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

"That's what it looks like."

"I see. That's not quite the same thing as yes, is it?"

"There's a possibility that he was murdered by an accomplice. The police are pursuing that possibility, but they don't expect to get anywhere. At the present time there's no evidence that contradicts a verdict of suicide."

"But you don't believe that's what happened."

"I don't, but what I believe's not terribly important. I spent a couple of hours with Thurman last night and I got what you were hoping I'd get. He admitted murdering your sister."

"He actually admitted it."

"Yes, he did. He tried to make his accomplice the heavy, but he admitted his own role in what happened." I decided to stretch a point. "He said she was unconscious for virtually all of it, Lyman. She got a blow on the head early on and never knew what happened to her."

"I'd like to believe that."

"I was scheduled to meet with him yesterday afternoon," I went on. "I was hoping to talk him into a full confession, but failing that I was prepared to record our conversation and turn it over to the police. But before I could do that-"

"He killed himself. Well, I'll say one thing. I'm certainly glad I hired you."

"Oh?"

"Wouldn't you say your investigation precipitated his actions?"

I thought about it. "I guess you could say that," I said.

"And I'm just as glad it ended as it did. It's quicker and cleaner than suffering through a court trial, and a lot of the time they walk away, don't they? Even when everybody knows they're guilty."

"It happens."

"And even when it doesn't the sentences are never long enough, or they behave themselves, they're model prisoners and after four or five years they're out on parole. No, I'm more than satisfied, Matthew. Do I owe you any money?"

"You probably have a refund coming."

"Don't be ridiculous. Don't you dare send me anything. I wouldn't accept it if you did."

Speaking of money, I told him he might be able to institute proceedings to recover his sister's estate and the insurance payment. "You're not legally entitled to profit from the commission of a crime," I explained. "If Thurman murdered your sister, he can't inherit and he can't collect the insurance money. I'm not familiar with the terms of your sister's will, but I assume everything comes to you in the event that he's out of the picture."

"I believe it does."

"He hasn't been legally implicated in her death," I said, "and there won't be charges brought against him now because he's dead. But I think you can institute civil proceedings, and the rules are different from criminal court. For instance, I might be able to testify to the substance of my conversation with him the night before he died. That's hearsay, but it's not necessarily inadmissible. You would want to talk to your attorney. In a case like this I don't think you have to prove guilt to the same degree as in a criminal trial, beyond a reasonable doubt. I think there's a different standard that applies. As I said, you'll want to talk to your lawyer."

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I don't think I will. Where would the money go if I don't? I doubt that he's redrawn his will since Amanda's death. He would have left everything to her, and to his own relatives in the event she predeceased him." He coughed, got control of himself. "I don't want to fight with his sisters and his cousins and his aunts. I don't care if they get the money. What difference does it make?"

"I don't know."

"I have more money than I'll ever have time to spend. Time is worth more to me than money, and I don't want to spend it in courtrooms and lawyers' offices. You can understand that, can't you?"

"Of course I can."

"It may seem cavalier of me, but-"

"No," I said. "I don't think so."

AT five-thirty that afternoon I went to a meeting in a Franciscan church around the corner from Penn Station. The crowd was an interesting mix of commuters in suits and low-bottom drunks in the early stages of recovery. Neither element seemed at all uncomfortable with the other.

During the discussion I raised my hand and said, "I've felt like drinking all day today. I'm in a situation that I can't do anything about and it feels as though I ought to be able to. I already did everything I could and everybody else is perfectly happy with the results, but I'm an alcoholic and I want everything to be perfect and it never is."

I went back to the hotel and there were two messages, both that TJ had called. I didn't have a number for him. I walked over to Armstrong's and had a bowl of the black bean chili, then caught the eight-thirty step meeting at St. Paul's. We were on the Second Step, the one about coming to believe in the capacity of a power greater than ourselves to restore us to sanity. When it was my turn to say something I said, "My name is Matt and I'm an alcoholic, and all I know about my Higher Power is he works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform." I was sitting next to Jim Faber, and he whispered to me that if the detective business went to hell I could always get a job writing fortune cookies.

Another member, a woman named Jane, said, "If a normal person gets up in the morning and his car's got a flat tire, he calls Triple A. An alcoholic calls Suicide Prevention League."

Jim nudged me significantly in the ribs.

"It can't possibly apply to me," I told him. "I haven't even got a car."

WHEN I got back to the hotel there was another message from TJ and still no way to get in touch with him. I showered and went to bed, and I was starting to doze off when the phone rang.

"You hard to reach," he said.

"You're the one who's hard to reach. You left all these messages."

"That's 'cause last time you said I didn't leave no message."

