by Steve Brewer
“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 liability 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 th
e 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.
So either MacAullif was wrong, or I didn’t have the whole picture yet.
I realized one thing sitting in my car. It didn’t matter whether MacAullif was right or wrong. The point was, I had held out on him, and by doing so I had put his daughter in jeopardy. I had taken the responsibility on myself.
It was up to me to do something about it.
12.
I GOT UP AT six A.M., showered, shaved, put on my suit and tie, drove in to Atlantic City, took out my camera and shot every crack in the sidewalk I could find. I had six rolls of film in my briefcase. I shot ’em all.
By nine o’clock, I was all finished and sitting in my car when a pudgy girl carrying a paper bag came down the street and unlocked the Photomat. She was still turning on the lights when I walked in and set my six rolls of film on the counter.
The girl looked at me, and then somewhat ruefully at the paper bag, which I assumed contained coffee and doughnuts, probably jelly. She gave me what I considered to be a somewhat insincere smile, reached under the counter, took out a stack of film envelopes, and counted out six of them. She folded the envelope flap receipts over, tore them oft and stapled them together. She picked up a pen.
“Name?”
“Minton Agency.”
She nodded, scrawled “Minton” on the top envelope, and set the envelopes and the six rolls aside. She handed me the six receipts.
“You got anything going back?” I asked her.
She had. Thirteen rolls. She gave ’em to me, too, no sweat. I’d figured she would. I have a friend, Fred Lazar, who runs a detective agency in Manhattan, so I knew how the system works. All the operatives come in and drop off their film all day long, and the one that’s heading for the office picks everything up. They never bother with the receipts. They just ask for the pix for the agency. I’d picked up film for Fred Lazar a couple of times myself. So I figured if it worked in Manhattan it would work here.
It worked like a charm. I didn’t even have to pay. I signed the name Robert Fuller in the account book.
Pudgy didn’t care. She was thinking about her doughnuts. She was already diving for the bag as I went out the door.
I got in the car and drove back to the hotel. Maybe I’m just paranoid, but somehow I didn’t want to be sitting looking at these pictures in
the car.
I double-locked the door, since the maid hadn’t been there to make up the room yet. I went to the table, dumped the packets of film out of the plastic bag, and started going through them.
It took a while, what with there being thirteen rolls. Of course, most of them meant nothing to me. The first few rolls I examined featured businessmen in suits and ties, usually two of ’em talking together. They obviously didn’t know they were being photographed. That figured. Somehow I couldn’t figure the Weasel going, “Say cheese.”
One man featured prominently in several rolls. I dubbed him the King. He was a stout, middle-aged man, with dark hair, gray at the temples, and an aristocratic bearing. He wore a gold chain with a gold medallion around his neck. His face was plump and his skin was smooth like a baby’s, but his eyes were hard.
The only other man who stood out was the one I dubbed the Bear. He was only on one roll, and the only reason I noticed him was because he was so ugly. He was a fat man, with dark, bushy hair and thick, dark stubble—not a beard—just stubble. He looked like something you wouldn’t want to meet on a camping trip.
The eighth roll was the one I wanted.
The pictures were not good. They’d been shot through the gap in the drapes, so the curtains had cut off an inch on either side of the shot. But the middle was all too clear.
I looked at the picture in my hands, shook my head, and let out a sigh.
Barbara MacAullif Dunleavy was sitting on the bed with her head and shoulders propped up on the pillows. Her tank top was still on. But her shorts and panties were not. Her knees were drawn up and her legs were spread wide. The tree surgeon, naked as a jay bird, was kneeling between them, performing cunnilingus.
I thought of MacAullif. I thought about calling him now. “Yeah, I got something. I got some shots of your daughter getting her pussy licked.”
Poor Barbara. Done in by a half-inch gap in the curtain. She’d remembered to pull the drapes, but had forgotten to make sure they crossed.
Absurdly, lines from Wordsworth sprang to mind. “Not in utter nakedness, and not in entire forgetfulness” seemed rather apt. “Trailing clouds of glory” was a bit of a stretch, however.
