by Parnell Hall
That vantage point, by the way, consisted of a hot dog stand, manned by a swarthy gentleman of indeterminate origin but, in my humble opinion, excessive zeal. I mean, in New York City there are all types, and granted someone somewhere might want to buy a hot dog at nine o’clock in the morning, but I would doubt if there would be sufficient numbers to sustain a business. It occurred to me that perhaps the hot dog stand was a front for something else.
Anyway, I was camped out at the far corner of it, trying to look inconspicuous on the one hand, but not like I wanted to order a hot dog on the other.
I was alone, for which I was grateful, for it had not been easy. My client and her husband had both wanted to come, and it had taken a good deal to dissuade them. My first argument, that they needed to be there to receive the call, was countered first by the suggestion that they didn’t both need to be there (ventured by Maxine), and then by the idea neither of them did since the speaker phone could be pushed on by David Pryne (put forth by Kenneth).
My next argument was if the caller knew them and spotted them, the jig would be up. He’d realize the calls had been traced, and he wouldn’t make the call, and would vanish into the woodwork and we’d never find him again. I don’t think they really bought it, because they both kept protesting that they would be careful and wouldn’t be seen, but for once in my life I was firm. I would go alone, I would take pictures of the suspect for them to identify. Neither one of them liked it, but in the end they went along.
So there I was, hanging out on the corner with my Canon Snappy 50, ready to photograph the perpetrator when he made the nine fifteen call. The Canon is not a surveillance camera, of course; it is the one I use in my negligence work, to take pictures of people’s broken arms and legs. It’s a very simple, 35-millimeter, automatic-focus color camera. You just aim it and shoot. That’s one of its features. Another is it’s small and inconspicuous. I wear it on a cord around my neck, hanging down my left side under my jacket like a shoulder holster. That way I can reach under my jacket, whip it out, and fire off a few quick shots without anybody noticing, which is a good idea if you happen to be photographing, for instance, the front porch of some gentleman your client is planning to sue.
Anyway, I had had a lot of practice with the camera, and was confident I could use it to nail our man, my confidence only slightly eroded by the fact Alice had spent a good hour the night before trying to talk me into using her Nikon camera with the telephoto lens. While I had to agree with Alice that it was a better camera and could have taken better pictures and closeups to boot, I felt those advantages were outweighed by the fact that by the time I got the damn thing focused the suspect would have either spotted me or made his phone call and left. I don’t think Alice was entirely convinced. Nonetheless, I was using the Snappy 50.
The only way the plan could go wrong, by the way, was if the guy didn’t show. And by nine fifteen I was getting edgy. Apparently nine o’clock in the morning is not prime time for public pay phones. In the half hour I’d been there, only two people had used it, neither of them our man. The first one was a lady with shopping bags. Not a bag lady, just a lady who’d been shopping, though how she’d managed to do that much shopping that early in the morning was beyond me.
The second was a cab driver calling his wife. I know because I crossed the street just to make sure. After all, our guy could have been a cab driver. If so, he wasn’t this cab driver. Because he had finished his shift, he was on his way home, and he wanted to make damn sure his wife waited for him before she went out on her shift, whatever that might have been.
Anyway, the point is, our man hadn’t showed, and I was beginning to think we were going to have to hang it up and wash it out.
But then, nine twenty-two by my watch, nine seventeen real time, a man walked up to the pay phone and dropped in a quarter.
I was back across the street, too far to hear, but I could see him punch in the number as I came out from behind the hot dog stand, flipping my jacket open with my left hand, raising the camera with my right, and, in full stride, firing off shot after shot.
I knew I had him. I was used to shooting that way, firing from the hip. I often had to at accident sites where the camera couldn’t be seen. So I could have sworn I had him in frame. But, taking no chances, I raised the camera to my eye, fired one off I knew was framed, all the while without breaking stride while crossing the street.
I hit the south side of 34th, stepped between two parked cars onto the sidewalk, and squeezed off two more shots of my man just as he hung up the phone.
He never saw me, of that I am sure. He just turned, headed across Seventh Avenue. I let him have a little head start, then gave chase.
Hot damn.
I must admit, I often have preconceived ideas about people that turn out to be wrong. But this time I hit it on the nose. The guy looked like a crank caller. He wore a gray suit, faded, of some sort of cheap, shiny material. His shirt was worn, and his tie didn’t go. Even I, whose taste Alice ridicules, knew that He was a middle-aged man with beady eyes, a pencil-thin moustache, and a little twitchy nose. I’m afraid my description of him doesn’t do him justice. The man gave the impression that for him crank phone calls was a step up from his usual occupation of hanging out at the playground offering candy to schoolchildren.
I followed him across Seventh Avenue in the direction of Madison Square Garden and Penn Station. He wasn’t going to either, however, just continued on 34th Street to the next corner, then headed up Eighth.
A couple of blocks uptown he went into a dirty book store. That figured. That was right in keeping with his image. I didn’t follow him in, just took up my position on the sidewalk, and hoped the guy wouldn’t be long.
