Separate Cases, page 11
On my arrival, I had mentioned his name, Heck Delgado’s name, and then my own. It was an ego lift that my name seemed to carry the most weight. They made me feel that if I had been anyone else, I wouldn’t have gotten in to see Scalesi.
Now that I was sitting across from New York’s “number one crime boss,” as the papers called him, I didn’t quite know what to say. (Actually, whichever “crime boss,” happens to be on trial at the moment is usually called New York’s number one crime boss by the papers.)
“You’re Jacoby?” he asked.
I nodded.
On the table in front of us was a gold cigarette case, a heavy, marble ashtray, and a cup of coffee. Actually, it looked like espresso. He had a cigarette in one hand and was fiddling with a gold lighter with the other.
“You used to fight.”
“For a while.”
“Why’d you quit?”
“I got knocked out.”
“You should have gotten up again,” Scalesi said. “When you get knocked down, you get up. If you don’t . . .” he said, shrugging.
“I got knocked down once too often and decided to call it quits.”
He shrugged again, this time using only his facial muscles—a very Italian gesture—and said, “That’s a smart move, too. Get out before you get hurt.”
“I thought so.”
“I hear you’re working for me.”
“I’m working for Heck Delgado.”
“Yeah,” Scalesi said, “my lawyer. You’re working for him, you’re working for me.”
“It doesn’t quite work that way.”
“Why not?”
This wasn’t what I had come here to talk about.
“You pay Heck, but you don’t pay me.”
“That means I can’t fire you?”
This time I shrugged.
“If you think I can’t—”
“Mr. Scalesi,” I said, interrupting him. I wanted to try to make a point. “If you want to impress me, I’m impressed already—with your reputation. If you want to scare me, you’re going to have to try a lot harder than this.”
“Aye,” he said, smiling. “A tough guy.”
“If you want to talk,” I said, “let’s talk.”
I sat back, waiting to see how he was going to react.
“All right,” he said, after a moment. “I understand my only witness is dead.”
“Jenny Wheeler,” I said. “Yeah, she’s dead.”
“Well, you see. I think that should be enough for the cops to cut me loose, but they don’t figure it that way.”
“How do you figure it that way?” I asked.
“Simple,” he said with a shrug. “She could’ve cleared me, and somebody killed her to keep her from doing that.”
“And what if you sent some of your . . . associates to kill her so the police would think that way?”
He narrowed his eyes at me and sat forward.
“You’re a smart kid, Jacoby.”
He pronounced Ja-co-bee. I corrected him.
“It’s Jack-uh-bee.”
“Yeah, Miles, right?”
“Right.”
“Look, Miles,” he said. “I need a smart P.I. on my case. You were smart enough to know when to quit fighting, and you’re smart enough to know when to talk back to me, I want to hire you.”
“I’m already working for Heck Delgado.”
“Yeah, but I want you working for me,” Scalesi said. “I’ll pay you double what my spic lawyer’s payin’ you.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll work on your case, but I work for Delgado—and he’s not a spic. He’s a wetback.”
“A what?”
“Mexican-American,” I said. “A chicano.”
“Okay, whatever you say,” Scalesi said, leaning back. “I don’t mean any offense.”
“I’m sure you don’t, and neither do I. I’ll continue to work for Delgado.”
“Work for who you want,” Scalesi said, “just find out who killed that whore. It’s my last chance to prove I didn’t do my wife.”
“Who did?”
“What?”
“If you didn’t kill her, who did?”
Apparently he wasn’t prepared for that question. I was sure he must have been asked it before, by Delgado if by no one else.
“I don’t know.”
“No ideas?”
“No.”
“Were you and she having—”
“Aye!” he said. “I didn’t send for you to ask me a bunch of questions!”
“If you want me to help you I’ll need to know everything.”
“Read the file,” he said. “Haven’t you read it already?”
“No, Heck hasn’t shown it to me.”
“Well why the fuck not?”
“Because all he hired me to do was find Two-John Wheeler.”
“And now?”
“And now I want to find out who killed her. If you didn’t kill your wife, maybe the same person who did also killed Two-John.”
He stared at me for a moment, and then smiled. He took a cigarette from his case and lit it with the gold lighter.
“I knew you were smart. All right, I’ll tell the—I’ll tell Delgado to show you the whole file.”
“How about answering my—”
“I’ve answered all the damned questions I’m going to!” he snapped. “Read the file.”
“All right,” I said, getting up. I started for the door, then stopped and turned back.
“What?” he asked.
“Did you know Two-John Wheeler?”
“I said read—”
“I’m sure the real answer to that is not in the file,” I said.
He stared at me, then said, “I knew her.”
“How good a witness would she have been for you?”
“The best.”
“Why do you say that?”
He smiled and said, “Because she had my dick in her mouth at the time I was supposed to be killing my wife.”
30
My next stop was the Trump Tower. Jules Van Voorhies had his name on the directory, which came in handy since his secretary hadn’t told me what floor his office was on.
It was on twenty-nine.
