Black Alley Part 15

I grinned at him, then let out a little laugh. "No, you didn't, Pat. You just stored it away. h.e.l.l, you never forget anything."

"A guy can sure buy a big car with that kind of dough," Pat said quietly. "You going to tell me what it's all about?"

A cab came by and I flagged it down. When we got in I gave the driver the address in Brooklyn and settled into the seat. "I wish I knew, Pat. Maybe we can find something in Dooley's pad."

We didn't have to kick in any doors to get in. I rang the bell and Marvin Dooley opened the door for us. "You didn't take long to move in," I told him.

"No problem," he said. "I got a good lawyer." He looked at Pat, his eyes picking him right up as being a cop. "What're you guys doing here?"

"We want to look through the house, that's what."

"Supposing I don't want to let you."

"If you want a rap in the mouth it's okay with me," I told him.

He thought for a moment, then held the door open. "Aw, come on in. There's nothing in here to find anyway. I already tore the place apart, what was left of it."

"Oh?"

"Somebody else was already here. h.e.l.l, he tore out some of the walls, ripped up the furniture and the mattresses . . . man, what a mess this was."

It only took a quick tour to see what he was talking about. The search had been detailed and thorough, but it was an amateur job. Pat said, "He wasn't squeezed for time, that's for sure." The marks of a rough tool scarred the woodwork where boards had been pried loose and a sharp blade had been used to get into any stuffed material.

When we finished the inspection Pat asked, "What do you see, Mike?"

"He never found anything, that's what I see. He never stopped looking."

"Yeah. And he was neat about it. At least he didn't make any noise. Nothing was thrown over. It was picked up, turned over carefully and checked out. If anything had been found the search would have ended right there."

I agreed and we both went back to the living room, where Marvin was straightening up the remnants of the sofa. "Junk," he said, "it's all junk now." He looked at us, his eyes darting back and forth between Pat and me.

"When did you get here?" I asked him.

"About an hour ago." When I didn't answer him, he said, "I was figuring on moving in. I told you I was going to. h.e.l.l, I own it now."

"I don't think you'll be very comfortable," Pat said. "You speak to anybody outside?"

Marvin nodded vigorously. "d.a.m.n well told. Except for a kid across the street n.o.body saw nothing! At least the kid remembered some man who stopped by twice and when he didn't get an answer he left. He came back a little later, stood there a minute, then came on in. The kid said he thought somebody had opened the door for him. h.e.l.l, that old lock wouldn't've kept a cat out. He jimmied that door open."

"The kid describe him?"

"Nah. He was only a strange guy to the kid." He stopped and wiped his face. "His old lady was at the window, though. She knew who it was."

Evidently Marvin was expecting a big reaction from us, but when he didn't get it, he said, "He had been here a few times before. Drove up then. Big car, brand new." We still just looked at him and waited. "Twice he got in the guy's car and drove off. The old lady thought my old man worked for him."

Not him, I thought. Dooley had worked for his father. It was Ugo who had tossed Dooley's place looking for any line to unravel the puzzle.

Marvin seemed disappointed when we told him thanks and so long. Outside we walked toward the corner in silence, then I told Pat, "Ugo is shaking loose, pal. He hit the urn and Dooley's own house and hasn't found anything yet."

"I was just thinking that. You know what's coming next, don't you?"

"Certainly. He'll be coming after me."

"What're your plans, kiddo?"

"I want to meet him in my own backyard. He'll only think he's setting the stage."

"And I suppose you'll want backup on this?"

"Come on, I'm a citizen. I'd expect it." I saw the frown start on his face and knew what was bothering him. "You can forget it, if you want to, Pat."

"No, I can't forget it. I was close to Dooley too. What bothers me is any personal involvement that might screw up the works. Dooley wasn't a big enough event to get his killing on the front page, but if you're really onto the right kind of money numbers, this fracas has got the makings of one big bust."

"Then stay out of it."

"Mike . . . you know I can't. Not now. You made it more than just a killing. Dooley opened up a can of worms and you took the bait." His eyes tightened somewhat. "Now, so did I."

"You want to make it official business?"

