Madman's Thirst

by Lawrence de Maria

  He thanked her and headed toward one of several short hallways that emanated spoke-like in a semi-circle from the nurses’ station. The hospice floor of any hospital is a depressing place. This was no exception. Despite the best efforts of staff and décor, there was no hiding its “last stop” ambiance. Gentle palliative care, brightly painted walls, seascape paintings, balloons and, in some rooms, attentive family members, were only delaying the inevitable. The worms were just offstage.

  He passed several rooms where dying veterans lay silently gazing at the ceiling. Some had single IV bags hanging from poles with thin lines into one arm or the other. Pain killers, Scarne assumed. There were few sounds, not even the mechanical clicking and beeping sounds common to most wards, where machines monitored vital signs, provided nourishment and did a variety of other life-supporting activities. Life support wasn’t on the agenda here. It was the silence of the pre-grave. In one or two rooms, women sat silently holding the hands of feeble men who, in the thrush of their youth, may have thrown a satchel charge into a Japanese bunker on Tarawa , or cut down North Vietnamese sappers in the Ia Drang Valley. In one room, a younger vet, bald and emaciated, smiled and gave a feeble thumbs up. Scarne, feeling guilty about his own good health, returned the gesture.

  He entered Banaszak’s room. In the bed was a motionless bag of bones. The man’s skin was a ghastly white. Christ, Scarne thought. I’m too late. But then he saw the chest rise and fall, almost imperceptibly. He was sleeping. Scarne walked around to a small bureau on the side of the bed nearest the window. He opened the top drawer. Amid the usual clutter – tubes of skin cream and other salves, various pills, hard candies, an Ed McBain 87th Precinct paperback (The Frumious Bandersnatch – one of Scarne’s favorites), tissues – there was a cell phone.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Scarne turned toward the raspy voice. Banaszak’s head was now lolling toward him, and his eyes were beginning to focus. Scarne powered off the cell phone and slipped it into his pocket. The dying man didn’t seem to notice. He made a weak effort to sit up, but then collapsed back on his pillow.

  “Help me sit up,” he wheezed.

  Scarne reached under Banaszak’s shoulder and lifted. It took virtually no effort. He had the impression he could fold him in half like a napkin. Fluffing up two pillows, he gently leaned the sick man back.

  “Water.”

  Scarne picked up a cup from the chest and put the straw to Banaszak’s mouth. He took several small sips and then ran his tongue around his lips.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a fuckin’ smoke. Like it would make a difference, right? That’s what I tell my doctor. I think I’m wearing him down. Smokes like a chimney himself. Nurses tell me he’s always sneaking out on one of the terraces. Piece of work. He’ll give me a butt before this is all over.” Banaszak was overtaken by another fit of coughing. He quieted, then looked at Scarne. “So, who are you? Cop?”

  The man wasn’t dead yet, Scarne thought. Not much use in lying to an old pro like this.

  “Private. I’m investigating the murder of Elizabeth Pearsall.”

  “So Jarecki dropped the dime. Not that it will do you any good. I said as much as I’m going to. I’m no rat. I made it clear to the priest. No names.”

  “What do you owe anyone? You’re dying, for God’s sake. I’ll get the bastards eventually. You can just speed it up for me. You think they’re scum, too. Or you wouldn’t have gone to Jarecki to clear your conscience.”

  “Forget it, pal. You seem to be doing fine. How did you find me?”

  Scarne told him.

  “Not bad, shamus. Who you working for anyway?”

  “Myself. Knew the family. You’re lucky you’re almost dead.”

  Banaszak smiled.

  “Tough guy, huh? You’d be doing me a favor. That’s why you won’t do it, right?” He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “Tough guy. Like me.” He closed his eyes. Scarne thought he was drifting off. But then the eyes opened and he turned to Scarne. “Tell you what. No names. But here’s how it went down. I freelance, but most of my work is for the local mobs in New York. I generally like to work alone but this time I got set up with a black dude from out of town. He’s the one who raped and killed the girl.”

  “Don’t you want him to pay for that?”

  “I killed him.” Banaszak confessed to murdering his partner with the ease of a man ordering a ham sandwich. “Fuckin’ animal.”

