Rudy quickly covered the bill with his handkerchief and placed both in his jacket pocket.
“I remember now. Mr. Peterson was a regular, prior to his marriage. Afterwards, we saw less of him, but he was still an occasional patron. Very proper with the girls, and a big tipper.”
“What about a companion?”
“Ah, l’amore. The true international currency.”
“Listen, Rudy, I’m as romantic as the next guy, but you have a little of my currency, so could we bring the language down from poetry to prose?”
“But, of course. You are the quintessential man of action, Mr. Randall. Very well. The girl is what interests you, and may I say she was interesting. She was perhaps five feet ten, attractive, nice smile, and affectionate with the gentleman.”
“Did you get a name?”
“Mr. Peterson was quite discrete. I am afraid that we were not introduced,” he said.
“Did you, say accidentally, overhear a name?”
“Rudolph Martinez eavesdrop? I am shattered.”
“Not eavesdrop,” I said with a smile. “Lets say as an attentive host you could not help but to catch a name.”
“Ah, now that is possible. I can almost recall, but it seems to be fading.”
He did everything but put his hand out for another payout.
“Seriously, Rudy?” I asked. “Are you going to bleed me dry?”
Rudy burst out laughing.
“I am sorry, my friend. At times my business instincts take over. Blame my father, he was a good man of business and after all I am his son, but back to the matter at hand. I did hear a name, in fact two names. Mr. Peterson used the name Gloria as a rule, but on two separate occasions he called the lady in question Carla.”
I brightened visibly.
“Oh, I see that helped,” said Rudy. “I am in rapture that I can be of aid.”
“Do you know where I can find this girl?”
“Alas, of that I cannot be of aid.”
We talked a bit more and then Rudy began drifting from table to table in his usual manner, glad handing the regulars and welcoming new comers. I had one more drink and got up to leave. As I was passing the bar, on the way to the door, I noticed a large man with his nose stuck intently in a newspaper and a glass of beer at his elbow. The man had a gray and white checked sports jacket. Somewhere there was a Volkswagen Beetle without seat covers.
I was certain that I recognized both the build and the cheap jacket. I sat down on the stool next to him. The man seemed not to notice and continued to study his paper.
“Homer, you’re not invisible,” I said.
The man put the newspaper down and pretended to be surprised to see me.
“Well if it ain’t, Frank Randall,” he said through yellow teeth. “If you don’t want trouble, Randall, you better drift. Remember last time.”
“I remember, but we didn’t just run into one another did we?”
“Waddya mean?” Watkins rumbled.
“I mean I heard you were on my tail, and now I find you slurping beer hiding behind a newspaper ten steps away from where I was having a social meeting with a friend. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“It’s a free country, Randall. I like the girls. I heard you really like strippers. Didn’t you go all moon dog over one right here?”
I ignored that, because he was just trying to get a rise out of me and sidetrack me away from the matter at hand.
“Who hired you to follow me, Homer? I know you wouldn’t be putting in the gas and shoe leather without a client. I’ve been feeling like someone’s on my rear for days. Who set you on me?”
“I don’t take orders from you, Randall,” he said as he stood up. He was half a head taller than me and plenty broad. “Let’s take this outside.”
While Watkins was talking, Rudy had slipped up behind him.
“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” he asked in a low voice.
“I’ll say there is, Mr. Martinez. This drunk threatened me when I asked him the time.”
“What?” exclaimed Watkins with a roar. “That’s a lie.”
“Not only that, but he insinuated that he has a gun.”
Rudy took a step back and snapped his fingers. In a matter of moments two bouncers had Watkins' arms pinned at his sides. A quick frisk found a nasty looking revolver.
“We do not permit such activity here at the club,” said Martinez. “And certainly we cannot have you threatening our clientele. Would you like him removed from the club, Mr. Randall?”
“No. He’d just be waiting for me outside. Could you sit on him for ten minutes so he doesn’t just tie himself to the rear bumper of my car?”
“But, of course,” said Rudy.
Watkins was struggling to get free of the bouncers and turned to Rudy.
“Listen, you, little greaser, unless you want trouble you better let me go.”
One of the bouncers pulled a sap from his pocket and let Watkins have it in the side of the head. He crumpled to the floor.
“See that our friend here receives a nice view of the alley behind the club,” said Rudy.
The bouncers half dragged, and half carried, Watkins out of the room. With the music playing, and the attention of most of the folks on the girls on stage, only a handful of people even witnessed the scuffle and none of them seemed particularly interested.
“Such manners,” sighed Rudy. “What is the world coming to? In the old country such disrespect would be chastised much more harshly.”
“He’s going to wake up with a trash can for a pillow, Rudy. I think he got a pretty good lesson.”
“Perhaps you are right, my friend. Can the club offer you a nightcap?”
“I’ll take a rain check,” I said. “And, Rudy, thanks for your help in everything, and if you remember, or hear, anything new about Peterson or the girl please, let me know.”
I gave him a fifty-dollar handshake and he pocketed the bill thoughtfully, but with practiced dexterity. If he ever quit his job he could do close up magic at kids parties. He put his arm around me and walked me towards the door.
