“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m getting that dough back and you’re giving me five thousand bucks for doing it. I wouldn’t make it so stiff a fee ordinarily but you owe me plenty. My office, for one thing. That poor dead cop, for another. I’d turn you in for that now if I didn’t think you’d lost your head when you shot him. And the headache I’m going to have keeping you on ice until we get that money back so you can pay me off. It won’t do me a bit of good if the cops have you in the lock-up when I find the money. It’s like it’s not even yours. No, sir. I want the dough in my hands before I turn you over.”
He stared at me as if I had insulted him. Then he spread his big hands in resignation.
“The money, of course. Always the money. Very well, I agree.”
“That’s better,” I said. “What kind of diary was it?”
Arongio’s eyes lit up. Poe really had him.
“The best kind. Notes and marginalia on some of his works. There was a collection of titles for works in progress. I tell you …”
He ran on like that but I had stopped listening. I could tell he wasn’t going to stand for the diary being a phony—ever. I shrugged.
“Doesn’t change a thing, Arongio. We’ll still do it my way.”
Mimi Tango patted him reassuringly. The way she was practically mothering him was starting to sicken me.
“I think you’ll be glad you did this, Carl. It’s all for the better. Kitty wasn’t for you. She was too hard, too coarse …”
“Mimi, I’ve behaved very badly.” His voice was getting syrupy again.
That was enough for me. I got up, went to the window, and checked the street. Thirteen floors down, the front of the building was as bare as Godiva when she did the horse act. I went over to the radio and flicked it on. It was a small portable that Mimi Tango must have bought for herself. It didn’t look like it came with the room. I got a music program and lamped my watch. Five minutes to three. A news flash was that far away.
I dropped the .32 back in my holster and looked at Arongio.
“Behave and this gun will stay where it is. We have to work together.”
“How do you intend to find the—money, Mr. Noon?”
I smiled at his pained expression.
“Look, I see it this way. You went nuts yesterday, but you did us a big favor. Maybe you were keener on getting that diary back than anything else, but you proved something with your one-man mop-up of New York.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Don’t be afraid. It’s not becoming in a man your size. First, level with me—the money is still missing? You’re not lying about that?”
He got indignant. “Do you take me for a complete fool?”
“No, I don’t. Okay, the money is missing. Fine. Some of the possible places it could have been stashed were Lake’s hotel room and Mrs. Arongio’s hideaway. You went through both those places like a vacuum cleaner, looking for your Edgar Allan. You didn’t find the money in either of those places and I’m convinced you did a better job than the Safe and Loft Squad could have. And you settled two other possibilities, too. Lake and Mrs. Arongio. You frisked Lake as he lay on the diamond and you climbed all over the little woman. So that takes a lot of routine work out of the way.”
“Yes, I see what you are driving at.” He sounded like he really did. But with the way he’d been stuck on the Poe thing, I wasn’t too sure.
“Thank you. Okay, we rule out all those places. Now for some other ones. Lake’s locker in the clubhouse in the Polo Grounds for one. Or maybe the safe at his hotel. I rule those two out for a very good reason. The police would have checked on that sort of thing right off the bat, even though they don’t know about the money at all. And I still have one friend on the force who sure as hell would have mentioned it to me. Now, we move in other directions …”
The music on the radio broke off and the bland voice of a newscaster drawled about world peace. I listened for a second and then hurried on.
“Now, what have we got? A fellow pulls off a sweet deal to the tune of twenty G’s and has to stow it someplace until he can get back to it after a ball game. Why he went through with the game, we’ll have to guess. Maybe he just loved to play or ran into the manager in the lobby on his run-out powder and had to see it through without causing a stir. People who go crooked don’t really know how to act when they run up against something like that. But we’ll save the conjecture. Lake played the game—the money wasn’t on him. He had to put it someplace. Where?”
It always surprises me how most women are faster than men on the up-roll. Because Mimi Tango popped up with a cute notion.
“Pardon me, Ed. But since Lake was murdered, that changes things, doesn’t it? The murderer has the money. Like you said, he killed Lake for it. You mentioned something like that.”
