Stand-up

by Robert J. Randisi

  When he was done, he closed his notebook and placed it in his inside jacket pocket.

  “We’re finished with you, Mr. Jacoby. You can go.”

  I was grateful for that. I knew they were going to be there a long time questioning people.

  “What about Linda?”

  “Who?”

  “Officer Matella. Will she be staying to help out?”

  Pell frowned.

  “No,” he said, as if I were crazy. “You can take her home.”

  “She did a good job here, Detective. That should be reflected in your report.”

  “I write my own reports, Mr. Jacoby, thank you.”

  “I just wanted you to know.”

  “I’ll send her out to you.”

  He pushed off the desk and started for the door.

  “What about Miss Legend?”

  He turned and said, “I’ve questioned her She’s free to go too.” He gave me a long look and then asked, “You want her too?”

  I decided to regard the question as innocent, and not fraught with hidden meaning.

  “No,” I said, “just Officer Matella will do, thanks.”

  23

  The first person I told about Stan Waldrop’s murder was Geneva.

  “Second day in a row before opening,” she said as I walked in. She was wearing another variation of what she usually wore, something loose on the outside with something athletic underneath. The colors were vivid today—cranberry and yellow?—and over her left breast was the word muscle. “Maybe I can start coming in late.”

  When I didn’t banter back she stopped what she was doing and walked over to me.

  “What happened?”

  “I lost a client last night.”

  “You get fired?”

  “No, he got killed.”

  She stared at me for a few moments, then said, “I’ll get some coffee. You sit down.”

  I sat in a booth and she returned with two cups.

  “Give.”

  I told her what had happened last night.

  “Is that in the papers today?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, I haven’t even looked, yet.”

  I stared across the table at Geneva.

  “Lucky for you there was a cop with you last night, huh?” she said.

  “Yeah, lucky.”

  Linda didn’t think it was so lucky. After we left the club, she had been very quiet in the cab. Actually, she didn’t speak at all until we got to her door After she put her key in the lock, she turned to me and put her hand on my chest.

  “I need to . . . digest what happened tonight.”

  “I know. It was a shock.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “I’m sorry it turned out . . . the way it did.”

  “I’m sorry for you, and your client, but I think this is going to help me make my final decision.”

  “You were great tonight, Linda.”

  She smiled and kissed my cheek. “I’ll call you, okay?”

  “Okay.” I rode down in the elevator wondering if I’d ever hear from her again.

  “I really know how to show a lady a good time,” I said to Geneva.

  “How was you to know what was gonna happen?”

  “The detectives who responded treated her shabbily, Gen. This could have been a big break for her. She was a little shaky in spots, but she handled herself real well.”

  “Welcome to the real world,” she said. “I go through that at the gym. Sure there’s men there and I want them to notice me, but they always seem to notice me for the wrong reason.” She looked down at her chest and added, “Or reasons.”

  I caught myself staring again, and looked away.

  “What are you gonna do now?”

  “Well, I thought I’d go in and talk to the detectives today, see what they’ve got.”

  “You gonna work on this murder? I thought you told me that P.I.s don’t work on open homicides.”

  “You really listen to me when I talk to you?”

  She made a face and said, “Just about unimportant stuff.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to work on it,” I said. “I just want to see what they’ve got.”

  “What about what he asked you to do for him?”

  I shook my head. “What good would it do now to find out who stole his jokes?”

  “He pay you?”

  “For a few days.”

  “You gonna give the money back?”

  “To whom? I don’t know if he had any family.”

  “You ain’t gonna give the money back, but you been paid to do a job.”

  “You going to lecture me on morals now?”

  “Nope,” she said, sliding out of the booth and picking up both empty coffee cups from the table. “I ain’t lecturing today. I was just talkin’.”

  24

  I went into my office with another cup of coffee and sat at my desk. What were the morals involved? When Aaron Steinway hired me to find his collection of pulp magazines, and then was killed, I worked until his killer was caught. After that I stopped looking for the magazines. My reasoning was that I wasn’t being paid anymore.

  By applying the same reasoning here, I still owed Stan Waldrop a couple of days of looking for his stolen jokes. I figured that was what I’d do. That wasn’t even factoring in the guilt I felt for not having done any work on his case at the time of his murder.

  Of course, I couldn’t let that guilt, in turn, keep me from working on what I’d come to think of as Ray’s case. As far as Heck was concerned, this was Danny Pesce’s case. I had a little different slant on it.

  I picked up my phone, dialed Ray’s number, waited for the beep, and then keyed in his code number. There was only one message.

  “Ray? Are you there? Ray?” Click.

  The voice was Joy’s, and she sounded worried. At least I knew that she wasn’t lying to me. She really didn’t know where he was, or why would she be calling his number and leaving a message?

