by David Daniel
That was a surprise, but I used it. “It could be for days. I like that steering wheel cover you have.” It was just what had come to mind.
Her eyes narrowed to those little slits that German soldiers used to fire Mausers out of. “I could have someone come and fix your nose,” she hissed.
“Thanks, but it’s too late for that. Besides, you can’t say for sure I don’t have everything I need already, tucked someplace safe and ready to roll. Or a tape recording I made just now of what even a Quaker would construe as a threat.” I patted my chest.
“You son of a fu—” She dropped it quick.
“Look, I don’t have a tape and I haven’t been spying. I just want to talk. How about a cup of coffee?”
But she was a seasoned civil servant, dodgy to the last. She raised a fist and, quick as popping a switchblade, snapped up a middle finger. She about-faced on the squat heels and stomped to her building, looking as if she wanted to go kick the teeth out of a spider.
Downtown I parked near the cabstand behind my building and was heading for the back entrance when someone called me. No “hawkshaw” this time, or “shamus”; he had my name. I turned to see a young man coming my way. If he was from Carly Ouellette, she had cast against type. In his jeans and tan bush jacket, a haymow of sandy hair piled on his head, he looked like a model from Abercrombie & Fitch. “My name’s Jed Piazza, Mr. Rasmussen. From the Herald.”
“I already subscribe.”
“Well, no … I write for the paper.”
“Reporter?”
“A stringer, actually. Correspondent.” He had a steno pad at the ready, his close-set blue eyes hopeful. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your client, and what you think about the stir his case is causing.”
“I’m not the one to talk to. The police and his attorney are better bets.”
“Got them covered. And the DA, too,” he said proudly. “Mr. Deemys was glad to talk. You’re the last link in the chain.”
It occurred to me that he was probably the reporter Pop Sonders had shaken loose the morning after the killing. Evidently he hadn’t given up. Was this an assignment, or was he just trolling? I didn’t ask. It didn’t matter. “I’m sure they’ve given you anything I could, Jed, and more. I’m not the person to talk to.”
“Well, according to my sources, you are.”
“What sources?”
His expression got foxy. “I can’t reveal that.”
“Fair enough. We’ll both keep quiet.”
Under the epaulettes of his bush coat, his shoulders squared. “Are you using the old ‘I’ve got a responsibility to my client’ dodge? Because I’ve heard that one.”
“Nope, I just don’t have anything to tell you.”
“And truthfully, that’s largely a myth, right? I doubt there’s any such thing as client privilege for private investigators. I think Dashiell Hammett invented that.”
“The way Woodward and Bernstein invented you? Why is it when the court squeezes you guys to reveal a source, you act like you’ve sworn a pact with God himself? Can’t I keep quiet, too? All I said is that I don’t want to talk. There’s enough information and rumor floating around without me adding my two cents—and believe me, that’s all it’d be. But for the record, I’m working for an attorney, and his privilege extends to me.”
His ears reddened, but he kept his smile. It looked starched on his face. “Every former cop either opens a bar or goes private. Since a criminal record rules out owning a bar, I guess you chose door number two.”
“And every news writer has the great American novel tucked away in a sock drawer, just waiting.” His grin wobbled, and I knew I’d pitched a ringer. “How many have you got, Jed?”
He hunched his shoulders and let them drop. “One. About thirty pages along. And it’s only taken me four years. I’ll have it done before I’m seventy.”
I had to smile, too. He was likable in his way, like the puppy that’s almost house-trained. “Maybe you’ll do it,” I said. “It happens.” And maybe I’d walk out of this case like Sam Spade. It was good to stay hopeful. “All right, you get three questions—but one of them’s got to be a Moon Pie, so I go out looking smart.”
After that session of Meet the Press, I walked up Bridge Street to the front of my building on Merrimack, intending to check the mail. A car went past, slowed, and a man in the passenger seat shouted at me. With sunlight glaring off the chrome, I couldn’t see a face before the car gunned off, but I could hear just fine. The novel epithet was “Geek lover.”
