A Cast of Killers

by Gallagher Gray

  "Why would someone choose to imbibe at such a place?" Herbert Wong wondered out loud. They had found the Westsider. It was a corner bar with windows thickly coated over with black paint. The sign, faded and dangling from a single chain, slapped against the side of the building with a dull thud every time a truck roared past—which was frequently, since the only barrier between the bar and the Westside Highway was a narrow concrete sidewalk.

  Inside the Westsider was even less uplifting. For starters, it smelled sour, and old, like the bottom of a long forgotten keg of beer. The floor was cracked linoleum and coated with a sticky scum that made little sucking noises every time they lifted their feet. A row of torn fake-leather booths lined one wall and the tables between the ripped, overstuffed seats were marred by years of scratched-in initials and vaguely disreputable stains that were clearly visible even given the almost nonexistent lighting. The bar was nearly as dark as a tomb and only slightly more lively. A television at one end blared championship wrestling. The only other patron was a toothless old man perched at one end of a long bar. He was sucking down a juice glass full of watery draft beer as he watched the televised action. Occasionally, he'd grunt with satisfaction or hoot in glee at a particularly nasty body slam.

  The bartender was a barrel-shaped woman clad in a too-tight yellow knit shirt and bright blue polyester pants. She wore black glasses of a cat-eye style popular thirty years before. Her obviously dyed blonde hair swirled above her head like the top of a frozen custard ice cream cone. Some sailor had left her there in 1944, T.S. decided, and never looked back.

  Engrossed in the wrestling, the bartender hardly looked up when they entered. Apparently, a little old lady dressed in expensive clothes and accompanied by an impeccably clad Asian gentleman and middle-aged executive type was not an unusual sight around the Westsider. Nor did the bartender seem interested that, between them, they were hauling seven pocketbooks.

  "Hear no evil, see no evil," Herbert remarked.

  They chose the booth closest to the door where the air was a little bit fresher. T.S. piled the pocketbooks into a heap in the middle of the battle-worn table.

  "Drinks?" Auntie Lil suggested brightly.

  "Not without an inoculation first," T.S. declared.

  "Where do we begin?" Herbert picked up a small green suede bag. "Examine the contents and guess which one is hers?"

  "No. We can do better than that," Auntie Lil decided. "The other actresses insist that Emily always carried a matching handbag. She was wearing a light blue dress with black trim that day."

  "Are you sure?" T.S. asked. Last time he had seen Emily, she was wearing a rubber sheet and nothing more. Details on her dress had flown right out the window after that.

  "It was a Walter Williams original," Auntie Lil announced confidently. "First appearing in his Fall '59 line. Available at Saks and Bergdorf Goodman's in New York. And at selected finer establishments across the country. Retailing at $130, which was not peanuts back then."

  Herbert hee-heed quietly as if he had just heard an irresistible joke and T.S. had to be content with rolling his eyes. He should have known better than to question her ability to remember a dress.

  "So, it was either this black one here…" she placed it to one side and continued, "or this black one. Possibly this brown one, though I would certainly disapprove. The white one is out. She had better sense than that. And this straw bag might have passed… but not these." She pushed a purple job and the green suede to one side. "Dig in."

  Herbert opened up the straw pocketbook and emptied out the contents in a small heap in front of him, revealing a small rayon wallet, now empty except for a photo of a chubby baby of indeterminate sex. The bag also contained three pencils, a nearly empty purple lipstick, a small compact of garish eyeshadow and a $10 coupon off weekly sessions at a nearby tanning salon. "Not hers," he decided, shaking his head.

  Auntie Lil was quick enough to empty out two. But the brown bag held a prophylactic and was ruled out on that basis. The other, a black one, held an address book that inexplicably contained only male names. A matching wallet was crammed with photographs, though no money or credit cards. Most of the photographs were of beefy young men in macho poses. The inscriptions on these photos quickly eliminated the pocketbook as being Emily's, in Auntie Lil's opinion.

  "You're sure?" T.S. asked. "After all, this one fellow's written: 'Thanks for an evening I'll never forget.' Maybe she took him to the theater."

