Stand-up

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Honest Jack, the detective,” he said. “Sit down, sit down.”

  Since it was way past lunchtime, all he had in front of him was a cup of coffee. I wondered how long he stayed at these delis every day.

  “You come to talk some more to an old man?”

  “I came to find out why an old man told the cops his nephew was involved in something illegal.”

  He stared at me, and just for a moment I thought I saw Sammy Freed, King of the Catskills, fall away, replaced by Sam Friedlander. Who was Sam Friedlander, I wondered, before he became Sammy Freed?

  He looked out the window, and when he looked back Sammy Freed was in place.

  “What’s going on, Sam?”

  “Hey, what do I know? I’m a dumb old Jew, but that kid, he was up to something.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he was antsy, that’s why. Something had him pretty nervous—and I’ll tell you another thing. Whatever he was into, that fagele boyfriend was in it, too.”

  “Sammy, you don’t know for sure your nephew was gay, do you?”

  “I know that James kid was, and why would Stan be friends with him otherwise?”

  I was fighting some deep-rooted old prejudices here. In Sam Friedlander’s book, only someone who is gay would be friends with someone who is gay.

  “Sam, what do you think it was, drugs?”

  “I don’t know what it was,” he said, violently waving away the question. “You think I want to know?”

  “Then why tell the cops?”

  “Because they’re trying to find out who killed him. I shouldn’t tell them what I think? What I suspect?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you’re looking for his meshuganah jokes, not his killer: Why should I tell you?”

  He had a point there. Still, I thought the old Jewish comic act was not quite as real as it had been the first time. He was still, however, coming off as a lonely old man who spent his time in delis just to be around people. How much of what he told the cops was just because he wanted someone to talk to?

  “Would you tell me now, Sam? If I asked you?”

  “I don’t know, kid, I really don’t,” he said. “If I did, I woulda tried to talk him out of it.”

  “So you think whatever he was into got him killed?”

  “What else? Bad jokes? If that killed people, anybody who ever listened to Berle would be dead.”

  “Okay, Sam,” I said. “Okay.”

  I couldn’t remember if I’d left him a card yesterday, so I took one out and handed it to him.

  “If you do think of something, let me know, huh? Just because I’m looking for his jokes doesn’t mean I won’t stumble across his killer.”

  “Sure, sure,” he said, putting the card down on the table. “I’ll call.”

  I left the Stage Deli and walked past him as he was staring out the window. The look on his face was yet another I hadn’t seen before. Maybe he was thinking about the old days in the Catskills. Or maybe about Stanley Waldropsky when he was a small boy. Or maybe he was just staring across the street at Lindy’s, trying to decide if he wanted to go in there for cheesecake.

  It sounded good to me, so I went across and had some.

  52

  When I came out, Freed was still sitting in the window of the Stage. I went over to the Sheraton, where it would be easier to grab a cab, and took one back to Packy’s.

  Much of what I do takes place in my head. I learned a little about that from Eddie Waters, but a lot more about it during the past few years. I’m a much better detective today than I was when I first started out, and I’m still learning. Going into partnership with Walker Blue and working with him would be a real learning experience. Maybe I’d find out some other way to do it, but right now I needed very much to turn things over and over in my head, ask question after question of myself until something popped into place. That was what I did in the cab.

  Could it be that Waldrop really was involved in something illegal, but got upset enough about his jokes being stolen that he hired me anyway? Didn’t he realize that in the course of my investigation I might turn up something on his other activities? Or were his jokes ever really stolen? If not, why use that as an excuse to hire me? What was it he really wanted me to do?

  Or was Sammy Freed way off the mark? Maybe Waldrop really was just after his jokes, but in light of his murder and the attack on Marty, that didn’t seem feasible. Even Andrea Legend’s attitude indicated that something else was going on.

  In order to find out for sure, who was there to ask? Andrea? If she knew anything, I was sure it wouldn’t be the whole story.

  Lenny James? I didn’t think he would offer anything if he was in on it—especially if Waldrop was killed because of it. James would be scared shitless.

  On the other hand, if James and Waldrop were involved in something illegal, and it had gotten Waldrop killed, why wouldn’t James leave town? Unless he killed Waldrop. Was it James who attacked Marty while he was looking for something in Waldrop’s apartment?

  And why kill Stan Waldrop if he was the only one who knew where the elusive “it” was?

  This was starting to sound a little like a case Nick Delvecchio had worked on a few years back, when he and some other people were looking for something they called “The Hole Thing.” As it turned out, Nick never did find out what was in the “thing.”

  Now I had some people looking for “it,” and at least one man had died because of “it,” and Marty had been attacked because of “it.”

  I didn’t think I’d be satisfied if this ended the way Delvecchio’s case had.

  I wanted to know what “it” was.

  When I got to Packy’s the place was busy. We didn’t do dinner, but we did a strong after-dinner crowd, and they were starting to trickle in. Ed was behind the bar, and Geneva was working the floor.

