Separate Cases, page 9
“I guess you could call him that,” Hocus said, “Why?”
“He’s gone through three bourbons in record time.”
Hocus poked me and said, “I didn’t know you drank hard liquor.”
“I don’t,” I said, finishing my third drink. “Give me another,” I said to the bartender.
“Bring him a cup of coffee,” Hocus said.
“I don’t want coffee,” I said thickly.
“Your friend is dead, Jack,” Hocus said. “Getting fucked up isn’t gonna bring him back.”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
“Besides, you’ve been drinking a lot lately, haven’t you?”
“Who told you that lie?”
“Stilwell,” Hocus said. “He said he had to put you in a cab that night you had dinner together.”
“So,” I said, “that once.”
“He also said you were half in the bag when you got there.”
The bartender came with the coffee and I glared at him. He looked at Hocus, and then walked away, leaving the cup of steaming hot black coffee in front of me.
“What started you off?” he asked. “Not that bullshit with Dicky last month?”
I looked at him and I guess he could see the guilt in my face.
“Jesus, Jack,” he said, “if you’re gonna turn into a drunk, do it for a better reason than that.”
I expected him to go on about it, but surprisingly he dropped it after that.
“I brought this stuff for you,” he said, putting an eight by ten manila envelope on the bar. It was bulging from the contents.
“What’s in it?”
“Wallet, watch, some change, keys—I assume they key to his place will be in there.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I said. For want of something better to do with my hands I picked up the coffee cup and had a sip.
Hocus looked at his watch and said, “I’ve got to go, Jack.”
“Hocus, are they sure?” I asked as he got off his stool. “Are they sure he was killed by the Backshooter?”
He clapped me on the shoulder and said, “As sure as they’ve been about any of the others.”
As Hocus went out the door the bartender came back and said, “You gonna finish that?” indicating the coffee.
“No,” I said, “it tastes like shit.”
“This is a bar,” he said, “not a coffee shop. I suppose you want another drink?”
“Yeah,” I said, picking up the envelope and sliding off my stool, “I do, but I know a better place to get it.”
21
I went to Packy’s. Using his keys I opened the back door—having to go through four keys before I found the right one—and went inside. I turned on the light and found myself in Packy’s back room, which he used for both storage and office space. There were racks of shelves against two walls, well stocked with booze. Up against a third there was an old wooden desk, pitted and scarred. The overhead light was dim so I turned on the desk lamp. It was one I had bought for him after I’d been back here one time and saw how dark it was. The fluorescent bulb winked a couple of times, then caught and flashed on, bathing the desk top in white light.
I sat down and began going through the desk.
When I had the desk top covered with papers and ledgers I realized I was thirsty. I went through the small kitchen into the main room and came out behind the bar. I grabbed a glass, surveyed the bottles of hard liquor on the shelf and behind the bar, then bent down and opened the cooler. I reached for a bottle of Bud, then saw the green Rolling Rock bottles and took one. I replaced the glass and went into the back room with the cold beer.
I nursed the beer while I went through Packy’s papers. Something Hocus said to me earlier had hit home, about becoming a drunk for a good reason. In light of everything that had happened recently—both Jenny Wheeler and Packy being killed—having been humiliated by that pissant Dicky Hilary didn’t seem reason enough.
Not anymore.
When I left Packy’s place I knew who his accountant was and who his lawyer was. I also knew something else. I had found a newspaper clipping, which I folded up and put in my wallet. It was yellowed with age and was a report of the fight between two up-and-coming heavyweights named Packy Moran and Rocky Marciano. Marciano had won by a knockout.
Packy really had fought Rocky Marciano!
I locked the place up tight and stood for a moment in the now darkened alley.
What had Packy thought that last moment, I wondered? What had he felt or heard? The scrape of a shoe? The sound of a hammer being cocked? Had he heard the report of the gun, or felt the impact of the bullet?
What did Packy know about guns? He probably had no idea what was happening to him. Maybe he had lain with his face pressed to the cold ground, wondering what the hell was going on. I hoped not. I hoped he had died quickly.
I picked up a roast beef sandwich at the deli across the street and took it up to my apartment. The smile the girl behind the counter gave me didn’t do anything for me, but that wasn’t her fault.
