by Parnell Hall
“Don’t let it.”
“I may have no choice.”
“All right. But call me first.”
“I may not have time.”
“Make time.”
“That’s not what I mean. I may run into a situation where I have to either let your daughter walk into a trap or warn her. It could require an instant decision. So I need yours now.”
“That’s bullshit,” MacAullif said, irritably. “How can I answer that? It would depend on the circumstances. You say a trap. What kind of trap? How serious would the consequences be? You see what I mean?”
“I see,” I said, innocently. “You’re telling me to use my best judgment.”
There was a long pause. “Yes, of course I am,” MacAullif said. “You can’t imagine how stupid this makes me feel, not being able to think straight. Yeah, use your best judgment, and let me know the minute anything breaks.”
I assured MacAullif I would and hung up the phone.
Well, great, I thought. Now I have two draggy, impossible jobs instead of one. Plus I’m holding out on MacAullif and he probably suspects it. Plus the fact that I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m going to do.
Aside from that, it’s going great.
I got in the car and drove out to the Dunleavy house. The station wagon was in the garage, and there was no sign of the Weasel.
I drove back to Harold’s office. Some inconsiderate person had taken my parking space. I found another one a half a dozen meters down the block. I dropped the inevitable quarter in the meter, making my usual futile vow to get dimes, and walked back to the pay phone on the corner.
It was three o’clock, and I wasn’t looking for any more trouble. I called Rosenberg & Stone.
It was a good thing I did. Wendy/Cheryl had a new case for me. An actual sign-up, right in Atlantic City. Wendy/Cheryl was vague on the specifics of the case, but it seemed a Floyd Watson on Connecticut Avenue had broken his leg, and some friend of his had called in and asked for a lawyer. Floyd had no phone, but he’d be home all day, and Wendy/Cheryl had assured the friend that I’d be right over.
I didn’t want to go and leave Harold unguarded, but a quick look at the map showed Connecticut Avenue to be only a dozen blocks away. I figured I could zip over and sign the guy up before Harold got off work.
I got in my car and drove over. The address turned out to be on a block of row-houses in terrible repair. People were sitting out on the old wooden porches of most of them, and children were playing out front.
There was no one in front of mine, and I could see why. It was easily the worst of the lot. The front of the house was a wreck. It wasn’t just a question of peeling paint, as it had been at Raymon Ortega’s. Boards were coming off the wall here. The windows were nonexistent—there was nothing left, not even the frame. The door was also gone. Well, at least I’d have no problem getting in.
I went up on the little front porch. Half of it had rotted away. The remaining boards were splintered and cracked. I made my way cautiously to the door and peered in.
The hallway was full of rubbish. It was hard to believe anyone lived here. It was also hard to believe such a place existed, right under the shadow of the casinos in the city of gold.
I picked my way through the rubble to the stair. Wendy/Cheryl had said second floor. There were no lights and it was hard to see. The only light came from the front door. It was still enough to see that the stairs were a disaster. All of the steps were cracked and one of them was actually missing. There was no handrail.
Going up the stairs was an adventure. I had my briefcase, so I only had one free hand. I leaned against the side wall, and made my way up the stairs. I was careful to keep my feet near the wall, where presumably the risers were, and away from the suspicious-looking middle of the steps.
I reached the top of the stairs. There was an open door in front of me leading to a small room in the back of the house. Sunlight was streaming through the window. Just to one side, out of the glare of the light, was a mattress on the floor.
An old black man lay on the mattress, his right leg encased in a hip-length cast. His eyes were closed, and his face was contorted in pain.
“Floyd Watson?” I said.
He opened his eyes and saw me. His eyes took on some light. He actually raised up on one elbow.
“You a doctor?” he grunted.
“No,” I said. “I’m from the lawyers’ office.”
“Aw, shit,” he moaned, and sank back on the bed again.
It wasn’t the most cordial greeting I’ve ever gotten, but I wasn’t about to fault a man in pain.
“Are you all right?” I asked him.
He grimaced and shook his head. “Damn doctors won’t give me no drugs,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Treat me like some goddamn junkie. Won’t trust me with no drugs.”
“Are you in pain?” I asked, stupidly.
He looked at me. “What are you, comedian? Yeah, I’m in pain. Damn hospital throw me out, don’t give me no drugs.”
“When’d they release you?”
“This mornin.’“
“When’d you break your leg?”
“Las’ night.”
I shook my head. “They shouldn’t have released you that quick.”
He snorted. “Hell, they want to keep me. I won’t stay. Damn hospital.”
“Anybody looking after you?”
“Yeah. My buddy. He out gettin’ some pain killer now. He get up enough money for a pint, things look a lot better.”
Despite the pain, he managed to cock his head at me and give me a sly smile.
I liked him. He was a game old codger. One of those clients you get every now and then that it gives you some satisfaction to help.
“How’d you break your leg?”
“Fell down the stairs.”
I could understand that. In fact, it was a minor miracle I hadn’t broken my leg on the stairs.
“Who owns this building?” I asked him.
He cocked his head at me. “How the hell should I know?”
“Well, who you pay the rent to?”
