Black Alley Part 14

"You think he made the break-in himself?"

"Let's consider that a distinct possibility. The bad news is that since he didn't find anything he'll keep looking."

"Mike . . ." she started.

"What?"

"Did you open the urn at all?"

"No, why?"

"Maybe he did find something and kicked the empty jar around as a red herring."

I let it run through my mind, then said, "Think happy thoughts, will you?"

"Boss, I'm not Peter Pan." She grinned and stood up, letting the terrycloth robe swirl around her. It was really something, seeing her like that. My mind kept telling me that one day it would all be mine, that tall loveliness of a sweet-smelling woman. All I had to do was stay alive. "Now, what are you going to do with me?"

"You have two choices, doll. I'm going to let that hole in me get a nice, soft rest in my bed. So . . . you can either get dressed and go home, or sack it in on the couch. Alone."

"You're really trying to ruin your reputation, aren't you." She made a definite statement out of that, but her smile took the edge off.

7.

IN THE MORNING I filled the coffee pot, pushed the ON b.u.t.ton and got dressed while Velda still made soft sleep sounds on the couch. I brushed my teeth, shaved and had a quick cup of fresh ground Dunkin' Donuts special blend, wrote a note and left it on the coffee table where she'd be sure to spot it.

Outside, the morning didn't seem too encouraging, so I slipped into my trenchcoat and went down to the lobby. Bill Raabe was still on security detail and waved me over to his cubbyhole where he was sorting out packages.

I told him good morning and he said, "Mike, you got anything going on?"

"Like what, Billy?"

"You know, trouble."

"Why do you ask?"

"Two cars have been keeping a watch on this place ever since I came on at midnight."

"Cops?"

"No way. Both are Buick sedans. The unmarked police cars aren't that rich. There were a couple of guys in each car."

"Recognize them?"

"Couldn't get a good look at them. A couple of times one would park across the street fifteen or twenty minutes. I could see a cigarette glow inside, so they were there."

He gave me a quick grin. "I did spot the first three numbers on one buggy. They were 411."

"That'll help," I told him.

"Suppose they were stolen?"

"Then it won't help at all," I said.

"Maybe you'll get lucky."

I looked at my watch. It was two minutes past seven. "When did they go by last?"

"Just before you came down. Look, you can go down the bas.e.m.e.nt and out the back way. Jackie is loading up the air freight truck and he can get you out of the area."

"Good idea, pal."

"By the way," he added, "your secretary told me about somebody trying to take you out with a car bomb. We've installed some new spotting equipment down there."

"You know, I'm going to lose my lease yet," I said.

Bill called Jackie on the interphone and after I helped him carry out a couple of packages, he carried me down to Third Avenue where I got out and waited. n.o.body was tailing me at all. A taxi spotted me on the corner, swerved in and stopped.

Just in time. It started to rain. It was too early for the sky to be dirty, so you could see through the big drops that kissed the windows.

A block away from the precinct house was a corner restaurant that had been in the same family since the turn of the century. It was a bar and grill where the food was the greatest if you weren't into French cuisine. At the end of each shift the bar crowd would have a couple of quickies before getting on the subway, but the steady customers were the old-timers, the retirees who couldn't get away from the Job. Ninety percent were either divorced or widowed. They were grey and wrinkled, but there was no denying what they had been before retirement age had swept them into the inactive ranks.

It had been a long time since I had seen Peppy Marlow. He wore a derby then and an overcoat with a velvet collar. He was a three-gun cop with two pieces on his hip and a throwaway in an ankle holster. The young cops used to call him cowboy, but never to his face. He was head of the squad that tried to enforce prohibition and stayed with vice until he retired.

I wondered if he'd remember me, but I shouldn't have bothered. He grinned up from his coffee cup, and said, "Well, Mike Hammer, the old shooter himself."

"Hi, Sarge."

"Come on, Mike. Let's not embarra.s.s the rookies. I'm still Peppy. Gettin' old, but still Peppy. Sit down."

I slipped the trenchcoat off, draped it over an empty chair and sat down.

"You eat yet, Mike?"

"I had coffee."

"Try the Mexican eggs. Something new they came up with."

A chubby waitress with a big smile suddenly stood over me. "How about some bran flakes and two percent milk?" She looked a little surprised, but took my order.

"What's that all about, Mike?"

"Doctor's orders. I'm on a d.a.m.n diet. I got shot up pretty bad."

His "oh" meant so what else is new, but he understood completely.

For a few minutes we talked over the old days, then when our orders came, Peppy said, "Let's see, the last time we made contact was about twelve years ago. You wanted something then and I suppose you want something now."