It was nine p.m. I took a bite. It was a good sandwich, but I wasn’t really in the mood. What I wanted was a drink. I went to the refrigerator and looked at the two cans of Meister Brau that were left, and then closed the door.
Maybe I needed some company. Who should I call? If I was an alcoholic and a member of A.A., at least I’d have a list of names to call if I felt like a drink. It’s in moments like this that people discover how many friends they really have. I could only think of one person to call. Alison.
22
We ate in bed.
Alison had brought some cold cuts with her, bread, a one liter bottle of cream soda, and a pound of German potato salad. She knew I loved the stuff.
When I answered the door she had thrown her arms around me and hugged me tightly. It was what I needed, and it was all I could do to keep from crying. After a moment she had backed away and handed me a bag.
“What’s this?”
“German potato salad.”
“Great.”
“You want to eat first?” she had asked, closing my door, “or go to bed?”
“Oh,” I had said, “bed, definitely.”
For a little while, I had lost myself in the smoothness and warmth of her skin, the sweetness of her mouth, the fragrance of her hair, forgetting everything and everyone else . . .
Afterward she constructed a couple of impressive sandwiches and returned to bed with them, the potato salad, a couple of plastic forks, and the bottle of soda. We ate and passed the soda bottle back and forth, drinking from it and laughing. And then we fell silent.
She got rid of the garbage and leftovers from our dinner and sat at the foot of the bed, wearing one of my T-shirts. It was too big for her, but not by a great deal.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Would you like to cry now?”
I thought that over. “Yeah, I think I’d like to do that now.”
She moved up next to me and took me in her arms and held me.
Later I said to her, “I hope I didn’t take you away from anything.”
“Well, I did have a date,” she said.
“You did?”
She nodded.
“With who?”
“Philip.”
“Who’s Philip?”
“He works at the gallery, where I have my new job.”
“What does he do?”
“Oh, he’s my boss.”
“Your boss?”
“Yes.”
“Well . . . I hope you won’t get in trouble for breaking the date with him.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, smiling. “I told him I had to sit with a sick friend.”
23
I woke the next morning to the smell of bacon and with only a slight headache. I didn’t remember having any bacon in the place. I got up and padded naked to the closet to get my robe. She must have heard the closet door open.
“Take a shower and breakfast will be ready,” she shouted from the kitchen.
“I didn’t know I had any bacon,” I shouted back.
“You didn’t,” she said. “I went out and got it.”
“Very enterprising.”
I took a shower and when I came into the kitchen wearing my robe, breakfast was on the table. Bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast.
“I would have made home fries,” she said, putting a cup of coffee in front of me, “but you didn’t have any potatoes around.”
“You went out for the bacon,” I said.
“I’m not your wife,” she said, sitting opposite me. “I’m not going to do your shopping for you.”
She may not have been my wife, but after we finished she did the dishes and cleaned up, then went to take her own shower.
“I have to go to work,” she said, reappearing in the kitchen a few minutes later.
“I know.”
“Will you be all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I just needed . . . a friend.”
She came over to the table and took my hand.
“You’ve got one.”
I kissed her hand and she left.
“Mr. Novak?”
“Arthur Novak, yes. Who is this?”
“My name is Miles Jacoby, Mr. Novak,” I said. “I’m . . . I was a friend of Packy Moran’s.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I read about it in this morning’s newspaper. Terrible thing.”
“Yes, it is. Listen, I wanted to let you know that I picked up Packy’s things from the police.”
“His things?”
“Personal effects—keys, wallet, watch, that sort of thing.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I also went to his place and took out his books, which I’ll turn over to his accountant.”
“Yes . . . well, that’s very helpful of you, Mr. Jacoby. Do you have the man’s address?”
“Name and address, yes.”
“Since Mr. Moran had no family that I can recall, will you be handling the arrangements?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll be in touch with you about the will.”
“The will?”
“Yes, Mr. Moran left a will. I will read it after he has been buried. Perhaps he . . . left you something.”
“Packy?” I said. “What would he have had to leave me? I’d rather have him alive.”
“Yes, well, so would we all, Mr. Jacoby. Could you leave me your address and phone number, please, so that I may get in touch with you?”
