Madman's Thirst (18 page)

“I don’t get it. The girl is dead.
The old man disappeared. We did our job.”

“The child was raped.”

“That wasn’t supposed to happen.
It was a mistake. The guy who fucked up was taken care of. Shit happens. The
cops still have nowhere to go. It’s over. What do you care?”

“Other than disgust at the
morality of your assignment, not much. But somebody now knows the reason the
girl was killed. Inquiries are being made. That means somebody else has talked.
My client wants to know who that somebody is.”

“It wasn’t me!”

“We are inclined to believe you. Dr.
Bimm has vouched for your discretion, although as a reference, and probably as
a man of healing, he leaves a lot to be desired. I myself find it hard to
believe someone of your stature would be the source of the leak. So it must be
one of the men you hired. I want their names and I want to know where to find
them.”

“I told you one of them is dead.
The other man killed him after he raped the girl. And you don’t have to worry
about that guy. Why would he say anything? It makes no sense."

Sobok leaned into his prisoner,
his voice barely above a whisper.

“Once you eliminate the
impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth. Sherlock
Holmes. I want the names of the two men, and everything you know about them.”

Lacuna was shivering, and not only
because it was cold in the basement and he was naked. He was well past
philosophical discussions about plausibility. Sherlock Fucking Holmes? All he
heard was the word “eliminate.” Loud and clear.

“You’ll never get away with this.
My family will hunt you down like a dog.”

Sobok yawned. Lacuna tried another
tack.

“Listen, you’re just doing a job.
I can respect that. I’ll double what you’re getting.”

“This is getting us nowhere, Mr.
Lacuna. Let me cut to the chase, as you Americans say. I cannot be threatened,
or bought. I do not have a dog in this fight – another of your delightful
sayings – and your pitiful organization no longer has the resources to find
someone like me, if they ever did. You will notice that I am not wearing
gloves. I am not worried about fingerprints or DNA. And, as by now you have
undoubtedly surmised, this is not about vengeance. It is about information. My
employer wants me to clean up the mess you have created. I’m afraid that means
that your prospects aren’t favorable. You realize that, of course. But I can
spare you indescribable pain. And I promise to leave without touching the
woman.” 

Renzo Bucatelli had regained
consciousness and began rattling in his chair and shaking his head violently.

“Go fuck yourself,” Sallie Mae
croaked. He would have spit in Sobok’s face, but his mouth felt like the Mojave
Desert.

“I don’t think that will be
necessary. I met a very nice lady on the plane. The situation has promise.”
Sobok sighed. “Unlike yours.”

He walked from view briefly and
returned holding a paper bag, which made a metallic clunking sound when he put
it on the floor. He reached in the bag and took out a small jar of Vick’s Vapo
Rub. With practiced speed he opened the jar, smeared a dab of the pungent salve
on his finger, and rubbed it under his nose. Two sets of frightened eyes
followed his every mood.

“The names, please.

“Listen, whoever you are,” Lucana
said in an unsteady voice, “we can work something out.”

“The names, please.”

 “You’re going to kill us anyway.”

Lacuna felt like his heart would
burst out of his chest. He felt an incredible urge to urinate. He remembered
how he had ridiculed some of his own victims for doing that. He clenched. Not
me. Not me. Not me.

“I know it’s a cliché, but some
things are worse than death, Mr. Lacuna.”

Sallie Mae Lacuna braced for what
was to come. He took several deep breaths and his pounding heart slowed. His
tolerance for pain was legendary among friends and enemies alike. And he was
fiercely proud of his reputation as a “stand up guy” who, unlike the weak
sisters now common in the watered-down mafia, never ratted anyone.

“Suck my dick, you miserable piece
of shit! You’ll get nothing from me.”

“Well, then, you would be the
first,” Sobok said, shaking his head in resignation. He reached down to the
paper bag, pulled out a can of charcoal lighter fluid and deftly aimed a stream
into the Renzo Bucatelli’s lap. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out
a pack of matches.