I fumbled the mail and had to pluck envelopes off the stairs as I climbed. Louis Hackett was sitting in my waiting room. “Hiya, pal,” he said, both hands raised, palms out. He rose. “I came to apologize. Let’s forget last time. Deal?” He swept a hand through the air. “Wiped out. Forget about it. Let’s start fresh.”
I unlocked the inner office. “Why do we need to bother? As I remember it, you wanted quits.”
“True, but I didn’t want it to be on a bad note.”
“Okay, you convinced me.”
He followed me inside. “Let’s swap stories. I bet you’ve got a fascinating life story.”
I dropped the mail on the desk. “Compared to what?” I didn’t want to encourage him, but it was obvious he had something on his mind. Reluctantly, I waved him into a seat.
“I dunno. Compared to I could tell you about the old days,” he said.
“Like my partner, Bud, for instance. Catch this. Killer Kowalski—remember him? His shtick was this Claw Hold, he called it. Supposed to paralyze the opponent right there in the ring, then Killer would whomp him. Well, Bud had this bit he’d do where he’d lock his legs around the other guy—had these tremendous strong legs on him, still does—and he’d squeeze, y‘know? Squeeze the air out of a guy. Dramatic as hell, like a balloon goin’ soft. He called it the Squisher. If he really put the press on, and the other guy wasn’t trained proper, his guts would come out his mouth like bad spaghetti. Actually happened to this one guy one time. Sonofabitch promoter had no business putting him in the ring with Squisher—and unfortunately it queered Squisher’s career on account of the guy practically died. Check with Hogan—Hulk’ll tell you, the Squisher was one rough customer.”
“I’ll ask him the next time we sit down for a bucket of blood.”
“He was a name in his day, Squisher. He put the hold on me once, no kidding around. I had to walk around in a brace for months. But let me tell you about this one time when—”
“Look, maybe you can save it for the Biography Channel. I’ve got things to—”
“Hold on.” He waved a hand again. “I think you owe it to yourself to hear me.”
I humored him and shut up.
“First job I had, I was a waiter at this restaurant in Red Hook, okay? Which was a legit business for some not so legit other stuff the owner was into. We don’t gotta go there. But this restaurant, place called Santana’s … linen tablecloths, different glasses for different color wines, nice—only, it seems someone was skimming the take. The manager’s going bananas, doesn’t know what the fuck. It’s the goddamnedest thing. You earn the cash, but it don’t end up in the drawer. Word is, he tells this to the owner, only the owner don’t do anything. We never even see the owner. Time goes by, it’s summer. The manager rents a boat, has a party for the staff, guys only, okay? I’m excited. Twenty-two years old, I’m thinking I’m a hotshot. We go out from the Battery with a locker full of booze, a hi-fi with some Tony Bennett, Vic Damone, a nice day, y‘know? We cruise the harbor, people gettin’ pretty loose. Then we start up the East River and after a while this motorboat pulls alongside, three people come aboard. The manager introduces the owner. None of us never seen him before that—he comes aboard, no hello or nothin’—just him and a couple of tree-swingers with him. First time I ever laid eyes on Squisher, too. He was still in wrestling then, but he did some strong-arm on the side.”
“This story’s got a point, right?” I said. “I h
ave a date this month.”
“Right off, the owner says he knows someone’s been skakin’ the till.
But it’ll be hard to find out who, he goes on. Hell, maybe it’s all of you, he says. But he must figure no one’s gonna cop, so what’s he do? He whispers something to one of the muscle guys—to Squisher, who’s got these big long arms—and Squisher goes into the motorboat and hauls aboard this old junkyard john. Just sets it there on the deck, okay? A toilet. Then the owner picks one guy. ‘You,’ he says. Points to the guy wears the nicest clothes—Italian silk suit, two-tone shoes, y‘know? On the boat the guy’s wearing this. Squisher and the other muscle guy grab him, strip him to his undershorts—hell, even his shorts are silk—and they put him onto the old toilet, okay? Tie him on with rope. By now the poor bastard practically needs a toilet. He’s yelling how he didn’t do anything wrong, he’s been loyal … Me, I’m so scared my heart’s goin’ like a Teletype. I keep thinking, just say you did it, man; take your chances. But no, guy kept on denying, begging now. Crying. The rest of us are cringing, okay? No place to go. We’re all the way up by the Harlem River now, no other boats around.”
