Loren D. Estleman_Amos Walker 02

by Angel Eyes

  The telephone directory had Coral Anthony living on Brainard. It was a solid old structure with an ornate facade blurred with age and a frieze of colored glass across the front, those pieces that remained in place catching the light and throwing it back among the blank spots like the sparkle in a dirty old man’s eye. The dancer’s name stood alone in neatly printed capitals on a yellowed slip of paper taped next to the room number in the foyer. The main door was unlocked. I went on up.

  “Who is it?” drawled a feminine voice in reply to my knock.

  I gave her my name and added: “I’m pushing my card under your door.”

  Halfway through, the card darted from under my propelling finger. I rose.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m investigating Ann Maringer’s disappearance,” I said. “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

  Locks and chains rattled, a lot of them. Finally the door opened about eight inches and I was confronted with a striking aquiline face the color of old gold. She had high cheekbones and large dark eyes with hard black lashes like curry combs and cornrowed hair and a long neck that swept in an uninterrupted line to the division of her breasts, framed in heart shape by the lapels of a red velour robe growing shiny in places. She was nearly as tall as I am. I glanced down and glimpsed golden toes peeping out of flat-heeled slippers. The trip back up to her face was scenic, as the robe clung to her various hills and valleys like a very thin coat of red paint.

  She said, “Like I told the cops, I don’t know nothing about her. She was too stuck up to associate with the likes of us poor niggers.”

  “I caught your act last night,” I said. “You dance like a muleskinner’s whip.”

  “Is that a shot or what?”

  “More like what. I said it to keep you from slamming the door. But I do like the way you move.”

  “You lose.” She started to push the door shut. I leaned against it. Her eyes grew hard, not that they had been soft before.

  “A cop lives in this building. You want me to scream rape?”

  I let my eyes wander past her shoulder. A suitcase lay open on a shabby overstuffed chair behind her, half full of clothing. “Going somewhere?”

  She filled her lungs. I withdrew my shoulder. She hurled the door shut with a noise like a train crash. Locks snapped, chains jingled.

  Moving casually, I descended the stairs and rounded the corner to where I’d left my car, fired up a weed, and drove around to the front of the building, where I parked across the mouth of an alley and sat there with the engine running, smoking, waiting. I turned on the radio and listened to the noon news. The President was vacationing in California. Eleven United Steelhaulers’ members were on their way to jail after rioting outside the Renaissance Center, where Phil Montana kept his headquarters, that morning. The cold front was heading south. The Pistons were on a jet to L.A. to take on the Lakers. Everyone was going somewhere but me. There was no mention of the Jefferson killing. I turned it off and sat waiting, smoking.

  A Checker cab stopped in front of the building and blew its horn. I took one last drag and screwed out the butt in the dashboard ashtray. She came out a minute later, wearing a long coat and boots and a hat like Ingrid Bergman wore in Casablanca and lugging the suitcase. The driver got out and manhandled the case into the trunk, opened the rear door for her, climbed back under the wheel, and spun rubber getting away from the curb. I gave him a block before pulling out to follow.

  On Woodward I thought he’d made me. The third time he checked his rearview mirror I fell back and swung east on Warren, then burned up the pavement on John R getting back. Then I hung a left onto Kirby and stopped at Woodward just as he was cruising past. I flipped down my visor to keep his passenger from getting a good look at me and hoped he wouldn’t recognize the car.

  By this time I had a fair idea of their destination. I took my time easing into the northbound lane and was two blocks back when they hit the west ramp of the Edsel Ford. Traffic on the expressway was heavy; I managed to lose myself in the press of vehicles for the half hour it took us to get to Detroit Metropolitan Airport. At American Airlines I parked in a space for the handicapped while the cabbie was unloading her suitcase in front of the terminal, watched as he pulled away, and legged it to catch up with her in the crowd.

