “One was cancer. The other was a car accident.”
“The car accident sounds promising.”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t. This was over thirty years ago. His third wife. A four-car pileup on the Major Deegan. Three people killed, she was one of them. Now, with a one car-accident you can say, sure, maybe someone tampered with the brakes or something. But a four-car pileup, you gotta figure it’s legit.”
“Yeah, I guess so. What else?”
“The four marriages produced one child. Stanley Castleton, currently running the company. That was with his second wife, Ellen. She’s still alive, by the way, living quite happily on her alimony, thank you very much. She’s ten years younger than Castleton, which makes her sixty-eight.
“The other wife still alive is wife number four.” Taylor grinned. “Betsy Ross, if you can believe that. She’s a lot younger than Castleton. Like forty years. She married him when he was sixty-four, stayed with him for two years and hit him up for a pocketful of change. All of which was spelled out in the prenuptial agreement, by the way. No illusions there. In her case, he didn’t buy, he leased. Anyway, she’s currently residing in California, where she calls herself an actress. She’s not getting any work, but with the terms of her settlement she doesn’t ever have to.
“Aside from the marriages, there were numerous affairs and assignations. All of which, I gather, were to be detailed in the memoirs your client was typing. Whether there’s anything in that, I don’t know.”
“I don’t, either, but it’s an interesting thought. Is that it?”
“That’s it so far. As I said, I’m still digging.”
“All right. What about my client?”
“A big zero. As expected, Kelly Blaine’s not her right name. Not unless she skipped some of the usual things people do, like getting a driver’s license, applying for a social security number or getting born.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, but it’s what we expected. Only hope I see is through the personal contact.”
“Which is happening now?”
Taylor looked at his watch. Shrugged. “Any time now.”
11.
MARCIE KELLER DIDN’T
WANT to push it. The guy was interested, yeah, but it was a casual interest. Not like he was seriously thinking of picking her up.
Which was strange. Because David Castleton seemed like the playboy type. And if he was, Marcie should have been right up his alley. Blonde, slim, with a fashion model’s face. But in no way cold and distant. Laughing eyes, slightly bored expression—the completely indifferent ploy that usually drove men nuts. Hell, he should have been all over her.
Especially in a place like this. It was a singles bar on Third Avenue. High-class, but definitely a pickup bar. It was early evening and the place was jammed. It would thin out later when people made contacts and wandered off together. But most of them would have a few good drinks first.
David Castleton was on his second. So was Marcie, though she was trying to take it easy. After all, this was business. Marcie had bought the first drink herself. David Castleton had paid for the second.
She’d tailed him here from work, picked him up when he came out of the building on Third Avenue where Castleton Industries held their offices, recognized him from the picture one of Mark Taylor’s men had managed to dig up from the newspaper morgue. Newspaper pictures can be deceiving, but it was a good likeness, and she’d been ninety percent sure it was him. Still, ninety percent wasn’t good enough, and it had been a relief when she’d tailed him to an address on Fifth Avenue, an address that turned out to be that of Milton Castleton’s apartment. Which made it a hundred percent sure thing.
David Castleton had been in there for something over an hour, then come out and walked over to Third Avenue, then down to the bar, which was actually only a few blocks from the office.
They’d been there fifteen to twenty minutes. She’d played it cool, taken it slow. The place had been pretty crowded when they got there, so there was no danger of him spotting her right away, no chance of him seeing she had come in at the same time. David Castleton had pushed his way into the center of the bar and ordered a drink. She’d hung out at the far end and ordered one, too.
She’d waited until he was nearly finished with his drink before making her way down the bar and squeezing in beside him to hold up her empty glass for the bartender. It was the simplest of pickup routines. “Excuse me,” as she jostled his arm, was all she’d had to say.
She’d fed him some bullshit line about being an actress and a model. He’d shown only polite interest. And hadn’t opened up at all about himself. Hadn’t tried to impress her with the Castleton millions. Which would only have been natural for a young stud like him.
Which was annoying. This should have been an easy assignment. Instead it was like pulling teeth.
“So, what do you do?” Marcie ventured. It was the second time she’d asked.
He tugged at his tie. “I told you. I’m in business.”
“You didn’t say what business.”
He shrugged. “Hey, the way I see it, business is business.”
“A junkyard’s a business. You don’t look like you do that.”
“Naw. White-collar, I mean.”
David Castleton ran his finger under his white collar, unbuttoned it, loosened his tie. Marcie couldn’t tell if he’d done it to make a joke, or if he’d been totally oblivious of the connection. Not wanting to rock the boat, she let it go.
“Let me guess,” she said. “Advertising?”
“No.”
“Maybe I just want it to be advertising so you can get me a commercial.”
“Uh huh.”
He wasn’t really listening. He glanced at his watch, then at the door.
Marcie frowned. Shit. He was meeting someone. That’s why he wasn’t interested. Of all the rotten breaks. If she was gonna get anything out of him, she was gonna have to move fast.
Which wasn’t gonna work. She was gonna have to wash the evening out, come back and try again tomorrow. Providing he came to this bar. Then she could talk to him again. But if he went anywhere else, there was no way she was gonna get away with the coincidence of bumping into him there.
