by S. J. Rozan
“Hi, Frank,” I said. “Disgusting place you’ve got here.”
He still didn’t move. “Where are Ted and Otis?”
“Downstairs,” I said. “They’re not very good, Frank.” I sipped the beer, waved the gun. “Sit down.”
He came through the doorway, sat on the other chair, facing me. He leaned back, crossed one leg over the other. His twisted face was bruised; there were two Band-Aids over his right eye.
“You too,” I said to the big guy. He looked at Grice, who nodded. He crossed to the couch and sat, leaning forward, eyes a little wide, hands rubbing his knees in opposite circles. In the light I could see that his lip was split and swollen under the mustache.
“You wanted me,” I said. “I’m here. Why?”
“Last night,” Grice said easily, “I didn’t know who you were.”
“If you had?”
“I’d have shaken your hand. Your trick-pony lawyer saved me a lot of trouble last fall, when they dropped the charges against Jimmy. I never got to thank you.”
“If I saved you any trouble, Grice, it was an accident. Any trouble I can make for you,” I said, finishing the beer, “will be a pleasure. What do you want from Tony?”
He shook his head, dismissing the question. “Just business.” He smiled a cockeyed smile. “You’re right,” he said. “Otis and Ted aren’t very good. They’re typical of what’s available around here. You ever get tired of working for Tony, I could find a place for you.”
“First, I don’t work for Tony. Second, I don’t work for assholes like you.”
“That’s too bad. That was what I wanted to see you about.”
I stared at him. “You sent two armed morons after me so you could offer me a job?”
He nodded. “What do you get?”
“Fifty an hour, plus expenses. Working for a guy like you, expenses could be high.”
He lifted his uneven eyebrows, smiled his crooked smile. “That’s all? Jesus, you’re in a chickenshit business, Smith. I pay Arnold more than that.” He gestured at the big guy, who smiled through his split lip. Arnold? Well, what did I know? Maybe since Schwarzenegger, Arnold was a tough name.
“What did you pay Wally Gould?”
He shook his head. “That was too bad, wasn’t it? Wally was valuable. I’ll miss him.”
“Then why’d you kill him?”
“Me? You’ve got to be kidding.” He looked at Arnold, who snickered. “Maybe you’re not as smart as I thought. Why would I kill Wally? And if I did, why would I do it in Tony’s basement?”
“Damned if I know. You were trying to shake Tony down for something last night. Maybe Wally wanted too big a piece of the action.”
“Wally wasn’t bright enough to want anything, except to be allowed to kill something once in a while.”
“Like Tony or me, last night?”
“Sure, he would’ve enjoyed that. But like I say, I didn’t know who you were.”
“Well,” I said, standing, the gun held loosely in my right hand, “you know now. Sorry I can’t help you, Frank.” I moved toward the door.
“Don’t you at least want to hear the offer?”
“Okay,” I said. “Okay, Frank. Let’s hear it.”
“A thousand dollars,” he said. “I want to talk to Jimmy Antonelli.”
I laughed. “Every cop in this county is probably looking for Jimmy by now. What makes you think I could find him first?”
Grice spread his hands, made a little self-deprecating smile. “You’re a friend of his.”
“Why do you want him?”
“Not your business, Smith. A grand for finding him and walking away. I’m not going to hurt him. In fact, I can help him.”
“Why does he need help?”
“Murder’s a harder rap to beat than disposing of stolen cars.”
“There’s always the chance Jimmy didn’t kill Gould, just like you.”
“Yeah,” he grinned. “I guess there’s that chance. But whether he did or not, he’ll be better off if I find him than if Brinkman does.”
“He’d be better off with Godzilla than with Brinkman. But I told you, I don’t work for assholes.”
Grice shrugged. “Think about it. The cops’ll find him sooner or later. I’d like to find him first.”
“Why?”
“Let’s say I feel like I owe him one.”