Hackett cleared his throat. I fidgeted in my chair. “And the owner—cool as ice—never said a word about anyone shitting on him or on the operation, he just gives a signal.” Hackett brought his palms together with a sharp clop. “And Squisher and the other guy pick up the toilet and drop it over the side. Kersplash. Right into the fuckin’ river, the poor sonofabitch lashed to it! I couldn’t believe it. I just looked at the stream of bubbles coming up—kept coming up for about five minutes, it seemed like, and then they stopped.”
My head was light. Hackett cleared his throat again. “‘Drink up,’ the owner tells the rest of us. ‘Everybody relax, enjoy the cruise. You got a confession, tell a priest. The operation’s looking for loyalty.’ And he and Bud Spritzer and the other guy get in the motorboat and split. I drank all afternoon, musta had twenty beers—but you think I could unbuckle my thoughts? No way. My brain stayed cold sober.” He blew out a breath and fell silent.
I was the one suddenly wanting to move around, to talk. “Maybe the guy was guilty,” I said. “He could’ve been the one stealing and the owner knew it.”
“That’d be a nice piece of justice.”
“The owner might’ve just been psyching out the rest of you. It’s sick stuff, but if you mess with someone like that … The guy should’ve confessed and taken his chances.”
Hackett smiled faintly and shook his head. “But he wasn’t guilty. Okay? The one skimming the dough was me.”
I looked at him, feeling sick to my stomach.
“But I’ll tell you what. I never did nothing like that again. Never took so much as a fuckin’ dime. So you see? I learned. It is about psychology.” He leaned forward and brought his hand down softly on my desk. “Now you take this carny that supposedly killed the girl, and you working for his lawyer, trying to prove he didn’t do it. Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re wrong, but it’s like I learned on that boat. Sometimes it don’t matter what side you’re standing on. It comes down to being the wrong guy, wrong time, wrong place.”
I swallowed at my rising gorge and rose.
I didn’t want to be with people like him. I walked over and opened the door, turning to usher him out, but before I could tell him to go, something heavy struck the base of my skull. White light flashed and I cried out, or vice versa.
33
I stood in an unfamiliar room, the walls moodily lighted with wall-washers that revealed a series of Gregorio Montejo paintings. It was a reception of some kind, and people were milling about. One was Squisher Spritzer, in a blue blazer with brass buttons and wearing a cream silk ascot. On him it looked like a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree. Officer Loftis was working out in spandex tights over by an hors d‘oeuvres table. Seeing me, she flashed a seductive smile. Grady Stinson was examining the paintings with a lorgnette, though he needn’t have bothered; these canvases were strictly from hunger. Oblivious to it all, Maxwell Moses was sitting in a corner, chewing the end of a pencil. He said, “I need a word for ‘fool.’”
“You’re looking at him,” I said.
But he wasn’t. He had his attention on the Times crossword puzzle. “Seven letters.”
“Buffoon,” said someone else, who stepped from the throng. It was a young Ed St. Onge in a tasteful suit. “Or dead man,” he added.
I swam back up to the air and daylight of a world I seemed to remember, though when I blinked it into sharper focus, I saw that it wasn’t the world I’d been in. I was inside a nasty-smelling vehicle, a panel van. If well-being was unconsciousness about the self, as Phoebe’s coworker Janelle believed, I definitely wasn’t well. There were enough aches in my head to make five masochists smile; unfortunately there weren’t any around to share with. I recognized the smell as vomit. I was alone, my hands shackled to the steering wheel. Through the van’s dusty windows I saw that I was in an industrial yard, behind a stack of what looked like large boilers, bleeding rust at the rivets. Beyond them I could make out a smokestack and trees, and a field fading off into junked cars. It might’ve been the east end of town, though that was a guess; I could’ve been in Delaware. A wire fence, overgrown with dying vines, blocked any view beyond.