  “Nice to know you have standards.”

  “Fuck you. I’ll kill anyone they tell me to. Been doing it for 30 years. But it’s always business. The rape wasn’t business. She died hard. Wasn’t right. The hit was meant to shake up the girl’s father, a newspaper guy who was getting in the way of something.”

  “Any idea what it was? NASCAR?”

  “You’ve been doing your homework. But it had to be bigger than that.”

  “Like what?”

  “How the fuck do I know? Now beat it, I’m getting tired.”

  Scarne was going to press the issue when a voice behind him said, “Any problems, Mr. Banaszak?”

  He turned to see a huge man in a green smock filling the doorway.

  “Doc, get rid of this guy. He’s been trying to sell me life insurance. What kind of operation you running? How did he get in here?”

  Banaszak started coughing again. He was partially acting, Scarne knew, but it worked.

  “I’m Doctor Levin. Time for you to leave.” Scarne nodded and they walked into hallway. “I don’t know what your game is, but Mr. Banaszak is a dying man. I don’t like anyone screwing around with my patients. Why don’t you vamoose before I call security. And don’t come back.”

  Scarne thought it politic not to argue or explain. He wanted to go before anyone noticed the missing cell phone. So he ‘vamoosed’ with as much dignity as he could muster. Levin would be on the lookout for him the rest of the day. He’d have to try again the next day. Banaszak looked like he’d be around for a few more days at least. Maybe there would be another doctor on call.

  ***

  Back in his hotel room, Scarne took out Banaszak’s cell phone and checked the battery icon. It only had two of three bars. Damn. He knew he could get it charged somewhere and probably have an expert download the S.I.M. card, but that would take time. So, he opened up the phone’s contact list and copied down every number, as well as all those listed in the ‘Recent Calls’ file. There weren’t that many in either list. Presumably, hired killers aren’t the most social animals. Then he called Evelyn Warr and asked her to run down all the numbers that had an area code for New York’s five boroughs. Many of the numbers had generic tags, such as ‘Cleaner’, which could be a euphemism for another contract killer, but Scarne doubted it. But he told her to call them all, especially those without name tags. He would check the out-of-state numbers.

  None of the numbers he kept for himself had names attached to them, and he was soon convinced he was wasting his time. All he discovered was that Banaszak apparently used escort services in several cities. He also struck out with the ‘Recent Calls’ to and from the cell phone. All the numbers he called, including the escort services, were of the type that could be found in any man’s cell. No one answered the phone with ‘Murder Incorporated, Please Hold for the Next Available Assassin.’

  Evelyn called back.

  “I didn’t realize there were that many escort services in New York, Jake. Are you sure he isn’t dying of exhaustion. He likes his ‘slap and tickle’ as we say in England.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Not really. The only numbers that didn’t fit in with the dry cleaners, limousine services, liquor stores, Chinese restaurants and comfort ladies were two on Staten Island, a real estate office and a yacht club. In fact, they were the only Staten Island numbers.”

  Scarne felt a small jolt in his stomach. He recalled Banaszak’s “fat prick” comment. He also thought it unlikely he was house hunting on Staten Island.

  “W
hat’s the name of the realtor?”

  “Bimm Real Estate Inc. The number is the direct line of Nathan Bimm, president. His personal secretary screens the line and wanted to know how I got the number. I told her I must have misdialed, and hung up. I’ve just started Googling him, and I can tell you he’s a big deal out there. Lots of stuff about him in the papers. Land developer, lawyer, philanthropist, pal of the Borough President, etc. Jake are you there?”

  Scarne realized that he hadn’t spoken.

  “What about the yacht club?”

  “It’s called the Crookes – that’s Crookes with an ‘e’ – Point Yacht Club and Marina. I called the number and got a recording. I looked them up on the Internet. There’s apparently a marine supply company attached to it and I called that as well. Also got a recording. Do you want me to keep trying, or leave a message?”

  “No, I’ll follow it up from this end.”

  Scarne next called Dudley Mack.

  “Son of a bitch,” Dudley said. “I knew it. The fat prick.”

