Separate Cases, page 6
13
I decided to eat—and drink—somewhere I wasn’t known. That let out both Bogie’s and Packy’s. I decided to try one of those combination Pizza Hut Express/Church’s Fried Chicken places that had been popping up all over the city recently. There was one on Broadway and Fifty-first. I had chicken, fries, and biscuits, and since they also served beer, I had a few.
After I finished eating I found a bar down the block and sat in there for a while, ruminating. I was thinking about quite a few things, and my head was spinning from more than just beer.
Was I wasting my time and effort looking into this Andy McWilliams thing? I mean, reading somebody’s old reports was not only time consuming, it was boring. I had better things to do with my time, like what Heck Delgado was paying me to do—finding Two-John Wheeler.
And speaking of better things to do, I ordered another beer.
“Can I give you some advice, pal?” the bartender asked when he brought it to me. He was a typical New York bartender, which is to say he would have advice on every subject known to man. He was about my age, with slick black hair and a good set of shoulders. He could have been an ex-fighter, except his face was too smooth.
“Sure.”
“A beer drunk is the worst drunk in the world. Why don’t you try something else.”
“Like what?”
He shrugged and said, “Bourbon, gin, scotch?”
I gave it some thought then said, “Naw, forget it. I’ll stick with the beer.” I hadn’t been much of a drinker in the past, and had only acquired a taste for beer recently.
“Well, then, next time you’re gonna drink, take some aspirin first.”
“I thought that was an old wives’ tale.”
He shrugged again and said, “If you believe it, it’ll work.”
“Thanks for your concern.”
After he left I went back to my morose ruminating.
This time I thought about what Willy Wells had said about a comeback. At my age—and in my condition—was that a viable alternative to what I was doing? Considering the way that career had ended the first time, would I be any better at it than I was at being a P.I.? That brought me back to what had happened in court last month.
“Hey, bartender!” I shouted.
“Yeah?”
“I’ll try bourbon.”
When I got home it was late, too late to wake the super in my building to ask him if I’d received any special delivery packages.
At least I hadn’t intended to wake him.
The next day must have been garbage day because he had a couple of trash cans in the downstairs lobby ready to go out. He usually kept them out back until morning, and then carried them to the front.
Still, if I’d been able to see straight, I probably would have been able to avoid them. As it was I walked right into them and went sprawling taking them down with me. The ensuing racket was enough to wake people on the second and third floors, not to mention the super, a Polack named Ed Koslowski.
“What the fuck—” he shouted, coming out of his apartment in his pajamas.
“Whoa, it’s just me, Ed,” I said, rolling over onto my back. From the way my butt felt, I was sure I’d sat in somebody’s old coffee grounds.
“Jack, is that you?”
“Jesus, I just said that, didn’t I?”
He hit the light switch and the lobby was bathed in bright yellow light.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Sitting in somebody’s old coffee, I think.”
“Get up from there,” he said, taking hold of my arm. “Look at this mess—whoa,” he said backing away from me once he got me to my feet. “Whew, you’re plastered! I can smell it.”
“Is it that bad?” I asked, suddenly very concerned. “I’m sorry, Ed.”
“Forget it,” he said, looking at me funny.
“Look,” I said, “look—” I slipped on a banana peel or something and he grabbed me before I could go down. “Look, let me help you clean this up.”
“No, no,” he said, backing away from me again, “I got it, Jack.”
“I made the mess, the least I could do is help you clean it up.”
“Jack,” Ed said, “in your condition you wouldn’t be much help. Go to bed.”
“Which way is that?”
“Up one flight,” he said, “and try not to trip over anything.”
A lot he knows, I thought as I took the elevator up. There wasn’t anything between the lobby and my apartment to trip over. Unless you counted on my own feet, of course, which somehow seemed larger and heavier than ever before.
14
I shouldn’t have had the chicken fingers—at least, not with the barbecue sauce.
That’s what I was thinking at six o’clock the next morning while I was hugging the porcelain throne. That bar I’d ended up in after leaving Church’s Fried Chicken had chicken fingers available for its patrons, complete with choice of sauce, and at one o’clock a.m., they looked pretty good.
At six o’clock, I felt like I should have been convicted of attempted suicide.
I staggered back to my bed, feeling wrung out and tossed aside, and fell onto it on my back. When I opened my eyes the next time I was curled up like a fetus. By moving only my eyes I could see it was ten a.m.
Very cautiously I unfolded myself, prepared to bolt for the bathroom at the first sign of trouble. Once I succeeded in straightening myself out, I made a try at getting to my feet. Immediately, my stomach lurched and I made a beeline for the toilet, only to find that it was a false alarm. Actually, there was just nothing left to puke.
I turned the shower on, using only cold water, and punished myself with that for a couple of minutes. When I got out I was shivering, but I actually felt somewhat better. I dried off, pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then had a couple of glasses of cold orange juice. I was trying to decide what to do next when somebody knocked on my door.