"I can see them trying to get a word out of you," he said. "There's not a d.a.m.n thing they can charge you with and you're not about to give anything away, are you?"

"Dooley dropped it in my lap, Pat, remember? The conversation wasn't recorded and all he did was hand me a joker out of the deck and tell me to make a royal flush of it."

At the corner Pat stopped and stared down the avenue for a cab. "You'll be tangling with the feds and the DA's office, for starters, Mike. They're both heavy hitters with big teams to cover all the bases. You know what you're up against?"

"You always ask me that, Pat. The answer is the same. No, I don't know, but I expect I'll find out pretty soon, don't you?"

He grunted and waved his hand toward a cab. "At least you got that right."

When the cab stopped we both got in and Pat gave the driver his midtown address. I told him to let me off at Thirty-fourth Street and we stayed quiet until I got out. When the cab pulled away I grabbed another and went up to Bud Langston's office, where his first words were, "That was a short week, Mike."

"This could be a friendly visit," I said.

"But it's not, right?"

"Right. Things are beginning to happen."

"And you want body armor to protect your worn old frame, I imagine."

"What I want is to see this stuff. If it's for real it puts another light on what I'm doing."

"Oh, it's real, all right. And this time everything was going for us. Coulter and I had a locker together at the club where we used to try out our gadgets in the pool. He mentioned a package he had left there with that new material in it."

"And?"

Bud got up and walked to the closet and came back with what looked like a long-sleeved black sweatshirt draped over a wire coat hanger. "You still an extra large?"

"You guessed right."

He held out the hanger and I took the gadget off the wire. For a few seconds I let my fingers run over the fabric itself, noticing the satin-like texture. It was full-waist length, yet couldn't have weighed more than a few ounces. "And this will stop a bullet?"

"I told you . . . anything under a twenty-millimeter."

"That's hard to believe."

"Believe it, Mike. I've seen the tests carried out."

"How does it work?"

Bud gave me a sad look, and said, "Why is a single strand of spiderweb stronger than a steel wire of the same dimensions?"

"Beats me," I told him.

"Then stop asking silly questions. I fused the material into something you can wear. The trouble with a lot of armor is it leaves the arms open to bullet wounds. This thing is like wearing an undershirt. There's a flap that comes up between your legs that you fasten with Velcro. Pretty neat, eh?"

"I didn't know you could sew," I said. "You want it back?"

His eyes seemed to cloud up a little. He had known me too long. "When you're done with it, Mike."

I nodded, told him thanks and went out and got a cab back to my office.

The rain had started again. This time it had picked up sky dirt and smelled funny. The drops were smaller than before, nature having a last laugh before deciding to drench the city with a downpour. I was glad I had my trenchcoat with me. The belt had started to bite into my side and I loosened it. It was a half hour late for the pain pills, so I just sat back and made faces until I got to the office.

Velda said I looked pretty pasty when I walked in. I felt even worse until the pills took hold. My legs were shaky and my head was light. I knew I was breathing, but couldn't seem to feel like anything was going into my lungs. I swung around in my desk chair and leaned back, my feet going up to the windowsill. She had seen me do that so often she figured I was all right, but I was far from it. The greyness of the day outside the gla.s.s panes got darker than it should have and I felt as if I were going off into deep sleep in a black alley that was dark and empty.

My head didn't snap up. The motion was very slow and deliberate. The color outside the window came back and I could feel myself breathing again. I kept thinking that living was a real pleasure and anything that had to be done to prolong it should be done.

When Velda came back she was holding the body armor shirt. "What is this, Mike?"

I didn't feel like going into long explanations. "Something scuba divers use underwater."

"What do you want it for?"

"Sunken treasure, doll," I said.

"You?"

"Let me have my dreams, will you?"

She tossed it on my desk. "You really need a wife, Mikey boy."

"Sure I do," I agreed with a grunt. "Now sit down in the client's chair. I need a sounding board. It's not like the old days anymore. I have a head full of details, but I can't seem to get them lined up. Azi's .357 got me in the side, but it's messed up my thinking."