  I looked at my own machine for the first time that morning. The red light was steady, and that suited me. I hated messages, but I also hated missing important calls when I was working.

  I sat back in my chair and went over the events of the night before, including my interview with Detective Pell. He’d said something I didn’t understand, and I wanted it clarified. For that I needed somebody who knew computers. The closest person to me for that was Marty.

  I went back outside to find Geneva behind the bar, still setting up for the day.

  “Gen, is Marty working today?”

  “Yep. He’s comin’ in at four. Ed should be in any minute.”

  “You don’t have a computer, do you?”

  She looked at me and said, “That little recorder I gave you yesterday is the most sophisticated piece of equipment I own. Sorry.”

  It always amazed me how easily Gen went from her street talk to a more polished speech pattern.

  I went back into my office and called the Sixth Precinct. Even though I thought I knew the answer I just wanted to make sure. When the phone was answered, I asked for the squad, and when the call was put through I asked for Detective Pell’s hours.

  “He’s workin’ a four to twelve today,” a man’s voice said. “Can I help you? I’m Detective Parnell.”

  “No, thanks,” I said, “I’ll call back later.”

  I couldn’t talk to Pell or Marty until after four. I picked up the phone again and dialed John Healy’s office. I was pretty sure he’d be out to lunch, but maybe . . .

  “Jonathan Healy.”

  “Andrea, it’s Miles Jacoby.”

  There was a very distinct hesitation, and then, “Oh . . . hello.”

  “How are you?”

  “Trying to recover, I’m afraid. It was . . . such a shock.”

  “You must have mixed feelings about last night.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, you lost one client, but the other did fairly well, didn�
�t he?”

  “If you mean Bill Allegretto, he hardly needed that kind of exposure.” She sounded very defensive, leading me back to the thoughts I was having the night before about the exact nature of their relationship. “He performed as a favor to me.”

  “I see. Too much of a big fish for that small club?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Unlike Stan.”

  “Stan was a stand-up, and that’s all. Bill is an actor.”

  Touchy.

  “Why did you call?”

  “I was wondering if you had a key to Stan Waldrop’s apartment?”

  Another pause.

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to get inside. I still have a job to do.”

  “But no one’s paying you—”

  “Stan paid me for a few days in advance. I figure I owe it to him to play out the string.”

  “I see . . . well, no, I don’t have a key. Why would I?”

  “Well, I’m not suggesting that anything was going on between you two,” I said, “I just thought he might have left an extra key to his place with his agent, that’s all.”

  “Well . . . no, he didn’t.”

  “All right, then. I don’t suppose we’ll, uh, have any reason to see each other after this.”

  “Well . . . if you find those jokes, I suppose you should turn them over to us.”

  “To you?”

  “What else would you do with them?”

  “I really hadn’t thought about it. Family?”

  “He didn’t have any.”

  “Well then, I suppose turning them over to you would make sense. In that case, I hope to see you again, soon.”

  “Yes,” she said, without much enthusiasm, “soon.”

  25

  When I went back out to the bar, Steve Stilwell was sitting there talking to Geneva.

  “There he is,” he said as I appeared.

  “Hello, Steve. How are things with you?”

  “Not as bad as they are with you. I hear you lost one last night.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  He pointed to Geneva, who looked away.

  “No, it’s okay,” I said, “I just wanted to see if you’d heard something from the job.”

  “I’m on suspension, remember?”

  “I remember, I just thought you might be in contact with someone.”

  Stilwell and Taylor worked out of the Sixth Precinct building, although technically they were not assigned there.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Do you know a detective named Pell?”

  “Mark? Sure.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “He’s young, but he’s on the rise. There’s only one thing that might hurt him.”

  “What?”

  “The same thing that hurt Serpico. He’s just too damned clean.”

  “What about his partner?”

  Stilwell frowned. “Who’s he partnered with these days? They keep moving him around.”

  “Matthews.”

  “Chris Matthews,” Stilwell said with a nod. “He won’t last long with Pell, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s a burnout. He’ll be like a weight around Pell’s neck.”

  “What’s Pell’s story? Does he have a rabbi?”

  “That’s the other thing that’s gonna hurt him,” Stilwell said. “He doesn’t believe in them.”

  People in the department who wanted to go anywhere usually did it with a rabbi, some high-ranking official who could clear the way for them.

  “Well, I’m really not interested in his career. Is he going to give me a hard time if I want to sniff around this case?”

  “Oh, hell, yes. You try stickin’ your nose in an active case and he’ll be on you like white on rice.”

  “Where’d you hear that one?” Geneva asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

  “I think I heard Hawk say it to Spenser once.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “You wouldn’t know them,” Geneva said. “They’re characters in a book.”

  “And I don’t read books?”

  She put her hands on her hips and asked, “Well, do you?”