It was Ed Koslowski.
“Jesus, Jack, you look like shit.”
“Thanks, Ed.”
“What happened to you last night? You having girl trouble?”
“Yeah, Ed, girl trouble,” I said. “Why are you banging on my door at such an ungodly hour?”
“What’s ungodly about eleven a.m.?”
“Take my word for it.”
“A couple of packages came for you by special messenger yesterday,” he said, “and another one this morning.” He leaned over and picked them up from the floor, where he’d set them. “I was gonna leave ’em out here, but I thought they might be important.”
“Thanks, Ed,” I said, taking the bundle from him. “I appreciate it.”
“Listen, if you wanna tie one on again, come downstairs and drink with me. At least you know you’ll get home safe.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Ed. Oh, and listen, about the mess last night—”
“Forget it.” Then he laughed and said, “I’m surprised you even remember. Man, you were whacked! What were you drinking?”
“I started with beer and then went to bourbon.”
“Jesus, no wonder. I didn’t know you hit the hard stuff. You might as well have been drinking boilermakers.”
“No, never again,” I said. “I’ll stick to beer from now on.”
“Take my advice and lighten up on that stuff, too. No broad’s worth wrecking yourself over.”
“I’ll keep that in mind too. Thanks again, Ed.”
“Sure thing.”
I closed the door and deposited the bundle of envelopes on the kitchen table. I’d be able to look at them later.
I felt the beginnings of hunger in my stomach and decided to chance some toast and coffee. It went down easy enough, so I tried a second cup of coffee. After that, I started to feel like maybe I’d be able to last another day.
I opened up the packages Ed had held for me. One was from Delvecchio, another from Po, and the third—the one which had come that morning—from Malone, in Jersey. I scanned them. I didn’t feel able to read them all the way through. Besides, now that I was ambulatory I had plans for the day, and they didn’t include sitting inside reading reports. That I could do in the evening.
I picked up the phone and dialed a number I hadn’t dialed much of late. A woman answered, and her voice triggered my memory of her. I could see her standing there, a beautiful Chinese gal with a long curtain of silky black hair, fuller breasts than you’d expect to see on a Chinese woman, and the kind of haunting face that inspired those “legends” about Chinese women.
“Hello, Lee.”
“Jack,” she said, as if surprised to hear my voice. I was always flattered that she never had to ask who it was when I called. “How nice to hear from you.”
Tiger Lee has the most devastating telephone voice I’ve ever heard, and when she uses her singsong “john” voice, the effect is doubled. With me, however, she reverts to her Brooklyn accent.
“How are you, Lee?”
“I’m fine.”
“Inscrutable as ever, eh?”
She smiled—I could hear it in her voice—and said, “I wouldn’t want to blow the image, you know?”
“I know.”
“What can we do for you?”
“We” was she and Knock Wood Lee, her man. Wood was also Chinese, and his main source of income was his bookie operation, although he’d been known to run some girls from time to time. His real name was Nok Woo Lee.
Lee had been a hooker once, a long time ago, but not since she’d taken up with Wood. Her real name was Anna Lee. I had always thought that she might be able to change my bad luck with women for the better. Sometimes, I thought she might feel the same way.
Then again, maybe I was imagining things. Anyway, Wood was my friend.
“I’d like to come up and see Wood, Lee, if he’s available.”
“Always, to you.”
Wood and I had always had a working relationship, but last year he’d been arrested for murder and I’d gotten him off. Since then he’d always been accessible to me, no matter when. I think that was the reason I called on him less and less, so as not to take advantage of any debt he felt he owed me.
“When do you want to come up?”
“As soon as I can drag myself over there.”
“You do sound tired.”
“More than you know. I’ll see you in a little while, Lee.”
“I’ll be counting the minutes,” she said, and I could hear that smile in her voice again.
Suddenly, the day was looking a lot better.
Wood had an apartment in a building on the corner of Mott and Hester Streets, where Little Italy meets Chinatown. Below him was a pasta and sea food house. He owned the building and the restaurant. A block away was Umberto’s, the sight of a famous gangland rubout. He also wasn’t very far from a club where I’d once visited the head of one of the New York Mafia families, Carlo Caggiano.
I took the subway to Canal Street and then walked to Wood’s building. Across the street there was an Italian club, where the old men gathered to talk about old times and listen to music from the old country. I passed by the doorway to the restaurant and went to Wood’s street-level door. I pressed the bell and was buzzed in. That meant that Lee had seen me from the window.
Lee opened the door, graced me with one of those smiles I’d heard on the phone, and said, “Jack, come on in.”
I entered and she gave me an affectionate hug that had the same embarrassing effect on me it always had. She was tall for a Chinese woman, about five-five or so, and her full breasts pressed against me all too briefly.
“Come on, he’s waiting for you.”
She took my hand and led me to Wood’s room, where he was sitting in his favorite chair.
