Black Alley Part 8

"Try Washington, D.C. Use the phone. If they want any reason for the query, tell them we're trying to find an inheritor."

"Fine, Mike . . . but why are we looking for him?"

"Because fathers with sons are funny. They'll entrust things to their kids they wouldn't put in a safe deposit box. That kid, Marvin, may know something we need." After a moment I added, "One more thing. Check your calendar and see when you went to the Kings County Courthouse. Find out who that government witness was. You have any friends over there?"

"The best. The court stenographer. It's all public information anyway, but she can expedite matters."

When I didn't come up with something else, Velda folded the slip into her wallet then locked that in her purse. Her eyes came up to mine again, nice clear, deep brown, hungry eyes that didn't push or play games. She said, "That's for tomorrow. What's for tonight?"

"Kitten," I said, "you really know how to twist my tail. Now listen to me one more time. If you want to get married to me, you're going to do it the old-fashioned way. We can hold hands and kiss and hug all you want, but we keep our clothes on and stay out of bed. Got it?"

"Did that doctor . . . do anything to you, Mike?"

"Yeah. He kept me alive so that soon enough I can do anything. One round with you under the sheets and I'll be on a slab."

With a tiny smile she said, "What a prude. He can brace two tough guys with no gun and one bullet and can't make love to his fiancee."

"Just following doctor's orders, sweetie."

"Mike," she said, "I wouldn't have it any other way."

The building was simple, wasting no s.p.a.ce. It was concrete, boxlike, with a minimum of ornamentation, a cemetery supermarket where urns could be placed to be seen in delicately formed mini-caves pressed into the cement or hidden behind inch-thick facades with histories worked into their surfaces.

Marshall Brotorrio toured me through the lower recesses of the modern crypt knowing that would be all the inspection I would need. Since Dooley would not be getting many visitors he suggested the last niche on the row. I went along with that, opted to keep the urn in view, then went back to his office to complete the paperwork.

Dooley was still sitting on his desk, but somebody had cleaned and polished the metal container while we were away, slipping a plastic shield over it to keep fingertips from spotting its beauty.

"Would you like to see the urn placed in its resting place?"

The words didn't seem right coming from a big guy like Brotorrio. I shook my head. "I'm not much on ceremony."

"I understand," he said. And he did. An old pal burying his buddy after carrying his remains from one borough to another wasn't going to go all teary-eyed at this stage. I made out the check, signed the papers, shook hands with Marshall Brotorrio and went back to flag down a cab.

Now I had to find Dooley's son and pa.s.s over the papers to him, then find the slob who had iced Dooley.

I looked out the window and watched the skyline of New York coming up. From three miles out it looked clean and angular, but the closer you got the grayer the color was and the duller the angles seemed to be. At one point I got a momentary glimpse of the prettiest building in the city, the old Woolworth Building. It used to be the tallest in the world, but now it was dwarfed by the steel and gla.s.s structures that entombed the mighty organizations that breathed life in and out of great populations. I had only a brief peek, but it was nice to know the old lady was still there.

Velda got back to the office a few minutes after me. She watched while I downed two capsules Dr. Morgan had given to me. I had to flip them into an already-chewed cracker to get them down, but taking pills had never been one of my strong points. When I put the cap back on the plastic bottle I asked, "Well?"

She flipped open a small notebook and scanned it. "Our fat man is a Treasury agent, all right. Just where he stands in the pecking order, my friend couldn't tell me, but he's way up there. She called him a funny money sniffer. Whenever the government suspects a person or organization of holding back big tax funds, Homer Watson is called in."

"Homer Watson?"

"I know," she said, "sounds like a country boy, but he broke the Fintel scandal and nailed those Wall Street insiders who almost took a billion dollars home to mama." Velda was watching me closely now. "That story you gave to Pat was real, wasn't it?"

After a few seconds I shrugged. "I don't know. Nothing's been proven. It's only what I've been told."

"But you believe it," she stated flatly.

"Yes," I said. "I believe it."

"Why?"

"Because I went through a war with the guy who told me."

"A real man thing, I suppose."

"You suppose right, kitten. Why the interrogation?"

"I want to believe it too and it scares me. Will you answer me one question?"

"Sure," I agreed.

For a moment she stood there, thinking silently, then said, "Eighty-nine billion dollars is an almost impossible amount of money. There is no way a person could spend it all. Governments or individuals would gladly kill to pull in numbers like that, and there are organizations and persons who have the financing and technology to search out a treasure that big."

I nodded and told her, "That's not the question, doll."

"True," she agreed. Then: "How are you going to beat them all to it?"

My laugh was almost a grunt. "I'm smart," I said.

"Don't give me that." Now a frown had started between her eyes. "You can have the entire government of the United States on your back just like that."

"So?"

"How are you going to handle that?"

"No problem," I said.

"Oh, great."

"Come on, Velda, I can't tell them what I don't know."

"What did Dooley tell you?" she asked me shrewdly.

"Not enough."

"You knew the amount."