  I frowned and said in a surly tone, “Once in a while.”

  “What’s the last book you read?” The question was a challenge.

  “I don’t remember . . . something about Mike Tyson.”

  “See?” Geneva looked at Stilwell. “Sports book. We’re talking mystery novels.”

  Stilwell stared at Geneva and said, “Hawk and Spenser are from books?”

  “Where did you think they were from?”

  “TV.”

  “Can I get in here with important stuff?” I asked.

  Geneva turned away, muttering, “TV . . .”

  “I’m going to see Pell later this afternoon.”

  “If you want to nose around in this case, don’t tell him.”

  “Thanks for the advice. What have you and Bruce been up to?”

  “We’re nosing around our case. In fact, he’s supposed to meet me here so we can compare notes on some things.” Something occurred to me at that moment.

  “Steve?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you know Ray Carbone?”

  “Sure, why?”

  “Have you seen him lately?”

  “Let me think . . . no, I don’t think I’ve seen Ray in weeks, but then we don’t hang out. I thought you guys did.”

  “Sometimes, but I haven’t seen him for some time, either In fact, nobody’s seen him for days.”

  “Is he in trouble?”

  “I think so. You know a guy named Danny Pesce?”

  “Danny the Fish,” Stilwell said. “He just got locked up for murder. Is Ray involved in that?”

  “What do you know about Danny?”

  “He rubs people the wrong way—like Mike Bonetti, the guy he’s supposed to have killed.”

  “What do you know about Bonetti?”

  “He was tough, Jack. Frankly, I don’t see how somebody like the Fish could have . . . uh-oh.”

  I didn’t say anything. In fact, I had the feeling I had gone too far.

  “Is he sayin’ Ray did it? Is that why you can’t find him?”

  “Steve, I can’t answer that.”

  “You have no client confidentiality—wait a minute.”

  He was getting the hang of this piece by piece.

  “Are you workin’ for his attorney?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Tyler? That scumbag?”

  “Heck Delgado is defending Danny Pesce.”

  Stilwell’s eyes widened.

  “Where does the Fish come off hiring Heck?”

  “I guess he wanted the best.”

  “The best costs, Jack.”

  “Maybe he has a savings account. I don’t know.”

  Stilwell gave me a long look and then said, “You know what? I’m gonna stop asking questions.”

  “Good.”

  “But I’m gonna offer you my help, if you need it.”

  “You know,” I said, “there is something you can find out for me.”

  “What?”

  I explained about the man and woman I had seen in the apartment below Ray’s.

  “You want me to find out if they were cops stakin’ out his place?”

  “Right.”

  “And if they weren’t?”

  “Then there’s somebody else out there looking for Ray,” I said, “and he may be on the run for his life.”

  26

  I putzed around at the bar for a while, paying bills—the ones I could afford to pay—putting in orders for booze and food. A couple of times I tried Ray’s number, but there were no new messages. I tried Joy once, but there was no answer there, either.

  At two o’clock I decided to go over to the Comic Look and snoop around. When I got there, the front door was closed, but banging on it a few times with the heel of my hand solved that
problem. The door was opened by Harry Joel, who frowned when he saw me.

  “Miles Jacoby,” I said before he could open his mouth. “I was here last night?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Whataya want?”

  “I want in,” I said. “I’d like to take a look around.”

  “The cops did that last night.”

  “That’s right, they did. I didn’t.”

  He frowned again. “You ain’t a cop.”

  “That’s right,” I said, trying to think of a good lie. “I’m a private detective. Stan’s agent is concerned about your security.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah,” I said, warming to my subject, “I think he’s wondering if he should risk any more of his talent here if you’ve got bad security.”

  “Our security had nothin’ to do with what happened last night.”

  “Convince me.”

  He hesitated a moment, then swung the heavy metal door open and said, “Come on in.”

  He locked the door behind us, then turned to face me.

  “Whataya wanna see?”

  “Stan’s dressing room first.”

  “This way.”

  I followed him through the darkened club and backstage, then down the same hall as the night before until we reached the room Stan Waldrop had died in. The blood that had been beneath his head had already been cleaned away. Whoever wielded the mop had done a damn good job.

  “No other door in or out of this room?” I asked, looking around.

  “No.”

  “Who’s allowed backstage?”

  “Nobody.”

  “You?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your employees?”

  “Yes.”

  “The performers.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And their employees . . .”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “. . . friends . . .”

  “Uh, yeah . . .”

  “. . . and families.”

  “Um,” he said, looking down.

  “That’s a helluva lot of ‘nobody’s’.”

  “Yeah,” he said glumly.

  I looked around the room some more. It was unimpressive, pretty cramped, with one makeup table for the performers who wanted to use makeup, or just make use of the mirror

  “Are there other dressing rooms?”

  “Yeah, two others.”