“Think Kielbasa,” Sobok said.

***

The next morning at 9 A.M. sharp,
after a wonderful and wildly expensive American breakfast of fresh orange
juice, bacon (in lieu of his usual sausage – which after the previous night,
had less appeal), eggs, home fries and toast, Hagen Sobok walked out of the
Fives Restaurant in the Peninsula Hotel. A tough-looking Vietnamese was
standing by the open back door of a silver and gray Rolls-Royce Phantom. Sobok
got in and sat down, smiling at the man who was paying him $100,000.

“Cong Bao, drive around the
block,” the man ordered as the driver closed the door. He then turned to Sobok.
“Well?”

“I have the names.”

“You are confident that Lacuna
told you the truth?”

Sobok smiled. The Mafia boss had
folded like a cheap suitcase after seeing what happened to his bodyguard, whose
scream actually split the duct tape on his mouth. It sounded for all the world
like an air raid siren before the man mercifully fainted.

“I can be very persuasive.”

“What now?”

 “Your information was correct.
One of the men Lacuna hired is already dead. The other shouldn’t be too hard to
find. His name is Banaszak and he probably lives in Manhattan.”

“Probably?”

“Yes. Lacuna said the man spoke of
things that indicated a current knowledge of Manhattan. It’s not conclusive, of
course, but a working hypothesis. In any event, this is where I will start. If
I have any trouble I also have the name of the contact in Atlantic City that
Lacuna used. But I don’t think I’ll need him.”

 “Either way, I want the contact
taken care of as well.”

This fellow is bloodthirsty, Sobok
thought. He was glad he didn’t mention Lacuna’s mistress. He’d called 911 about
her as soon as he’d gotten to Manhattan, using a throwaway cell phone. She
would recover.

Sobok didn’t think he had to point
out that killing those who arranged his kind of work just wasn’t done in the
small world of assassinations. He thought of his own agent and was momentarily
angered. This man would not hesitate to order the death of Clovis, either. And
he might not stop there.

“The contact is not a threat,”
Sobok said evenly. “He apparently never even knew the target. He has friends. Why
rile up those people? They might put two and two together. Massacres tend to
attract attention.”

“OK. You’re the expert. But you’d
better be right, Roddenberry.”

It was the name Sobok was using.
The man missed the Star Trek humor. As for the implied threat, Sobok merely
nodded. But he mentally filed it away.

“Was Bimm’s information helpful?”

“Quite. Not many people knew where
Lacuna was so vulnerable. It made my job that much easier. Although I found the
man distasteful. I can’t believe he is a physician.”

“How did you get Lacuna .…?

Sobok held up his hand. “It would
be better if you only knew what you read in the papers.” He smiled. “But, of
course, they will exaggerate.”

The Rolls Royce was back in front
of the hotel. The driver came around to open his door.

 “I’ll be in touch,” Sobok said as
he got out.

Cong Bao closed it behind him, and
said, “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like .…”

“I get that a lot,” Sobok said,
smiling.

“Some people think I resemble
Sulu.”

“Don’t see it. Sorry.”

CHAPTER 21 – WORKING GIRL

“I’m sorry you spent so much time
looking for the wrong guy,” Scarne said. He and Evelyn were sitting in his
office the day after he saw Dr. Gadomski. “The name now is Banaszak. Wit Banaszak.”

“You sound pretty sure he’s the
one.”

“Too many coincidences. Right age.
Lived in the parish. Father was a baker, at least some of the time, who died
early, as did his wife. Son left Staten Island 40 years ago. Army Ranger in
Vietnam. Old friends lost contact. Possibly alienated. If I was going to build
a contract killer, all the pieces fit.”

“And you got this from a jelly donut,
Jake. Even Sherlock would be proud.”

“Let’s find out if he’s dying from
cancer.”