I gave it to him and hung up.
I had called Heck as soon as Alison left. He had answered the phone himself, which was just as well. I wasn’t really in the mood to talk to Missy.
Heck commiserated with me about Packy, whom he had never met. I asked him if he knew Novak, and in the nicest possible way he told me the man was an asshole.
He was right.
“Oh, Miles . . .”
“Yeah, Heck?”
“I talked to Mr. Scalesi.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“He said that he is willing to talk to you.”
“Okay, Heck,” I said. “Maybe later, this week, huh? I’ll call you.”
There was a pause, and then he said, “All right, Miles. Again, I am sorry about your friend.”
“Thanks, Heck.”
I hung up. I knew why he had paused. He was wondering whether I was going to forget everything else now that Packy had been killed. Maybe he was wondering whether I was going to go after the Backshooter.
I wondered about it, too, for a while, but in the end I gave in to reality. The only thing that was going to catch the Backshooter was dumb luck, and it would be the cops who would catch him, just like with the Son of Sam.
An independent operator like me wouldn’t stand a chance of catching a random serial killer.
As for forgetting everything else, that thought had entered my mind, too. So far, I didn’t know what to do with it.
24
“That’s a long time to spend on one beer,” Billy Palmer said, taking the stool next to me.
“Sorry,” I said. “Is there a minimum per hour?”
“Not at all,” he said. “In fact, I’m glad to see it.”
“Good.”
“I’m sorry about Packy.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I guess you want to be alone, huh?”
“If you don’t mind, Billy,” I said, trying not to sound like I was brushing him off.
“I don’t mind, Jack,” he said, slapping me on the back. “Have something to eat, okay? On me.”
“Sure.”
I had gone to see Packy’s accountant and had turned Packy’s books and ledgers over to him. He told me how sorry he was that Packy was dead, and thanked me for bringing the stuff. From there I’d gone to Bogie’s, where I’d been sitting with the same beer for half an hour—as much as I wanted to drink it down and order another.
By the time I got to the bottom of the bottle, the beer was warm and I was longing for a cold one. I knew if I gave in, though, and had a second I’d go ahead and have a third and fourth . . .
“How much for the beer, Stuart?” I asked.
“It’s on me, Jack.”
“Thanks,” I said, not bothering to argue. I gave him more than the beer was worth as a tip and left.
I borrowed some gloves from Willy Wells and worked the heavy bag for a while. I was panting by the time I quit, but the craving for a cold beer was gone. Now I would have settled for some cold water!
Willy had been surprised when I showed up at the Forty- second Street Gym.
“Decided to try that comeback?” he had asked.
“I just need a workout,” I said. “Do you have some gloves I can use?”
“Sure,” he said. “No problem. Go ahead and change.”
I’d stopped at my place for some sweats and shoes, but I hadn’t brought my old gloves. Willy had given me a locker and I accepted the borrowed gloves from him and changed.
“Do you want to spar?” he had asked after I’d changed.
“And get killed?” I said. “No thanks. The heavy bag will do, for now.”
Now that I was finished my hands were hanging at my side as if they weighed a ton each. Willy came up alongside me and stared.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re in terrible shape.”
“I know.”
“Come back every day, kid,” he said. “We’ll get you back in shape.”
“Might not be such a bad idea,” I said, panting, pulling off the gloves. “If I don’t have a heart attack first.”
The M.E. released Packy’s body two days later and I buried him in Holy Cross Cemetery in Brooklyn, near where his parents were buried. I hadn’t announced it, and I was the only one in attendance. Packy wouldn’t have wanted a big fuss.
Over the course of those two days and the two immediately following, I managed to work off the craving for a drink at the gym. I also began to run early in the morning. I’d already lost five pounds, and was starting to get my wind back. I’d stopped drinking beer altogether.
I’d also stopped talking to people. I didn’t answer my phone or the door buzzer. On the morning of the fifth day I’d just come out of the shower after my morning run when the phone rang.
I answered.
“Miles?”
It was Caroline McWilliams.
“My God,” she said, “I’ve been worried sick. Where have you been? I’ve been calling and calling. I went to Bogie’s but they said they hadn’t seen you in days, and—”
“Caroline,” I said, cutting her off.