“Bravo, Miss Tango. But we also think that the murderer is a ball player too. Which makes him subject to practically the same restrictions. Don’t forget the cops looked in all the Raven lockers. And hotel rooms. But it’s a damn good point. A murderer hiding the money is a damn sight more panicky than Lake hiding the same thing. Which means he picks a spot that could be forced on him by necessity.”
Arongio looked confused. I couldn’t exactly blame him. I wasn’t changing the shape of my English just to ease his understanding either. He and I were never going to be friends. My arms still hurt from yesterday’s tug-of-war.
The part of the news broadcast that I wanted cut in just there and I motioned for silence.
“… further developments in the bizarre murder of third baseman Larry Lake of the Ravens had come to nothing today, Police Captain Michael Monks told reporters this morning in a special interview. The police are at a loss to understand …”
Loss, shmoss. I clicked the portable off. Monks could be dummying up for the gentlemen of the press, but I doubted it. The cops are nuts for a good press and any police reporter worth his salt would have latched onto the tiniest grain of new evidence they came up with.
“See?” I said. “Nothing yet. That twenty grand is still on ice somewhere. But where?”
We all seemed to think about it for a while. At least I did. I couldn’t vouch for them. They were starting to bill and coo all over the place. I was disgusted with Miss Tango.
“Okay, here’s my plan, team. You both stay put here so I can find you when I want you. I’m going out to nose around …”
Arongio sputtered. “We can’t stay here. The police …”
“The police don’t know anything about you and Miss Tango yet. At least not for another night anyway. Time enough to move on tomorrow.”
“He’s right, Carl.” She agreed too fast to suit my taste. Maybe I’m too romantic but he just wasn’t her type at all. “It’ll be safer and besides, Ed really knows best.”
“Ed does,” I agreed with an effort. I started for the door. “It’s about time I got to talking with a guy named Banjo Brice, Lake’s roommate. He ought to be good for some dope on all this.”
“Whatever you say, Ed.” She was talking to me but she was looking at him. Arongio was looking at her. They were sitting together on the bed now like a couple of kids that were made for each other. I couldn’t figure it out. The guy beat his girl friends half to death and they lapped it up. Women.
“Bye, now,” I said sarcastically. “Be good.”
Arongio smiled at me. It was sickening.
“She’ll be very good, Mr. Noon.”
I didn’t like the way he said it.
But I left anyway.
FOURTEEN
I parked the Buick just off Jerome Avenue and walked the rest of the way to Lake’s hotel. The afternoon sun stayed behind a big white fluffy cloud. I drew a parallel between it and the missing twenty grand. Just like the sun, it was in existence but it was hiding. Maybe right under everybody’s nose.
I also spent some time thinking about how to contact Banjo Brice without getting a Headquarters man down on our necks.
It was a lead-pipe cinch that every player on the club was under police surveillance. If they weren’t, then the book is all wrong.
When I had it figured, I strode into the nearest bar, ordered a martini, left it, and took up a seat in one of the phone booths. The bartender grinned after me for no good reason. I grinned right back at him for no good reason.
I dialed the hotel’s number and waited. When I got the desk, I asked for Mr. Banjo Brice’s room. The connection came through pretty fast.
“Yah, Banjo Brice at bat. Who’s pitchin’?”
For the routine I was going to give him, he was just the man for me. He sounded like a guy who spent a lot of time laughing and drinking.
“Banjo, you old bastard! How the hell are you?” I made sure I sounded like I was on my fifth drink, reaching for my sixth.
He hesitated; then his voice got a shade cooler. “Who the hell is this?”
“Why, Banjo. It’s Owley Dowd. You remember old Owley, don’t you, boy? Come on down, drinks on me …”
Now his voice got suspicious.
“I don’t know any Owley Dowd. Look, buddy, if you’re drunk, God bless you. Some other time …” He hung up.
Grinning, I got the hotel back on the wire, asked for his room again. When I got him, his voice had a grain of irritation in it.
