A Dance at the Slaughter House (Matthew Scudder #9) 4

I went back to Paris Green. Gary had locked up, but he opened the door for me. "That was a nice touch," I said. "Vodka and tonic."

"Double vodka tonic."

"And on my tab at that."

"Well, I couldn't charge you six dollars for club soda, could I? Much simpler this way. There's still some coffee left. Want a cup before I shut down for the night?"

I had a cup and Gary uncapped a bottle of Dos Equis for himself. I tried to give him some money but he wouldn't hear of it. "I'd rather keep my efforts as a Ninth Avenue Irregular strictly pro bono," he said. "I wouldn't enjoy it half as much if I took money for it, as the actress said to the bishop. Well, have you reached a verdict? Did he do it?"

"I'm sure he's guilty," I said. "But I was sure before, and I don't have any more evidence now than I did then."

"I overheard a little of the conversation. It was fascinating the way you became another person. All of a sudden you were a saloon character and about half lit in the bargain. For a second there you had me worried that I'd put vodka in your drink by mistake."

"Well, I put in enough time in ginmills. It's not hard to remember the moves." And it wouldn't be hard to be that person again. Just add alcohol and stir. I said, "He was this close to talking about it. I don't know that there was any way to crack him open tonight, but there were things he wanted to say. I don't know, it may have been a mistake showing him the sketch."

"Is that what it was, that sheet of paper you handed him? He took it with him."

"Did he? I see he left my card." I picked it up. "Of course my name and number are on the back of the sketch. He recognized it, too. That was obvious, and his denial wasn't terribly convincing. He knows the guy."

"I wonder if I do."

"I think I've got another copy," I said. I checked my pocket, unfolded sketches until I got the right one. I handed it to Gary and he tilted it to catch the light.

He said, "Mean-looking bastard, isn't he? Looks like Gene Hackman."

"You're not the first person to point that out."

"Really? I never noticed it before." I looked at him. "When he was here. I told you Thurman and his wife had dinner here with another couple. This was the male half of the couple."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure this chap and a woman had dinner at least once with the Thurmans. It may have been more than once. If he said he didn't know him, he was lying."

"You also said he was here with another man sometime after his wife's death. Same guy?"

"No. That was a blond fellow around his own age. This man"- he tapped the drawing- "was closer to your age."

"And he was here with Thurman and his wife."

"I'm sure of it."

"And another woman. What did she look like, do you happen to remember?"

"Haven't a clue. I couldn't have told you what he looked like if I hadn't seen a picture of him. That brought it all back. If you've got a picture of her-"

I didn't. I had thought of trying to work with Galindez on a sketch of the placard girl but her facial features were too imperfectly defined in my memory, and I wasn't at all certain she was the same woman I'd seen in the movie.

I let him look at the pictures of the two boys, but he hadn't seen either of them before. "Nuts," he said. "I was doing so well, and now my average is down to one in three. Do you want more coffee? I can make another pot."

That made a good exit cue, and I said I had to be getting home. "And thanks again," I said. "I owe you a big one. Anything I can do, anytime at all-"

"Don't be silly," he said. He looked embarrassed. In a bad Cockney accent he said, "Just doin' me duty, guvnor. Let a man get by wiv killin' 'is wife and there's no tellin' what narsty thing 'e'll do next."

I swear I meant to go home. But my feet had other ideas. They took me south instead of north, and west on Fiftieth to Tenth Avenue.

Grogan's was dark, but the steel gates were drawn only part of the way across the front and there was one light lit inside. I walked over to the entrance and peered through the glass. Mick saw me before I could knock. He opened up for me, locked the door once I was inside.

"Good man," he said. "I knew you'd be here."

"How could you? I didn't know it myself."

"But I did. I told Burke to put on a pot of strong coffee, I was that sure you'd be by to drink it. Then I sent him home an hour ago, I sent them all home and sat down to wait for you. Will it be coffee then? Or will you have Coca-Cola, or soda water?"

"Coffee's fine. I'll get it."

"You will not. Sit down." A smile played lightly on his thin lips. "Ah, Jesus," he said. "I'm glad you're here."

Chapter 13

We sat at a table off to the side. I had a mug of strong black coffee and he had a bottle of the twelve-year-old Irish that is his regular drink. The bottle had a cork stopper, a rarity these days; stripped of its label it would make a pretty decent decanter. Mick was drinking his whiskey out of a small cut-glass tumbler that may have been Waterford. Whatever it was it stood a cut above the regular bar glassware, and like the whiskey it was reserved for his private use.

"I was here the night before last," I said.

"Burke told me you came by."

"I watched an old movie and waited for you. Little Caesar, Edward G. Robinson. 'Mother of Mercy, is this the end of Rico?' "

"You'd have had a long wait," he said. "I worked that night." He picked up his glass and held it to catch the light. "Tell me something, man. Do you always need money?"