  "It has to be the one you're hoarding," Auntie Lil insisted. "Empty it before I burst."

  T.S. did not answer. He was too busy staring at the clippings he'd pulled from the small black pocketbook.

  "What is it?" Herbert asked.

  "These clippings," T.S. began. He spread them out across the table top.

  "What are they? Just a columnist for one of the local papers if I remember right," Auntie Lil replied. She held one up and examined it. "This one is about corruption in awarding liquor licenses in Manhattan."

  "This one is about a schoolteacher who beats children with a paddle," T.S. added. "And this one exposes inferior test scores of Catholic high-school graduates."

  "What's so special about that?" Herbert asked. "The author is an investigative reporter, correct?"

  "Correct," T.S. replied. "But not just an investigative reporter. She's my favorite reporter. Margo McGregor. I was just trying to read her column today, but she's been away on vacation."

  "Well, I doubt it's important," Auntie Lil decided, scraping the pile of possessions her way. "There's no way Emily could have had a connection to any of those stories. Perhaps she simply liked to cut and save interesting articles. If this is even her purse." She quickly sorted through the small stack of items. "A tasteful shade of mauve lipstick. Could be Emily's… Here's a small pocket Bible, so we're still in the running … and… bingo! This is her pocketbook. And this is the proof." She spread out an entire handful of theater ticket stubs that had been carefully bound together with a large paper clip. "She was saving them for her collection."

  "Notice what's missing," T.S. pointed out. "No wallet, no identification, no address book."

  "No way to know who she is or where she lives," Herbert summed up.

  "Yes," Auntie Lil agreed. "He stole this to make it harder, if not impossible, for the police to find out who she was."

  "That means we're right back where we started," Herbert said sadly.

  "Not quite," T.S. broke in. They looked up at him expectantly. "We now know she liked Margo McGregor's writing."

  Auntie Lil did not have time to be irritated. The bartender had finally roused herself from her pro wrestling stupor and was standing by their table. "Sorry to keep you waiting," she boomed in a nasal voice. "Most people around here don't exactly expect table service. Which is good since my feet are killing me." She stopped abruptly and stared at the pile of discarded pocketbooks, then looked from T.S. to Auntie Lil to Herbert Wong. A wad of gum worked itself from one cheek, across her tongue, and into the other cheek as she puzzled the situation out. Finally, she shrugged and addressed Auntie Lil. "Now that's a switch," the bartender admitted. "Usually, it's the little old ladies who get their pocketbooks snatched. Not the other way around."

  "We didn't steal these," T.S. interrupted firmly. "We found them in the trash and are now trying to determine the owners." It didn't sound very convincing, not even to his own ears. Herbert even winced and T.S. resisted the temptation to ask if he could have done any better on such short notice.

  "That so?" The bartender shifted on her aching feet and stifled a yawn. "Takes all kinds, I guess. Now, what d'ya want?" she demanded with a crack of her gum. Then, noticing their expensive attire, a brief smiled curled the corners of her mouth. Perhaps this group had actually heard of a tip before. She'd give it her best shot. "Afternoon special is on," she added politely. "Draft beer's sixty cents."

  "Is there a minimum?" Auntie Lil inquired politely.

  "Yeah. Two drinks per floor show. And here comes
the first show." The bartender's right foot darted out and she crushed a large roach firmly beneath her plastic shoe. It crunched and she whooped at her own joke. When no one else laughed, she coughed, straightened up, and added in a get-tough-quick voice, "People don't get to sit here who don't buy nuthin', if that's what you mean, honey."

  "My nephew and I will have the special," Auntie Lil quickly decided. The bartender stared at T.S. like she'd never run across the concept of a nephew before.

  Herbert Wong politely ordered a glass of water. The bartender shifted her stare to him, then ambled behind the bar, busied herself over an unseen sink and returned carrying a tray that held three small smudged glasses. Herbert's water was tepid and slightly brownish. In fact, it looked a whole lot like the beer.

  "One water for Mr. Rockefeller here," she said, plunking the glass on the table. "And here's a couple of brews for you two mad, mad party people."

  "We're looking for a Detective George Santos," Auntie Lil said.