“Well, I already called up the
major cancer centers in the city and inquired after anyone named Gadomski. I
used that concerned relative ruse you suggested. No one by that name is being
treated. I was feeling bad about that until I realized how uncharitable I was.
Who wants to rejoice that someone is battling such a terrible disease. And now
that I know the Gadomskis are innocent, I really feel like a crepe hanger. But
I’ll start all over again, in Manhattan. I can be Banaszak’s relative just as
well. And having a first name is very helpful.”

“How long will it take.”

“There are 300 new cases of
pancreatic cancer every year in Manhattan alone,” Evelyn said, looking at a
piece of paper. “But about 60 percent wind up at Sloane-Kettering. I’ll start
there and then move outward. I’ll also check the Internet White Pages for his
name. I’ll have something within the hour, I should think.”

While she went to work, Scarne
called Dudley Mack and filled him in.

“It’s him,” Dudley said simply.

“Don’t get your hopes up. He might
be dead. Then we have a problem.”

“What about Bimm?”

“We have no proof other than the
fact Pearsall didn’t like him and he might be involved in some shady real estate
deals, which might not be shady at all.”

“Bimm is a crooked fat scumbag
pervert.”

“Don’t mince words, Deadly. Tell
me what you really think of him.”

“He’s been behind every bent real
estate play on Staten Island the last 20 years. He’s a lawyer, too. After he
fucks you on real estate, he sues you because he never thinks he’s corn holed
you enough. Can’t be trusted, never keeps his word and is a closet pedophile.
Those are his good points.”

“He ever screw you?”

“He’s still breathing, isn’t he? I
met him once at a charity thing. He’s big on those, though I hear the charities
never see as much as he pledges. It was like shaking hands with a placenta.”

“Doesn’t make him a killer, Duds.
I have to connect him to Banaszak, if it is Banaszak.”

“It’s Banaszak, Cochise. And if
you make the connection you’ll make my day.” 

 Scarne had barely hung up when
Evelyn walked in looking triumphant.

“Got him!”

“It’s only been five minutes.”

“We were lucky. I started in
Manhattan, where there is only one W. Banaszak listed, at 221 West 84
^th
Street. Then I called Sloane and asked for the Oncology Department. I told them
I was Wit Banaszak’s sister and was outraged they were still sending dunning
notices to him. Didn’t they know my brother was a very sick man with pancreatic
cancer? Certainly, they said. I actually spoke to a nurse who knew him. She
said she thought he didn’t have any living relatives. I told her I had just
come over from Poland to tend him.”

“And she believed you?”

“I was using my Meryl Street
Sophie’s
Choice
accent,” she said, shifting into the accent.

“Jesus Christ,” Scarne said in
admiration. “You are dangerous.”

“Anyway, she switched me to
billing, where they were even more forthcoming, since they thought there might
be money involved. Turns out there is a few thousand outstanding but they
hadn’t sent out any notices. Must have been the insurer, or another physician.
But they asked me to confirm the address. I guess they thought they might
really have to dun Banaszak. I was happy to comply.”

***

This is the way it happens
sometime, Scarne reflected, when things start falling into place. Yesterday,
the search was seemingly hopeless. Now he stood outside a four-story walkup on
81
^st
Street just off Columbus Avenue. Why would a hired killer live
in a nondescript building on the upper West Side without a doorman for
security? Well, why not? In Manhattan nondescript didn’t mean cheap, and
contract killers are probably only in danger from their peers, who wouldn’t be
deterred by a doorman in any event.

The directory on the foyer wall listed
W. Banaszak in 4G. Scarne wondered how a terminally ill man would handle four
flights. It couldn’t be easy. He pushed the buzzer. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
Man’s not home. Might be dead, upstairs or elsewhere. As Scarne was thinking
and leaning on the buzzer, a young woman came in and started to put her key in
the inside door. She was very pretty, dressed to the nines, carrying a Michael
Kors handbag and smelling of expensive perfume. He stopped pushing the buzzer
and got in line behind her. The girl removed her key from the lock and turned
to look at Scarne. He gave her his most reassuring smile. Close up, she wasn’t
as young as he first assumed. Early 30’s, he guessed. Honey blonde hair, which
looked natural, nice freckles. Tight body, with curves. Corn-fed Midwestern
type. She wasn’t going to open the door and let a stranger in.

