The Disappearance of Penny

by Robert J. Randisi

I tried to imagine him and little Louie Melendez in bed together and almost laughed.

  “Good, good. Will you take him a message?” I asked.

  “Yes, I will take it.”

  “Okay. Look, go ahead and do whatever it is he sent you here to do.”

  He turned and went to a closet, opened it and took out a suitcase. He put the suitcase on the wooden chair and then opened the dresser drawers and threw some clothing into it. He left the photos and manuals, although the way he lingered over them made me think he had originally meant to take them.

  When he was finished he closed the suitcase and set it down at his feet.

  “What is your message, please?”

  I smiled. He had either decided that he could trust me, or that it was better to play along and get the hell out.

  “The police are looking for Louis,” I told him. “I want to find him first. Tell him I think his best chance is to talk to me first, let me run interference between him and the police. Tell Louis to call me, arrange to meet me. I’ll come alone and we can talk. Tell him all I want to do is help him. You got that?”

  “I have it, Mr. Po. I will tell him.”

  He picked up the suitcase and started for the door, eyeing me at the same time, as if waiting for me to jump him.

  “Go ahead,” I told him. “I won’t try to stop you and I won’t follow you. What’s your name, anyway?”

  He answered without thinking, before he could stop himself.

  “Hector — ” he began, but he stopped before he could say his last name.

  “Okay, Hector. Give Louis my message, tell him I am sincere in my desire to help. Okay?”

  He nodded, jerkily, and repeated, “Okay.”

  He approached the door gingerly and when I called him again he almost jumped out of his shoes.

  “Hector, tell Louis I don’t think he killed Penny Hopkins.” The next sentence might not have been a wise thing to tell Hector, if he was a lover, or former lover, of Louie’s, but I wanted Melendez to know how I felt. “Tell him, I think he loved her.”

  He gave me an odd look, brow wrinkled, then nodded and backed out of the room. I heard him slam the door on his way out.

  I walked to the window, watched as he came out onto the street and started off down the block with the suitcase. I couldn’t tell if he had a car, hailed a taxi or was taking the subway.

  Alone again, I began to search the room, looking for something specific. Melendez was a member of a gun club, but I hadn’t seen Hector pack a gun in the suitcase, and now I couldn’t locate one in the apartment.

  Did he already have it with him?

  If I knew what kind of gun he owned, I could have Diver — or Jackson — match it to the bullet that killed Penny.

  I searched both rooms again, but still couldn’t find a gun. I was about to leave when something I had seen during my search registered. It was something I had seen while searching the bedroom, but had not really paid attention to at the time. I went back to the bedroom and wondered what it was that was nudging at my brain.

  The bed.

  The bed was a mess, sheet and blanket crumpled, pillows askew.

  I walked closer to the bed and looked down at the soiled sheets. Right in the middle was a small rubber implement used to avoid the embarrassment of an unwanted pregnancy.

  Apparently, Melendez had had sex with someone the last time he was in the bed.

  I left the apartment with the thought in mind that homosexuals have no need for condoms.

  The last roll in the hay that this particular hay had hosted had definitely not been between two homosexuals.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Shukey had never told me what gun club Melendez was a member of.

  Actually, that’s not strictly true. The truth was, I had never asked her, so I checked the phone book and found that there were three major gun clubs in Manhattan. I called them all and asked if they had a member named Louis Melendez, and the third and last one I called said, yes, they did.

  I went over to the Tri-Boro Gun Club on Second Avenue and Thirty-third Street and spoke to the manager, a man named Hilliard.

  “Mr. Hilliard, my name is Po. I’m working with the police on an investigation of the murder of a young girl who was acquainted with Louis Melendez, and we are attempting to locate his gun,” I explained to him, deliberately speaking very fast so that he would only be able to pick up a word here or there — like “police” and “murder.”

  “Could you tell me how many guns Mr. Melendez owns?” I added.

  “Well, uh, I don’t know. I’d have to check the records in my office,” he answered, unsure about whether or not he should.

  He was a short man with sparse, gray hair and watery eyes. I walked toward him and he had no choice but to back up. Once he had to do that he turned and walked to his office with me following behind him.

  “We certainly appreciate your cooperation in this matter, Mr. Hilliard. There are not too many citizens willing to help the police, these days.”

  “Well, I really don’t know if I should be doing this,” he said, fingering through folders in a file cabinet.

  “You can call Detective Diver at the Manhattan South Homicide squad if you like. I’ll give you the number,” I offered helpfully.

  He regarded me for a moment, the folder in his hand now, then made his decision.

  “I suppose it’s all right.”

  He scanned the contents of the folder and then announced, “Here it is. Mr. Melendez owns a .357 Magnum and a .38 caliber Colt Detective Special. As a marksman he consistently rates very high.” He closed the folder and asked me, “Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “Does he have a locker here?” I asked him.

  “Why yes, all of our members maintain lockers on the — ”

  “I’d like to look inside, please,” I told him.

  “Oh, my, “he said, becoming distressed. “I don’t know, Detective Po — ”

  I didn’t bother correcting him on my title.