"Sure, but not where it was. I think Dooley wanted to tell me, but all he said was that he had changed the signs so n.o.body could find it."

"Why do you suppose he called you in, Mike?"

Now I grinned real big. "Because I'm not n.o.body. Somehow Dooley dropped it right in my lap and now I have to look down at all the wrinkles in the napkin to see where the crumb is. That'll tell me where it is."

"And what do you do with eighty-nine billion dollars after you find it?"

"Same thing Pat would do. I'd buy a new car. h.e.l.l, you can have some too. New dress, shoes, things like that."

"Get serious," Velda told me.

"I am," I said. "Now, what about Dooley's history?"

The change of pace rattled her for a moment, then she thumbed over another page of her notebook. For a moment she frowned at it, then her eyes drifted up to mine. "Those navy serial numbers were wrong, Mike. They weren't his."

Before I could answer her she cut me off with a wave of her hand. "Oh, I found him, all right. I ran down the personnel on the destroyer Latille, and there he was. Then I got his proper ID. I had to mention a few names to get his son's name and addresses, but I knew you wouldn't mind." She ripped a page out of the notepad and handed it to me. "Anyway, there's the kid's location as far as they know."

I looked at the address, memorized it and tucked the paper under my desk blotter. "We still have a problem, kitten."

She waited for me to say it.

"What are those other numbers on the urn then?"

"Maybe . . ." she searched for a name, then found it, "Marvin can tell you."

A little nerve tugged at my jaw. Dooley had always been out front with everything. He had wanted to bust right into a bunker rather than smoke an enemy out. He never seemed to be devious with anything, so it was hard to give him credit for it now. h.e.l.l, he could have made a mistake, but that sure didn't seem likely. n.o.body ever forgets his military serial number. n.o.body. Ever. You don't forget where to wear your hat either. Or put your socks.

So? Okay, Dooley was trying to be devious. Oh boy, if those numbers were a code to all that loot and the government picked it up, their computers could break it in ten seconds. Maybe five. And the mob had the same technology too. So where did that leave me? I looked at Velda's face and knew that she was thinking the same thing, picturing all those beautiful IBM machines and supercomputers and a.s.sorted goodies lined up in the government offices in Washington, making subtle clicking sounds, churning out reams of information all generated by a steady current of electricity smug with its power.

"They're only as good as what people put into them, Mike," she offered.

"Yeah," I agreed.

She smiled a little sweetly, then tested me. "What's better than a computer virus, Mike?"

But I knew the answer. "When they don't know what to feed them."

Velda had left early, trying to expedite locating Marvin Dooley. It was almost five, no new business had come in and I was ready to close up shop. I heard the two short buzzes in Velda's office and hit the door b.u.t.ton to let the visitor in.

It was the little fat man from Washington, affable, well dressed and seemingly on a happy errand rather than one that would necessitate a visit to a private investigator's office. All I could think was, I am from the government and am here to help you.

"Well," I said, "Mr. Homer Watson, I presume."

That took his breath away a little. The upturned corners of the false smile turned down and the affable look just wasn't there anymore. "Sharp, Mr. Hammer. It didn't take you long."

"It never does, pal."

"You know why I'm here?"

"Certainly," I said. I nodded to a chair and sat down myself, the desk a barrier between us.

My approach had gotten him unfocused, something that probably never happened before.

"And what would that be?" he asked.

I didn't let him off the hook. "I take it you're not here to ask for my professional help, are you?"

We were fencing now. "Oh. I'll pay it," he told me easily.

"You'd be lost in the rush, Mr. Watson."

I still hadn't asked him what he wanted and he was doing a mental search to make his point known. Annoyed, he said, "How did you know my name?"

"I'm a detective. State licensed. Can carry a weapon and all that kind of stuff, you know?"

"Yeah, I know," he told me tartly. "Please don't be a smart a.s.s."

"Okay, then tell me why you're here."

"A call was made to Washington by your secretary. The subject party had been red flagged and the information was pa.s.sed on to me."

"So?"

His face reddened. "What did you want to know about him?"

Now I put the hook in deeper. "You carry a badge?"

"Yes."

"Let me see it. And the other credentials too."

Homer Watson was really teed off now, but he dug out his badge and photo ID and pa.s.sed it over. I took a minute scrutinizing it then handed it back. "You have a warrant?"

"No," he admitted.

"That's bad," I said. "Then this is just a normal business meeting, right?"

Rather than answer, he frowned, trying to get around the situation.

Finally I let him off the hook. I grinned and said, "What do you want to know about Dooley and the mob, Homer?"

He looked at me for ten seconds, then shook his head in mock disgust. "I should have listened to the street talk when they tried to tell me about you."

I nodded knowingly.

"What was your connection with Dooley?"

"We were in the army together. After the war he steered Pat Chambers and me into police work."

"How did you know he was connected with the mob?"

"I didn't."

"But . . ."

"He mentioned he had done some work for one of the families, but h.e.l.l, so have I. So have a lot of people, but that doesn't mean he was connected to the mob. Dooley and I have been out of touch for a long time."

"Yet he called for you when he was dying."