I leaned against the doorway, slipped a cigarette in my mouth. “You do owe him,” I said. “But you don’t know what that means or what to do about it. I’ll tell you something. I was the guy he called, when Brinkman finally let him near a phone. My advice was to take the deal, sell you to Brinkman for as much as he could get. He wouldn’t do it, Frank. Not because he likes you. He doesn’t like you. But he wouldn’t rat. Even on you.”
Grice took a cigarette out of a gold case. He closed the case and tapped the cigarette slowly on it as Arnold hurried to dig a lighter out and hold it for him. Jesus.
He blew a thin trail of smoke and said, “I guess I’m a pretty lucky guy, then.”
“Tell me something, Frank.” I blew smoke of my own. “You’re not much better than Otis or Ted. And Brinkman seems to want you a lot. So how come he hasn’t been able to make anything stick to you yet?”
“Like I said: I’m lucky.”
“Luck runs out, Frank. Keep away from Jimmy, and from Tony.”
There was no sound of movement behind me as I opened the door and went out.
I stepped down the planks and walked to my car over the spongy earth. The night air felt sharp and clean. As I reached my car Grice stepped onto the porch. “I’ll find him,” Grice said. “You can make a grand on it or not, but I’ll find him.”
I turned to face him, saw him silhouetted in the dim light of the doorway. The silence was complete and heavy; there was no moon, no light but the glow from inside the house. Arnold appeared next to Grice. He was grinning.
I could have shot them both, two quick, surprising shots from Otis’s big automatic; then to the basement, two more shots, and I could have driven away. No one would miss them, no one would wake suddenly in the night and know all over again and feel that helpless sick feeling start to grow.
Or maybe someone would. Maybe somewhere someone loved even men like this.
I started the car and pulled out hard. I drove away from that place fast, down the rutted, deserted road under a sky where faint streaks of gray light still showed in the west.
7
BY THE TIME I got to Antonelli’s the clouds had thickened. The stars had given up, and the moon was a nonstarter. Patches of fog stood sentinel-like in the trees on the other side of 30, up by Tony’s house.
The parking lot was as empty as the sky. The outside lights were off and the red neon Bud sign was dark, but the inside lights were on. I tried the door. Locked. I rapped a quarter on the window. The curtain moved, showed me Tony’s face, jaw tight. The curtain fell back into place as I went over to the door. Tony pulled it open, locked it behind me.
The tables from the back of the room had been piled on the ones in the front and the chairs pushed between them or dropped on top. A mop stood in a steaming bucket in the middle of the empty stretch of floor. The reek of ammonia was so strong it made my eyes water.
“What the hell are you doing?” I went around the room opening windows.
“Started downstairs. Couldn’t stop.” Tony’s words came a little thick, a little slow. “Fuckin’ cops left the place a mess, just walked out when they was through.”
I came back to where he was standing. “I thought you’d be open.”
“Woulda been,” he nodded. “Started to. But . . .” He paused, looked at me. “This happen to you before, your line of work?”
“Bodies, you mean? Once or twice.”
He went over behind the bar, took the bourbon off the shelf. The gin was already standing open on the bar. Tony brought the bottles and glasses over; I pulled two chairs from the pile. We sat, bottles on the floor beside us.
“Vultures,” Tony said. He gulped a large shot, poured himself another. “Phone’s been ringin’ since I got back here. Couldn’t take it.”
I looked over at the phone. The receiver was dangling from its spiraled silver cord.
“Reporters. Every goddamn paper west of Albany must have nothin’ to write about.” More gin. “Coupla people wantin’ to know could they help. Help with what?” He gestured around the room. “An’ assholes. ‘Hey, Tony, what happened?’ ‘Hey, Tony, heard you found a stiff in the basement.’ ‘Hey, Tony, heard your brother killed him.’ Shit!” He shrugged. “I didn’t open.” His knuckles whitened around his gin glass. His voice got louder. “They been comin’ around anyhow, bangin’ on the door. Who the fuck they think they are, these guys?”
I drank in silence and he drank too, until the silence was both blurred and sharpened and talk was easier.
“Tony,” I said quietly, “did Jimmy kill that guy?”
He looked at me for a long time. The gin had cleared everything from his eyes but pain. “Looks that way,” he said finally. “Don’t it look that way to you?”