  “That seems to be the general consensus. Banaszak also had the number of something called the Crookes Point Yacht Club.”

  A long pause. Then Mack said, “Well, the plot sickens.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know Great Kills Harbor, don’t you? Where we used to take party boats for blues and fluke?”

  “How could I forget? You used to get seasick just driving there.”

  “I was hung over. The Great Kills Yacht Club is the premier boating club on Staten Island. My grandfather belonged. Nice clubhouse. Great burgers. Old salts and farts telling stories. He used to take us kids and show us off, and we’d steal beers and sneak down to the dock to drink at night.”

  Scarne usually loved to hear his friend’s childhood stories, even those he’d heard before, but he was tired.

  “Deadly, is there a point to this trip down memory lane?”

  “I’ll ignore your rudeness. You’re gonna love the payoff. The club let a few token Jews and Dagos in, but drew the line at the Bada-Bing crowd. One of the bent-noses they rejected was Salvatore Lacuna.”

  “Sallie Mae?”

  “The one and only. So Sal – who actually loves to sail – got pissed and started his own club just down the street. The name was perfect. The fishhook shaped peninsula that sticks out into Raritan Bay and shelters the harbor is called Crookes Point. Sallie Mae obviously has a sense of humor. It’s now a combination yacht club, marina and mob social club. Better food, naturally, than the other club. I hear he does a lot of business just sitting out on one of his boats, or a friend’s. Hard to bug a boat.”

  “Simplifies disposal problems, as well.”

  “Ordinarily, I’d say you’ve been watching The Sopranos too much, Jake. The mob out here has become pretty toothless. But Sallie Mae is old school. Stone killer. Tough as nails. Has a retired cop as a bodyguard. A real badass.”

  “Any connection between Bimm and Lacuna?”

  “I’m getting to that. Lacuna is Bimm’s connection with the construction and service unions, which is why the fat prick never has any trouble on any of his projects. And also why his competitors always do.”

  “So, Bimm hired Lacuna to kill Elizabeth Pearsall and Lacuna farmed it out to Banaszak and his partner.”

  “That’s how I see it. You?”

  “It fits, but unless I can get Banaszak to open up, it’s all conjecture. Nothing I can prove.”

  “I can have a word with Sallie Mae or Bimm.”

  Scarne knew what that “word” might entail.

  “Hold that thought. Let me see what I can get from Banaszak tomorrow. I can bluff him with what we know about Lacuna and Bimm. He doesn’t want to rat, but if he thinks they rolled on him I might get a deathbed confession.”

  ***

  Evelyn had booked Scarne into the historic Belleview Regency, overlooking Clearwater Bay just outside Tampa and near the hospital. It was her belief that when visiting a new area, it never hurt to absorb a little of the local culture. To Scarne, who preferred modern and spotless accommodations, ‘historic’ often meant ‘decrepit’ and when he learned the Regency was on the National Register he resigned himself to musty hallways, faded drapes, a small room with a cranky air-conditioner, no mini-bar and antiquated bathrooms with mildewed showers and tepid water.

  He was not reassured when he pulled into the driveway of the huge hotel, which, judging by the football-field expanse of black tarp on its roof, looked to be recovering from the effects of several hurricanes. But he was pleasantly surprised by a modern lobby and helpful front desk staff, not to mention his large one-bedroom, third-floor suite, which, while showing its age, had charm, and, more importantly, a room-service set-up of ice, Evian water, mixed nuts, Angostura bitters and a fifth of Corner Creek Reserve Bourbon. Evelyn had apparently taken his pre-flight grumbling to heart.

  He mixed himself a drink and unpacked. Then he headed to the hotel dining room. Scarne was just finishing an excellent grouper sandwich when Daisy Buchanan reached him on his cell phone.

  “Boy, was I pissed at you,” she said by way of greeting. “Leaving the door open and crapping up the place. But you’re off the hook.”

  “What are you talking about, Daisy?”