"I can't go very far without it. I have to spend it and that means I have to earn it."

"But are you scratching for it all the fucking time?"

I had to think about it. "No," I said at length. "Not really. I don't earn a lot, but I don't seem to need much. My rent's cheap, I don't have a car, I don't carry any insurance, and I've got no one to support except myself. I couldn't last long without working, but some work always seems to come along before the money runs out."

"I always need money," he said. "And I go out and get it, and I turn around and it's gone. I don't know where it goes."

"That's what everyone says."

"I swear it melts away like snow in the sun. Of course you know Andy Buckley."

"The best dart player I ever saw."

"He's a fair hand. A good lad, too."

"I like Andy."

"You'd have to like him. Did you know he still lives at home with his mother? God bless the Irish, what a strange fucking race of men we are." He drank. "Andy doesn't make a living throwing darts in a board, you know."

"I thought he might do more than that."

"Sometimes he'll do something for me. He's a grand driver, Andy is. He can drive anything. A car, a truck, anything you could ask him to drive. He could likely fly a plane if you gave him the keys." The smile was there for an instant. "Or if you didn't. If you misplaced the keys and needed someone to drive without them, Andy's your man."

"I see."

"So he went off to drive a truck for me. The truck was full of men's suits. Botany 500, a good line of clothing. The driver knew what he was supposed to do. Just let himself be tied up and take his time working himself loose and then tell how a couple of niggers jumped him. He was getting well paid for his troubles, you can be sure of that."

"What happened?"

"Ah, 'twas the wrong driver," he said, disgusted. "Your man woke up with a bad head and called in sick, entirely forgetting he was to be hijacked that day, and Andy went to tie up the wrong man and had to knock him on the head to get the job done. And of course the fellow got loose as quick as he could, and of course he called the police at once and they spotted the truck and followed it. By the grace of God Andy saw he was being followed and so he didn't drive to the warehouse, or there would have been more men than himself arrested. He parked the truck on the street and tried to walk away from it, hoping they'd wait for him to come back to it, but they outguessed him and took him right down, and the fucking driver came down and picked him out of a lineup."

"Where's Andy now?"

"Home in bed, I shouldn't doubt. He was in earlier and said he had a touch of the flu."

"I think that's what Elaine's got."

"Has she? It's a nasty thing. I sent him home. Get in bed with a hot whiskey, I told him, and ye'll be a new man in the morning."

"He's out on bail?"

"My bondsman had him out in an hour, but now he's been released altogether. Do you know a lawyer named Mark Rosenstein? A very soft-spoken Jewish lad, I'm forever asking him to speak up. Don't ask how much money I handed him."

"I won't."

"I'll tell you anyway. Fifty thousand dollars. I don't know where it all went, I just put it into his hands and left it to him. Some went to the driver, and your man changed his story and swore it wasn't Andy at all, it was someone else entirely, someone taller and thinner and darker and with a Russian accent, I shouldn't wonder. Oh, he's very good, Rosenstein is. He'd make no impression in court, you could never hear what he was saying, but you do better if you stay out of court entirely, wouldn't you say?" He freshened his drink. "I wonder how much of the money stayed with the little Jew. What would you guess? Half?"

"That sounds about right."

"Ah, well. He earned it, didn't he? You can't let your men rot in prison cells." He sighed. "But when you spend money like that you have to go out and get more."

"You mean they wouldn't let Andy keep the suits?" I went on to tell him Joe Durkin's story of Maurice, the dope dealer who'd demanded the return of his confiscated cocaine. Mick put his head back and laughed.

"Ah, that's grand," he said. "I ought to tell that one to Rosenstein. 'If you were any good at all,' I'll tell him, 'ye'd have arranged it so that we got to keep the suits.' " He shook his head. "The fucking dope dealers," he said. "Did you ever try any of that shit yourself, Matt? Cocaine, I mean."

"Never."

"I tried it once."

"You didn't like it?"

He looked at me. "The hell I didn't," he said. "By God it was lovely! I was with a girl and she wouldn't rest until I tried some. And then she got no rest at all, let me tell you. I never felt so fine in my life. I knew I was the grandest fellow that ever lived and I could take charge of the world and solve all its problems. But before I did that it might be nice to have a little more of the cocaine, don't you know. And the next thing you knew it was the middle of the afternoon, and the cocaine was all gone, and the girl and I had fucked our silly brains out, and she was rubbing up against me like a cat and telling me she knew where to get more.

" 'Get your clothes on,' I told her, 'and buy yourself some more cocaine if you want it, but don't bring it back here because I never want to see it again, or you either.' She didn't know what was wrong but she knew not to stay around to find out. And she took the money. They always take the money."