  "Yeah? You family? Or planning to confess?" The bartender eyed the pocketbooks again and cackled loudly. "Well, Georgie don't usually come in until five." She snapped her gum and squinted at them to get a better view. "Say, what do folks like you want with a guy named 'Santos'? You don't look like no Spaniards to me." Herbert Wong received a particularly thorough once-over.

  "We're friends," T.S. said.

  "Georgie's got no friends. Just an ex-wife, a couple of suspects and a lot of acquaintances." The bartender followed this gloomy pronouncement by marching back to the bar and pouring herself a healthy shot of vodka. She slammed it back in one gulp and banged the glass down on the bar.

  T.S. watched the bartender's gesture with envy. Such blatant uncouthness! Such freedom! An irresistible urge overcame him. "Allow me," T.S. yelled to her from across the room. He peeled off a few bills from the small wad in his pocket and threw them on the table for effect. "Have another on us. And what the heck—buy the house a round of drinks!" He returned Auntie Lil's stare and confessed in a low whisper, "Sorry. But I've always wanted to do that."

  The house—which consisted entirely of the toothless old man—cackled its gleeful approval. He pounded the bar, hooting and grunting with an enthusiasm far surpassing his demonstrated zeal for wrestling.

  "You for real?" The bartender eyed the bills as if they might be counterfeit, then shrugged and poured herself another. "Sure you won't join me?"

  "No, thank you, madam. This will do us just nicely." T.S. raised his beer glass in salute and nudged Auntie Lil until she did the same.

  "Have you lost your mind?" she whispered to her nephew.

  "Not at all. You're always telling me to loosen up." T.S. took a deep breath, followed by a tiny sip, which ended up in a fine spray over the pocketbooks. "This beer tastes like it should be tested for steroids," he said, swabbing his mouth out with his handkerchief.

  Auntie Lil took his word for it. "Let's come back later," she decided. "I can think of better places to kill a few hours."

  "A good idea," Herbert said. "Perhaps by then the rust will have settled to the bottom of my glass of water. I have no doubt it will still be on this table." He led the retreat by hopping up and waving to the bartender. "We shall return," he promised as he bowed his head at her. She bowed hers back, the chain on her cat-eye glasses jingling as she did so.

  "We'd like to surprise Detective Santos," T.S. added, throwing a few more bills onto the pile.

  "Sure you would. Wouldn't we all?" She slammed back her second shot of vodka as her cat-eyes followed them out the door.

  "I could hardly breathe in there!" Auntie Lil gasped as she gulped in bursts of air that, while not exactly fresh given they were standing by a major highway, were at least foul in a more familiar way.

  "They ought to mop the floor once in a while," T.S. observed. "It wouldn't hurt the atmosphere any."

  "Your Detective Santos must be one depressed man," Herbert Wong added. "A healthy person would not frequent such an establishment."

  "I'll say. I feel like having a few tests run on myself after that visit," T.S. declared.

  Auntie Lil just sniffed. She'd seen worse in her day. "I'm coming back early this evening," she announced. "Are you with me or against me?"

  "Damn right, I'm with you. You're not prowling around here after dark alone." T.S. looked up and down the deserted sidewalks. Cars whizzed by every few seconds without slowing. It was a lonely place for a bar and a great place for a mugging.

  "I must begin the surveillance," Herbert apologized. "I will not be able to join you."

  "Then it's just you and me, kid," T.S. told Auntie Lil. "But if we're coming back here, I've got to confess that I definitely need to find a nice bar and have a few drinks first."

  Several drinks, several hours and several dinners later, T.S. and Auntie Lil returned to the Westsider. A few hours had made a big difference. Not necessarily a positive difference, but a big one just the same. They could hear the loudest change as they approached. Behind the black-painted windows, jukebox music blared and they were assaulted by a fresh wave of pulsating sound when they pushed open the front door. The female bartender was gone, replaced by two fat balding men in dirty white aprons who scurried back and forth serving the thirsty crowd. Nearly every stool at the bar was taken and many of the booths were occupied as well. The patrons were an odd mixture of construction workers, sanitation and traffic department employees, neighborhood rummies and an occasional waitress still in her uniform. The smell of old beer had been replaced by the odor of bodies packed together après ten hours of manual labor.