  “After you left, I kind of overslept. Then I had a date. A real date, in case you’re wondering. I have those too, you know. A nice guy I met in the 42nd Street Library. I bet you didn’t think I go to the library. But I do. I was looking for an Elizabeth George novel and so was he! I just love her stuff about England. Did you know she’s an American? You’d never know it, the books are so detailed. Anyway, he .…”

  “Daisy! I’m very happy for you.” He signaled to a waiter for another beer. “But where is this going?”

  “Oh. It’s just that with oversleeping and all and going out that night, I didn’t get back into Whitey’s apartment until this afternoon. The door was unlocked and the place was a mess! So I was going to call you and give you a piece of my mind. Then I thought, Jake wouldn’t do that. He left the key and everything. No reason he’d leave the door open. So I checked it, and sure enough, someone forced the door.”

  “Was anything taken?”

  “I don’t know. Lots of stuff strewn about. File cabinets open. But the TV, DVD player and other stuff were still there. Whitey didn’t have much to begin with. I guess I’m lucky we found that $3,000 before the burglars did.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “They’re not exactly my biggest fans.” She hesitated. “Besides, the note said I could sell his stuff. The cops might start asking questions.”

  Scarne thought that over.

  “OK. Don’t do anything. I’ll ask Banaszak about all this tomorrow.”

  “You found him! How is he? Tell him I’m asking for him! Tell him…”

  Scarne didn’t want her going off on another tangent.

  “He won’t be using his place again. If I were you, I’d take out anything you want to keep or sell and get the lock changed. Then stay away from the apartment for a while. If you want to rent it after his lease runs out, it should be safe. But I don’t like coincidences. A lot of people may be interested in Whitey and someone else may pay a visit. Be careful.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “I bet you can.”

  CHAPTER 23 – LAST RITES

  The next morning Scarne again took the elevator to the hospice floor. No one tried to stop him. He walked boldly past the nurses’ station.

  “Oh, hi. Back to see Mr. Banaszak?” It was the nurse from the day before. She looked even prettier. “I didn’t see you leave yesterday. I was probably checking on someone.”

  Apparently Dr. Levin had not told her about the scene in the room.

  “I had an appointment. Had to rush off. Just going to pop in and say goodbye before I leave town.”

  He started toward Banaszak’s room. The girl stopped him.

  “Oh, you will have to wait a few minute
s, until the priest comes out. I don’t think he will be much longer. He’s been in there a while.”

  “Priest?”

  “Yes. There are a lot of retired priests in the area and they augment our in-house chaplains. This one was younger than we usually get, but he said he was filling in for Father Mundy, who wasn’t feeling well.”

  Scarne leaned on the counter. She had a nametag above her left breast, which was, like its partner, taut against her constricting uniform.

  “Don’t they give you a day off, Ms. Huff. This must be a tough job.”

  “It’s Miss Huff, in case you’re wondering. And it is a stressful job, which is why I like to bunch my work days so I get a couple of days off consecutively to recharge my batteries. Got this weekend off, actually.”

  Scarne was about to respond to the obvious invitation when he heard a voice behind him say, “I thought I told you not to come back here.”

  Nurse Huff looked confused as Scarne turned to Dr. Levin.

  “Don’t you ever take a day off either, Doc?”

  Just then, the door to Banaszak’s room burst open and a tall, angular priest shouted, “Nurse, come quick, something is wrong with Mr. Banaszak!”

  The girl rushed toward the room, followed by Levin, who spilled coffee as he placed his cup on the nurse station counter. Well, the jig is up, thought Scarne, who also headed to the room. Other personnel were also converging. Scarne couldn’t enter the room and watched from outside as the staff worked on Banaszak. There was no crash cart in sight and he wondered how much they would actually do, considering that Banaszak was only supposed to get palliative care anyway.

  “What a pity.”

  Scarne turned to the priest, who was shaking his head sadly. The man, who was dapping at a small cut on his cheek, was slightly taller than Scarne. His skin, other than the small cut, was exceptionally white. Set off from his black suit and wavy jet black hair, it gave him a startling appearance, compounded by a large nose and piercing blue eyes under prominent eyebrows. His clerical collar, clean but rumpled, looked off-white against his pallor and was so tight it accentuated his prominent Adam’s apple. Looks like a young Boris Karloff, Scarne thought. No, not Karloff, someone else.