I tasted the coffee, spooned up some bran flakes and said, "You have a good memory for the old prohibition days?"

"Why, you gonna write my biography?"

"I wouldn't think of it. You got any dope on Slipped Disk Harris?"

"Sure. He's been dead a long time."

"How about when he was alive?"

"Slippery weasel, that one. A nice guy, but a real careful operator." He took a forkful of eggs. "Whatta you want to know?"

"His operation. How did he work it?"

Peppy shrugged, gathering his thoughts together. "He worked the high-cla.s.s stuff. When the slobs were paying big prices for watered-down booze he was delivering the best Canadian you could buy. It cost, but it was top quality."

"Where did he get it?"

"The trucks came down from Canada and he rode in front of the convoy in an old Reo. In those days the roadways were different and he had his routes mapped out all the way. A real sharp character, that guy. He was only hijacked twice, and those jobs were small potatoes on light loads."

"How about the feds?" I asked him.

"h.e.l.l, he drove those guys nutty. They never even came near him. They knew what he was carrying and thought they knew his routes, but their roadblocks never turned up a d.a.m.n thing."

"Didn't he have a transfer spot?"

"He must have," Peppy told me. "He couldn't take the trucks into the city. Someplace he off-loaded to autos to make the final delivery. Never once was he intercepted."

"Old Harris must have made a bundle."

"You'd better believe it. And you know something? None of us ever figured out how he worked it, but we were glad he did. The idiots who pa.s.sed the Volstead Act had their heads up their tails when they tried to play moral good guys. All they did was invite the hoods into the action."

"Yeah, but long after prohibition he went back to work supplying the good stuff to joints all over the city. n.o.body could figure that deal out at all."

"Mike, you know what was strange about that?"

"What?"

"With all the tight government control on booze, from distilling to sales, not one brand maker showed any phony paperwork. They had no theft reports that weren't minor and not ever a hint of any conspiracy. When Harris died, all the action stopped. n.o.body even tried to step into his shoes."

For a couple of minutes we both sat there without talking. When the waitress filled my coffee cup again I said, "What do you think, Peppy?"

"I'm not. I'm just wondering what you're doing back in the old bootleg days?"

"You remember Marcos Dooley, Peppy?"

"Yeah. He just got killed."

"Someplace he's involved in this."

"Baloney. He was like you, too young to be in that mess."

"Then what about Lorenzo Ponti?"

Peppy nodded and grinned. "Now he was into the bootleg business. That was where he got his start. He's still up there in the family circle, though I hear the young turks are easing him out little by little. You'd think those old Mafia families would have been wiped out by now, but they're still in there. Smoother, better educated with higher priced lawyers, but still there."

"What do you hear that's special, Peppy?"

"I hear lots, Mike, but I'm not going to jeopardize what they're doing on the job. You know that."

"No sweat. Just one thing more. Where do you think Harris was off-loading his booze trucks?"

"Someplace upstate," he said. "He didn't work the coastline stuff at all. All his loads came out of Canada by truck." He paused, then continued, "Let me tell you what one of the fed guys thought. They were always looking for a convoy, but the trucks came out singly, not drawing much attention, and followed a course until they converged. Then Harris picked them up in his Reo and led them to the area where they unloaded."

That made sense, all right. I finished my coffee and picked up both the checks. Just as I thanked Peppy for the information a pair of old cronies came in and sat down with him. They had the same look that he had, and idly I wondered if they were still playing cops. It was a hard routine to get out of your system.

It was Pat's day off and I met him outside his apartment building. He greeted me with, "Has the DA's office reached you yet?"

I shook my head. "Why would they?"

"Because somebody reported Dooley's ashes being kicked all over that place you put them. You know about that?"

"Sure."

He gave me that disgusted look again. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Like what? Marshall Brotorrio called me to tell me what happened. I told him to put the dust back and forget it. Who called it in?"

"Apparently the security man who discovered it."

"Then where does the DA come in?"

"Dooley's death is still under investigation and for some reason Florence Lake has a big interest in it."

"Like about eighty-nine billion bucks' worth, Pat?" My tone had a flat seriousness to it.

He turned his head slowly and gave me a penetrating glance. "You were serious about that, weren't you?"

I nodded. "Who corroborated it, Pat?"

"Officially, n.o.body." When I didn't say anything he added, "Homer Watson mentioned some astronomical number like that in pa.s.sing."

"In pa.s.sing, my behind," I said.

"Okay, he was feeling me out, but there was nothing I could tell him. I had forgotten your strange line of thinking about the cartons."