“How it looks and what it is might not be the same,” I said. “Let MacGregor and Brinkman worry about how it looks. Tell me what’s going on, Tony.”
He picked up his bottle; it was empty. He got up and got a new one, walking too carefully. “I don’t know,” he said. He sat heavily. “Little sonuvabitch said he was gonna stay clean. Stay away from Grice. Get a fuckin’ job. He was scared, Smith. You saved his ass an’ he knew he was lucky.” He paused, drank. I lit a cigarette, got up, found an ashtray. “He met this girl, moved in with her. Nice kid. Didn’t see him much after that. Funny thing, we was gettin’ along better, the coupla times he did come around.” He trailed off. His eyes roved over the silent room as though he were looking for something.
We drank. I waited a few minutes. Then, “Tell me the rest, Tony.”
His face suddenly flushed. “What the hell for? Anything I say, you’re gonna run to your buddy MacGregor. You gave him those fuckin’ keys, Smith. What the hell’d you do that for?”
“I had to do that, Tony. You know I had to.” I kept my voice even.
“Had to,” he muttered, half to himself. “Motherfucker.”
“Tell me the rest, Tony.”
“Fuck,” he said. He drained his glass. “Grice came here last night workin’ that protection shit. He ain’t never pulled that on me before. Maybe I ain’t a big enough operation. Or maybe he figured chewin’ on me would break his teeth. But last night he’s tellin’ me Jimmy’s in deep shit, an’ it’s gonna cost me to keep it quiet. Cost me a piece of the action, long term. Action.” He laughed softly, without humor. “I told him to shove it. You was there for the rest.”
“What kind of trouble did he say Jimmy was in?”
“Didn’t say. What’s the fuckin’ difference?”
“Maybe it’s not true. Maybe he was just fishing.”
“My ass.” He reached for the gin bottle, closed his hand on air. He tried again more slowly, picked the bottle up. The cold night air drifted through the room, drifted out again. It didn’t take the ammonia smell with it. I wouldn’t have, either.
“Jimmy’s girl,” I said. “Know anything about her?”
“Nice kid.” He poured gin very slowly into his glass.
I leaned forward. “What’s her name, Tony? Where does she live?”
He gave me an unfocused gaze. “Don’t know. Somewhere.”
“What’s her name?”
“Nice name. Old-fashioned.” He frowned. “Alice. Alice Brown . . .”
“That’s a song, Tony.”
He stared defiantly. “’s a name, too.”
“Yeah, Tony, okay. Where does she live?”
“Alice Brown, Alice Brown, prettiest little girl in town. She sells seashells. No, she don’t.” He rubbed a hand along the side of his nose. “No, she don’t. She sells pies. Georgie Porgie, puddin’ an’ pie—”
I took the gin glass from his hand. “Go on, Tony. Pies?”
“Pies, asshole.” He reached for the glass; I put it on the floor. He slumped back in his chair, looked at me. “Pies. Blueberry, strawberry. Chocolate cake. Cookies, even.”
“Where?”
“People eat ’em. Gimme my gin.”
“Where?”
He frowned, didn’t answer.
“All right,” I gave him his glass. “Listen, Tony. I’m going to make a couple of calls and then we’re going to close this place up and go home. Okay?”
He shook his head. “Gotta clean up. Smells bad in here. Smells like blood. Shit!” His eyes were suddenly wild. “In the cellar, Smith. There’s a dead guy in the cellar!”
“No, there’s not.” I stood, put my hand on his shoulder. “There was. He’s gone. It’s okay, Tony.”
He stared at me, unseeing. Then he turned his eyes away. “Fuck you,” he said.
“Yeah.” I walked to the bathroom. I ran cold water in the cracked sink, splashed it over my face and the back of my neck. That cleared my head. I came back out; the ammonia hit me again, cleared it even more.
I picked up the mop and the bucket, hauled them to the bathroom, dumped the scummy gray water down the toilet. Half a dozen flushes later the place was almost bearable. I left the door propped open and went to the phone.
