A Dance At The Slaughterhouse Part 18

"Well, you were there," I said. "You might have seen him. He was right at ringside."

"What are you talking about?"

"The guy I was supposed to follow." I got out a copy of a sketch and made sure it was the right one. "Here we go. He was sitting up front, had his son with him. I picked him up there the way I was supposed to and then I lost him. You happen to know who he is?"

He looked at the sketch and I looked at him. "This is a drawing," he said after a moment. I agreed that it was. "You do this? 'Raymond Galindez.' That's not you."

"No."

"Where'd you get this?"

"They gave it to me," I said. "So I would recognize him."

"And you were supposed to follow him?"

"Right. And I went to take a leak and when I got back he was gone. Him and the boy both, like they disappeared while my back was turned."

"Why were you following him?"

"They don't tell me everything. Do you recognize him? Do you know who he is? He was right in the front row, you must have seen him."

"Who's your client? Who told you to follow him?"

"I couldn't tell you that even if I knew. Confidentiality, it's everything in this business, you know."

"Hey, c'mon," he said winningly. "We're all alone here. Who'm I gonna tell?"

"I don't even know who the client is," I said, "or why I was supposed to follow him. I caught h.e.l.l for losing the sonofab.i.t.c.h, believe me."

"I can imagine."

"So do you recognize him? Do you know who he is?"

"No," he said. "I never saw him before."

HE left shortly thereafter. I slipped out myself and crossed to the downtown side of the intersection so I could watch him walking toward Eighth Avenue. When he had a good lead I tagged along after him, just keeping him in sight. He went into his own building, and a few minutes later I saw the lights go on in the fourth-floor windows.

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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d, 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 embarra.s.sed. In a bad c.o.c.kney 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 gla.s.s. 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-gla.s.s tumbler that may have been Waterford. Whatever it was it stood a cut above the regular bar gla.s.sware, 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 gla.s.s 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 f.u.c.king 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? G.o.d bless the Irish, what a strange f.u.c.king 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 n.i.g.g.e.rs 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 G.o.d 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 f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.king dope dealers," he said. "Did you ever try any of that s.h.i.t yourself, Matt? Cocaine, I mean."

"Never."

"I tried it once."

"You didn't like it?"

He looked at me. "The h.e.l.l I didn't," he said. "By G.o.d 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 f.u.c.ked 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."

I thought of Durkin and the hundred dollars I'd given him. "I shouldn't take this from you," he'd said. But he hadn't given it back.

"I never touched cocaine again," Mick said. "And do you know why? Because it was too f.u.c.king good. I don't ever want to feel that good again." He brandished the bottle. "This lets me feel as good as I need to feel. Anything more than that is unnatural. It's worse than that, it's f.u.c.king dangerous. I hate the stuff. I hate the rich b.a.s.t.a.r.ds with their jade snuff bottles and gold spoons and silver straws. I hate the ones who smoke it on the streetcorners. My G.o.d, what it's doing to the city. There was a cop on television tonight saying you should lock your doors when you're riding in a taxi. Because when your cab stops for a light they'll come in after you and rob you. Can you imagine?"

"It keeps getting worse out there."

"It does," he said. He took a drink and I watched him savor the whiskey in his mouth before he swallowed it. I knew what the JJ amp;S twelve-year-old tasted like. I used to drink it with Billie Keegan years ago when he tended bar for Jimmy. I could taste it now, but somehow the sense-memory didn't make me crave a drink, nor did it make me fear the dormant thirst within me.