Jimmy and Fay (17 page)

I slipped him a single and held on to another one. “What can you tell me about him?”

He looked at the bill and back at me. I made it two. “Older man. Gray hair. Brown suit. Not one of your regular deliverymen. Nobody remembered seeing him before. I talked to a lot of guys back there. They were sure about that. And there's one more thing.”

I gave him another buck. “He didn't take off his gloves.”

I had to laugh. “Not bad, kid. With the two I gave you last night, that makes it five bucks for gray hair, a brown suit, and gloves. Hell of a racket you've got going here.”

He tipped his little cap and said, “I do what I can.”

The joint still stank to high hell of all those flowers, and coming on top of all the business with Connie and the con-artist bellboy, it made me even crankier. Hell, I wasn't cranky, I was pissed off. But that didn't bother Abramson. He looked relieved when he answered my knock. He ushered me in saying, “God, I was afraid they'd call back before you got here. Nobody ever said I'd have to do anything like this. I mean, at first it was really exciting to be asked to help in something this dramatic, you know, counting money and being responsible for it, but then Mr. Sleave and Mr. Grossner left me here and I realized that if anything goes wrong, they could blame me for it and there are so many things that can go wrong. What if they want
me
to meet with these criminals?”

While he was yammering away, I went to the bar, poured a brandy, and told him to drink it. “Look,” I said, “you're a smart kid. You figured out that they've got you here to take the fall if this deal goes south, and that's good. You're on to them. So just simmer down and tell me exactly what the ‘criminal' said. What did the voice sound like?”

He knocked back the brandy and coughed so hard I thought he was going to bring it back up. Eventually, he said, “It was an older man, I think, but he wasn't loud.”

“Whispery?”

“Yes, whispery. He said, ‘Do you have the money ready?' and I said we did but the men who are in charge aren't here. Then he said he'd call back in an hour and if there wasn't somebody here to give him the money, we'd be in trouble. He sounded mad. What do we do now?”

I went over to the desk where he'd been counting the money. It was in an open valise, ones, twos, and fives bound with rubber bands and paper bands. Beside the bag, weighed down by an empty inkwell, was a stack of Pierre stationery filled with handwritten serial numbers. I guess the lawyers figured they had to keep the kid busy doing something.

There was a phone on the desk, too. I got the hotel operator and gave her the number of Ellis's precinct. A sergeant put me through to him. The place sounded noisy, and I could tell Ellis was steamed. He said there was a change of plan.

“You heard about the banks, didn't you? Yeah, they're closing, a bank holiday they're calling it. Goddamn Commissioner Mulrooney ordered ten extra men to each precinct to protect the banks and post offices, the places people are trying to deposit money. I don't know when Captain Boatwright will spring me. For tonight, you're on your own.”

I didn't like that one damn bit. Dealing with a mean ex-cop and a stupid kid didn't bother me. The slaughtered goat . . .That changed everything.

I asked Ellis if the lawyers had told him how to handle the payoff. “Did they say anything about handing over more copies of the book? Or do I just fork over the cash?” I looked at Abramson as I said it. He shrugged.

“Hell, I don't know,” Ellis said. “Ask them. I'll call when they cut me loose.”

I hung up. Abramson could tell something was wrong. I asked if he could get hold of the lawyers. He said they were at a dinner for the RKO muckety-mucks and couldn't be disturbed. He'd already left one message for them.

“And you don't know anything about getting copies of the books, either.”

He got a helpless look on his mug. “I don't even know what these books are that everybody keeps talking about. Can you explain it to me?”

“It's pictures of a dame who looks like Miss Wray, if she had forgot to put on most of her clothes.”

“Wow,” he said and flushed.

About ten minutes later the phone rang. The whispery voice said, “Who's this?”

“Quinn.”

“Good, do you have the money?”

“Yeah, you got the books?”

“What?”

“The books. You said you've got dozens or hundreds of copies. You and the kid couldn't keep your stories straight on that part. You're not getting any cash until we get the books. That's the deal.”

“Wait a minute,” he said, and I didn't hear anything else for a while.