The problem was I had to keep following him until I knew who he was. This could be accomplished in one of two ways.
Either he’d go home and I’d learn his address, or my client or her husband would see him and know who he was. In that event they’d have recognized him from the pictures I’d taken anyway and there’d be no need for this, but of course there was no way to know.
Not unless I managed to call them up and get them down here. Which wasn’t a bad idea, what with the guy holed up in the porn shop.
I looked around, spotted a pay phone on the corner. I hurried to it, fished a quarter out of my pocket, dropped it in.
And the guy came out of the porn shop and headed up the street the other way.
I hung up the phone—which failed to give me my quarter back, what a surprise—and tagged along.
Three blocks up the street he turned into an OTB. Classy guy. Makes a crank phone call, looks at dirty pictures, and bets on a horse.
There was a pay phone on the corner. I went to it and called the Winningtons.
David Pryne answered the phone.
“It’s Stanley Hastings,” I said. “Let me talk to my client.”
But it was Kenneth P. Winnington who grabbed the phone. “Hastings,” he said. “Where are you? What are you doing?”
“Relax,” I said. “I’m on the job. Did you get the call?”
“Sure we got it. Nine fifteen, same as always “
“On the nose?”
“Give or take a minute. What’s the big deal? Where are you?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I got him spotted. I’m on his tail.”
“What?”
“I picked him up when he made the phone call, and I’m following him now.”
“Then you must be psychic,” Kenneth P. Winnington said dryly. “He called from another phone.”
9.
“IT’S A PAY PHONE ON East Fifty-seventh Street.”
“Oh, is that right?” Kenneth P. Winnington said.
I indicated the phone I’d just hung up. “According to my friend on the police force. It’s a phone booth on the corner of Fifty-seventh and Third.”
“And do you plan to stake it out tomorrow morning?” Kenneth P. Winnington said. I can’t do justice to his line read
ing. It wasn’t exactly ironic, but it was in the form of a taunt, made me want to wipe the superior smirk off his face.
I exercised great control, said calmly, “I think we probably should. Also the one on Thirty-fourth Street. Even though it will probably do no good. It would be foolish to pass up a bet.”
“What bet? The man’s using different phones.”
“True, but we don’t know why. The supposition is he’s doing it so he can’t be traced. Which is entirely likely. But it’s not certain. He could have called from different phones just because he happened to be in those areas at the time. See what I mean? In which case, if he happened to be in one of those areas, he might use the phone again.”
“That’s not logical,” Winnington said,
“It’s merely a supposition,” I said.
“But it’s not a logical one. The guy’s calling us nine fifteen as a regular thing. Which means the calls are planned. And if he’s planned when he’s making the calls, he’s probably also planned where.”
“While that’s logical, it’s not necessarily true.” When Winnington started to object I put up my hand. “Highly likely, I admit. Frankly, I agree with you. I’m just saying we should take precautions and provide for the possibility we might be wrong.”
“That’s logical,” Maxine said, and I could have kissed her. I was having a hard time dealing with her husband, who was obviously used to getting his own way. “So, tell me, Mr. Hastings,” she went on. “What is it you think we should do?”
“As I said, I think we should stake out these phones. Now, I can take one and either you or your husband can take the other, or I can hire another man.”
“I’ll do it,” Maxine said.
“No, you won’t,” Winnington said. “I’ll do it.”
“But I want to do it.”
“It isn’t a case of what you want. I’m going to do it.”
“But, Kenny—”
“No,” he said. “Flat out, no. I’m not trying to spoil your fun. Just stop and think. If this man should show up—and I don’t think he will—but even if there is the slightest possibility that he might, let’s not forget you’re the one he wants to kill.”
“And I think that should settle the matter,” I said. “I’ll take one phone. Mr. Winnington will take the other. If it comes to that.”
“What do you mean, if it comes to that?” Maxine said.
“We’re talking about tomorrow morning. Let’s see what we can accomplish now.”
“What do you mean?”
“To begin with, I want a complete list of all the phone calls. Times, dates, and what was said.”
“I can’t do that,” Maxine said.
“Why not?”
“Are you kidding? I can’t remember them all.”
“It doesn’t matter. Do it to the best of your recollection.” I turned to her husband. “And you do it to the best of yours. Then we’ll compare notes.”
“That’s silly,” he said. “Why don’t we talk it out together? Refresh each other's memory.”
“Because then we’d only get one list,” I said. “I want to get two. Compare them to each other. Then let you talk it out and refresh each other’s memory.”
“What’s the difference?” Winnington objected.
“Because that way you don’t influence each other. Maybe you’re thinking of one phone call, she’s thinking of another, but you manage to make each other think you’re both talking about the same one. Then that phone call’s the only one that gets listed, and the other one gets lost.”
“That makes sense,” Maxine said, and I could have kissed her again. Not that I really thought it could make that much difference. I just liked winning an argument with her husband. Which shows what sort of frame of mind I was getting in.
