Westlake, Donald E - Novel 41

by Levine (v1. 1)

  Levine sighed, and said, "When was the last time you saw your brother, Mr. Gold?"

  Gold held his hands out to the sides, in a noncommittal shrug. "A week ago? Two weeks?"

  "You're not sure."

  "I think two weeks. You must understand, my brother and I —we'd drifted apart."

  "Because of his trouble with the law?"

  Gold nodded. "A part of it, yes. God rest his soul, Mister ?"

  "Levine."

  "Yes. God rest his soul, Mister Levine, but I must tell you what's in my heart. You have to know the truth. Maurice was not a good man. Do you understand me? He was my brother, and now he's been murdered, but still I must say it. His life went badly for him, Mr, Levine, and he became sour. When he was young — " He shrugged again. "He became very bitter, I think. He lost his belief."

  "His faith, you mean?"

  "Oh, that, too. Maurice was not a religious man. But even more than that, do you follow me? He lost his belief. In the goodness of man —in life. Do you understand me?"

  "I think so." Levine watched Gold's face carefully. Stettin had said that the brothers had worked together in the buying and selling of stolen goods, but Abner Gold was trying very hard to convince them of his own innocence. Levine wasn't sure yet whether or not he could be convinced.

  "The last time you saw him," he said, "did he act nervous at all? As though he was expecting trouble?"

  "Maurice always expected trouble. But I do know what you mean. No, nothing like that, nothing more than his usual pessimism."

  "Do you yourself know of any enemies he might have made?"

  "Ever since I read the article in the paper, I've been asking myself exactly that question. Did anyone hate my brother enough to want to kill him. But I can think of no one. You must understand me, I didn't know my brother's associates. We —drifted apart."

  "You didn't know any of his friends at all?"

  "I don't believe so, no."

  "Not Sal Casetta?"

  "An Italian? No, I don't know him." Gold glanced at Stettin, then leaned forward to say to Levine, "Excuse me, do you mind? Could I speak to you alone for a moment?"

  "Sure," said Stettin promptly. "I'll wait outside."

  "Thank you. Thank you very much." Gold beamed at Stettin until he left, then leaned toward Levine again. "I can talk to you," he said. "Not in front of the other policeman."

  Levine frowned, but said nothing.

  "Listen to me," said Gold. His eyes were dark, and deepset. "Maurice was my brother. If anyone has the right to say what I am going to say now it is me, the brother. Maurice is better dead. Better for everyone. The poHce are shorthanded, I know this. You have so much work; forget Maurice, No one wants vengeance. Listen to me, I am his brother. Who has a better right to talk?"

  You re talking to the wrong man, Levine thought. Stettin's the one who thinks your way. But he kept quiet, and waited.

  Gold paused, his hands out as though in offering, presenting his ideas to Levine. Then he lowered his hands and leaned back and said, "You understand me. That's why I wanted to talk to you alone. You are a policeman, sworn to uphold the law, this new law in this new country. But I am speaking to you now from the old law. You follow me, Levine. And if I say to you, I don't want vengeance for the slaying of my brother, I speak within a law that is older and deeper."

  "A law that says murder should be ignored and forgotten? A law that says life doesn't matter? I never heard of it."

  "Levine, you know what law I'm talking about! I'm his brother, and I "

  "You're a fool, Gold, and that's the damnedest bribe I've ever been offered."

  "Bribe?" Gold seemed shocked at the thought. "I didn't offer you any "

  "What do I do to belong. Gold? I send in the label from a package of Passover candles, and then what do I get? I le^rn all about the secret handshake, and I get the ring with the secret compartment, and I get the magic decodifier so we can send each other messages others won't understand. Is that it?"

  "You shouldn't mock what "

  "Is there anything you wouldn't use. Gold? Do you have respect for anything at all?"

  Gold looked away, his expression stony. "I thought I could talk to you," he said. "I thought you would understand."

  "I do understand," Levine told him. "Get on your feet."

  "What?"

  "You're coming back to the precinct to answer some more questions."

  "But —but I've told you — "Gold started to say.