"This time you did, but I didn't have any way to get in touch with you."

"You mean like a number to call."

"Something like that."

"Well, I ain't got no phone."

"I didn't figure you did."

"Yeah," he said. "Well, we work it out one of these days. Thing is, I found out what I supposed to find out."

"The pimp."

"Yeah, I learned a whole bunch of shit."

"Let's hear it."

"On the phone, Joan? I mean I will if that be what you want, but-"

"No."

"Because it don't seem too cool."

"No, probably not." I sat up. "There's a coffee shop called the Flame, corner of Fifty-eighth and Ninth, it would be the southwest corner-"

"It be anywhere on that corner, I gone find it."

"Yeah, I guess you will," I said. "Half an hour."

HE met me outside the place and we went in and got a booth. He sniffed the air theatrically and announced that something smelled good, and I laughed and handed him the menu and told him to have whatever he wanted. He ordered a cheeseburger with bacon and an order of fries and a double-rich chocolate shake. I had a cup of coffee and a toasted English.

"Found this chick," he said, "livin' way over in Alphabet City. Say she used to be with this pimp name of Juke. Prob'ly his pimpin' name. Man, she was scared shit! She cut out on Juke last summer, like she 'scaped from where he had her livin', an' she still lookin' over her shoulder for him to catch up with her. Told her once she ever pulled any shit on him he be cuttin' her nose off, and whole time I'm there with her she be touchin' her nose, like she want to make sure it still there."

"If she left him last summer she wouldn't have known Bobby."

"Yeah, right," he said. "But what it is, this kid I found who knew Bobby, all he knew about the pimp was it was the dude used to pimp-" He caught himself and said, "I told her I wouldn't say her name. I guess it be all right to tell you, but-"

"No, I don't have to know her name. They both had the same pimp but not at the same time, so if you found out who her pimp was, then you knew who was pimping Bobby."

"Yeah, right."

"And it was somebody named Juke."

"Yeah. She don't know his last name. Box, most likely." He laughed. "Don't know where he lived, either. Had her livin' up in Washington Heights, but she said how he got a few different apartments, got kids stashed here an' there." He picked up a French fry, dipped it in ketchup. "He always lookin' for new kids, Juke is."

"Business is that good, huh?"

"What she say, he always lookin' for new kids 'cause the old ones don't last long." He cocked his head, trying to look on top of what he was telling me, unaffected by it. He didn't quite bring it off. "He tell her, tell everybody, there two ways they can go on a date. Date can be a round trip or a one-way rental. You know what that means?"

"Tell me."

"Round trip is you come back. One-way is you don't. Like if the john buys you one-way, he don't have to return you. He can, like, do what he want." He looked down at his plate. "He can kill you, that be what he want, an' everything be cool with Juke. She say he tell her, 'You be good or I send you out on a one-way ticket.' An' she say the thing is you don't never know you goin' out one-way. He say, 'Oh, this john, he a easy trick, he prob'ly buy you some nice clothes, treat you fine.' Then she out the door an' he say to the other kids, 'Now you ain't never gone see that bitch again, 'cause I done sent her out on a one-way ticket.' An' they cry some, you know, if she be a good friend of theirs, but they never see her again."

WHEN he had finished his meal I gave him three twenties and told him I hoped that would cover the meter. He said, "Yeah, that be cool. 'Cause I know you ain't rich, man."

Outside I said, "Don't take it any further, TJ. Don't try to find out anything more about Juke."

"I could just ask a few dudes, see what they say."

"No, don't."

"Wouldn't cost you nothing."

"That's not what I'm worried about. I wouldn't want Juke to know somebody was looking for him. He might turn around and start looking for you."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't want that," he said. "Girl say he a mean motherfucker. Say he be big, too, but everybody be lookin' big to that girl."

"How old is she?"

"She twelve," he said. "But she small for her age."

Chapter 19

I stayed close to home on Saturday, leaving during the day only to eat a sandwich and drink a cup of coffee and catch a noon meeting across the street from Phil Fielding's video store. At ten to eight I met Elaine in front of the Carnegie Recital Hall on Fifty-seventh. She had tickets for a series of chamber music concerts and felt well enough to use them. The group that night was a string quartet. The cellist was a black woman with a shaved head. The other three were Chinese-American males, all of them dressed and groomed like management trainees.

At intermission we made plans to go to Paris Green afterward, with maybe a quick stop at Grogan's, but by the time the second half ended we were less energetic. We went back to her apartment and ordered in Chinese food. I stayed over, and in the morning we went out for brunch.

Sunday I had dinner with Jim and went to the eight-thirty meeting at Roosevelt.