  A voice like the oxygen feed in a fish tank announced over the P.A. that American Flight 527 to Los Angeles was now boarding at Gate 17. That’s when I spotted her, moving along with the line toward said gate, arm in arm with a tall black man who I’d have bet Ann Maringer’s diamond ring answered to Franklin Detwiler.

  I was trotting in that direction when Lieutenant Fitzroy’s partner Sergeant Cranmer stepped out of a group clustered around the security arch, flanked by a pair of uniformed officers, flashed his badge, and took the couple away without even giving them a chance to reclaim their luggage.

  5

  I GOT BACK TO MY CAR just as a big cop was coming up the aisle wrestling his citation pad out of his hip pocket. He stood chewing gum and watching me through the blank lenses of his dark glasses as I pulled out. I was making myself very popular with the authorities today.

  No one was waiting to take advantage of my considerable services as I walked through the shallow outer room to my office and unlocked the door. The blinds were drawn, casting a gray haze over the desk and filing cabinets that came with the rent, the telephone that rang only when I wasn’t there, the safe my late partner had bought to store valuables in and that usually contained my laundry, and the general appearance of competition the Pinkertons didn’t lose much sleep over. So much of the lettering A. WALKER INVESTIGATIONS had flaked off the outer door that the pebbled glass looked like a flea’s dance chart. It wasn’t much better with the lights on, but it was where I made my living, or tried to.

  “You May Have Already Won,” gushed the only letter in the slot. I laughed nastily and flipped it into the green metal wastebasket on my way to the desk. Sitting down, I dialed my answering service and asked if there were any messages. Just one, from my ex-wife, reminding me that this month’s alimony payment was past due.

  “Were those her exact words?” I asked the female voice on the other end.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Walker, but FCC regulations forbid me to quote the message verbatim.”

  I hung up, unwrapped the taco I had invested in on my way across town, and was about to bite into it when some of the sauce dribbled onto my palm and I remembered Bingo Jefferson’s blood on Ann Maringer’s carpet. I rewrapped it carefully, wiping my hand off on the tissue, and chucked it in with the circular. I opened the deep file drawer, got out the fifth of Hiram Walker’s—not even a distant cousin—stood it up on the desk and stared at it for a while, then put it back and closed the drawer. Nothing seemed good.

  Information gave me the number of United Steelhaulers’ executive offices in the Renaissance Center. I got a busy signal, depressed the plunger, and tried again. It rang twice and was answered by a cool, self-assured, masculine voice that sounded as if its owner had been expecting me to call at just that time. It recited the number I had just dialed. Somewhere in the background an orchestra nobody had ever heard of was playing “Feelings.” These days every office sounds like a cheap nightclub.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Montana,” I said.

  “May I ask what about?”

  “You may if your name is Mr. Montana.”

  “Your name, sir?” The temperature went down a degree.

  “Walker.”

  He repeated it. I half expected him to spell it next. When he didn’t I said, “That’s right. Is he in?”

  “Mr. Montana is a busy man, Mr. Walker. I’ll have to know your business.”

  “I’m investigating the Bingo Jefferson murder. I’d like to discuss it with him.”

  “I see.” It didn’t sound as if he did. “Are you with the police?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You mean not at all.”

  I was elated.
I bet no one had gotten his goat in a long time. In the background the taped orchestra paused briefly, then struck up a lively rendition of “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.” I said, “I’m a private investigator. Jefferson’s, death is connected with a case I’m working on. Now may I speak to him?”

  “Mr. Montana has already discussed that matter with the police. He has nothing more to say.”

  “I might believe that if you’d ask him.”

  “I am Mr. Montana’s personal secretary. I speak for him.”

  “Is that all you do for him?”

  “That means what?” The viciousness of the retort made me withdraw the receiver from my ear. It was like a brief glimpse at something he preferred to keep hidden, like an insane brother locked in the attic. I backed water.

  “Just making conversation. How long can it take to ask your boss if he wants to talk to me? You can put me on hold. Just don’t turn on any more music.”

  “I am Mr. Montana’s personal secretary,” he repeated coldly. “One of my duties is to screen his calls. I’m sorry, but he’s far too busy. And so am I. Good-bye.”