“You a cop?”

 “I’m private. You have good
instincts. A working girl?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, since you didn’t belt me, I
guess you are. No offense, anyway.”

“None taken. Let me see your
creds. I saw you pushing Whitey’s buzzer. What do you want with him?”

He flipped open his wallet. She
studied it and he decided not to lie about visiting a sick friend. A sharp
hooker is hard to fool.

“I’m working a murder case. A
16-year-old girl. Banaszak may or may not be involved.”

“Was she a hooker?”

“No, just a high school kid. Does
it matter?”

“I guess not. Can’t imagine Whitey
being involved. He’s a nice guy. His real name is Wit. He told me it means
‘life’ in Polish.” Scarne thought that was borderline hilarious. “Kind of looks
out for me. Helped me out when I needed it. Obstreperous customers, you know.”

“Obstreperous?” Scarne grinned.

He couldn’t help it. He liked her.
She grinned back.

“I always liked that word. Don’t
ask me to spell it. I don’t do much entertaining in my own building, but I
don’t worry if Whitey’s around. He used to travel a lot though, and, of course,
he’s been real sick the last few months.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

“Fact that he’s good with the
‘obstreperers’ might indicate he’s not a Bible salesman.”

“Good point.”

Just then an elderly woman pushing
a combination walker and shopping cart entered the foyer, which suddenly became
very crowded. She barely glanced at the other two as she opened the inside door
with a key and then looked pointedly at Scarne.

“Would you mind?” It was not a
question.

He obligingly pushed the door open
and then let it slam behind her. There was no ‘thank you’ from the woman, whose
backward glance through the glass-paned door was disapproving. She obviously
thought Scarne was a john.

“Why didn’t you just follow the
old biddy in,” the girl said, sticking her tongue out at woman’s back. “That
was your chance.”

“You’re my chance. We both know
that I’ll eventually get in, so why don’t you come up with me while I break
into Banaszak’s apartment. I might be able to tell you if he’s a hired killer.
Always good to know. And if he’s not, you can keep an eye on me. I’d want a
friend watching my place while it’s burgled.”

She studied him. And then
playfully punched him on the shoulder.

“You are something else. Remind me
of my crazy brother. Come on up. I’ve got the keys to Whitey’s apartment. He asks
me to water his plants when he’s away.”

“When was the last time he asked?”

“About a week ago. But it’s
understood that if I don’t hear from him in a week, I can go in and check the
flora. We both work odd hours, and can’t always connect, you know. So I’m due
to look in anyway.”

 Odd hours indeed, Scarne thought.
A hooker and a hit man.

The girl’s apartment was on the
same floor but down the hall from Banaszak. Scarne waited outside her door
while she went in to get the keys. They walked together to 4G and she put a key
in the door’s lock. Scarne grabbed her arm.

“Wait a moment. It’s been a week
since you saw Whitey?”

“Yeah, so what?” She looked
confused. “Why? It’s not unusual. I told you he travels a lot.”

 “Well, think about it. He’s very
sick. Terminal. Maybe he didn’t go anywhere. Let me go in first.”

She thought that over.

“Oh, shit. Yeah, be my guest.” She
handed him the key. “Here, you go.”

 Scarne walked in just ahead of
the girl. Both cautiously sniffed the air. They looked at each other and
smiled. A bit stuffy, but that was all.

“The plants are gone.”

She pointed to a windowsill.  Scarne
could make out faded circles where the pots had rested. Inside one circle was a
thick envelope, taped up. It was addressed to ‘Daisy.’ He picked it up. ‘Who’s
‘Daisy’?”

“Me,” she said, grabbing the
envelope. She expertly slit it open with a finger and pulled out a sheaf of
fresh $100 bills. She did a quick, practiced riff. “Jesus, must be three or
four grand here.”