“Frank, do you know Ferdinand Gilardo?”
“Gilardo? Yeah, I’ve seen him a couple of times, once on the force and once at a charity auction. He’s quite a character. He’s into art, right?”
“Precisely, although he would not state it in such a plebeian manner. He bought out the Garrison Art Galley some years ago and now runs it for his amusement. He likes to encourage regional artists and the avant-garde, as they say. You should visit him. In fact, I will call him and let him know you will be there tomorrow evening at eight”
“Rudy, I am busy on a case, but I appreciate you trying to elevate my tastes.”
“Frank, I must insist”
He said it with such vehemence that I stopped walking.
“Why? What will I find there?”
“Great works of art, my friend. It is an art gallery,” said Rudy. “I like you, Frank, and you were very nice to Miss Maxwell. I thought the world of her. Let us just say that I am returning that favor. Good night.”
I didn’t want to push him, so I walked out into the night. It was chilly and I wondered how Homer would feel when he woke up. I drove to my apartment and didn’t lose any sleep over it.
Chapter Thirteen
Iwoke up early the next morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. After a cup of coffee and an orange, I decided to go into the office. The hours on the office door read nine to six, but I was never there before ten, unless I had an appointment. I made today an exception. I had barely made it into my seat when the phone rang.
“Hey, Randall. Early bird gets the worm, right?” said a voice I knew.
“Are you watching this office, Jimmy?” I asked.
“Nothing like that, Randall. Just, as part of the neighborhood watch, it’s my responsibility to keep on eye on things. A friend told me you were in pretty early and I wondered what was up.”
“Just doing business, but
none of it is your business, Jimmy.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Randall. We ain’t partners. Well, if you ain’t got anything for me, I got business to tend to myself. Take care, buddy. I’ll be around.”
He hung up quickly and I wondered what he was fishing for as I replaced the receiver. I leaned back in my chair and tried to put some of the pieces together. What did Murphy and Scarpeli really want from me? Who had hired Watkins? Who was Tony Peterson? Was he a mobster or an undercover agent? Was Woodward on my side or his own side? My head started to hurt so I opened my bottom desk drawer and pulled out my morning bottle. Two drinks later and my head stopped hurting. One drink after that and I was asleep.
I dreamed I was a boxer in a ring. I was being pummeled on the ropes. I could hear my corner telling me to hang on until the end of the round. The bell rang. And rang. I awoke to the ringing of a phone. I looked at the wall and saw it was after twelve. I picked it up the blower.
“Randall,” I said.
“Hey, buddy, I heard you had a little scrape last night.”
It was the laughing voice of Mitch O’Donnell of The Herald.
“Do you newspaper men know everything?”
“Just everything that’s fit to print. One of my boys was in the Club Control and recognized you. He saw you get into an argument with another guy, and saw that self same guy get bounced. What’s the story? You promised me something, remember?”
“I still can’t talk about, Mitch. You know me, when the lid comes off you get it all. I guarantee you a scoop.”
”All right,” he said sulkily. “Don’t forget to call me.”
“Wait, Mitch, I need some background on a guy.”
“Another favor? You’re getting kind of deep into my pocket.”
“Hey, I could get it on my own, but you’ll save me some time. What do you say?”
“Fine. Sometimes I think I should get a PI license.”
“You’d hate the pay,” I said. “And, Mitch, don’t spread around about who I’m asking about.”
“Of course. I’m the keeper of your secrets. Just one thing. Is it connected to the Peterson case?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. That’s why I need the background.”
“Okay. Who is it?”
“Ferdinand Gilardo,” I said.
“The gallery owner?”
“That’s him. I just want to a know a little about him. What do you have?”
“Not much off the top of my head. I’ll call you back in an hour. Let me go through the archives and ask a couple people here.”
“Fine. I’ll be here waiting.”
He hung up and I had another hour to kill. Another drink was out of the question, so I tore the paper apart until I found the crosswords. I grabbed an ink pen. Only amateurs used a pencil. I was almost done when the phone rang. It was Mitch calling back.
“Okay, here’s the straight dope. Ferdinand Gilardo, born Freddy Goldberg, is 48 and inherited his wealth from his family’s paper mill interests, parents deceased. No known family to speak of. Normally wears a white suit with a black beret. Has owned the Garrison Gallery for some years now. Actual date of his becoming owner is foggy. It’s thought that he loaned the original owners money and took the gallery as collateral when they couldn’t repay. That’s not one hundred percent by the way. Just scuttlebutt.”
“Noted,” I said, as I scribbled in my notebook.
“Gilardo is unmarried and unlikely to marry, if you know what I mean. Is a friend of the art community and sponsors new up and comers in the art world. Has a taste for young artists of various kinds, but is now exhibiting art in the Classical Realism style, whatever that is. There’s more, but it’s mostly notes on the various times he has been covered in the paper. Just art rigmarole. No connection to Peterson that I can see.”
“I didn’t say there was one.”
“Is this a rib?”
“No, “ I said in protest. “I really needed the info; it’s just that I don’t know where much of anything fits in yet. I’ll let you know when I know, Mitch. Okay?”