I hung up the receiver, searched my pockets for change. I checked my wallet for Eve Colgate’s number. She answered on the second ring.
“It’s Bill Smith,” I said. “I want to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Where are you?” Her voice was low and measured, the way it had been last night. “Are you at Antonelli’s? Is Tony all right?”
I looked over at Tony, slouched in the chair. He wasn’t drinking now, just staring into the emptiness in front of him.
“He’s drunk. He’s okay. You heard?”
“My foreman. He said you . . . found the body. It all sounded horrible. I’m sorry.” She paused. “Not that sympathy does you much good.”
“You’d be surprised,” I said. “Thanks.”
There was a short silence. Through the phone I could hear a Schubert piano sonata. The C Minor, written while Schubert knew he was dying. I’d never played it.
“You said you had some questions?” she prompted.
“Oh. Yeah.” I cradled the phone against my shoulder so I could light a cigarette. “I found some silver today that I think is yours.”
There was a very short pause, just a heartbeat. “Where? How?”
“An antique place near Breakabeen. I’ll bring it over in the morning. But I wanted to ask you: do you know a girl, probably about sixteen? Golden hair, sparkling eyes, dazzling smile?”
“Quite a description, but I don’t think so. Who is she?”
“She’s peddling your stuff. I was hoping you could tell me who she is.”
“No,” she said slowly. “But I’ll think about it.”
“Good,” I said. “Listen, I’ve got to get some dinner. Tony’s out of business for tonight. I’ll be up in the morning.” We fixed a time and I hung up, seeing in my mind the yellow farmhouse standing in the sunlight at the top of the hill.
I glanced at Tony. His empty glass had slipped from his grip and was lying on the newly scrubbed floor. He was still staring ahead of him, looking at nothing.
I fed the phone again and called Lydia. This time, Lydia answered her office number. That line rings through to her room at home, and I knew that’s where she was, because I could hear her mother puttering around in the background, singing a high-pitched Chinese opera song. She obviously had no idea what a narrow escape she’d just had, not having to talk to me.
I, on the other hand, did.
After Lydia got through telling me who she was in English and again in Chinese, I said, “Hi, it’s me. You have anything for me?”
“Oh,” she said. “Well,” as though she was thinking about it, “just information.”
“
What else could I want?”
“What you always want.”
“Not over the phone,” I said in wounded innocence.
“Since when?” I heard her rustling some papers; then she asked, “Are you all right? You sound tired.”
“I am.”
“Oh,” she said. “That’s why the lack of snappy patter.”
“No, this country living must be dulling my razor-sharp senses. I thought I was being pretty snappy.”
“Wrong. Now listen: I haven’t picked up anything about your paintings, if that’s what you want to know.”
“Among many other things. Where are you looking?”
“Shipping companies. Maritime and air-ship insurance. Art appraisers, auction houses.” She paused. “Don’t worry, I was subtle.”
I hadn’t said anything, but she knew me. “How?”
“Mostly I said I was looking for stolen Frank Stellas that would be being shipped as something else. People were very cooperative.”
“Good old people. Anything else?”
“I went to see your friend Franco Ciardi. He remembered me and was charmed to see me.”
“Isn’t everyone always?”
“Of course they are, but sometimes they hide it well. Anyway, he knows nothing, but he promised he’d be interested and most discreet if I do come up with anything. Was he offering to take them off my hands if I find them, do you think?”
“I’m sure he was. That’s it?”
“Yes, but isn’t no news good news? There’s no sign yet that those paintings are on the market. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes. How sure are you?”
“Well, I’ve only been on it since this morning. I may be missing something; but you can do a lot with a phone and a cab in a day.”
“Okay. Any other ideas?”
“I haven’t got any ideas. But I have something interesting.”
“I’m sure, but you won’t let me see it.”
“And you said not over the phone.”
“Sorry.”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, listen. You know how art galleries work? On commission? Well, the normal commission is ten to fifty percent of the price of the work—the lower the sale price, the higher the commission. Artists who feel a gallery is taking too high a percentage will go with another gallery, if someplace else will take them. Okay?”