  They found Detective Santos sitting alone at a booth, staring at a soundless baseball game on the television. Three empty highball glasses sat before him. He held a fourth, filled only with ice, cradled in both hands.

  Without asking, Auntie Lil and T.S. slid into the seat across from him. He looked up with bleary eyes. "No hope," he told them, shaking his head sadly. "They're twelve games out and only have ten games left. Another magnificent season is at end for the New York Yankees." He raised his glass of ice cubes toward the television set in toast.

  "Do you know who we are?" Auntie Lil demanded. She was furious to find her friendly detective replaced by this boozing, discouraged human being.

  Detective Santos stared at her, mystified. "Is this a scam?" he asked. He answered his own question by flipping open a small wallet and displaying a gold detective's badge. "If it is, better find a new mark."

  "Young man. You're drunk and it's not even eight o'clock." Auntie Lil was truly indignant. She did not believe in getting drunk until ten o'clock, at the earliest.

  "I remember you," George Santos said suddenly. He leaned forward and blinked. "You're the lady that Lieutenant Abromowitz hates."

  "That's me. And this is my nephew, Theodore. The lieutenant hates him, too," she added helpfully.

  "Is that so?" Santos looked T.S. up and down and smiled drunkenly. "In that case, it's a pleasure to meet you."

  "The pleasure is all mine," T.S. returned drily.

  "Are you on duty?" Auntie Lil demanded.

  Santos tilted back his head and stared at her through red-rimmed eyes. "Of course I'm not on duty. I'm piss-ant drunk. Can't you tell?"

  "Yes, I can tell," Auntie Lil replied. "And it's a shame, because we wanted to ask you some questions."

  "Ask away," the detective told them casually, waving a hand in the general direction of the bar. One of the bartenders scurried over and set a fresh drink in front of him. "Thank you, my good man," Santos told the bartender. "Would any of you lovely people care for a drink or two?"

  "No, thanks," T.S. said. "I'll let you have my share."

  "Most kind of you," Santos admitted with exaggerated politeness. He belched lightly and covered his mouth, then sighed. His shoulders slumped as if a plug had been pulled and all of his energy drained out at once. "What do you want to know?" he said glumly. "It's about the old lady, right?"

  "Right," Auntie Lil answered crisply. "Wh
at have you found out?"

  "Nothing. Nothing at all." The detective shook his head and murmured into his drink. "Perhaps I should explain," he said.

  "Perhaps you should," Auntie Lil pointed out.

  He sighed and banged his glass back on the table, sloshing out a small wave of alcohol that emanated an unmistakable odor. Ye gads. The man was drinking straight gin. No wonder he looked and acted like hell. "Your friend was killed two days ago," he began slowly, as if warming up to relate a fairy tale. "And since that time, two more murders have landed on my desk. Murders of people with names and families and addresses. And clues. Which is no small consideration."

  "In other words, Emily's death has been put on the back burner," T.S. said.

  "I didn't say that." Santos held up a hand as if to stop any protests on their part. "We've sent her fingerprints to Quantico, but nothing will come of it. Not unless she has a record, which is unlikely. I've called every shelter in New York and distributed a photo of her over police wires. No luck yet, but that's all I can do. Plus, I personally investigated an anonymous tip today. Someone called claiming to have her address."

  "That was no anonymous tipster," Auntie Lil said indignantly. "That was me."

  "You?" He stared at her closely. "You wasted two hours of my time."

  "You went to the wrong address," Auntie Lil stated flatly.

  The detective fumbled in his pocket and produced his notebook. "326 West Forty-Sixth Street," he read. "Apartment 6-B."

  "That's right," T.S. confirmed.

  "I went there," he said calmly, sounding more sober than before. "A young girl answered, late twenties. An actress. Said she'd been living there for over three years. There was no little old lady. The apartment looked completely normal. You people are mistaken."

  "The place was totally ransacked!" Auntie Lil insisted. "Didn't you see?"

  Detective Santos stared at her for a long moment. "How do you know?" he asked evenly.

  "Know what?" Auntie Lil demanded.