“There’s a note.”

She stuffed the bills in her
pocketbook and unfolded the note. After reading it she handed it to Scarne. He
read:

“Dear Daisy,

You know I’ve been sick. I’m
going into the hospital, and I’m not coming back to the apartment. Ever. Sounds
dramatic, I know. But that’s the way things are. The landlord has a security
deposit, so you can go in the place until the end of the month. Anything you
want, take or sell. Then tell the landlord. He’ll rent the place in a minute.
It’s a little bigger than yours, so maybe you can be first in line. I know you
hated those damn plants, so I ditched them. They were getting ratty anyway.
Neither of us had a green thumb, so don’t sweat it. The money is for all you’ve
done and because I don’t know anyone else. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to say
goodbye. You’re a good kid.

Whitey” 

Scarne looked up from the note.

“No green thumb? I thought someone
from Oklahoma would be an expert at horticulture.”

“Close. I’m from Kansas. And if
horticulture is supposed to be a pun, it ain’t bad.”

Scarne laughed as he began to look
around. The apartment had obviously been set in order. The plants probably
weren’t the only thing ditched, he assumed. Banaszak, in addition to being neat,
was not the kind to leave guns, silencers, stilettos, explosives or garrotes
lying around. No cloth or leather bound ledgers with neatly written references
to past jobs: ‘Vinnie Boombatz, August 8, 2005, double tap to the head,
Brooklyn, $25,000, Gardunia family account.’ No cork board with before and
after photos of victims.

On a table in the corner was a
32-inch flat screen color television hooked up to DVD player. Next to it was a
tall wooden tower containing dozens of CD’s and DVD’s. Banaszak was apparently
fond of movie musicals.
South Pacific, The Music Man, West Side Story, Seven
Brides for Seven Brothers.

Seven Brides for Seven Brothers? Also
on the table was a framed photo of a squad of soldiers, warrior-posed in
camouflage fatigues and bandanas, heavily armed, looking as if they just
returned from a mission. Jungle dirty. Tired smiles. Four in the back row
standing with weapons across their shoulders. Three kneeling in front, one of
whom was Banaszak, looking a lot older than in the photo in Gadomski’s office. Not
quite the thousand yard stare, but working on it. All the men has moustaches
and sideburns. That meant the photo was taken late in the Vietnam War. Officers
were increasingly looking the other way as opposition to the interminable war
mounted and fragging incidences increased. Although, Scarne knew, throat
slitters like this bunch were probably given plenty of slack anyway. He picked
the picture up and walked over to Daisy, who was in the small galley kitchen
looking at the refrigerator door.

“Did you ever see so many door
magnets,” she said. “I used to tease him about them. Told him they were going
to sterilize him like an X-ray machine.”

Indeed, the door was covered with
souvenir magnets: Disney World, the Smithsonian, the Alamo, Busch Gardens,
Graceland, Six Flags, Cape Cod, Gettysburg, a score of Vegas and Atlantic City
Casinos.

“Looks like he’s been in every
state in the union,” Scarne said, wondering if Banaszak’s travel was for
pleasure or work, or both. There was an old grocery list under a magnet. It
didn’t say arsenic, strychnine, cyanide or fugu poison. It said eggs, bacon,
milk, lettuce and tuna fish.

Daisy took the photo from his hand.

“He has a lot less hair now, of
course,” she said. “Because of the chemo, although it was starting to come
back. I guess they stopped it. Wasn’t doing much good. And it was white before
he got sick. I used to tease him that it fit his nickname anyway. He said it
started changing right after he got back from the war. Blamed Agent Orange or
something. I think it was the stress. Saw it in some firemen after 9/11.”

Daisy handed the photo back to
Scarne.

“He was real proud of his men. He
was a sergeant or something. Said he and his buddies were loops, whatever that
is.”

  “You mean ‘lurps’?”

“Yeah, that was it. What’s it
mean.”