  It was the nicest way I had ever been hung up on. I pressed down the plunger again and dialed the number for the third time. After two rings the same cool voice came on again. I got a picture of him sitting at his desk and counting them. The orchestra was still playing “Raindrops.”

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Montana.”

  There was a pause, then: “Listen, Jack, I don’t know what your game is, but Phil Montana is no man to play it with.” His tone was guarded. His earlier lapse had sharpened up his defenses.

  “I thought I might catch you in a better mood.” I was speaking into a dead line. This time he hadn’t been nearly so polite about it.

  I replaced the receiver and stared at it for a while. Casting around for something to do next, my eyes fell to the chipped safe.

  The diamond, unconcerned by its tawdry surroundings, winked coquettishly in the overhead light as I turned it over between my fingers. Still holding it, I went over to the only drawer of my filing cabinet that contained anything, unlocked it, and drew out a little book with a red plastic cover. I found Mike Pilaster’s number written in my special code and put the telephone back to work. The receiver was still warm from the last time. I lit a cigarette while it was ringing.

  It rang fourteen times. Anyone who gave up after ten wasn’t somebody he wanted to talk to. A hard, bitter voice said, “Yes.” That was the way it sounded over the wire. In person it was much less friendly.

  “I have an item on which your opinion would be of great value.” I didn’t use his name, nor did I identify myself. Mike had a photographic ear and a neurosis about electronic listening devices.

  “How great?”

  “I’ll let you decide.”

  “I’m free at two-thirty.” The line clicked and buzzed.

  I had to hump it to get to his junk shop in Southfield by the appointed time, stopping off at my bank to dip into working capital. The shop was located in an ordinary house on Telegraph, a brick colonial with a beautifully landscaped lawn and a sign over the door bearing the legend Curiosities in elegant script. The interior was jammed with tables supporting lamps, antique clocks, old farm tools, porcelain figures, fixtures, books in every conceivable language, boxes of horse tack, ladies’ chamber pots decorated with flowers and a gold stripe, powder horns, bottles, clothing, newspapers dating back to the Spanish-American War. Fire hoses, flat and black and cracked with age, lay in coils on the hardwood floor among crates of dusty piano rolls and steam wrenches of Brobdingnagian proportions, once used to maintain mining machinery in the Upper Peninsula. Plows and saddles hung from the ceiling. On the far wall was mounted a stoic-looking moose head that might have been shot by Teddy Roosevelt before he went to Washington, its eight-foot rack strung with uniforms from all sides of the First World War. In the center of all this stood a doughnut-shaped wooden counter, itself an antique, where a thin, steely-haired woman in rhinestone-rimmed glasses and a blue business suit was haggling with the man behind the counter over the price of a square mantel clock with a gilt cupid perched on top. The place smelled of musty old leather.

  “Eighty dollars it is, Mrs. Crepps.” The merchant, a short, elderly party in a loud vest, with a mop of gray hair going white on one side, sounded surly as he rang up the purchase on a cash register almost as old as he was. “Sometimes I wonder if this hobby is worth the expense.”

  The lady laughed and counted out four twenties from a clutch purse that matched her suit. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mr. Pilaster,” she said. “I’ve been looking for this particular piece for ten years. I’d have gone as high as a hundred and fifty.”

  “Congratulations. Now get out of my store.”

  She passed me on her way out, carrying her treasure unwrapped beneath one arm and laughing. When she was gone I said, “Sounds like you’re slipping, Mike.”

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Walker.” His sour, seamed face gave no indication that he realized he was mimicking his late customer. “There’s no sucker like a sucker who fancies himself an expert.” From under the counter he hoisted another mantel clock exactly like the one he had just sold, opened the counter flap, and stood the item in an empty spot on a nearby table. Then he went over and snapped the lock on the door and turned the sign in the curtained window around so that it read CLOSED. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  I followed him, almost tripping over a burlap sack full of horse bones at the base of a roped-off staircase. A piece of masking tape stuck to the exposed jaw bone announced in black Magic Marker capitals that it had been sold.