I told her about Packy, and she was sympathetic for about five minutes.
“I’m sorry you lost your friend, Miles,” she said, “but what about Andy?”
“Caroline,” I said, “Andy was killed by the Backshooter. It’s about time you accepted that.”
“No!” she said. “I don’t believe it!”
“Caroline—”
“If you won’t help me anymore, I’ll just keep looking on my own!”
“Car—”
“I thought I could trust you, Miles,” she said. “I thought . . .”
She hung up, and I did likewise. I felt badly for her, but it really was time she got on with her life, and maybe it was time I got on with mine. Maybe it was time for a comeback.
25
A lot happened over the next few days.
Perhaps the most startling development to me was the news that Packy had left me his bar. Somehow that possibility had never occurred to me. I had no idea what I was going to do with it, and talked to Billy Palmer about it.
“I don’t know if I can say anything that will help you, Jack,” Billy said at one point. “I can tell you one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Anybody who would want to be in this business has to be crazy.”
Well, if I did choose to keep Packy’s open, it wouldn’t operate on the level that Bogie’s did. Billy Palmer’s place was a restaurant with a bar, while Packy’s place had always been a saloon that served some food. I talked to an ex-cop P.I. named Sal Carlucci who ran a saloon in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, that was more on the order of Packy’s. He said that if I did decide to keep the place open he hoped I would do better business than he did with his place.
On top of all that was happening I received two phone calls at Bogie’s that intrigued me. One was from a man named Jules Van Voorhies. The name rang a bell, and then I remembered that I’d heard it from Walker Blue. He was the client referred by Caroline McWilliams who had an office in the Trump Tower. He was also a man Walker Blue said he didn’t like. Van Voorhies apparently wanted to see me badly enough to call Bogie’s looking for me.
There was another message that intrigued me, and that was from Heck Delgado’s client Don Salvatore Scalesi! Don Salvatore also wanted to see me—not in a Trump Tower office, but in the Tombs, where he was presently being held on a murder charge without bail. Calls from such powerful, wealthy men were hard to ignore.
“He’s gone through three bourbons in record time.”
Hocus poked me and said, “I didn’t know you drank hard liquor.”
“I don’t,” I said, finishing my third drink. “Give me another,” I said to the bartender.
“Bring him a cup of coffee,” Hocus said.
“I don’t want coffee,” I said thickly.
“Your friend is dead, Jack,” Hocus said. “Getting fucked up isn’t gonna bring him back.”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
“Besides, you’ve been drinking a lot lately, haven’t you?”
“Who told you that lie?”
“Stilwell,” Hocus said. “He said he had to put you in a cab that night you had dinner together.”
“So,” I said, “that once.”
“He also said you were half in the bag when you got there.”
The bartender came with the coffee and I glared at him. He looked at Hocus, and then walked away, leaving the cup of steaming hot black coffee in front of me.
“What started you off?” he asked. “Not that bullshit with Dicky last month?”
I looked at him and I guess he could see the guilt in my face.
“Jesus, Jack,” he said, “if you’re gonna turn into a drunk, do it for a better reason than that.”
I expected him to go on about it, but surprisingly he dropped it after that.
“I brought this stuff for you,” he said, putting an eight by ten manila envelope on the bar. It was bulging from the contents.
“What’s in it?”
“Wallet, watch, some change, keys—I assume they key to his place will be in there.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I said. For want of something better to do with my hands I picked up the coffee cup and had a sip.
Hocus looked at his watch and said, “I’ve got to go, Jack.”
“Hocus, are they sure?” I asked as he got off his stool. “Are they sure he was killed by the Backshooter?”
He clapped me on the shoulder and said, “As sure as they’ve been about any of the others.”
As Hocus went out the door the bartender came back and said, “You gonna finish that?” indicating the coffee.
“No,” I said, “it tastes like shit.”
“This is a bar,” he said, “not a coffee shop. I suppose you want another drink?”
“Yeah,” I said, picking up the envelope and sliding off my stool, “I do, but I know a better place to get it.”
