“No, I mean-”
“Forget it. You got anything for me?”
“Not from the police end. They got something and it’s hot, but I can’t get a line on it. But I’ve got something hot they don’t have. At least I think they don’t.”
“Great. What?”
“All right. Now, this is just a tip, and the source will not be quoted, but about a month ago Greely was putting the squeeze on a guy named Louie Carboni.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all.”
“I thought Greely had no record as a blackmailer.”
“With the police, he doesn’t.”
“So how’d you get this?”
“I told you, the source will not be quoted.”
“Just between you and me.”
“I got an operative who’s friends with a snitch. Ever since the murder, the snitch is going out of his mind ’cause he’s got this bit of hot info on Greely that the cops would love to get their hands on, but he’s scared to give it to ’em.”
“Why?”
“Carboni’s connected.”
“No shit!”
“Yeah. So the snitch is scared shitless to talk to the cops for fear it might get back to the mob. So when my man promised him fifty bucks and he’d keep him out of it, the guy fell all over himself trying to cooperate.”
“That’s great.”
“Isn’t it. And the best part is, unless we blow it, there’s no way this info is going to get to the cops.”
“Terrific. You made a pass at Carboni yet?”
“No. I thought you’d want to handle it.”
“I sure do. You got the address?”
“Sure.”
Taylor gave it to him. An apartment on East 90th Street. Steve copied down the address and hung up the phone.
He was so pumped up by the prospect of getting a lead, that he stepped out into the street and started to hail a cab before he realized what he was doing. He was way the hell downtown. A cab ride to East 90th Street could just about break him.
Steve walked down to the Chambers Street station and caught the number six uptown. As he rumbled along, he couldn’t help smiling. He wondered how many other lawyers on their way to interview a material witness in a murder case had ever taken the subway.
It was right after the train pulled out of the Grand Central stop that he remembered-tonight was the night he had that early dinner date with Judy Meyers. Damn. He’d have to call and cancel. Even if this lead on Carboni didn’t take long, he still had to get back over to the West Side and get that letter out of Sheila’s mailbox. And besides, Steve realized he just wasn’t in the mood. There was just no way he could sit still for dinner.
Yeah, he’d have to call and cancel, Judy’d be pissed, but he couldn’t help that now.
He got off the subway at 86th and Lex, and walked uptown to Carboni’s address.
It was a third-floor walkup on East 90th Street in one of those buildings that someday someone would renovate and make a killing on, but which presently were dives.
Steve pushed the outer door open and went in. There were no buzzers or bells, so he figured the inner door would be unlocked too. It was. He pushed it open and went up the stairs.
Carboni lived in 3C. At least the number was on the door. In some places like this, the numbers weren’t.
Steve banged on the door. There came the sound of footsteps, then the sound of the plate sliding away from the peephole and then back over it, and then the click of the bolt unlocking.
The door opened fast, so fast Steve had no time to react before the fist came crashing into his stomach. As he doubled over in pain, hands grabbed him and wrenched him around. He caught another hard fist in the stomach.
The last thing he felt was another, square in the face.
23
Steve Winslow felt vague sensations. Hands. Lots of hands. Gripping him under the shoulders. Supporting him. Holding him up. Two pairs of hands. Two men, one on each side, raising him up, holding him between them. And stairs. Lots of stairs. Bumping down them between the two men, feet dragging on the steps.
Then light. Sunlight. Outside. In broad daylight, for Christ’s sake, dragging across the sidewalk to the street and…
A car. The back seat of a car. Someone beside him, holding him up. Or just holding him. Holding him away from the door. Why? Because the car was not moving, stopped at a light. Now moving, and the hand on his arm relaxing somewhat. Moving, driving. How long? Stop and go. Then cruising, moving right along. Then slowing, twisting, turning. Then different sounds, different rhythms. Tires on gravel, not pavement. A driveway. Stopping.
Hands again. An open car door. Hands through the door, pulling, dragging, grabbing, supporting. On either side now, bumping up some short steps and through a door.
Plush carpet. Falling backwards. Onto the carpet? No. Something in his back. Soft. Comfortable. A chair.
And at last, a dim voice in the fog: “Freshen him up.”
Movement around him. Footsteps. The clink of glass.
Then something cold on his forehead. Cold and wet. Water dripping down his face.
Then something thrust into his hand, and a voice, “Here. Drink this.”
Hands raising the glass to his lips. The sudden smell. Brandy. Then the taste. Trickling down his throat. Warming him.
Steve’s eyes blinked, cleared, focused.
It was a large living room. Richly furnished, as richly as Maxwell Baxter’s. But with a difference. Maxwell Baxter’s living room was rich but tasteful. This living room was just rich. It was gaudy, flashy. Aggressively rich.
A man sat in a chair opposite him. A large man, powerful. In his mid-fifties, perhaps. The man belonged in the room. He wore a huge gold watch and gold rings.
A woman sat on the arm of his chair. Mid-twenties. Voluptuous. She also matched the room. A prop. A showpiece. An expensive ornament.
The man held a brandy snifter identical to the one Steve held. He raised it in a gesture. Polite and gracious, the perfect host.
“Nice of you to drop in on us, Mr. Winslow,” he said.
Steve straightened himself with an effort, and glanced around at the two men who stood on either side of his chair. He looked back at his host.
“Thanks for the invitation,” he said.
The man smiled. “Don’t mention it. You like the brandy?”
“Very good.”
“My private stock. An excellent vintage.”
Steve’s head was beginning to clear enough to want to try to make some sense out of the situation. “You seem to know me,” he said, “but I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Ah, excuse me,” said the man. “I am Tony Zambelli.”
He said it in the manner of one making a pronouncement, and Steve knew he should be impressed, but actually he had never heard the name before. But he knew enough to know that if he were a real, practicing lawyer,