  The second floor contained almost as much merchandise as the shop proper, but here it was kept in tall glass cases and ran toward jewelry and firearms, most of it stolen and bought from the thieves for pennies on the dollar. When it came to fencing, Mike Pilaster was an institution. His rap sheet was as long as his leg and went back to 1942. That it included only one conviction, and that one minor, said something for his connections in the City County Building. He had things in that room I hadn’t seen since the last Tet offensive.

  “Did you ever get around to having a burglar alarm installed up here?” I hung back to keep from walking on his heels as he waddled on arthritic legs toward a linoleum-topped workbench at the rear of the long room. The floor was carpeted in deep pile the color of old blood. I thought of Bingo Jefferson.

  “Where would they sell the stuff?” He snapped on a folding desk lamp, impaling the counter with a hard white beam.

  “There’s a thought,” I said.

  He climbed onto a high stool and stared at me with eyes like cracks in a yellowed sheet. I drew out my folded handkerchief, peeled it open carefully, plucked out the ring, and placed it in his outstretched palm. He put it down under the lamp’s glare with that indifference bordering on contempt shared by all craftsmen regarding the objects of their trade, donned a pair of half-glasses with a jeweler’s eyepiece attached, flipped that down, took up the ring, and studied it for the better part of a second. Then he laid it back down and peeled off the glasses.

  “It’s a diamond,” he said.

  “That’ll settle the argument. The guy in the delicatessen said it was a ham sandwich.” I slid a cigarette between my lips. “Can you put a price tag on it?”

  “Please don’t smoke. My asthma.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of smoking your asthma. What about it?”

  “Is it hot?”

  “Brother, it’s glowing. But not in the way you think. It’s tied in with a murder investigation.”

  He pursed his lips. They were white from chewing antacid tablets. On top of everything else he had ulcers. “I might go five for it.”

  “Hundred?” He nodded. “The party I got it from said I could get seven-fifty.”

  “Good luck.” He extended it for me to take back. I kept my hands in my pockets.

  “I’m not selling it. I just want to know w
hat the ring is worth.”

  “The ring is worth two thousand.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Is this a multiple-choice question? I get to pick which one is right?”

  “The diamond is worth five hundred to me. If it’s hot I’ll have to pry it out of its setting. As a piece it’d bring four times that.”

  “The setting is that valuable? What’s the price of gold today?”

  “It’s not the gold, it’s the workmanship. Look at that tooling. He never did better.”

  “You know who mounted it?”

  He settled back on the stool and cupped his knees in his small, sinewy hands. His gaze was steady. “It’s highly possible.”

  “How high?”

  “Fifty.”

  I whistled. “That’s stiff for just a name.”

  “It’s a stiff name.”

  “I don’t have that much on me. I’ll mail it to you if I think it’s worth it.”

  “Fine. I’ll mail you the name.”

  I made a face and separated twenties and a ten from my wallet. In the three years since we’d met—never mind how or why—neither the method nor the outcome of our negotiations ever varied. I always ended up paying what he asked. He folded the bills and put them away without ceremony in the pocket of his noisy vest.

  “Chester Wright,” he said. “Made and sold jewelry in Madison Heights until he retired a couple of years back. But he keeps his hand in.

  “That’s worth maybe twenty. Give me change.”

  “I’m not finished. His work is exclusive. One customer only.”

  I waited.

  “Phil Montana.”

  I thanked him and accepted the return of the ring.

  6

  A GUY WAS READING the directory in the lobby when I got back to my building. I was in too much hurry to tell him that half the businesses listed there were no longer operating, but as I mounted the sneering old stairs I admired his sharp tailored suit and topcoat with a quiet check. He was young and tan and his blond hair had that natural windblown look that only professional hands can achieve. He looked like Troy Donahue. No one looks like Troy Donahue. I was still in shock.