21
I went to Packy’s. Using his keys I opened the back door—having to go through four keys before I found the right one—and went inside. I turned on the light and found myself in Packy’s back room, which he used for both storage and office space. There were racks of shelves against two walls, well stocked with booze. Up against a third there was an old wooden desk, pitted and scarred. The overhead light was dim so I turned on the desk lamp. It was one I had bought for him after I’d been back here one time and saw how dark it was. The fluorescent bulb winked a couple of times, then caught and flashed on, bathing the desk top in white light.
I sat down and began going through the desk.
When I had the desk top covered with papers and ledgers I realized I was thirsty. I went through the small kitchen into the main room and came out behind the bar. I grabbed a glass, surveyed the bottles of hard liquor on the shelf and behind the bar, then bent down and opened the cooler. I reached for a bottle of Bud, then saw the green Rolling Rock bottles and took one. I replaced the glass and went into the back room with the cold beer.
I nursed the beer while I went through Packy’s papers. Something Hocus said to me earlier had hit home, about becoming a drunk for a good reason. In light of everything that had happened recently—both Jenny Wheeler and Packy being killed—having been humiliated by that pissant Dicky Hilary didn’t seem reason enough.
Not anymore.
When I left Packy’s place I knew who his accountant was and who his lawyer was. I also knew something else. I had found a newspaper clipping, which I folded up and put in my wallet. It was yellowed with age and was a report of the fight between two up-and-coming heavyweights named Packy Moran and Rocky Marciano. Marciano had won by a knockout.
Packy really had fought Rocky Marciano!
I locked the place up tight and stood for a moment in the now darkened alley.
What had Packy thought that last moment, I wondered? What had he felt or heard? The scrape of a shoe? The sound of a hammer being cocked? Had he heard the report of the gun, or felt the impact of the bullet?
What did Packy know about guns? He probably had no idea what was happening to him. Maybe he had lain with his face pressed to the cold ground, wondering what the hell was going on. I hoped not. I hoped he had died quickly.
I picked up a roast beef sandwich at the deli across the street and took it up to my apartment. The smile the girl behind the counter gave me didn’t do anything for me, but that wasn’t her fault.
It was nine p.m. I took a bite. It was a good sandwich, but I wasn’t really in the mood. What I wanted was a drink. I went to the refrigerator and looked at the two cans of Meister Brau that were left, and then closed the door.
Maybe I needed some company. Who should I call? If I was an alcoholic and a member of A.A., at least I’d have a list of names to call if I felt like a drink. It’s in moments like this that people discover how many friends they really have. I could only think of one person to call. Alison.
22
We ate in bed.
Alison had brought some cold cuts with her, bread, a one liter bottle of cream soda, and a pound of German potato salad. She knew I loved the stuff.
When I answered the door she had thrown her arms around me and hugged me tightly. It was what I needed, and it was all I could do to keep from crying. After a moment she had backed away and handed me a bag.
“What’s this?”
“German potato salad.”
“Great.”
“You want to eat first?” she had asked, closing my door, “or go to bed?”
“Oh,” I had said, “bed, definitely.”
For a little while, I had lost myself in the smoothness and warmth of her skin, the sweetness of her mouth, the fragrance of her hair, forgetting everything and everyone else . . .
Afterward she constructed a couple of impressive sandwiches and returned to bed with them, the potato salad, a couple of plastic forks, and the bottle of soda. We ate and passed the soda bottle back and forth, drinking from it and laughing. And then we fell silent.
She got rid of the garbage and leftovers from our dinner and sat at the foot of the bed, wearing one of my T-shirts. It was too big for her, but not by a great deal.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Would you like to cry now?”
I thought that over. “Yeah, I think I’d like to do that now.”
She moved up next to me and took me in her arms and held me.
Later I said to her, “I hope I didn’t take you away from anything.”
“Well, I did have a date,” she said.
“You did?”
She nodded.
“With who?”
“Philip.”
“Who’s Philip?”
“He works at the gallery, where I have my new job.”
“What does he do?”
“Oh, he’s my boss.”
“Your boss?”
“Yes.”
“Well . . . I hope you won’t get in trouble for breaking the date with him.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, smiling. “I told him I had to sit with a sick friend.”