“Yeah, who is it?”
I clucked disapprovingly, the way many a friendly drunk will.
“Why, you old blue nose! S’hat any way to treat an old pal? Hang up on Owley Dowd after all we been through? We really hung some good ones on, eh, Banjo? Me, you, and old Larry. Shay—come on down. Buy you a drink …”
“Look, mister.” His voice was real edgy now. “Go somewhere and sober up. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. Now stop pestering me or I’ll call a cop …”
“Banjo, whashamatter with you? After all we been through, you goin’ for the high hat? That’s not like you, Banjo …”
“Look, buddy. Hang up, will you? I’m busy.”
“Banjo, I’m in the bar just around the corner and if you don’t come down, I’m comin’ up. Is this the way you treat a pal? Where’s Lake—I wanna talk to good old Larry …”
There was a pause that can only be described as pregnant.
“Okay, Owley Dowd.” He sighed. “Be down in ten minutes.”
“Shmore like it, Banjo old pal.” I hung up.
I squeezed out of the booth and went back to my drink. I took the olive out of it and chewed thoughtfully. I was at the far end of the bar and the place was empty except for me and the grinning bartender. His grin was permanent. A bad scar pulled the right side of his mouth over almost to where it joined his ear. I felt sorry about it and struck up a conversation.
“Big doings around here,” he confided. “That murder at the PG. And the whole damn team staying right at this hotel.” His wave took in the whole block.
“Players come in here a lot?” I asked.
“All the time. Some of the Giants. Most of the Yankees. It figures. Chasing a ball around is hot work in the summer.”
“And the spring,” I amended. I sipped my martini.
“A bunch of that Raven club was in here the other night.” He looked around like the bar was full of people. “Boy, this Lake guy wouldn’t win none of those watchacall popularity polls.”
I tried to look interested. I was interested.
“One of the guys. The left-hander. Art Ballen. Tall, nice-looking kid. Threw a punch at him just last week. Lake was making a play for his kid sister. I got the idea from the talk that Lake had nothing on his mind but a roll in the hay.”
“Ballen didn’t like that?”
“I’ll say he didn’t. Your own sister is always different, you know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean.”
“And this guy, Mel Trilly. The catcher. Short, fire-hydrant guy. Like Yogi Berra. He didn’t care for Lake either. Lake owed him a C note and never paid off. They mixed it up once or twice too.”
“Lake sounds like a bad egg.”
The bartender’s grin tried to get wider.
“Understatement of the year. His own roomie hated his guts. That’s Brice. The Banjo. Plunks those hits right over the infield.”
This guy was better than Jimmy Cannon. And I couldn’t see how he was so hep on a Class D club. Somebody must have had an awfully big mouth.
“You sure picked up a lot of dope. How come?”
His grin did seem wider. “Bartenders got big ears. And memories like elephants. The club secretary was in last night and got tanked. And shot off his mouth.”
I shook my head with the wonder of it all. “Why would anybody kill a man?”
He stared down at my martini.
“You drink that kind of poison and you ask me …” he broke off. “Well, hello, Banjo. Looking for somebody?”
I didn’t turn for a second. Just waited for him to move up to us. I watched a pair of big, suntanned mitts rest on the grained surface of the bar.
“Hi, Leo. Anybody down here to see me?”
Leo looked at me and shrugged.
“Beats me, Banjo. Just me and the gent here.”
“Okay, buddy. What’s the gag?”
I turned around slowly because he had practically said it in my ear. My eyes focused on the third button up from a sash-cord belt that pinned a cream-colored sports shirt above a pair of fancy gray slacks. My eyes traveled up a good distance and rested on a pair of enormously broad shoulders that somehow didn’t go with a butch haircut and a face that was as soft and as spoiled as a brat’s.
He rocked easily on his toes and his shoulders were frisky under the sports shirt. Easy to peg. He was fresh and always looking for a little action.
“Pour the man a drink, Leo. What’ll it be, Banjo?”
He threw back his head and laughed.
