“How’d he take losing?”
“About how you’d expect. It pissed him off, and he’d bitch and moan and tear up his tickets and gripe about his luck to anyone willing to listen.” Mark shrugged. “But what the hell. A guy bets like that, he’s not desperate and he’s not plunging. He’s not gambling for the money, he’s gambling for recreation.”
“Some recreation,” Steve said.
“Hey,” Taylor said. “He may have had a fine day. A guy like that probably enjoys pissing and moaning about his luck more than he enjoys winning.”
Taylor referred to his notebook. “At any rate, he hung out there until seven o’clock. Then he had dinner at a Sabrett stand on the corner, and walked uptown to 57th Street. There’s a bridge club there, apparently has a penny-ante poker game in the back room for some of its more select clientele. How Carl Jenson falls into that category is beyond me, but apparently he did, ’cause he went in there and stayed until eleven o’clock. My man had to hang out in the main room and play rubber bridge for four hours. At two cents a point, that’s a heavy game, and he wound up throwing back twenty bucks of his horse race winnings.”
Taylor grinned again. “The guy tried to tell me he was playing the ponies on his own money and playing bridge on mine, but I wouldn’t go for it. I told him give me a break, gambling’s gambling. As it is, the guy made a tidy profit.
“Anyway, with my man in the other room, I can’t tell you how well Jenson did at the poker table, except when he came out he didn’t look happy. Of course, the way my man tells it, griping is Jenson’s middle name.
“Anyway, Jenson left at eleven o’clock, took the subway down to 14th Street, caught a PATH train to New Jersey, and took a taxi home. At least, I’d assume it was home. It was an address in Teaneck, New Jersey, which is where the guy told you he lived.”
Taylor took another sip of coffee. “Now, that’s the whole story, and it ain’t much. I know it’s not what you wanted, but I had a good man on him, and I’m sure he didn’t miss a thing. He phoned in from OTB and I talked to him myself, after I’d talked to you, so he knew exactly what we were after. So he was on guard, particularly when Jenson took the subway. And the one thing he’s sure of, is Jenson never made a move toward any street person. Never paid any of them the least attention. As far as he could tell, Jenson had only one interest in life, and that was Carl Jenson.”
Taylor shrugged. “And that’s it.”
“Well,” Steve said. “That’s about what I expected. But I had to try. At least we got the guy’s address. We can peg him if we want.”
“Right,” Taylor said. “You asked me to tail him yesterday and I did. I got no one on him today. But a guy of his type, he’s probably still sleeping now. If you want me to slap a man on the house in Jersey, I can. But it’s gonna cost you money, and you’re probably just gonna get more of the same. But of course that’s up to you. So how do you want to play it?”
Steve thought a moment. “Tell me, how much is yesterday’s surveillance gonna run me?”
Taylor smiled. “Is two hundred bucks the figure you were looking for?”
Steve grinned. “Damned if it isn’t. All right, Mark. You called the turn. We’ve given our men a run for his money. I don’t see there’s much else we can do. Wrap it up and send me the bill.” Steve shook his head. “Unless he turns up dead in some alley, clutching a particularly strangely worded handwritten will, I would say we can close the books on our homeless millionaire.”
6.
IT WAS NEARLY TWO WEEKS LATER. Steve Winslow was seated at his desk reading the morning paper. Since the homeless millionaire incident, Steve had varied his reading routine. Now he scanned the obituaries before turning to the drama section. So far, the name Jack Walsh had not appeared. Steve didn’t really expect that it would. On the other hand, he wasn’t that sure that it wouldn’t.
He’d already done the obituaries and the drama and moved on to the sports, when Tracy Garvin came in closing the door behind her.
“Someone here to see you,” she said.
“Oh? A man or a woman?”
Tracy hesitated.
Steve grinned. “Don’t tell me our visitor is of indeterminate sex.”
“No. He’s male.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Well, you said a man or a woman. I was afraid the answer to that would be misleading.”
“Oh really? This is almost fun. Don’t spoil it by explaining. Just show the visitor in.”
Tracy nodded, went out and came back moments later ushering in a young man.
At first glance the mystery was solved. Steve had to suppress a grin. Tracy was absolutely right. “There’s a gentleman here to see you,” would have been slightly misleading.
The visitor was a teenager-of that much Steve was certain. Beyond that he couldn’t really tell. Steve was far enough removed from his own teens not to be able to judge the age that accurately. He put his visitor’s age somewhere between twelve and twenty.
Of course, the young man’s appearance didn’t help him any. His head had been shaved into a bristly mohawk that had been dyed a shocking green, and he had a gold earring in one ear. The effect, Steve supposed, was to make him look tough, or bad, or cool, whatever it was teenagers aspired to these days. In Steve’s mind it merely made him look young.
Tracy Garvin couldn’t help giving Steve an I-told-you-so look as she said, “Mr. Winslow, Jeremy Dawson.”
Steve Winslow stood up. “How do you do, Mr. Dawson?”
Jeremy Dawson looked at him. Then at Tracy Garvin. Then back at Steve. He snuffled his nose and wrinkled up his brow. He squinted at Steve. “You the lawyer?”
“That’s right. I’m Steve Winslow. Why?”
Jeremy didn’t look convinced. He smiled, but the smile was somewhat forced. “I dunno.” He shook his head. Shrugged. “You just don’t look like a lawyer.”
Steve shot Tracy a look. “Well,” Steve said, “appearances can be misleading.”
If Jeremy caught the irony, he didn’t show it. He nodded. “Yeah. That’s true. So you’re the lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“The one Uncle Jack came to see.”
“Uncle Jack?”
“Yeah. Jack Walsh.”
Steve took a breath. “Oh dear.”
Jeremy looked at him. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” Steve said, “but we may have a little trouble here. Sit down, Mr. Dawson, I’ll try to explain it to you.”
Jeremy looked at Steve for a minute. He appeared to be unwilling to sit because he’d been asked to do so, as if part of his attitude was to defy any suggestion on principle. After a moment, however, he turned and seated himself in the chair.
Steve sat at his desk. Tracy, looking terribly amused, pulled up a chair and flipped open her shorthand notebook.
“All right,” Steve said. “Look. If you want to come in here and ask me questions about a client, I can’t answer them. The relationship between an attorney and client is privileged. I can’t violate that confidence. So before you say anything, you should know I have no intention of answering any questions-”
Jeremy held up his hands. “Hey, man. No problem. You can skip the sermon. I heard it already from Uncle Carl. That’s Carl Jenson. The guy who was in here a couple of weeks ago trying to pump you for information. He didn’t get it. I know all about it. I overheard him talking to Fred and Jason. So you can skip the spiel. I’m not here for information. I’m here ’cause I need help.”
Steve frowned. “That might present a problem.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know till I hear the facts. It’s conceivable there could be a conflict of interest here. I might not be