“Don’ pay no rent.”
“You live here?”
“That’s right.”
“How long you live here?”
“Goin’ on ten years now.”
“And you never paid any rent?”
“Hell, no.”
I looked at him. “And no one ever bothered you?”
“Why the hell anyone bother me? Who want this piece of shit, anyhow? I live here, mind my own business, no one pay no mind. No one care about this place. Why the hell they want to hassle me?”
I felt bad. It was a great case—a serious injury and a glaring defect—tremendous liability. Except for one thing. No defendant.
It was a new one on me. Everyone knows who owns their building. Or at least they know who they pay the rent to. But Floyd Watson paid no rent. So who did we sue?
I knew it wouldn’t be hard to find out. All I had to do was go to the County Clerk’s office and look up the tax record for the building. But that wasn’t part of the sign-up. I wasn’t supposed to do that unless Richard requested it as a separate assignment. And I doubted if he would, despite the fact it only would have cost him ten or twenty bucks. I could have done it myself just out of the goodness of my heart, and not even mentioned it, just included the info on the signup sheet, but I figured it wouldn’t do any good. I figured Richard would reject the case.
I’m not a lawyer, so I didn’t know the legal ramifications of Floyd Watson not paying rent, but I knew there’d be some. Did that technically make him a trespasser and therefore make the owner not liable? Or did his living there ten years give him squatter’s rights? I didn’t know.
But I did know Richard. And I knew he was a demon in court and loved a good fight. But what he loved fighting about was the extent of the liability and the amount of the damages. He didn’t want to have to argue the question of whether li
ability existed at all. He wanted simple, straightforward cases. Anything borderline just wasn’t worth his time.
I knew he’d turn Floyd Watson down.
Still, I had to finish the sign-up. I forced a smile, and said, “So, you don’t know who owns the building?”
“No, I don’t,” Floyd said irritably. “What difference it make, anyway?”
“Well, we have to know who to sue. The guy who owns the building is responsible for not fixing the stairs.”
“Stairs?” Floyd said, frowning. “What stairs? Oh. No, no. Not them stairs. Didn’t fall on them stairs.”
I looked at him. “I’m sorry. I thought you said you did.”
He shook his head. “Not them stairs.”
“Oh? Well, what stairs did you fall on?”
He grimaced as a spasm of pain hit him again. It passed, and his eyes opened again. He looked at me and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “In the casino,” he said.
I loved it.
11.
HAROLD CAME OUT OF his office building at five o’clock on the dot, went to the parking lot, and picked up his car. I was already in my car, all fired up and ready to go. But Harold foxed me. Instead of heading back toward Absecon, he went the other way.
I was not familiar with all the traffic regulations in Atlantic City, but I would have been willing to bet you U-turns on Atlantic Avenue were among the prohibited. I made one anyway, and caught up with Harold in less than three blocks.
It was a good thing I did, because a few blocks further Harold hung a left. I hung one too and tagged along, hoping like hell this time he was heading for the Boardwalk and the casinos.
He was. He pulled into the parking garage of Tallman’s, the newest casino on the Boardwalk. If there was any question as to its being the newest, it was settled by huge banners over the doors. “GRAND OPENING,” “BIGGEST SLOT PAYOFF IN TOWN,” and “UNLIMITED FREE PARKING,” were the lures. The banners were somewhat faded and torn, indicating the grand opening was probably somewhere into its sixth month or so, but who was I to quibble. It was still pretty new.
I followed Harold around and around until we spiraled up to the fifth level where he found a parking place. I found one a dozen cars down. I got out, locked my car and saw that Harold was heading in the direction of the elevator on the far wall. I headed for it, too.
There were half a dozen people waiting for the elevator. It came, and I had a decision to make. Did I get in the elevator with Harold and risk him getting a good look at me, or did I attract even more attention to myself by standing there like an asshole while the doors closed in my face?
I opted for the elevator. I’m sure it was a good choice. Harold seemed preoccupied. He never even glanced in my direction.
The elevator arrived at the ground floor and we got out. I followed a few steps behind as Harold walked down the hall and into the casino.
Harold and I wove our way through the maze of slot machines to the middle of the room, where the real games were.
The gamblers at the tables were being brought drinks by girls with skimpy costumes designed so that their breasts were pushed up to an incredible height and jiggled like jello and seemed perpetually on the brink of jumping out. I wondered if Harold had something going with one of them. It seemed likely. It would explain why Harold had driven to this casino, when there were others closer to his office.
Harold ignored the girls, however, and made his way down the line to a blackjack table where three men were playing. Harold pulled out a roll of money, sat down, and bought some chips from the dealer.
The dealer was a young woman. A blonde. Her hair was pulled back from her face and tied at the back of her head. She wore just a hint of makeup. She was dressed in a simple, discreet, light blue pants suit.
She was gorgeous.
The girls with the bouncing boobs were cheap and obvious. This girl was class.
I figured I’d found Harold’s outside interest.
Harold paid no attention to her, however. He concentrated on the cards. I chose an unobtrusive vantage point and watched.