  "You told me you didn't want your brother's murderer found. After a while, you'll tell me why. On your feet."

  "For God's sake, Levine — "

  "Get on your feet!"

  It was a small room. The echoes of his shout came back to his ears, and he suddenly realized he'd lost his temper despite himself, and his left hand jerked automatically to his chest, pressing.there to feel for the heartbeat. He had a skip, every eighth beat or so, and when he allowed himself to get excited the skipping came closer together. That irregularity of rhythm was the most pronounced symptom he had to support his fear of heart trouble and it was never very far from his consciousness. He pressed his hand to his chest now, feeling the thumping within, and the skip, and counted from there to the next skip. . . seven.

  He took a deep breath. Quietly he said, "Come along, Gold. Don't make me call in the other policeman to carry you."

  Abraham Levine couldn't bring himself to grill Gold personally after all; he was afraid he'd lose control. So he simply filled Stettin in on what had been said, and what he wanted to know. Stettin took care of the questioning, with assists from Andrews and Campbell, two of the other detectives now on duty, while Levine left the precinct again, to find Sal Casetta.

  Casetta lived in the New Utrecht section of Brooklyn, in a brick tenement on 79th Street. It was a walk-up, and the bookmaker's apartment was on the fourth floor. Levine climbed the stairs slowly, stopping to rest at each landing. When he got to the fourth floor, he paused to catch his breath, and light a cigarette before knocking on the door marked 14.

  A woman answered —a short blowsy woman in a loose sweater and a tight black skirt. She was barefooted, and her feet were dirty, her toenails enameled a deep red. She looked challengingly at Levine.

  Levine said, "I'm looking for Sal Casetta."

  "He ain't home."

  "Where can I find him?"

  "What do you want him for?"

  "Police," said Levine. "I don't want to talk to him about bookmaking. A friend of his was killed; maybe he could help us."

  "What makes you think he wants to help you?"

  "It was a friend of his that was killed."

  "So what? You ain't a friend of his."

  "If Sal was killed," Levine said, "and I was looking for his murderer, would you help me?"

  The woman grimaced, and shrugged uneasily. "I told you he wasn't here," she said.

  "Just tell me where I can find him."

  She thought it over. She was chewing gum, and her jaw moved continuously for a full minute. Finally, she shrugged again and said, "Come on in. I'll go get him for you."

  "Thank you."

  She led the way into a small living room, with soiled drapes at the windows, and not enough furniture. "Grab a seat any place," she said. "Look out for roaches."

  Levine thanked her again, and sat down gingerly on an unpainted wooden chair.

  "What was the name of the friend?" she asked.

  "Morry Gold."

  "Oh, that bum." Her mouth twisted around its wad of gum. "Why waste time on him?"

  "Because he was killed," said Levine.

  "You want to make work for yourself," she told him, "it's no skin off my nose. Wait here, I'll be right back."

  While he waited Levine's thoughts kept reverting to Morry Gold. After about ten minutes, he heard the front door open, and a few seconds later the woman came back accompanied by a short, heavyset man with bushy black hair and rather shifty eyes.

  He came in nodding his head jerkily,
saying, "I read about it in the papers. I read about it this morning."

  "You're Sal Casetta?"

  "Yeah, yeah, that's right, that's me. You're a cop, huh?"

  Levine showed his badge, then said, "You used to play cards with Morry Gold?"

  "Yeah, sure, that's right. Poker. Quarter, half-dollar. Friendly game, you know."

  "Who were the other players?" Levine asked.

  "Well, uh —" Casetta glanced nervously at the woman, and rubbed the back of his hand across his nose. "Well, you know how it is. You don't feel right about giving out names."

  "Why? Do you think one of them killed Gold?"

  "Hey now —Listen. We're all friends. Nothing like that. I wouldn't want to bump Morry, and neither would those guys. We're all buddies."

  "Then give me their names."

  Casetta cleared his throat, and glanced at the woman again, and scuffed his feet on the floor. Finally, he said, "Well, all right. But don't tell them you got it from me, huh?"

  "Gold's landlady identified you," Levine told him. "She could have identified the other two."