  “Mr. Hilliard, I can come back with a radio car and a warrant, if you like, but I don’t think you’d like that kind of scene, would you?”

  “Of course not, but — ”

  “You do have the combination, or extra key, to his locker, do you not?”

  “Of course. We insist on it, what with the guns and — ”

  “Mr. Hilliard, you can stand there with me to make sure I don’t remove anything. All I want to do is see if his guns are in his locker.”

  “Well,” he relented, replacing the folder and shutting the drawer, “I guess that would be all right.”

  He went to his desk and opened up a small card file, apparently the record of members’ combinations for their lockers. He found the one he wanted, then replaced the card.

  “Follow me, please.” He led me down the hall to a fair-sized locker room. He found Melendez’s locker and stared at the lock for a few seconds. He half turned to me, as if he were going to say something, then addressed himself to the lock and opened it.

  “Watch me,” I told him and reached into the locker. There was some clothing, another packet of black-and-white photos of nude males — which thoroughly embarrassed Mr. Hilliard. There were two more photos there of Louis’s friend, Hector, who I have to say was hung like the proverbial horse — no pun intended. I even found one picture with Louie in it, looking terribly forlorn. I continued my examination of the contents and came up with one gun, the magnum.

  The .38 was not there.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hilliard, you’ve been very helpful,” I told the little man. His eyes were watering furiously as he shut the locker and twirled the lock.

  “Glad to be of service, Detective Po.”

  He walked me out and I thanked him again, wondering if he would go back to the locker to take a better look at those photos.

  Outside I located a pay phone and put in a call to Diver’s office.

  “Jim, do you know what kind of gun Penny Hopkins was shot with?” I
asked him when he came on the line.

  “Wait a minute. I have a copy of Jackson’s report some — ah, here it is. It was a thirty-eight, one shot in the head. Why?”

  “Did you know that Melendez was a member of the Tri-Boro Gun Club?”

  “No, did you?”

  “I know, I should have mentioned it before, but at the time I found out it didn’t seem that important.”

  “Before the murder was discovered?”

  “Yes. Penny hadn’t yet been found at that point. Anyway, he owns two guns, a three fifty-seven Magnum, and a thirty-eight.”

  “Interesting,” he remarked.

  “Yeah, well, I just checked out his apartment and his locker at the gun club. Oh, you may be getting a call from the manager there. I used your name and some pretty fast talk to get him to open Melendez’s locker.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Anyway, the magnum was in his locker. The thirty-eight is no where to be found. Not in his apartment, and not at the club.”

  “Now that is interesting. Did you call Jackson with this?”

  “No, maybe you better do that. I double-talked him a bit yesterday and he might not be too pleased to hear from me.”

  “Double-talked him? Why?”

  I explained about my conversation with Lisa about Lassiter’s tendency towards violence with women.

  “Penny hadn’t been beaten, so I saw no need to give Jackson Lassiter’s name,” I finished.

  “Okay, I’ll talk to him. Melendez is looking better and better for this, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve got messages out for him to call me.”

  “If he does, call me right away, Hank. I mean it.”

  “Sure,” I lied. “I told you, cooperation all the way.”

  “I remembered,” he told me. “Just make sure you do.”

  “Okay, don’t worry. I’ll be in touch.”

  “So long.”

  I hung up and got in my car, pocketing the summons I’d gotten for parking on a hydrant. Biel and the N.Y.S.R.C. took care of all my summonses, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to own a car in New York City.

  Diver was right about Melendez looking better and better for Penny’s murder, but I had a theory and I was hoping Hector believed me and would deliver my message to Louie.

  I got on the F.D.R. drive and headed downtown, to the Brooklyn Bridge.

  I was going back to Island Downs, where all roads were leading to.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  When I got to the track the ninth race was about to go off. I broke my non-betting policy for two reasons: there was a horse named Private Eye running. The odds were eight to one, so I decided to risk twenty bucks. I felt like I couldn’t lose.

  Besides, the jockey’s name was B. Sommers.

  Needless to say, the horse went wire-to-wire and won by three lengths —

  — and was disqualified by the stewards.

  I could’ve gotten back $180, instead I lost $20.

  The horse players biggest word: Could’ve.

  Should’ve.

  If.

  Take your pick.

  That would teach me to go against my policies.

  I went down to the jockeys’ room to see Brandy. A few of the guys said hello, some stopped to make a “too bad” remark about Penny.

  When Brandy came down I could tell she was pissed off about the disqualification — I mean, royally pissed!

  “Damnit to hell, those goddamned New York Stewards!” she yelled.

  That’s how I was able to tell she was pissed.

  After all, I am a detective.

  “What do they know about riding to win?” she demanded from no one in particular.

  When she spotted me she decided to use me as a buffer for her anger. Waving her finger in front of my nose she said, “They’ll probably hand me a seven-day suspension, as well. Now, in California — ”

  I silenced her with a kiss, a quick one, and told her, “That would mean that we could take a seven-day vacation, wouldn’t it?”

  She stared at me for a moment, trying to hang onto her anger.

  She lost, and laughed.

  “Hi. I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she apologized, giving me a hug. She smelled of dirt and girl sweat, with a little equine sweat thrown in.