It was fairly simple and straightforward. The cards were in a metal shoe. The players would place their bets. Then the woman would slide cards out of the shoe one at a time, and deal them, two up to each player, and one down and one up to herself. She then dealt cards to the players who wanted hits. Then she faced her hole card, and stood or drew, depending on whether she had seventeen or less. Then she collected the losses and paid off the wins.
I watched for hours. During that time, some players left the table, and others joined the game. Some of the men attempted to kid the attractive dealer, who remained politely aloof.
Harold was not one of them. The dealer might not have existed for him. He concentrated fiercely on his cards.
And there was a pattern to his playing.
There was a five dollar minimum at the table, and that’s what Harold usually bet. Except every now and then he’d bet higher, one large bet.
There were two things in common about Harold’s large bets. They always came when the dealer got near the end of the deck. And Harold always won.
That, coupled with Harold’s intense concentration led me to a conclusion.
Harold was a card counter.
The thing about my conclusions is, the minute I reach ’em, I start to doubt ’em. This time was no exception. Harold’s style of play could be explained by the fact that he was a card counter. But it didn’t explain the fact that he always won. Moreover, the players made their bets before they got their cards. Counting cards might tell you whether to hit or stand on a particular hand, but it couldn’t tell you what hand was likely to win before it was dealt. So you knew what cards were left in the deck—so what? Another player or the dealer could get ’em just as well as you. You couldn’t count on winning.
But Harold did. And the size of his large bets kept increasing. He’d started with a couple of hundred dollars, and in the beginning his big bets had been around that. But as his stack of chips grew, he was risking more and more on his one-shot deals. The maximum bet allowed was twenty-five hundred dollars, and by the time I was working this out in my head, Harold had worked his bankroll up to that, and was betting it each time he popped for the big one.
Which wasn’t often. He didn’t do it on every deal through the deck. Sometimes four or five decks would go by before Harold would plunge. Before he figured the cards were right. In the hour and a half after Harold had worked up to the limit, he only managed to make two maximum bets, both of which he won.
A half an hour later he bet the max again.
And he lost.
I was in position to see his face when it happened. I was glad I was. So many expressions registered on that face.
He looked furious. He looked incredulous. He looked disappointed. He looked shocked.
And one thing more.
He looked betrayed.
He made one more big bet after that. That one he won. When he did, he looked at his watch, so I looked at mine. It was 10:45. Harold gathered up his chips, went to the cashier’s window, and cashed out.
I figured he was up close to seventy-five hundred dollars.
If having that much cash on him bothered Harold, he didn’t show it. He just shoved the bills in his pocket and headed for the elevator.
Luckily, there were two elevators loading on the ground floor, so I didn’t have to get in the one with him. Mine reached the fifth level first. I got out and went straight to my car. As I gunned the motor, I could see Harold getting into his. I let him pull out first, then followed him down the spiral ramp.
Harold drove back to Atlantic Avenue, turned onto it, and pulled in at a meter. I had to go on by. I pulled into a meter halfway down the block. I got out and started walking back. I had a flash of panic. Harold was nowhere in sight. Then I spotted him. He was still sitting in his car.
I walked on by to the corner. Then I stopped and made a show of snapping my fingers angrily, as if I�
�d forgotten something, just in case Harold was watching. Then I turned around and walked back to my car.
I hopped in my car, pulled out, turned right, back toward the Boardwalk, went one block, turned right again, went two blocks, discovered the street I wanted was one-way, went one more block, turned right, sped up to Atlantic Avenue hoping I hadn’t blown it, turned right on Atlantic, slowed down, and crept up on where Harold had parked his car.
He was still there. I spotted his car from a block away. I pulled into the curb about a half a block behind him, switched off the lights and killed the motor.
We waited.
She was out by 11:15. She came around the corner, stepping right along, her blonde hair loose and flowing in the breeze. She must have got off at eleven and taken time to change. I was glad she had. I must say, the shorts and tank top showed her figure to much better advantage than her dealer’s uniform. She was a dish.
She hopped in the car and Harold pulled out.
I followed them to a small apartment building in Linwood. Harold parked in front of the building. He and the girl got out and went in.
I watched from across the street. A couple of minutes later a light went on in the second floor window.
I got out of my car, crossed the street, and went in. It was a small foyer with a row of mail slots and bells. I pushed on the inner door. It was unlocked. I went in and up the stairs.
The door to the front apartment was number 2A. I didn’t knock on it. I went back to the foyer and looked at the mailboxes. 2A was listed as “M. Carson.”
I went back and sat in my car.
About two o’clock Harold came out, got in his car and drove off
I followed him home.
The house was dark. Harold put the car in the garage, locked it and went in the front door. He did not turn on the light.
I sat in my car.
O. K. I had the picture now. Harold had found a greener pasture and a financial bonanza to boot. He was set on trading in his old-model wife on her, and he didn’t want to go broke paying alimony, so he’d hired the Weasel to dig up some dirt.
Yeah, that was the picture all right. But it was your basic, sordid little domestic picture. MacAullif had said Harold was in trouble. I could think of a lot of guys who would have loved to have Harold’s problems.
