“I’m sure,” Coughlin said softly, significantly, as he followed Hank Ross into the lawyer’s private office. Sharon was typing from the Tombs transcript tape; Billy Dupaul’s strong young voice could be heard above the whirr of the electric typewriter.
“… time in the hotel. Jim Marshall? I should have kicked his brains out!” Ross’s even tones came on almost immediately. “What did he say—”
Sharon looked up with a welcoming smile as the door opened, her fingers poised over the keyboard of the typewriter; the smile disappeared as she saw the man accompanying Ross. She leaned over, switching off the recorder, and looked up at Ross questioningly. He nodded and the girl rose, turned off the typewriter and left the room, closing the door firmly behind her. Coughlin grinned.
“I see you run a well-trained office here, Ross. They learn quick.” He tilted his head in the direction of the cassette recorder on Sharon’s desk. “Billy Dupaul, eh?”
“Yes,” Ross said shortly. “Now, what did you want to see me about?”
“It can wait,” Coughlin said. “You said you wanted to see me, too. I figure it’s about the same thing, anyway.” He dropped into a chair beside the desk with a proprietory manner, his loud sports jacket hunching itself about his narrow shoulders as he leaned back, looking up at Ross. “What’s on your mind, Counselor?”
“I doubt if it’s the same thing,” Ross said quietly, “so let’s not waste time. You first.”
“If you insist,” Coughlin said with a grin. “I see by the papers the preliminary proceedings in the People versus Dupaul got under way today. It’s also about the time of year the sparrows start south, if you know what I mean. The Governor’s Committee investigating that riot should be coming out with their findings in the next few days, and it would be better if I were away on that trip, don’t you think?”
“Trip?” Ross asked innocently.
Coughlin sat up, his grin disappearing, his eyes narrowed.
“Let’s not be cute, Ross. Maybe you really should use a tape recorder whenever you talk to people; it might help that memory of yours. That’s right—the operative word was ‘trip.’ And what I’m talking about is the money I wanted to—borrow—to make it.”
“Oh, that trip,” Ross said easily. He shook his head regretfully. “You know, I’ve been thinking about it and I’ve decided not to loan you the money. I’m not sure you’re a very good risk.” He smiled in friendly fashion. “I’m sorry. Maybe you could find a friend at Chase Manhattan. Or Household Finance might see their way clear to helping you out.”
Coughlin’s skeletal face turned ugly. He came to his feet, glowering.
“Why, you stupid bastard! You’ll live to regret that attitude! If I get up on that witness stand—”
“If you get up on that witness stand?” Ross snapped his fingers, suddenly remembering something. “Now I remember! That’s what I wanted to see you about!” He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, brought out a folded piece of paper, verified its identity, and handed it across the desk. “Allow me to play mailman. This is yours.”
Coughlin looked at him a bit stupidly for a moment and then took the stiff, legal-looking document from the outstretched fingers. He read the writing on the outside of the folded paper, opened it and read the first few lines on the inside, and then looked up, shaking his head in wonder.
“You’ve got to be kidding! A subpoena? For me?”
“For you,” Ross said. “Delivered legally. And saving the State a fee, I might add.”
“As a witness for the defense?”
“Correct,” Ross said, and nodded politely.
“You’ve got to be crazy!”
“Well, even hostile witnesses are sometimes better than none,” Ross said apologetically and shrugged his shoulders. His finger came up, pointing to the document, being helpful. “The Supreme Courts building; I’m sure you know where it is. October thirtieth, five days from now.”
Coughlin stared at him.
“And what do you think I’ll say on the stand?”
“We won’t find out sitting here, will we?” Ross said pleasantly. “Good-by. And on the matter of that—ah, loan—better luck next time.”
“There won’t be any next time,” Coughlin said harshly, his thin face hard. “Not for Billy Dupaul, that’s for sure.” He turned with his hand on the knob. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said flatly. “That Dupaul kid sure has lousy luck with lawyers!”