When I got off the elevator there was no need for me to look for his office. It was obvious that he had the entire floor. Three steps out of the elevator and I was facing a reception desk. On the wall behind it, in large gold letters, it said VAN VOORHIES, LTD. From what I knew about the man—which wasn’t much, admittedly—he didn’t seem to have any limits.
“Yes?” the receptionist said. She had not come by the job right out of secretarial school it seemed. She was in her late thirties and perfectly made up to hide any blemishes she might have had. She had done a fine job. Her face looked perfect, like that of a department store mannequin. Her eyes had all the warmth of one, too.
“Miles Jacoby,” I said.
She stared at me.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Van Voorhies.”
Suddenly an artificial smile appeared, but there was still no warmth in the eyes.
“Yes, sir. Wait just a moment, please.” She picked up the phone and dialed three numbers, and told someone that I was there to see Mr. Van Voorhies. She hung up and gave me the smile again, “Mr. Van Voorhies’s private secretary will be right with you.”
“Is she the only one who knows where his office is?” I asked.
She looked at me without comprehension, and I decided to skip it.
I had no sooner sat down and picked up a copy of Time magazine then a woman’s voice said, “Mr. Jacoby?”
“Yes.”
I stood up and faced her. She was fortyish, handsome, and well cared for. She was not as perfect as the receptionist—for one thing there was a lipstick smear on one of her front teeth—but at least there was genuine warmth in her eyes as she smiled at me. I found that odd because she’d been anything but friendly yesterday on the telephone.
“Please follow me.”
I did. On the way she asked if I would like coffee. I said I would. We reached an unmarked door and she knocked on it and opened it without waiting for a reply.
“Mr. Jacoby, sir.” She stood aside and said, “Please go in. I’ll bring your coffee shortly.”
“Thank you.”
I entered the office and she closed the door behind me.
Van Voorhies was sitting behind the largest desk I’d ever seen, in front of a huge window that undoubtedly looked out over Fifth Avenue.
“Please, Mr. Jacoby, take a seat.”
He pronounced my name correctly.
Van Voorhies stood up. He was in his late forties, or a very well-kept early fifties, and he was tall and slender. His hair was dark, but unlike Scalesi’s it was naturally so. He was clean shaven and his cologne was subtle. I hadn’t yet detected an accent, but he hadn’t said much.
I came forward and he extended his hand. I shook it briefly before sitting. His grip was firm, but very curt. He had large hands.
“This is awkward,” he said.
“Take your time.”
He gave me a fleeting, humorless smile, looked at his watch, and said, “Um, yes.”
The secretary entered and set three cups of coffee on the desk.
“Thank you,” I said.
She left without acknowledging me.
I picked up the cup closest to me and sipped it while I waited for him to speak. He looked at his watch again. Finally, I got impatient—or maybe I just wanted to show off.
“Who are we waiting for?”
“I beg your pardon?”
I nodded toward his desk and said, “The third cup of coffee, and you keep looking at your watch. Who are we waiting for?”
“Um, yes, very good,” he said. “We are waiting for my attorney.”
“I see,” I said. “Is there something we’re going to discuss that requires—”
“I’m sorry I’m late, Jules,” a man said, bursting into the office. “Is this him?”
He was a tall, well-built man in his thirties. He had the kind of face that probably would have brought warmth even to the receptionist’s eyes—a strong cleft chin and Paul Newman blue eyes. Someday they’ll make crayons and name the colors after movie stars—Paul Newman blue, Elizabeth Taylor violet, and on like that. He had Paul’s eyes.
“I’m him,” I said. “Who are you?”
“Calvin Natt,” he said, extending his hand. He shook mine exactly once and dropped it. “How much as Jules told you?”
“Nothing,” I said, reseating myself. “Your coffee is here.”
“What? Oh, thanks.” He moved to the desk, picked up the coffee, and took a healthy swig.
“All right, Jules,” he said. That was Van Voorhies’s cue to proceed, I guess, because that’s what he did.
“Some time back I hired Andy McWilliams to do a job for me. He subcontracted the job out to Walker Blue. I was happy with that. I know Blue by reputation.”
“Then why did you hire Andy?”
“He was recommended to me.”
“By whom?”
“By me,” Natt said. “I’d used him before on some minor things.”
“Minor,” I said. I looked at Van Voorhies and said, “Go on.”
“We had two meetings with Walker Blue, during which we discussed what we wanted to do.”
“We meaning you and Mr. Natt here?”
“Yes.”
Natt sipped his coffee again, but his eyes peered over the cup at me. I had the feeling he was sizing me up for something.
“What did you hire him to do?”
Van Voorhies stared at me a moment.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“He did not.”
He exchanged a satisfied glance with Natt, who nodded sagely. I had the feeling he was saying, “I told you so.”
“How much do you know about me, Mr. Jacoby?”
“Not much,” I said. “I know you’re wealthy and that you own a lot of toys.”
“Uh, yes,” he said. “I suppose it would seem that way to some people.”
“To some,” I agreed. I set the coffee cup back down on his desk. It was lousy coffee.