At a scrape of metal behind me I turned my throbbing head to see one of the van’s rear doors open and Spritzer appear. He reached inside and took hold of a large tank of bottled gas that was lying on the bed. It grated over the floor as he pulled it out. A label on the tank said it was from Acme Rental. Spritzer noticed me and ducked his head to peer in. “Oh, you’re feeling better,” he said.
“Says you.”
He shouldered the tank and slammed the door. In a moment he came around to the driver’s side, where I sat. He wasn’t wearing an ascot. “You were breathing okay when we waltzed you outta your place, so I wasn’t too worried, but you got sick on yourself. You got a headache, I betcha.”
“When you’re done throwing bouquets, maybe you can get me the hell out of these shackles, and out of here. Where are we?”
“It’s your town, you tell me.”
Which I took to mean he didn’t know. Hackett would’ve picked the place, and I didn’t waste time asking for a road map. Up close to Spritzer, I could feel heat and smell the wintergreen tang of old liniment coming from him. It smelled better than my shirt. He unlocked the handcuffs. I climbed out, wobbling only slightly I rubbed circulation back into my wrists. Piled on the ground nearby were a second tank of bottled gas and the hoses and nozzles for several acetylene torches. There was an egg on the back of my head that belonged in a museum.
“I had to tag you and let you sit out a couple dances, so Louie could go talk to Sonders in peace.”
“In the hospital?”
“Wherever. With you hounding around, that ain’t easy.”
“I was sitting in my office. You came to me.” I realized it was pointless arguing with him. “Anyway, you wasted time if it’s about getting Pop to sell. He won’t.”
He showed yellow picket-fence teeth. “You figure he’s got much choice?”
It caught me off guard. Then I remembered the article in the Wall Street Journal, and I felt a ripple of anxiety. “What’s this stuff for?”
“Once we get the show, we keep what’s good and dismantle and sell the rest for scrap.”
“What about the people who work for Pop?”
“Tough shit, wouldn’t you say?”
My lips felt cracked and dry. “So Gordon Gekko was right.”
“Who’s he?”
“Someone you and your partner would understand.”
His flat black eyes worked me over for a moment. “Yeah, well, wish I had the time, but we gotta get back. Your shitbox is over there.” I saw my car parked near the rusty boilers, saw a man get out of it, and recognized Ray Embry.
“Keys are in it,” Embry said as he approached. “No funny stuff.”
“That comin
g from you?”
“This wasn’t my idea,” he murmured, and got into the van, with Squisher Spritzer at the wheel.
As I followed their lingering dust trail, I briefly tried to find sense in things, but they weren’t any clearer than my dream had been.
34
I got home, and surprisingly I felt better than I had any right to. To keep it that way, I took three ibuprofen tablets and then phoned Phoebe. Tonight was my night to see her, and having that to look forward to had kept me going all day. She wasn’t home yet, so I left a message to say I might be a tad late but would be along. I showered until the bathroom was thick with warm steam, then shaved and put on fresh clothes. I called the hospital and learned that Pop Sonders had been discharged. I tried his trailer office but got no answer. Next I phoned Fred Meecham but got his answering service. I didn’t leave a message. Where was Randy Nguyen’s wired world when I needed it?
I stopped at a wine shop and picked out a Louis Jadot Chardonnay that the merchant said would be a good complement to grilled fowl; it had a crisper finish than its California counterpart—a “French finish,” he said. I took his word; my two rules about wine were go with a corked brand if you can’t find a vintage date on a screw top, and don’t chug it straight from the bottle.
Phoebe had a small house off Stevens in the Highlands, the remnant of her brief marriage. She greeted me at the door smiling and vivid in a green sweater with an autumn-leaves design and faded blue jeans. As she stood tiptoe for a kiss, she stopped and her eyes popped wide. “Alex, what happened? You look awful.”
“Always nice to hear from my fans.” I hadn’t intended to say much about my day, but I told her the story, wrapping up with my visit from Rag Tyme’s controlling partners. It did nothing to calm her. Her face didn’t unfrown for a long moment.
“Have you told this to anyone else?”
“Not the last part. The earlier stuff, Fred Meecham. And Lieutenant St. Onge, too. I figured I owed him.”
“Are you sure you want to do this tonight? We could make it another time.”