When he came back, he said, “We'll bring 'em.”

“Wait a minute,” I said and put my hand over the mouthpiece.

I turned to Abramson. “You know Sleave and Grossner better than I do. If I agree to deliver the money without their okay, will they try to stiff me on my fee?”

He thought before he shrugged again.

“Well, hell,” I muttered, “I know where they work. If they welsh, I'll shoot 'em.” The kid's face went white and I realized he was scared of me. I took my hand off the phone and said, “Okay, it's a deal. And don't try to hand me any horseshit about meeting you in a cemetery at midnight or anything like that. Let's make it easy on everybody. Why don't you come here? Even though you look like somebody shit on you, I'll tell the desk to send Sleepyhead Trodache right up.”

He hung up without saying another word. I guess he hadn't figured that I knew his name. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned it.

Abramson looked even more worried. “I know I'm new to this, but this isn't how they do it in the movies.”

Then it was my turn to shrug. The kid paced until the phone rang again.

Another man said, “Mr. Quinn?”

“Yes.” The voice was calm and kind of theatrical or dramatic. I was pretty sure it was the young guy who killed the goat.

“I believe you're at the Pierre, isn't that right? Well, then, we're close. It's a short cab ride. Actually you could walk if you'd like, or I could send a car, but I suspect you would not be comfortable riding with my associate. No matter. I'm sure we can resolve this matter with no more unpleasantness. Just bring the money to 900 Fifth Avenue, the corner of Seventy-First, as soon as possible. We'll be waiting. Good-bye.”

I told Abramson to get his coat. We were going to deliver the money. He didn't look to be happy about it and said he'd call the lawyers and leave them another message. On the way down to the lobby in the elevator, the day caught up with me. It seemed like a hell of a long time ago that Daphne had been crying on my shoulder down in the Village and not much that had happened since then made sense. I stewed as the cab took us up Fifth.

We pulled to the curb in front of a mansion. Abramson was popeyed when he got a look at it. I tipped the cabbie an extra buck and said, “Say, do you happen to know whose place this is?”

“Yeah, it's that banker, Wilcox. And thanks, pal.”

There was a walled courtyard between the house and the sidewalk. An iron gate in the middle of it was unlocked. We went inside and walked around a fountain with a statue of an angel in the middle. The house was made of stone and looked to be four stories tall. It took up about half of the block. As we climbed the steps to the wide front door, I unbuttoned my topcoat and suit jacket and slipped my knucks onto my right hand.

At the door, Abramson hesitated and looked over his shoulder at me.

“Go ahead,” I said and pointed to an ornate knocker shaped like another angel. It sounded loud when he rapped it.

The door swung open right away and we saw Trodache. I'd had an idea he might be there, and I wasn't surprised that he kept one hand behind his back.
Don't hesitate, don't hurry
, I told myself. He was bringing the sap around when I shoved the kid out of the way and jabbed Trodache right in the breadbasket with the tip of my stick. I had it in both hands and gave it to him as hard as I could. He doubled over, retching. I pivoted, reversed the stick, and caught him in the face with the crook. The steel sap clattered to the marble floor as he gagged and rolled into a ball. I gave him one more shot with the knucks to make sure he stayed down. He did. Then he threw up.

Abramson sputtered, “Why did you do that? What's going on?”

I leaned over and gave Trodache a quick frisk. Two pockets were empty. I rolled him over and found a set of handcuffs and a little automatic in a holster on his hip. I pocketed the gun and the sap, dragged him over to a heavy wooden chair against one wall, and cuffed him to the arm. He was a heavy bastard.

It took me a few seconds to settle down. I finally noticed that we were standing in a marble entry hall with another fountain in front of us. There were mirrors and paintings of mountains and oceans between the windows. It was almost as grand as Peacock Alley in the Waldorf. And it was cold. Outside, the temperature was around freezing, but it felt colder where we stood. You could see your breath.

The kid sidled up close and whispered, “Please, Mr. Quinn, what's going on?”