  "Yeah, sure, that's right. So it's Jake Mosca —that's like Moscow, only with an 'a' —and Barney Feldman. Okay?"

  Levine copied the names down. "You know where they live?"

  "Naw, not me."

  "We'll leave that a blank, then. When was the last game?"

  "At Morry's? That was on Saturday. Right, baby?"

  The woman nodded. "Saturday," she said.

  "Did Gold act nervous or depressed Saturday?"

  "You mean, did he know he was gonna get it? Not a bit. Calm like always, you know?"

  "Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill him?"

  "Not me. I know from when we used to live in the same neighborhood, that's all. His business is his business."

  "You wouldn't know who his enemies were."

  "That's right. If Morry had enemies, he never said nothing to me."

  "What about other friends?"

  "Friends?" Casetta rubbed his nose again, then said, "We didn't see each other that much since we moved away. Just for the games. Uh, wait a second. There was another guy came in the game for a while, Arnie something. A fish, a real fish. So after a while he quit."

  "You don't remember his last name?"

  Casetta shook his head. "Just Arnie something. Maybe Jake or Barney knows."

  "All right. Do you know Gold's brother, Abner?"

  "Naw, I never met him. Morry talked about him sometimes. They didn't get along."

  Levine got to his feet. "Thank you very much," he said.

  "Yeah, sure. Morry was okay."

  "Oh, one thing more. What about women? Did he have any woman friends that you know about?"

  "I never seen him with a woman," Casetta said.

  "Saturday at the game, did he seem to have an unusual amount of money on him? Or did he seem very broke? How did he seem to be fixed?"

  "Like always. Nothing special, pretty well heeled but nothing spectacular, you know?" Casetta looked around, at the woman, at the apartment. "Like me," he said.

  Elly Kapp's last known address was in Gravesend, off Avenue X, and since Kapp had once been caught turning stolen goods over to Morry Gold it occurred to Levine that the man might know whom Gold had been dealing with lately. He might even be still selling to Gold himself.

  There was no Kapp listed among the mailboxes at the address. Levine pressed the bell-button beneath the metal plate reading Superintendent, and several minutes later a slow-rolling fat woman with receding gray hair appeared in the doorway, holding the door open a scant three inches. She said nothing, only stared mistrustfully, so Levine dragged out his wallet and showed his identification.

  Tm looking for Elly Kapp," he said.

  "Don't live here no more."

  "Where does he live now?"

  "I don't know." She started to close the door, but Levine held it open with the palm of his hand. "When did he move?" he demanded.

  The woman shrugged. "Who remembers?" Her eyes were dull, and watched his mouth rather than his eyes. "Who cares where he went, or what he's done?"

  Levine moved his hand away, and allowed the woman to close the door. He watched thfough the glass as she turned and rolled slowly back across the inner vestibule. Her ankles were swollen like sausages. When she disappeared in the gloom just beyond Levine turned away and went back down the stoop to the Chevy.

  He drove slowly back to the precinct. Indifference breathed in the air all around him, sullen and surly. No man is important, the streets seemed to be saying. Man is only useful as long as he breathes. Once the breathing stops, he is forgotten. Time stretches away beyond him, smooth and slick and with no handholds. The man is dead, and almost as swiftly as a dropped heartbeat, the space which he occupied yawns emptily and there is nothing Left of him but a name.

  At times, another man is paid to remrmber the name long enough to carve it on stone, and the stone is set in the earth, and immediately it begins to sink. But the man is gone long since. What does it matter if he stopped a second ago or a century ago or a millenium ago? He stopped, he is no more, he is forgotten. Who cares?

  Levine saw the red light just in time, and jamrtned on the brakes. He sat hunched over the wheel, unnerved at having almost run the light, and strove to calm himself. His breathing was labored, as though he'd been running, and he knew that the beating of his heart was erratic and heavy. He inhaled, very slowly, and let his breath out even more slowly while he waited for the light to change.

  The instant it became green he drove on across the intersection. He was calmer now. The death of Morry Gold had affected him too much, and he told himself he had to snap out of it. He knew, after all, the reason he was so affected. It was because Morry Gold's death had been greeted by such universal indifference.