“Okay, so we make the list. That’s one thing. Next I want to pin down who had access to your new phone number.”
“I don’t like that,” Winnington said.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s all my publishing people. My editor, my agent, my publicist. I don’t like you bothering them.”
“Yes,” I said. “But, as you pointed out, the man’s threatened to kill your wife. So who has your new number? You mentioned your editor, your agent, and your publicist. Is that all?”
“Of course not. I just mentioned them as the people I don’t want you to bother.”
“And who are the people you’d like me to bother?”
Winnington looked at me sharply.
I kept my expression neutral, waited him out.
He took a breath, “I don’t know everyone we gave the number out to. David Pryne would.”
“Then let’s ask him,” I said.
Winnington stared at me a moment to put me in my place, then crossed to his desk and pressed some concealed button, invisible to the naked eye.
Seconds later, the secretary came in.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“He wants to know who we gave our new phone number out to. Do you know just who that was?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So tell him.”
“Sure.” David Pryne turned to me. “Abe Feinstein. That’s his agent. Elizabeth Abbott—his editor. And Sherry Pressman, his publicist.”
“You’re kidding,” I blurted.
David Pryne looked surprised. “Why should I kid about a thing like that?”
“You have a publicist named Pressman?”
“Yes,” Winnington said. “Is that all right with you?”
It was fine by me. I just couldn’t believe they didn’t find it funny. A publicist named Pressman? That was a natural.
“Who else?” I said.
“Well,” David Pryne said. “There’s some others, but they don’t really matter.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Now, just a minute,” Winnington said. “Are you telling me the others do matter?”
“No, no, not at all,” David Pryne said. “It’s just ...they’re important. The others are unimportant. At least relatively, if you see what I mean.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “And if you could just tell us what those other unimportant ones are.”
“Yes, of course. Well, there’s the maid. She has the number in case she has to call in sick.”
“What’s her name?”
“Rose.”
“What’s her last name?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s her last name?” I asked Winnington.
“I don’t know. I would have to look it up.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “I take it you don’t pay by check? Perhaps a little lax about withholding tax?” When Winnington didn’t say anything, I turned back to David Pryne. “Anyone else?”
“Well, there’s the video store.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The place they rent videotapes.”
“Why do they have our number?” Winnington demanded.
“Remember the tape you had me rent last week?” David Pryne said. “It wasn’t in, so I reserved it. I had to leave our number so they’d call when it came in.”
“Great,” I said. “Anyone else?”
David Pryne looked embarrassed. “Actually, my girlfriend. I gave her the number in case she had to reach me.”
“Damn it,” Winnington said. “I’m not paying you to gab on the phone.”
“It was just for emergencies,” David Pryne said. “So far she hasn’t used it.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Is that all?”
“I think so,” David Pryne said. “Of course ...”
“Of course what?”
“Well, I know my girlfriend hasn’t given it out. But the others ...” He shrugged. “They could have told anyone.”
10.
ABE FEINSTEIN LOOKED LIKE AN agent. Or at least someone’s stereotypical idea of an agent. A little man with a big cigar, he kept his hat on right through lunch, the gray and black tweed hat with the little re
d feather, which covered what I presumed to be a shiny bald head.
“Let’s do lunch,” Abe had suggested when I called, and now he was ensconced at a table at his favorite deli, the cigar in one hand, and a gigantic pastrami sandwich in the other. I thought smoking in restaurants had been banned in New York City. If so, no one seemed to care.
If they had, I doubt if Abe would have noticed. He took a huge bite of sandwich, chewed noisily, then took a slug of coffee.
“So what’s the deal?” Abe said. “Kenny says talk to you, I’m gonna talk to you. But it isn’t business, so what’s the deal?”
“Someone’s threatened his wife.”
“So he said. This to me makes no sense.”
“Me either. That’s why I’m here.”
His eyebrows raised. “Me? You look at me?”
“Not at all. But I need some background information, and who would know better.”
“About his wife? What am I, some secret stud? I barely know his wife.”
“What do you think of her?”
“Nice girl. Quite a looker. He could have done worse.”
“I know she’s pretty. I was wondering what she’s like.”
“Pretty is what she’s like. Aside from that, I wouldn’t know.” He took a puff of his cigar, blew the smoke out from between clenched teeth. It occurred to me I was glad I wasn’t negotiating a deal with him.
Turned out I was.
“Now see here,” he says, jabbing a cigar at me. “What I’m getting at, the point I was trying to make, is this is not a business lunch. I’m here because you want to ask some questions. All well and good. And for this I should buy you lunch? Does that seem reasonable to you?”
“All right,” I said. “If that’s the way you feel about it, I’ll buy you lunch.”
With regard to that magnanimous gesture on my part, I must admit it had occurred to me I could put it on my expense account and charge it to Kenneth P. Winnington.
Abe Feinstein put up his hand. “Let’s not go overboard. You buy your lunch, I’ll buy mine. As it should be. Separate checks.”
“We didn’t ask for separate checks.”