“I'm not sure. To tell you the truth, this is the first time I've done this myself. I mean I've handled a lot of payoffs where the interested parties want to keep it on the QT, but everybody knows who everybody is. Now, with something like this blackmail or extortion, whatever you call it, you figure that the guys who are doing the extorting would not want us to know who they are. But that doesn't seem to matter to these jokers. Maybe they haven't done it before either.”

“Actually, I meant him. Why did you, uh, you know?”

“Sucker punch him? Because he was about to do the same thing to you. He tried it on me last night.”

“Well, thanks, I suppose.”

“And I just don't like him. But you know what strikes me as funny? Where the hell is everybody? I mean, a place like this, you'd figure there's a flunky for every room.”

“I've given the staff the night off. This way.” The goat killer was down at the end of the hall by an open door. He motioned for us to join him and went through the door. Abramson looked at me. He was scared.

“Come on,” I said to him. “Let's get this over with.”

As we walked down the hall, I slipped off the knucks and took out the Banker's Special.

He was in another library. Seemed like everyplace I went to in this screwy business had a library. This one was about four times as big as Meyer Lansky's. It was two floors tall with a corkscrew iron staircase leading up to a narrow iron gallery on the upper level. It had one of those ladders with wheels to reach the high places, and a wooden globe so big you couldn't have put your arms around it. But, like Polly's place, it looked like nobody had ever pulled a single book off the shelf. A fire in the fireplace did nothing to take the chill off the room.

The goat killer was wearing a black suit. Medium build, sandy hair. He was about sixteen, maybe less, it was hard to tell. He put a log in the fireplace and flung himself into a leather club chair. On the table next to him, he had a steaming bone-white teacup and a long Colt Woodsman pistol. I thought there was a resemblance to Peter Wilcox, and he acted like he belonged there and looked at me like he expected me to do what I was told. Hell, if he was in Wilcox's foundation and Wilcox's house, I was going to figure that he was a Wilcox.

I sat in a chair that faced him, cocked the .38, and put it on the arm. He must have seen the pistol, but he didn't react to it. Abramson stayed close behind me.

This Wilcox sipped the tea and eased back in the chair before he spoke. “You've brought the money.”

I nodded. “What about the books? Trodache said you'd have them.”

“Yes, the books.” He hadn't expected me to ask about that and started lying, obvious from the way he looked and how he sounded not so sure of himself. “I . . . decided not to bring them. It would have been impractical, and besides, they don't matter. Once we have the money, they are no longer important.”

He said it like that explained everything. “I can assure you that the remaining copies of the photo album will not be made public.” He stopped and chuckled. “They will be burned. Now, I'll need to examine the money before we proceed. I would have Mr. Trodache take care of it, but he appears to be incapacitated.”

Abramson hesitated. I told him to go ahead. He edged toward Wilcox, put the valise in his lap, and hurried back behind my chair. Wilcox leaned forward and stared at him all the way, focusing so intently on Abramson's face that it made him uncomfortable.

He pawed through the money, took out two of the banded stacks of bills, and held them up to the light. That seemed to satisfy him. He didn't bother to count, just snapped the bag shut, sat back, and said, “I believe, in this situation, the party receiving the payment keeps the container, isn't that right?”

“No skin off my ass,” I said. “It's not my valise. Abramson?”

“Uh . . . It's mine, but I'm sure I will be reimbursed.”

The guy said, “Then our business has been concluded. You may leave.”

Abramson had hustled halfway to the door by then. I got up, keeping the pistol pointed at the floor, and was ready to go when I stopped and leaned on my stick. I waited until the guy noticed me and said, “I know I've got no reason to ask, but . . . why? I mean, you're the boss here. These two muttonheads are following your orders. Why are you doing this?”

He smiled. “There's no reason for me to tell you, but since you ask, I will. I'm going to punish my brother. For his many sins. And when he has suffered sufficiently, then I shall kill him.”

He snatched the Woodsman up with a practiced hand and put three rounds through the wooden globe. The .22 slugs didn't move it, but he put in a nice tight grouping right in the middle.