With a look of understanding, Velda sat down. She didn't have to take notes. She was one of those people who had that ability to remember an entire lecture on criminology almost verbatim and repeat it back afterward. It was something she did when she wanted to, but not bothering otherwise. Even the way she sat was part of her deliberate intention to absorb every word I said and the tilt of her head reminded me of a feral cat waiting outside a mouse hole.

So I gave her all the elements of the case as I knew them, and when I was done, went over them again with suppositions thrown in to bolster theory. When I was done I felt like having a cold beer, but the ache in my side said no.

"What do you think, kitten?"

"You're the detective," she reminded me.

"Unless you forgot to renew it, you have a ticket too."

"Wouldn't you do better asking Pat?"

"If Dooley had wanted that he would have asked Pat himself. This is something he dumped on me. Sooner or later Pat is going to have to come in on it, but right now his job is running down Dooley's killer. Everybody else is playing a big guessing game and they have the board nailed to my back. They hate me for not holding still long enough to let the darts. .h.i.t it."

"It's all about money, isn't it, Mike?"

"Eighty-nine billion dollars worth. It sounds almost indecent to say it."

"And n.o.body is sure of where it is."

"h.e.l.l, n.o.body can prove it even was. If the story is true, the old dons got screwed out of it, but they're all dead except for Ponti. The young guys in the mob have a good idea that it's somewhere . . . but can't locate it. What's funny is that it isn't like looking for a needle in a haystack at all. It would be one huge pile of cartons packed tight with cash or negotiables . . . and n.o.body wants to talk about it at all."

"Mike . . . how did the feds come in on this?"

"They're money mice, doll. They can smell the stuff and will follow the trail until they die. They don't care how they clip the public, but don't let anybody hold out a dollar on them. Look at how they got Capone."

She considered that a minute, then smiled gently. "Modern technology. In Capone's day they had comptometers, today we have computers. They're going to run that money down with electronics. The new dons used them to shake out the possibility of a h.o.a.rd and we don't even have a laptop."

"We don't need one," I said. "Electronics didn't squirrel that much cash away. It was being collected and hidden before the computer age hit us."

She was thinking the same thing I was, and it showed in the way she pursed her lips. "We still follow the money trail, don't we?"

"Right you are, doll, but before we do, let's verify those big numbers. Time, Newsweek, U.S. News and World Report . . . all those magazines have covered the actions of the families. Go hire some researchers to get the details. Pick up what you can from the newspapers and don't sweat out specifics. Anything they got would have been an estimated figure anyway. We know what the drug revenue is figured at, so put it all together in big round numbers and see what we get. And by the way, have we got enough money to pay for researchers?"

"That much we have," Velda rea.s.sured me.

"Let's do it then."

Ever since the army days I had never stayed in the sack after six. The coffee was made, my face was shaved and I was all dressed when the authoritative knock came on my door. I could have told who it was. Unless a badge was flashed on Bill Raabe and he was told officially not to announce the visitors he wouldn't have let the president in. But here was Mr. Authority with a big fist who looked startled as h.e.l.l when I jerked the door open and said, "Well, Miss Lake and Mr. Watson, you're just in time for coffee." I looked at my watch. "You city people sure get up late. Where have you been?"

Florence Lake smiled feebly. Homer harrumphed and let me shut the door behind him. I ushered them into the living room, then went back and got two cups of freshly brewed Dunkin' Donuts coffee for them. They both muttered thanks, but I had sure put a big dent in their surprise visit. Some people can be all shook up by an official call that early in the morning.

So I let them sit. Finally Florence Lake said, "We have done an exhaustive study of Mr. Dooley's past. A lot of man-hours went into this and we came up with some interesting details."

"Good for you," I told her. "You sharing this information?"

"We may."

I took a taste of my coffee and set the cup down. "Look, Miss Lake, I don't give a hoot one way or another what you tell me. If it's something I wanted to know I'd find it out myself. Let's not play games. What have you got?"

The two of them exchanged glances, then she pulled a few papers from her pocket and laid them on the coffee table. They were receipt forms, six from Gerrity Trucking company, listing week-long rentals each time and four separate orders from Watertight Carton Company. The dates were years old.

I looked them over, shrugged, and said, "What's this suppose to mean?"

"Your friend rented those trucks and bought those cartons in his name."