“Are you for real?” he said amiably enough. “I come down here to see an Owley Somebody. You him? Well, I didn’t know him and I don’t know you. What’s the gag?”
“Give Leo your order and I’ll tell you.” I looked past his big shoulders and conned the plain-clothes man who was lounging outside. Monks’ boys were on the job all right. But out there didn’t matter. The hotel room might have been wired for sound.
“Scotch-on-the-rocks, Leo,” Banjo Brice said. “Make it good, mister, and fast. I’m pretty sore.”
I grinned at him without unlocking my teeth. There’s only one way to play a guy like him. Fire with fire.
“Stop talking like a guy that weighs two hundred pounds and unflap your ears. The cops are wise to you.”
His face reddened.
“What are you giving me, buddy?”
“The right time. The name is Noon. Ed Noon. And I’m a private detective looking for twenty thousand dollars.”
He laughed easily for a pugnacious guy and reached for the drink that Leo had set before him. Leo wandered away and something told me Banjo had given him the go-ahead signal.
“Get down to it, fellah. What’s the score?”
“Your roomie Lake had twenty thousand bucks in his kick when he swan-songed. That’s why he swan-songed. You being his roommate, I thought you might have some ideas.”
“Are you kidding? What the hell is he doing playing third if he had that kind of dough? We get paid off in peanuts.” He swallowed some of his scotch.
I filled in a few of the details for him. He thought it was funny. He slapped the bar with his big hands and almost choked.
“Why that little four-flusher! So he finally pulled a big swindle? Sounds just like him.” His face sobered. “Well, you’re way off base, buddy. He never mentioned anything to me about it.” He finished off his drink and ordered another.
“Look, Banjo. Think about it some more. A guy with that large a wad of dough on him can act pretty suspicious. You might have seen something …”
He pushed out his lip.
“The cops got my story. I’m not spieling it twice.”
“Yes but th
e cops don’t know about the dough. I could arrange it that you got a cut. My client isn’t a hog.”
“This client of yours …” his eyes had taken on that look that only money can put in people’s eyes. “How grateful would he be?”
“Depends. How grateful would you want him to be?”
“Very grateful. I may know something. And I may not. See what I mean?” He drank too fast I could see that.
“One thousand too little gratitude?”
“Just enough.” He bummed a cigarette from me. I watched him draw on it, blow out smoke. He looked at me, pushing out his lip some more.
I didn’t like him at all. He struck me as one of those guys who get loaded fast just so they’ll have an excuse to get mean in a hurry. He was lurching at me too close and underscoring his point by poking one of his big fingers at me. Besides that, he was small-time. He would always be small-time.
“How about a little in advance?”
I laughed. “It’s just like baseball, Banjo. You gotta produce before you get the job.”
“The hell with you,” he said sullenly. “I’ll give it to the cops.”
“Keep talking like that and I’ll laugh right in your face. You’ve hated cops all your life and you know it. They’ve locked you up too many times.”
“You getting funny, mister?” He hunched his big shoulders. “I don’t take that from the manager himself.”
I got up off the stool so that we were at eye level. I had hit the mark about him because he had too many tiny scars on his face and hands. And the way he drank. That kind of guy has to have his name on at least one police blotter.
I took a wild guess.
“What did Lake have on you, Banjo?”
His face fairly blackened.
“Look, do you want the deal or don’t you? Maybe I’ve got an idea where that dough is but I want my dough in advance. Got that? And I don’t want any more of your lip.”
“You just cut your own throat,” I said quietly. “Lake being so small and you so big, you sure as Christmas would have slapped him around a lot unless he had something on you. I think he did. And you don’t know a damn thing about any money. You’re stalling. You might have known he had it. But you don’t know where it is either. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be messing around with a private deal to get another measly thousand bucks. Oh, you’re greedy enough, all right, but even you wouldn’t be that stupid. You’d be too likely to get in trouble and if you had the twenty grand you wouldn’t be talking to me now. You would have called that cop who’s reading a paper outside.”
Dead Game Page 8