  I waved at both of them and went on into the office. I took Geneva’s recorder from my pocket and laid it on the desk. I went into my other pocket, and that’s when I remembered that the message tapes had been in the envelope with the partnership papers I’d left with Missy. I called Missy but there was no answer. Apparently the Heck Delgado office was closed for the day. I called her home number, but there was no answer there, either.

  The red light on my machine was winking at me, so I hung up and pressed the “play” button.

  “Miles, it’s Walker Blue. I just wanted to be sure you received the partnership papers. Have someone check them over for you and then sign them and get them back to me as soon as possible. I am anxious to get this partnership going.”

  I was flattered. I was anxious to get it going, too, but I had two things I had to clear up before I could.

  I had turned the Stan Waldrop case over and over in my mind in the cab, and the thing that was eating at me was Vegas. Something was bothering me, and I thought it was the fact that Stan Waldrop did not strike me as the kind of talent who would play Vegas. If that was true, what was he doing there? I wondered idly what Lenny James, Andrea Legend, and Sammy Freed were doing that week.

  Now I sat back in my chair and started putting the other case through the same paces.

  Danny Pesce had been arrested for killing Michael Bonetti, a bookie. For some reason, Pesce wanted Ray Carbone brought in as his witness, but Carbone was on the run. I knew Ray, and I knew he wouldn’t be running if he was just a witness. Somehow, he was more involved in the killing than that. The evidence of that was that someone was looking for him bad enough to torture Joy to find out if she knew where he was, and then kill her.

  Had she known?

  Had she given him up?

  Was he lying dead somewhere as a result?

  Why hadn’t he called me for help, rather than calling me to warn me off? He’d helped me often enough to know that I owed him.

  That was what really puzzled me. What was going on that Ray didn’t want me to have any part of?

  Who to ask? Truman
Tyler? Did he know more than he was saying? Danny Pesce certainly knew more, but he was too busy being a stand-up guy, like he’d been taught growing up. My God, even in grammar school kids learned not to rat on other kids.

  Wait a minute.

  Heck.

  Heck Delgado was Danny Pesce’s lawyer. Whatever Pesce told Heck was privileged information. Could it be that Pesce had told Heck more than Heck was telling me? Why would Heck keep it in, though, if it would help me find Ray? Why risk his client? Over ethics?

  Knowing Heck Delgado, that was exactly what he would do.

  I was at a dead end with Ray unless Nick Delvecchio turned up something on Truman Tyler that I could use, or Heck knew more than he was saying and I could get him to tell me.

  Or unless Ray decided on his own that he wanted me to find him.

  None of those things seemed likely to happen tonight, though, and I felt as if I hadn’t slept in my own bed for a month.

  I left the recorder in the desk and went out to the bar.

  “I’m going home to bed,” I said to Geneva. “If anyone calls, tell them I died.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  I turned and looked at her and said, “Yeah, you’re right. I’m tired, Gen. I’m going home.”

  “See you tomorrow, Boss.”

  I waved and went out to get a cab to take me home to bed.

  53

  I woke in the morning with two thoughts.

  One, I had to go to Las Vegas.

  Two, I had to have a frank talk with Heck Delgado.

  I was going to have to put both of them off for the moment, though, because when I got up and walked into my kitchen I had company.

  “Hello, Ray.”

  Carbone looked at me from one of my kitchen chairs.

  “You’re a sound sleeper, Jack.”

  “I’ve been keeping late hours.”

  “Working hard?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Looking for me.” It was a statement.

  “For one.”

  “Working more than one case?”

  “Uh-huh. You want some coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “You want to put that gun away?”

  He looked down at the gun he was holding in his lap as if he’d forgotten it was there.

  “You don’t need it, you know.”

  It was an automatic. It was a Hechler & Koch. I wasn’t sure of the caliber, but I was sure that it carried eighteen shots. Ray was wishy-washy on the caliber of guns he used, but he insisted on having enough shots to do the job.

  He lifted the gun and tucked it away inside his jacket, probably in a shoulder holster.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  I went to the counter to load the coffeemaker I was wearing a T-shirt and jockey shorts, but if Ray didn’t mind, I didn’t, either.

  “I thought I asked you to stop looking for me. Didn’t you get my message?”

  “You left me a message on your own machine.”

  “When I heard your voice, I knew you’d taken my tape. Anything interesting on it?”

  “A couple of messages from Truman Tyler, a couple from Joy.”

  “Joy’s dead.”

  “I wondered if you knew.”

  “I know.”

  When the coffeemaker was going, I turned to face him. “What’s going on, Ray?”

  “You look beat up.”

  “I got ambushed in back of your building.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “Somebody called the bar and said they were you, wanted me to meet you at your place.”

  “I didn’t call.”

  “I know that . . . now.”

  “Sorry. I was trying to keep you out of it, you know.”

  “I’m in it, Ray. I’m supposed to be working for Heck Delgado, and he’s working for Danny Pesce.”

  “He thinks he’s working for Danny Pesce.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  He stood up. “I don’t.”

  “Aren’t you going to have some coffee?”

  “I changed my mind.”