The door closed behind him. Ross stared at the door panel with a frown on his face. It had been satisfying to give the blackmailing Mr. Coughlin a bit of comeuppance, but exactly where it could help Billy Dupaul was not precisely clear. In fact it was completely obscure.
He sighed. Oh, well, he thought, he had had a good day in court, and sufficient unto the day …
At eight o’clock that evening, Sharon and Hank Ross were sharing a table at the Sign of the Dove, awaiting Mike Gunnerson, who had been unavailable that afternoon, but who had arranged to meet them for dinner. Their drinks were before them and their dinner orders—including Mike’s usual two-pound steak—had been taken. Sharon started to raise her martini and then paused, smiling. Mike was pushing his way with difficulty through the tables. He came up, pulled back a chair, and sat down. He looked at the drink in Sharon’s hand, the glass of beer before Ross, and grinned.
“How many are you two up on me?”
“Don’t tell him,” Ross said to Sharon in a sotto voce. “Greediness should never be encouraged.”
“I’ll catch up, anyway,” Gunnerson said, and turned to call a waiter. To his amazement a hand reached over his shoulder and Jeannot, personally, was handing him his Scotch on the rocks. It was a double. Mike grinned.
“My apologies.” He raised his glass in a small salute, took a long drink, and set it down. “That’s better. We may even survive. Say, Hank, I hear you pulled a real Ross in court today.”
Ross smiled. Praise from Gunnerson was praise indeed.
“We did all right. Gorman raised a fuss, but he wasn’t really all that surprised. He’s quite an actor.” He grinned. “He’ll be more surprised when he discovers that getting Billy out is going to play merry hell with some of his prosecuting tactics in the next trial.”
“Good,” Mike said. “Anything that upsets Louie Gorman can’t be all bad.” He glanced around. “Where’s Billy?”
“We got him released from the Tombs about three this afternoon, and I checked him into the Marlborough on Lexington. I suggested he go out and get some decent clothes, or at least enough to last him through the trial, but he said that could wait; he wanted to go to the movies.” He grinned. “My guess is he picked a double feaure and will probably sit through it twice. I called the hotel before and left a message for him to join us here if he got back in time.”
“Well,” Mike said understandingly, “the last year or so there haven’t been too many privileges granted up at Attica. At least the movies are a better place for him to be than in a bar.” He smiled and raised his drink. “Which is where I’d be if I’d been in prison for the past four years.”
“Which is where you are even though you haven’t been in prison for the last four years,” Ross reminded him with a smile, and then moved aside to allow the waiter to bring their food. The dishes were carefully placed under the eagle eye of Jeannot; Ross picked up his knife and fork, tested the steak, and smiled his appreciation. Jeannot beamed and moved away.
“Well,” Ross said, cutting away, “enough of this Sybaritism, if there is such a word. Let’s get back to business. What have you got for us?”
Gunnerson finished his drink, signaled for a refill, and reached for his knife and fork.
“Well, my man up in Glens Falls was at this Jim Marshall for hours, but Marshall refuses to say a thing. He’s got a little shop up in Lake George Village about eight or nine miles above Glens Falls; he repairs bicycles and does odd jobs. Lives in a sort of shack about a mile from his shop. Not too prosperous. Don Evans—my m
an up there—has a feeling some money might loosen up his tongue.”
Ross looked up from his plate. “So offer him money.”
“I intend to, but I want to do it myself. I’m taking the early morning plane up there tomorrow morning.”
“Good. Anything new on Neeley?”
“I’ve had a man backtracking on him and I’ve got the report here in my pocket.” He tapped his jacket pocket for confirmation, accepted his second drink, tested it, and went back to his dinner. “But later you and I are meeting an old friend of mine who may be able to give us a bit more on Neeley than I have in this report. And information that’s a bit more reliable.”
“Oh?” Sharon paused in eating. “I’m not invited?”
“Not to this place,” Mike said positively.
“Not with two big, strong, and tough men to protect me?”