23
I woke the next morning to the smell of bacon and with only a slight headache. I didn’t remember having any bacon in the place. I got up and padded naked to the closet to get my robe. She must have heard the closet door open.
“Take a shower and breakfast will be ready,” she shouted from the kitchen.
“I didn’t know I had any bacon,” I shouted back.
“You didn’t,” she said. “I went out and got it.”
“Very enterprising.”
I took a shower and when I came into the kitchen wearing my robe, breakfast was on the table. Bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast.
“I would have made home fries,” she said, putting a cup of coffee in front of me, “but you didn’t have any potatoes around.”
“You went out for the bacon,” I said.
“I’m not your wife,” she said, sitting opposite me. “I’m not going to do your shopping for you.”
She may not have been my wife, but after we finished she did the dishes and cleaned up, then went to take her own shower.
“I have to go to work,” she said, reappearing in the kitchen a few minutes later.
“I know.”
“Will you be all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I just needed . . . a friend.”
She came over to the table and took my hand.
“You’ve got one.”
I kissed her hand and she left.
“Mr. Novak?”
“Arthur Novak, yes. Who is this?”
“My name is Miles Jacoby, Mr. Novak,” I said. “I’m . . . I was a friend of Packy Moran’s.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I read about it in this morning’s newspaper. Terrible thing.”
“Yes, it is. Listen, I wanted to let you know that I picked up Packy’s things from the police.”
“His things?”
“Personal effects—keys, wallet, watch, that sort of thing.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I also went to his place and took out his books, which I’ll turn over to his accountant.”
“Yes . . . well, that’s very helpful of you, Mr. Jacoby. Do you have the man’s address?”
“Name and address, yes.”
“Since Mr. Moran had no family that I can recall, will you be handling the arrangements?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll be in touch with you about the will.”
“The will?”
“Yes, Mr. Moran left a will. I will read it after he has been buried. Perhaps he . . . left you something.”
“Packy?” I said. “What would he have had to leave me? I’d rather have him alive.”
“Yes, well, so would we all, Mr. Jacoby. Could you leave me your address and phone number, please, so that I may get in touch with you?”
I gave it to him and hung up.
I had called Heck as soon as Alison left. He had answered the phone himself, which was just as well. I wasn’t really in the mood to talk to Missy.
Heck commiserated with me about Packy, whom he had never met. I asked him if he knew Novak, and in the nicest possible way he told me the man was an asshole.
He was right.
“Oh, Miles . . .”
“Yeah, Heck?”
“I talked to Mr. Scalesi.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“He said that he is willing to talk to you.”
“Okay, Heck,” I said. “Maybe later, this week, huh? I’ll call you.”
There was a pause, and then he said, “All right, Miles. Again, I am sorry about your friend.”
“Thanks, Heck.”
I hung up. I knew why he had paused. He was wondering whether I was going to forget everything else now that Packy had been killed. Maybe he was wondering whether I was going to go after the Backshooter.
I wondered about it, too, for a while, but in the end I gave in to reality. The only thing that was going to catch the Backshooter was dumb luck, and it would be the cops who would catch him, just like with the Son of Sam.
An independent operator like me wouldn’t stand a chance of catching a random serial killer.
As for forgetting everything else, that thought had entered my mind, too. So far, I didn’t know what to do with it.
24
“That’s a long time to spend on one beer,” Billy Palmer said, taking the stool next to me.
“Sorry,” I said. “Is there a minimum per hour?”
“Not at all,” he said. “In fact, I’m glad to see it.”
“Good.”
“I’m sorry about Packy.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I guess you want to be alone, huh?”
“If you don’t mind, Billy,” I said, trying not to sound like I was brushing him off.
“I don’t mind, Jack,” he said, slapping me on the back. “Have something to eat, okay? On me.”
“Sure.”
I had gone to see Packy’s accountant and had turned Packy’s books and ledgers over to him. He told me how sorry he was that Packy was dead, and thanked me for bringing the stuff. From there I’d gone to Bogie’s, where I’d been sitting with the same beer for half an hour—as much as I wanted to drink it down and order another.
By the time I got to the bottom of the bottle, the beer was warm and I was longing for a cold one. I knew if I gave in, though, and had a second I’d go ahead and have a third and fourth . . .