He grumbled a little more about all the bones he’s thrown me over the years, but he finally hung up on my promise, again, to give him a scoop.
It was still hours before my appointment with Gilardo. I decided to take a ride around town to clear my head. I hit the surface streets and then headed for the outer belt. I did an entire circuit of the city and didn’t accomplish much, except it was clear I was being followed. I couldn’t tell who it was, but just for fun I tried to lose them without being obvious that I saw them following. I got bored with that soon, and went back to the office to kill time until eight. Once back, I locked the outer office door and took a nap on the sofa. I woke up at six and by then I had a plan. I made a phone call.
I left the office just short of seven. I made no effort to see if I was being followed, and went straight to a bar and grill on the west side called Eddie’s. I parked in their lot across the street and went in. I sat down at the bar and waved the bartender over.
“What’s yours?’ he asked.
“Gimme a scotch,” I said.
He poured and I took a sip.
“Smooth,” I said. I took a twenty from my pocket and laid it on the bar. “Run a tab for me, will you? I gotta got to go to the can. I’m supposed to meet someone here. If anyone asks, I’ll be back in a few. Hey, and take five for yourself”
“Sure, Mac. Whatever you say. You’re the doctor,” said the bartender, eyeing the twenty.
I walked towards the men’s room. Looking over my shoulder, I didn’t see anyone watching and I took a detour to the kitchen door. The kitchen was a mass of confusion to me, but maybe there was an order that I couldn’t see. I tried to get out of the way of the traffic, while scanning for my quarry. He found me. From behind a hand clamped down on my shoulder.
“Frank, you actually showed up. When you called I thought it was a ghost.”
George Canter was the chef at Eddie’s and I had once located his missing teenage daughter. It wasn’t a pretty case, but I tracked her down and brought her back. The kid had been strung out on heroin and had taken up selling the only asset she had to pay for her habit. I heard she was still straight, I hoped it was true.
We exchanged pleasantries and he gave a great big bear hug, He was a hugger.
“So you need a favor from old George, eh?”
“Just what I told you on the phone, George. I hope it’s not too much to ask.”
“Are you kidding, Frank? After what you done for me, nothing’s too much.”
He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys.
“It’s around back just like you asked.”
“Thanks, I really appreciate this, George. I’ll try and get back before closing, but if I don’t, take this for cab fare.”
I shoved a ten at him, but he pushed it away.
“Don’t insult me, Frank. I told you I have a debt to you. One of the guys will give me a ride, if I need it. By the way, I’ll tell Rhonda I saw you.”
“How is she?”
“She’s in college, Frank. She’s going to be a teacher, can you believe that?”
We shook hands and I scooted out the back door into the night. George’s car was in the alley outside the kitchen. I fired it up and nosed it towards the Garrison Gallery. If I hit all the lights I should be right on time. I checked my mirror the whole way and didn’t see anything. If I had a tail, and I was sure that I had had one, I had shaken them with this little car switch.
.
Chapter Fourteen
The Garrison was an old warehouse that had been modified into an art gallery. A lot of these old buildings in this section of town were being converted into pricey loft apartments. This whole area was undergoing what they were calling gentrification. It was a fancy word for running out people with no money and bringing in people with too much money. I parked and walked into the gallery.
Inside the door a man with a clipboard stopped me. I saw oth
ers walk by without being stopped. The difference was immediately apparent. I was under dressed for the evening. There was an opening at the gallery and most of the men were in formal wear. My sports jacket and slacks made it easy to identify me as a commoner. I gave the man my name and told him that I was to see Mr. Gilardo. He scanned his list doubtfully.
“Let me see, Randall you say?”
I admitted it.
“My goodness, sir, I see you were a late addition to the guest list. Please excuse me for doubting you, but it’s a thankless job screening guests. Please enjoy the opening.”
He waved me through theatrically and I grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing server. I sipped it as I walked the galley. It was hard to believe from the inside that this building once housed heavy equipment parts. The displays of fine art, along with the upper crust clientele, made that an unlikely transition to me.
I had expected the art to be the type that looked like kids, or monkeys, had painted it. It seemed to me that modern art was only considered good if it didn’t look like anything, but the art on display was different than that. There were clean lines and many of the paintings depicted beautiful women and handsome men in various poses. I was admiring the painting of a woman in a field of gold holding a parasol above her head and no clothes on, when I heard a voice behind me.
“It’s really quite lovely, isn’t it?”
I turned and immediately recognized my host by his wardrobe. Just as Mitch had said, Gilardo was decked in an all white suit with a black beret jauntily askew on his head. The suit was not a tuxedo, but rather was the type of suit I had seen southern plantation owners wear in the old movies.
“That is by the young artist Worthington,” he said. “It is an absolute steal at four thousand dollars, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Steal is just the word I would use.”
Gilardo looked at me a moment and then burst into laughter.
“Ah, but I see that you are an imp, Mr. Randall. I was warned that you were somewhat irreverent.”
“I mean no disrespect. The artwork in your gallery is very stunning.”
“Are you interested in art, Mr. Randall?”
The Visible Suspect (A Frank Randall Mystery) Page 8