  Almost always, the victim of a homicide is survived by relatives and friends who are passionately concerned with his end, and make a nuisance of themselves by badgering the police for quick results. With such rallying, the dead man doesn't seem quite so forlorn, quite so totally alone and forgotten.

  In the interrogation room down the hall from the squad-room, Stettin and Andrews and Campbell were questioning Abner Gold. Levine stuck his head in, nodded at Stettin, avoided looking at Gold, and immediately shut the door again. He turned away and walked slowly back down the hall toward the squadroom. He heard the door behind him open and close, and then Stettin, in long easy strides, had come up even with him.

  Stettin shook his head. "Nothing, Abe," he said.

  "No explanation?"

  "Not from him. He won't say a word any more. Not until he calls a lawyer."

  Levine shook his head tiredly. He knew the type. Abner Gold's one lone virtue would be patience. He would sit in silence, and wait, and wait until eventually the detectives found his stubborn silence intolerable, and then he knew he would be allowed to go home.

  "I have an explanation," Stettin said. "He's afraid of an investigation. He's afraid if we dig too deep we'll come up with proof he. worked with his brother."

  "Maybe," said Levine. "Or maybe he's afraid well come up with proof he killed his brother."

  "What for?"

  "I don't know. For cheating him on some kind of deal. For blackmailing him. Your guess is as good as mine."

  Stettin shrugged. "We can keep asking," he said. "But he can keep right on not answering until we can no longer stand the sight of him."

  Levine glanced at his watch. Quarter to one. He'd stopped off for lunch on the way back. He said, "I'll go talk to him for a while."

  "That's up to you."

  The way he said it, Levine was reminded that Stettin didn't want to break his hump over this one. Levine walked over to his desk and sat down and said, "I got two more names. From Casetta. Jake Mosca and Barney Feldman. No addresses. See what you can dig up on them, will you? And go talk to them."

  "Sure. How was Casetta?"

  "I don't know. Maybe Gold cheated him
at poker. Maybe Gold was playing around with his wife. He didn't act nervous or worried." Levine rubbed a hand wearily across his face. "I'll go talk to Gold now," he said. "Did we get the M.E.'s report?"

  "It's right there on your desk."

  Levine didn't open it. He didn't want to read about Morry Gold's corpse. He said, "What kind of gun?"

  "A thirty-eight. You look tired, Abe."

  "I guess I am. I can sleep late tomorrow." Sure.

  "Oh, one more thing. Elly Kapp isn't at that address any more. See what you can find there, will you?"

  "Will do."

  Levine walked down the hall again and took over the questioning of Gold. After Andrews and Campbell had left the room, Levine looked at Gold and said, "What did Morry do to you?"

  Gold shook his head.

  "You're a cautious man. Gold." Levine's voice rose impatiently. "It had to be something strong to make you kill him. Did he cheat you?"

  Humor flickered at the corners of Gold's mouth. "He cheated me always," he said. "For years. I was used to it, Abraham."

  Levine shrugged off the use of the first name. It wasn't important enough to be angry about. "So he was blackmailing you," he said, "and finally you'd had enough. But didn't you know someone would hear the sound of the shot? Mrs. Temple saw you go out."

  "A false identification," said Gold. "I would risk nothing for Maurice. He was not worth the danger of killing him."

  Levine shrugged. If Gold knew a potato silencer had been used, he hadn't mentioned it. Not that Levine had expected the trick to work. Tricks like that work only in the movies. And killers go to the movies, too.

  Levine asked questions for over two hours. Sometimes Gold answered, and sometimes he didn't. As the time wore on, Levine grew more and more tired, more and more heavy and depressed, but Gold remained unchanged, displaying only the same solid patience.

  Finally, at three-thirty, Levine told him he could leave. Gold thanked him, with muted sardonicism, and left. Levine went back down the hall to the squadroom.

  There was a note from Stettin. Elly Kapp was being held in a precinct in west Brooklyn. Last night, he'd been caught halfway through the window of a warehouse near the Brooklyn piers, and tomorrow morning he would be transferred downtown.