  “You smell like a horse,” I told her.

  She pulled back, frowned at me and swatted me on the shoulder.

  “You have such a way with words. Wait here while I shower.”

  “I’ll wait up in the lounge. We’ll have a drink — a soft drink, okay?”

  “Okay. I’ll only be a few minutes,” she promised, and hurried off down the hall.

  I went up to the lounge and saw my bartender friend, Ray.

  “Hey, any progress?” he asked, hopefully.

  “No, none,” I told him. “I’m waiting for a lady, Ray. We’ll order when she gets here.”

  “Sure. You, uh, didn’t get any calls, huh?”

  “Not a peep, but I’m hopeful.”

  His eyes lit up. “Great!”

  Brandy showed up fifteen minutes later, smelling fresh and clean as she kissed my cheek and sat across from me. She was wearing jeans, an orange blouse and a brown corduroy vest.

  “What would you like to drink?” I asked her.

  “Nothing, really. Why don’t we go somewhere and eat,” she suggested.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Take me to your favorite place.”

  My favorite place?

  My favorite place was now Debby’s, but did I want to take Brandy there?

  Why not?

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  I waved to Ray on the way out and he seemed puzzled, but he called out, “Good luck,” speaking more to himself than to me.

  “Have you had any progress?” she asked in the car.

  “Aiello got sprung by a lawyer,” I told her. “We’re trying to figure out who tipped the lawyer off.”

  “Well, who knew the cops had him?” she asked.

  “Only two people,” I told her. “You and Lassiter.”

  “Have you checked Lassiter out?”

  “I’m having Shukey do it for me.”

  She laughed. “Poor Shukey. She’ll be a mass of bruises.”

  We were quiet for a few moments, then she asked, “How about me?” kiddingly “Have you checked me out?”

  I looked at her, but she was staring straight ahead, an amused smile on her face.

  “That’s what I’m doing now, Brandy” I told her, truthfully.

  That was the sum total of our conversation until we reached Debby’s. Brandy maintained a subdued silence while we took a table. I could see that there were some other track people there, but no one who was connected with the incidents of the past week.

  Debby came over to the table and said, “Hi, Hank.” She looked at Brandy with frank curiosity.

  “Hello, Debby. I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Brandy Sommers. Brandy, this is Debby Gannero. Debby owns this place.”

  They exchanged hellos and appraised each other silently. Brandy agreed to let me order and I told Debby to bring us two bowls of her stew.

  “Rosellen is in the kitchen tonight, but it will be just as good,” she promised.

  “Fine.”

  “She’s gorgeous,” Brandy remarked.

  “So’s the one in the kitchen,” I told her.

  “Oh, there’s two of them?”

  “They’re cousins. Debby owns the place, and Rosellen does most of the cooking.”

  “Well, no wonder this is your favorite place,” she commented coolly.

  Was this what I wanted? To start an argument with Brandy? Did I bring her here to see Debby because I was afraid we were getting too close?

  I checked my watch and told her, “I have to call Shukey.”

  “Shukey, too?” she asked. “Nice.”

  Her fuse had been lit and was working its way to the powder.

  Now we’d see how l
ong it was.

  “Excuse me.” I left the table, went to the kitchen and stuck my head in.

  “I need a phone, ladies,” I announced.

  “Hi, Henry,” Rosellen said. She pointed to a table in the back of the kitchen and added, “In case you’re interested, my number’s in the book next to it.”

  “I’ll make a note of it,” I promised.

  “She’s lovely, Hank,” Debby remarked as she went past me to go back to the bar.

  “Thanks, she’s nice.”

  “Is she connected with the thing you’re working on?” she asked.

  “Yeah. She’s a jockey at the track.”

  “How interesting. Go ahead and use the phone, I won’t keep you.”

  “Thanks, Deb.”

  I dialed Shukey’s number, expecting her service to answer.

  It didn’t.

  “Hi, Shuke.”

  “I quit,” she said. “No more seductress act. My bruises have bruises,” she complained.

  “Is your honor intact?”

  “Just barely.”

  “Then stop complaining. What have you got?”

  “I don’t think Lassiter had anything to do with springing Aiello, Hank. I don’t think he had anything to do with Penny’s murder, either. He strikes me as being a very frightened man, playing a part.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he pinched and grabbed, but I guess you were right in what you said, because I think if I had shown any interest, he would have backed off.”

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t,” I told her.

  “Well, what you said did cross my mind while I was with him. It was almost like some sort of a challenge, you know?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, imagine if I had been the woman to bring him out of his — ”

  “Shukey, in the words of your countrymen, you are daft.”

  “Thank you, luv,” she remarked, then turned serious. “Hank, was Penny beaten?”

  “Not according to Jackson’s report.”

  “Well, then that reinforces my opinion of Lassiter. If he had killed her he probably would have beaten her to death.”

  “I guess that’s reasonable. He took a swing at me yesterday. I guess Melendez still seems a good bet for it, especially after what I found out this morning.”

  “What was that?”

  I told her about Louie’s missing gun, and how it matched the caliber of the gun that killed Penny.