No, the way Marcie saw it, there was only one way to go. Take the bull by the horns and try the ‘you’re waiting for someone, aren’t you?’ routine.
She was just about to do that when he said, “Excuse me,” and moved away from the bar.
And that was that. Win some, lose some. Wash out this assignment. Even though it wasn’t her fault, Marcie felt bad. She was good at what she did, and she liked to deliver the goods. Well, not this time.
Marcie watched as David Castleton pushed his way through the crowd, making his way to the door. Shit. He couldn’t be leaving, could he? If he did she’d have to follow, and that’d be a bitch, following him without being spotted after trying to pick him up. Relax, she told herself. He couldn’t be leaving, he’s waiting for someone. That’s it. They just came in. They just came in and he’s meeting them now.
As she watched, David Castleton raised his hand, called and waved to someone standing near the door. He squeezed his way past a young couple and reached the doorway. There. The young woman. Of course. No wonder she couldn’t make any time.
A girl standing in her line of vision stepped to the side and she could see the woman clearly. So, that’s what she was competing with. Slim figure, large breasts, and—
Oh shit!
Marcie took a breath. Jesus Christ, it was her, wasn’t it? It was the woman she’d been told to look out for. Christ, what did she do now? If they stayed here, she’d already made contact, so maybe she could get close and listen in.
But what if they left? She couldn’t really follow. She would if she had to, but it wouldn’t be wise. She should call for backup.
Which wouldn’t be easy. The phone was in the back of the bar near the rest rooms. She’d already scouted it out. It would be a bitch to get to in this crowd. But she had no choice. If they stayed, she’d have to phone. If they left, she’d have to follow. Either way, she had to be ready.
She swallowed the rest of her drink, put the glass down and moved away from the bar. It was tough to see them through the crowd. It would be tougher still to get to the door, if that’s where they were heading.
But they weren’t. He was leading her through the crowd back to the bar.
Okay. They’re staying. Go for the phone.
Marcie threaded her way through the crowd. She reached the pay phone in the back of the bar, dropped in a quarter, punched in the number. It rang twice and the switchboard picked up.
“Taylor Detective Agency.”
“It’s Marcie. It’s urgent. Get me Mark.”
Marcie craned her neck, looked down the bar just in time to see David Castleton toss down his drink, throw a couple of bucks on the bar and pick up the check.
Shit. They were leaving. He’d gone back to get his bar bill.
Mark Taylor’s voice was just saying, “Hello?” when Marcie dropped the receiver and began fighting her way through the crowd.
Knowing it was futile. Knowing she could never get there in time.
She was right.
By the time she got to the front door, they were gone.
12.
“I FUCKED UP.”
Steve Winslow frowned. Well, at least she wasn’t mincing any words.
Steve had just finished dinner and gotten back to his Greenwich Village apartment when Mark Taylor had called to tell him what happened. He’d taken a cab back uptown and gotten to the Taylor Detective Agency just in time for Marcie Keller’s debriefing.
Which wasn’t pleasant. Mark Taylor wasn’t in the best of moods. He obviously agreed with Marcie’s succinct assessment of the situation, and Steve figured it was only his presence that was keeping Taylor from taking her head off. So Steve found himself in the uncomfortable position of being a buffer between them. Which wasn’t easy, since he was pretty pissed off too.
“Tell me about it,” Steve said.
Marcie grimaced. “It was a bonehead play. I blew it.”
“We know that,” Taylor snapped. “Just gi
ve us the details.”
“Tell it from the beginning,” Steve said. “How did you pick him up and what happened?”
Marcie took a breath. “Okay. I staked out Castleton Industries on Third Avenue as instructed. I spotted him leaving work at approximately five-fifteen. I tailed him from there to an address on Fifth Avenue that turned out to be the apartment of Milton Castleton. He went in, came out an hour and five minutes later, and walked to a singles bar on Third Avenue about two blocks up from Castleton Industries.
“I followed him in, approached him at the bar, tried to lure him into conversation. He wasn’t having any. Which was strange, ’cause I was making myself look like an easy score. He wasn’t interested, so I figured he was either gay or he was meeting someone.
“Turned out he was meeting someone. Girl comes in. Short brown hair. Attractive face. Subtle makeup. Slim body, big breasts. I figure it’s her, the one I was told to look out for.
“So I got a big decision to make. If they leave there I gotta tail them, but it’s gonna be hard not to be spotted after trying to pick up the guy. What I should do is call for backup, but if they’re leaving right away there’s no time. The only phone’s in the back of the bar, the bar’s crowded and it’s not an easy call. I gotta watch and see what they’re gonna do. If they leave, I’m gone. If they stay, I call.
“Now he’s gone to meet her by the door, and they’re standing there and talking so I’m ready to go. But then he’s bringing her back to the bar where he’d been drinking. I figure they’re staying, I figure I’m shot as a tail, I gotta call for backup, then go back to my place at the bar, listen in on the conversation if I can, maybe even get an introduction. So I go to a phone to make the call.
“I figure wrong. The guy just went back for his bar bill. He grabs it, heads for the door. I drop the phone, try to follow, but it’s crowded, he’s got a head start, and by the time I get out the door they’re gone.”