Mike laughed. “Oh, the place is safe enough. It’s just that I had enough trouble getting my friend to agree to talk even in front of Hank here. Bring along anyone else and all we’d get would be the silent treatment.”
“Well,” Sharon said, “then I guess I should have double-dated with Molly tonight instead of tomorrow night.”
Ross looked at her. “Why not both nights?”
“Because I don’t have Molly’s energy. If I kept her hours and spent them all dancing, too, I wouldn’t be able to stay awake in the office.” She sighed. “Maybe I’ll take in a movie, like Billy.”
“No double features, though,” Ross warned. “Remember staying awake in the office.”
Sharon made a face. Ross grinned and turned back to Mike.
“What about that report in your pocket?”
“Well,” Mike said, speaking around a large bite of steak, “it’s odd. Or at least it strikes me as odd. Neeley still lives—lived, would be closer—in that same apartment after all these years. The only one, as I said before. And as far as we have been able to determine, he’s never left town, not even for a vacation. I don’t understand it.”
“What’s to understand? Lots of people never leave town.”
“Well, I was sure he’d go after this Grace Melisi, wherever she was, and I was sure she wasn’t in New York. I figured he had to try and get his hands on her if only to break her arm, maybe. Just to teach her manners.”
Ross said, “Maybe he couldn’t afford the luxury of revenge. Sometimes it comes high.” He studied Mike across the table. “How was Neeley fixed financially? What did he do for a living?”
“When he didn’t have some mark on the hook? I don’t know. That’s one of the things I’m hoping to find out tonight.”
“How would your friend react to an attaché case?”
“With a recorder in it?” Mike shook his head decisively. “Not a chance! Don’t even have bulky pockets if you want him to talk. He’s cagey.” He glanced at his watch. “I told him between nine and nine-thirty.”
“Then let’s eat and get over there,” Hank said, and attacked his steak. He grinned at the girl beside him. “Besides, I wouldn’t want Sharon to miss the trailers.…”
CHAPTER
11
Frank Bukvic was nondescript in the extreme. His suit was of neutral gray and cut to fit his body neatly but without any detracting stylish innovations; his hair was thin and colorless, neither too long nor too short; his eyes were pale in color and his small features extraordinarily regular. His general appearance was so subdued that one could easily forget that he was around. This anonymity was far from accidental; it was cultivated to bolster Bukvic’s principal profession. While he did many things from time to time to earn a living, in general Frank Bukvic was a salesman. He sold information.
Now, seated in the back booth of a small, dimly lit, and poorly attended bar on Second Avenue, sipping his highball, he spoke in a quiet voice that seemed to issue from motionless lips. The sound reached the two men across from him but miraculously went no further.
“Ray Neeley? Sure. A runner.”
“The numbers racket?” Mike was doing the talking, Ross merely listening.
“That’s what I just said.”
“A loner?”
“Nobody lones for near ten years, which is what Neeley did. He worked for the Organization. He had the section from Seventh to Eighth, Fifty-fifth to Sixtieth, if I remember right. Not the hottest property in town, but when he worked it properly he managed all right.”
“What about his love life? Ever hear of him and a Grace Melisi?”
“Never.”
“Or any other dame?”
“No idea,” Bukvic said. “Nothing real loud, that’s sure, or the Organization would have cracked down. Like they did when he tried to shake down that kid—that baseball kid. I forget his name.”
Ross leaned over, his eyes bright.
“You know about that? That it was a shakedown?”
“Me and half the town.”
“You can prove it was a shakedown?”
“Prove it? Who has to prove it?”
“I mean, would you be willing to testify in court—?”
“Court?” It was such a stupid question that Bukvic, usually exceptionally polite, pressed his lips together in disapproval. “I’m not in the business of proving; I’m in the business of reporting.”
“Well, then, do you know of anyone else—for a generous fee—who would consider testifying? One of those ‘half the town’?”
“No.”
“Look, Mr. Bukvic—”
“The answer is no.” The tone was as nondescript as the face, but final.