“Jack, my man,” he said, standing up. He was barely taller than Lee, but I knew he was proficient in several sorts of hand-to-hand combat, including karate. In fact, it had been the karate that had gotten him into trouble last year. We shook hands and he said, “Still working out?”
I knew he was talking about karate, which I had taken up during the course of trying to clear him of the murder charge.
“I’ve gotten away from it, Wood.”
“Sorry to hear it. Man with your athletic background—you could have made black belt fairly quickly.”
“I know,” I said, “I know . . .”
“Beer?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll get it,” Lee said, leaving the room.
Wood looked around me to make sure she was gone, then said, “What’s wrong with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You look like shit,” he said.
“I’ve been told that—”
“I’m not kidding,” he said. “You getting enough sleep? Having trouble with a woman?”
“I’ve just been busy, Wood.”
“Maybe you could use a good woman? I’ll guarantee she’s clean—”
“No, thanks. Maybe another time.”
He shrugged and sat in his chair.
“What can I do for you then?”
“I’ve been looking for Two-John Wheeler for the better part of a week now. You know her?”
“I know her.”
“So do I,” Lee said, reentering the room with two bottles of Dos Equis beer.
She handed them to us while giving me a reproachful look. “Stay away from Jenny Wheeler, Jack. You could catch something just by looking at her.”
“Lee!” Woods said, scolding her.
“Well, he could,” she said, defending herself.
She walked over to his chair, sat on the arm, took his bottle, and had a sip. I found myself wishing she had taken a sip from mine instead. I had tasted her lips before, but only in the most chaste fashion. I envied Wood.
“Why do you want Two-John?” Wood asked.
“Heck Delgado wants her.”
Heck had been ready to defend Wood against the murder charge until I’d found the evidence that got him off.
“That’s good enough for me then.”
“You know where she is?’“
“No, but I will,” he said. “Just give me a couple of days.”
“She doesn’t want to be found,” I warned him.
“That might make it a little harder,” he said, “but we’ll see. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
“I appreciate it.”
I stood up and Lee lifted her gorgeous butt of the arm of his chair. She took my arm and started to walk me to the door. I stopped abruptly and turned to face Wood again.
“One more thing.”
“Name it.”
“You know a street punk named Binky?”
Wood made a face and said, “I know him. You’ve got to acquire a better class of snitch.”
“See if you can locate him for me, will you? He gave me a line on Two-John, but it was a little late.”
“You going to give him another chance?”
“I’d like to talk to him about the last one.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I went out into the hall with Lee.
“Tell me something,” she said, when we were out of Wood’s earshot.
“What?”
“What’s wrong?”
“What is it, written on my face?” I asked, a bit testily.
“To your friends, yes,” she said.
“Things just haven’t been going very well, Lee, that’s all. They’ll pick up.”
She stared at me for a long moment and then said, “Well, I hope so. Just remember what I said about Two-John, Jack. She’s good-looking, but stay away from her.”
“After seeing you, how could I ever consider another woman?” I said.
“You’re sweet.”
I handed her the half-empty beer bottle and she took a drink from it. As I went out the door I entertained the thought of asking for the bottle back.
15
I thought about going to Bogie’s for lunch but i didn’t want to listen to Billy or Stuart lecture me again about the dangers of demon rum. Besides, I still had some beer in the refrigerator.
I stopped at the deli across the street for a turkey breast hero, thinking about what Willy had said about losing weight. Turkey was less fattening than roast beer.
I put Caroline’s reports on the table, intending to read them while I ate. Instead, I gave my attention to devouring the sandwich and two quick beers. I was popping the tab on the third one when the phone rang.
I wiped my hands on a napkin and picked up the phone.
“Hello.”
“Miles, it’s Caroline. I’ve been looking for you.”
“Well, you found me.”
There was a long silence and then she said, “I haven’t heard from you since yesterday morning.”
“I haven’t had anything to tell you.”
“Did you talk to the others? I mean, the other investigators—”
“I did. I’m looking at their files now.”
“And?”
“And nothing, Caroline,” I said. “I’m still looking at them. I’ve just finished having lunch and right now I’m going to have another beer.”
“Jack—”
“Look, Caroline,” I said, “no matter who I work for, I don’t do daily reports. Now, I’m looking over the files that I have, and I’ve put the word out to friends of mine about Two-John. I’m also waiting for some information from a cop I know who’s working on the Backshooter task force. There’s not much else I can do.”
“All right,” she said, ‘I . . . I’ll wait for you to call me.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
I’d started to hang up when she said, “Miles?”
“What?”
“I know I’m not very good at . . . at running an office, but I’m a very good cook. Would you, uh, like me to make you dinner tonight?”
“Dinner?”
“I really am a very good cook.”
“Sure, Caroline,” I said. “Why not?”
I agreed to be at her apartment at seven p.m., and we hung up.
I was about to sit down when the phone rang again.
“Jack? It’s Hocus.”
“What’s up?”
“Stilwell wants to meet with you. He says he has what you asked for.”