“How much for the beer, Stuart?” I asked.
“It’s on me, Jack.”
“Thanks,” I said, not bothering to argue. I gave him more than the beer was worth as a tip and left.
I borrowed some gloves from Willy Wells and worked the heavy bag for a while. I was panting by the time I quit, but the craving for a cold beer was gone. Now I would have settled for some cold water!
Willy had been surprised when I showed up at the Forty- second Street Gym.
“Decided to try that comeback?” he had asked.
“I just need a workout,” I said. “Do you have some gloves I can use?”
“Sure,” he said. “No problem. Go ahead and change.”
I’d stopped at my place for some sweats and shoes, but I hadn’t brought my old gloves. Willy had given me a locker and I accepted the borrowed gloves from him and changed.
“Do you want to spar?” he had asked after I’d changed.
“And get killed?” I said. “No thanks. The heavy bag will do, for now.”
Now that I was finished my hands were hanging at my side as if they weighed a ton each. Willy came up alongside me and stared.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re in terrible shape.”
“I know.”
“Come back every day, kid,” he said. “We’ll get you back in shape.”
“Might not be such a bad idea,” I said, panting, pulling off the gloves. “If I don’t have a heart attack first.”
The M.E. released Packy’s body two days later and I buried him in Holy Cross Cemetery in Brooklyn, near where his parents were buried. I hadn’t announced it, and I was the only one in attendance. Packy wouldn’t have wanted a big fuss.
Over the course of those two days and the two immediately following, I managed to work off the craving for a drink at the gym. I also began to run early in the morning. I’d already lost five pounds, and was starting to get my wind back. I’d stopped drinking beer altogether.
I’d also stopped talking to people. I didn’t answer my phone or the door buzzer. On the morning of the fifth day I’d just come out of the shower after my morning run when the phone rang.
I answered.
“Miles?”
It was Caroline McWilliams.
“My God,” she said, “I’ve been worried sick. Where have you been? I’ve been calling and calling. I went to Bogie’s but they said they hadn’t seen you in days, and—”
“Caroline,” I said, cutting her off.
I told her about Packy, and she was sympathetic for about five minutes.
“I’m sorry you lost your friend, Miles,” she said, “but what about Andy?”
“Caroline,” I said, “Andy was killed by the Backshooter. It’s about time you accepted that.”
“No!” she said. “I don’t believe it!”
“Caroline—”
“If you won’t help me anymore, I’ll just keep looking on my own!”
“Car—”
“I thought I could trust you, Miles,” she said. “I thought . . .”
She hung up, and I did likewise. I felt badly for her, but it really was time she got on with her life, and maybe it was time I got on with mine. Maybe it was time for a comeback.
25
A lot happened over the next few days.
Perhaps the most startling development to me was the news that Packy had left me his bar. Somehow that possibility had never occurred to me. I had no idea what I was going to do with it, and talked to Billy Palmer about it.
“I don’t know if I can say anything that will help you, Jack,” Billy said at one point. “I can tell you one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Anybody who would want to be in this business has to be crazy.”
Well, if I did choose to keep Packy’s open, it wouldn’t operate on the level that Bogie’s did. Billy Palmer’s place was a restaurant with a bar, while Packy’s place had always been a saloon that served some food. I talked to an ex-cop P.I. named Sal Carlucci who ran a saloon in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, that was more on the order of Packy’s. He said that if I did decide to keep the place open he hoped I would do better business than he did with his place.
On top of all that was happening I received two phone calls at Bogie’s that intrigued me. One was from a man named Jules Van Voorhies. The name rang a bell, and then I remembered that I’d heard it from Walker Blue. He was the client referred by Caroline McWilliams who had an office in the Trump Tower. He was also a man Walker Blue said he didn’t like. Van Voorhies apparently wanted to see me badly enough to call Bogie’s looking for me.
There was another message that intrigued me, and that was from Heck Delgado’s client Don Salvatore Scalesi! Don Salvatore also wanted to see me—not in a Trump Tower office, but in the Tombs, where he was presently being held on a murder charge without bail. Calls from such powerful, wealthy men were hard to ignore.