“Damn it!” Ross said to Mike, savagely, “how in the hell come nobody dug these facts out eight years ago? When they were hot?”
“If you don’t look, you don’t find,” Mike said in a soothing tone, and turned back to Bukvic. “Frank, how did they crack down on Neeley?”
“Just told him one more try to do something on his own and that would be that. They didn’t spell it out, but those boys don’t have to.” For the first time the faintest hint of a smile crossed the thin lips, but it disappeared so quickly that Ross wondered if he had imagined it. “Lucky for Neeley the heads of the numbers end were a bit more lenient when he tried to hire Jennings.”
Mike frowned. “Jennings? Russ Jennings?”
Ross cut in. “Who’s Jennings?”
“Local investigator,” Mike said, and went back to Bukvic. “What happened?”
“All I know is the Organization didn’t like it, but they weren’t too tough on him that time. Had him on the carpet, but he must have promised to keep his nose clean, because nothing came of it.”
“Who reported it to the Organization?”
“Jennings himself, I imagine. He must have figured it would be smart to check it out. Jennings is lots of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”
“What did Neeley want Jennings to do for him?”
Bukvic shrugged. “No idea. Strictly between Jennings and the top boys. Never leaked, as far as I know.”
There were several moments of silence. Bukvic took advantage of the pause in conversation to sip his drink. Ross frowned down at his hands on the table in frustration, then looked Bukvic straight in the eye.
“Look, Mr. Bukvic, I have a client who can get life because nobody believes his story about that woman being in Neeley’s apartment.”
“I know,” Bukvic said. “Tough.”
For a moment Ross thought he saw a gleam of pity in the small man’s pale eyes, but he knew that even if it was there, nothing would be done about it. He sighed. Mike looked at him.
“Anything more, Hank?”
“No.” Ross shook his head in disgust. “Damn it, Mike, we have our case! We made a wild guess and we were right! Only how the hell do you prove it? If we could get anyone to testify …”
He looked at Bukvic imploringly. The slender man’s face was impassive.
“No way,” he said, and went back to his highball.
Mike stood up and sidled from the booth. Ross followe
d, Mike leaned down.
“Thanks, Frank. The usual post office box?”
“The same,” Bukvic said. He looked past Mike. “Sorry, Mister.”
“Me, too,” Ross said, and walked out of the bar with Mike Gunnerson right behind him. At the curb Mike stepped into the street and waved down a cab. The two men climbed in; Gunnerson leaned forward, giving the driver an address unfamiliar to his companion. Ross looked at him.
“Russ Jennings’ pad,” Mike explained.
“Will he talk?”
“To me, he will,” Mike said confidently.
“Shouldn’t we have called?”
“Better this way,” Mike said cryptically. “This way we find him home.”
The drive was finished in silence; the cab pulled up before an apartment house on Central Park West in the high eighties. The men climbed down, Mike paying, and walked into the lobby. The building had obviously seen better days; the marble table set beneath the large but flaking mirror was stained and cracked; the lobby was otherwise bare and hadn’t been painted in many years. Mike led the way past the tiny self-service elevator and took the steps two at a time.
The second-floor hallway was lit by a small bulb hanging unshaded from a cord; graffiti decorated the wall, illegible in the gloom. The dirty broken-tile floor was littered with cigarette butts. Ross wrinkled his nose.
“It looks as if your friend Russ isn’t doing so well.”
Mike looked over his shoulder, his face blank.
“Don’t worry about Russ Jennings. He could buy and sell both of us a few times over. Two things: One, this is still a good mailing address. Out-of-town agencies go for the Central Park West bit—”
“And two?”
“Two, Russ Jennings probably has the first dime he ever stole. He’s a miser.”
He paused before a door and rapped sharply. There was silence. Mike rapped again, louder this time. There was the sound of movement behind the solid panel; a cautious voice spoke.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s Mike Gunnerson, Russ.”
“Just a second.” There was a hesitant pause. “How do I know it’s Mike Gunnerson?”
A Handy Death Page 12