“I have political ambitions.”
“Surprise, surprise,” I said. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”
“I wanted Walker Blue to . . . look into my past.”
“Jules—” Natt said, and now I had the impression that Van Voorhies had said more than his lawyer thought advisable.
“Looking for what?” I asked. “Skeletons?” This sounded weird to me.
“Mr. Jacoby—” Natt said, but I didn’t give him a chance to deposit his two cents.
“You hired Walker Blue—through Andy McWilliams—to check yourself out?”
Van Voorhies looked up at Natt as if to ask “What should I say?”
It was too late for that.
“It was merely a precaution,” Calvin Natt said.
“Against what?”
“Accidents.”
I looked away from Natt to Van Voorhies.
“Mr. Van Voorhies, we’re playing word games here. Do you or do you not have skeletons in your closet?”
Van Voorhies opened his mouth to answer but Natt jumped in. “Don’t answer that,” he said.
I stared at him a few moments. “All right, let’s do it the easy way. Why did you want me to come up here?”
“We were just wondering what you might have found out,” Natt said.
“About what?”
“About . . . Mr. Van Voorhies.”
I ignored Natt.
“Mr. Van Voorhies, have you spoken to Andy McWilliams’s widow lately.”
“Yes,” he said. “She called and I asked her to come up.”
“To ask her the same question you just asked me?”
They both hesitated and then Van Voorhies said, “Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she was not interested in my past, only in who killed her husband.”
“And of course you know nothing about her husband’s death.”
“No, I do not,” he said. “How did he die?”
“He was apparently killed by the Backshooter,” Calvin Natt said.
“‘Apparently’ being the key word,” I said.
“You don’t think he was?” Natt asked.
“I’m keeping an open mind.”
“That’s what we were hoping for on your part—” Natt said, “an open mind.”
“Are you willing to pay me for what I know?” I asked.
“Of course,” Natt said, “but you will have to sign a contract.”
“A contract?”
“Of employment,” Natt said. “You would be working for me—at a very generous fee, of course.”
“Of course.”
I thought about that for a moment, then realized why I’d be working for Natt instead of directly for Van Voorhies. In working for a lawyer, I’d be bound by his right of client confidentiality.
“Did Andy sign this contract?”
“He did.”
“And Walker Blue?”
“Yes.”
I studied both of them for a moment while they studied me, hopeful expressions on their faces. They were afraid that I already knew something, and were now trying to buy not only my silence, but me.
And I didn’t know a damned thing.
“Mr. Van Voorhies, I have no desire whatsoever to look into your past, unless Andy McWilliams’s murder is part of it.”
“That’s absurd.”
“It probably is,” I said. I stood up and prepared to leave.
“Wait a moment,” Natt said. “Would you be willing to turn over any, er, pertinent information to us—if you discover anything relating to Mr. Van Voorhies?”
If I said no, would I be the next one they’d try to beat up? It might be worth finding out.
I did what Caroline had probably done. I turned and left without answering them. She probably hadn’t liked them anymore than I did.
31
On my way uptown on the subway I thought over my morning interviews and came to the same conclusion about both “powerful” men. They were scared!
Scalesi was facing a murder rap, and if what he said about Two-John Wheeler was true—that she was with him at the time his wife was supposed to have been killed—then his best chance of acquittal had gone down the tubes with her murder. He could have been scared because after all the crimes he had committed, he was going to bite the big one for something he didn’t do. Also, it made sense to me that someone might have killed her to make sure he took the fall.
If he was innocent.
He could have been getting an A-l blow-job from Two- John and still had his wife killed by someone else. He might have been scared because he was guilty and knew he was going to be found so. Scalesi’s behavior made sense to me at either angle.
Van Voorhies, on the other hand, made my head spin. Here was a man with political ambitions who must have had something so hot in his closet that he had to hire a P.I. to try to find it, just to see if he had hidden it well enough. His angle was that the P.I.—Andy, or whoever—would be working for his lawyer, and would therefore be bound by the lawyer’s client confidentiality. But client confidentiality is such a technical point. It’s like the Catholic priest’s seal of the confessional. The silence is professional, which means that the man—a priest, a lawyer, a doctor—can still talk, if he is willing to give up his career. If Andy had talked he would have damaged his credibility as far as other lawyers hiring him, but what if he felt that what he had to say was worth that? Was that why he was killed? To keep silent? Then again, he hadn’t worked on the case, Walker Blue had, and no one tried to kill Walker Blue. If Walker had found out something, he had kept it to himself, ensuring his own safety.
Caroline had probably walked out on Van Voorhies and his lawyer, which had gotten her beaten up. They probably felt she knew nothing, and wanted to keep it that way.
But what about me? What did they think I knew? Maybe I’d made a mistake walking out on them, but I didn’t like them because they had felt they could buy me. I’m a single guy with little in the way of responsibilities, so I could afford to sneer at Van Voorhies’s money. If I’d been married with three kids, a dog, a car payment, and two mortgages, I would probably have jumped at the offer—even though I didn’t know anything.