  He started for the door, then held his hand out when I started away from the counter. “Don’t, Jack.”

  “You look beat, Ray. Have you eaten?”

  “Not much.”

  I went to the refrigerator and took out half a deli sandwich I had wrapped in aluminum foil a few days earlier It was probably still good. I tossed it to him.

  “Thanks.”

  “Wait a few minutes,” I said, “I’ll give you a thermos of coffee.”

  He weighed my offer and then nodded shortly.

  “Why are you on the run, Ray?”

  “Bonetti was connected, Jack. He was Family.”

  “So?”

  “So I killed him.”

  I hesitated, then said, “Run that by me again, will you?”

  “I killed him.”

  “You beat him to death, Ray?”

  “I beat on him,” Ray said. “He fell, he hit his head. I was bodyguarding Pesce; Bonetti and two others came at him.”

  “Two others?”

  “They weren’t good men. See, Bonetti was working independent, and the boys didn’t know about it. He had his own boys, but they were cheap muscle. I took care of them and then started in on him.”

  “Did you kill them?”

  “No, I just put them out of commission.”

  “What was Pesce doing?”

  “Watching.”

  “He hasn’t given you up.”

  Ray shrugged. “He’s a stand-up guy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about Truman Tyler?”

  “He knew Bonetti was working on his own. He was working with him.”

  “Why? Why would Bonetti go against the Family?”

  “Because he was connected, but he was cheap. He was actually somebody’s cousin once or twice removed, you know? He wasn’t going to move up the ladder very much, so he decided to make some money on his own.”

  “Why don’t you tell somebody?”

  “Tell who? Who’s gonna listen to an ex-pug works as a bodyguard?”

  “I will.”

  He laughed shortly.

  “Another ex-pug who works keyholes. You and me, we won’t carry much weight with the boys, Jack.”

  He might have been right about that.

  “Coffee’s ready.”

  I leaned down and took a thermos bottle from a cabinet. I emptied the pot into it and closed it tight.

  “Here.”

  I handed it across to him.

  “Put it on the table.”

  “You think I’m going to try something, Ray?”

  “You’re my friend, Jack, I know that. You’d try something and think you’re doing me a favor, but you wouldn’t be. Put it on the table.”

  I did as he said, and backed away. He picked it up and held it in both hands.

  “What about Pesce? You going to let him go up for what you did?”

  “He’ll talk eventually.”

  “He still might take the fall.”

  “I got to take that chance.”

  “Where are you going to go?”

  “Away. Time for me to leave New York.”

  “This is your home, Ray.”

  “I’ll get another home.”

  “They’ll find you.”

  “If they keep looking, maybe. Maybe not.”

  “So that’s it? Why not go to the cops? They’d keep you alive.”

  “What do you want me to do, Jack, go away on a manslaughter rap? How long would I last in the joint, a tasty morsel like me?”

  He was kidding about the morsel part, but he was right. Somebody would put a shiv into him sooner or later, for one reason or another—maybe even for the boys.

  “Too bad you’ve got to give up your life for a cheap bookie, Ray.”

  “A cheap, connected bookie.”

&nb
sp; “Do you have any money?”

  “Some.”

  “Wait.”

  I went into the bedroom where I had a stash of bills in a big beer stein. I took it all out, carried it into the other room, and gave it to him without counting it.

  “I don’t know how much is there.”

  He put it in his pocket and said, “I appreciate it, Jack.”

  “Keep in touch, huh? Maybe something will come up.”

  “If they come after you, Jack, tell them you saw me and I left town.”

  “It’s the truth,” I said with a shrug. “What else would I tell them?”

  “Yeah,” he said. He held up the thermos and said, “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “I’m sorry about Joy, Ray.”

  He shrugged.

  “That’s my fault. I got to live with it. She didn’t know where I was, she couldn’t have told them anything.”

  “You’re just going to let them get away with killing her?”

  “Don’t try that on me, Jack. Joy was okay, but she wasn’t the great love of my life or anything. She’s dead and I can’t bring her back. Look, I gotta go.”

  “Good luck, Ray.”

  “Don’t try to follow me.”

  “Not in my underwear.”

  He nodded, backed toward the door, and then went out.

  Was that it, I wondered? Case solved? I tell Heck, he makes a deal for Danny Pesce? Joy White’s killers go unpunished because they’re connected? This didn’t leave much to talk frankly about with Heck. I guessed I was going to Vegas.

  54

  Actually, there was no way I could avoid telling Heck Delgado what had happened. I called the office early, got Missy, who told me that Heck would be there until ten. I got off the elevator at nine-thirty.

  “He’s inside,” she said as I came in. “Do you want that computer stuff?”

  “After I come out, Missy. I want to talk to him before he has to leave.”

  “Okay.”

  I went into Heck’s office, and he looked up from his desk and waved.

  “I’ve got half an hour.”

  “This shouldn’t take that long. I had a visitor this morning.”

  “Oh? Who?” He was looking at a piece of paper, or a file, on his desk.

  “Ray Carbone.”