Daniel Blank file. Then he checked the address of The Parrot in Blankenship’s report. He went through his pack of business cards, found one that read: “Ward M. Miller. Private Investigations. Discreet-Reliable-Satisfaction Guaranteed.” He began to plan his cover story.
He was still thinking it out an hour later, so deeply engrossed with the deception he was plotting that the phone must have rung several times without his being aware of it. Then Mary, who had picked up the hall extension, came in to tell him Mr. Handry was on the phone.
“Got him,” Handry said.
“What?”
“I found him. Your Daniel G. Blank.”
“Jesus Christ!” Delaney said excitedly. “Where?”
Handry laughed. “Our business-finance keeps a personality file, mostly on executives. They get tons of press releases and public relations reports every year. You know, Joe Blow has been promoted from vice president to executive vice president, or Harry Hardass has been hired as sales manager at Wee Tots Bootery, or some such shit. Usually it’s a one-page release with a small photo, a head-and-shoulders shot. You know what the business desk calls that stuff?”
“What?”
“The ‘Fink File.’ And if you got a look at those photos, you’d understand why. You wouldn’t believe! They print about one out of every ten releases they get, depending on the importance of the company. Anyway, that’s where I found your pigeon. He got a promotion a couple of years ago, and there’s a photo of him and a few paragraphs of slush.”
“Where does he work?”
“Ohhh no,” Handry said. “You haven’t a bloody chance. I’ll have a Xerox made of the release and a copy of the photo. I’ll bring them up to your place tonight if you’ll tell me why you’re so interested in Mr. Blank. It’s the Lombard thing, isn’t it?”
Delaney hesitated. “Yes,” he said finally.
“Blank a suspect?”
“Maybe.”
“If I bring the release and photo tonight, will you tell me about it?”
“There isn’t much to tell.”
“Let me be the judge of that. Is it a deal?”
“All right. About eight or nine.”
“I’ll be there.”
Delaney hung up, exultant. Information
The beginning was long, slow, muddled. The middle began to pick up momentum, pieces coming together, fragments fitting. The end was usually short, fast, frequently violent. He judged he was in the middle of the middle now, the pace quickening, parts clicking into place. It was all luck. It was all fucking luck.
The Parrot was no worse and no better than any other ancient Third Avenue bar that served food (steak sandwich, veal cutlet, beef stew; spaghetti, home fries, peas-and-carrots; apple pie, tapioca pudding, chocolate cake). With the growth of high-rise apartment houses, there were fewer such places every year.
As he had hoped, the tavern was almost empty. There were two men wearing yellow hardhats drinking beer at the bar and matching coins. There was a young couple at a back table, holding hands, dawdling over a bottle of cheap wine. One waiter at this hour. One bartender.
Delaney sat at the bar, near the door, his back to the plate glass window. He ordered a rye and water. When the bartender poured it, the Captain put a ten-dollar bill on the counter.
“Got a minute?” he asked.
The man looked at him. “For what?”
“I need some information.”
“Who are you?”
Delaney slid the “Ward M. Miller-Private Investigations” business card across the bar. The man picked it up and read it, his lips moving. He returned the card.
“I don’t know nothing,” he said.
“Sure you do,” the Captain smiled genially. He placed the card atop the ten-dollar bill. “It’s a matter of public record. Last year there was a fight in here. A guy kicked the shit out of a faggot. Were you on duty that night?”
“I’m on duty every night. I own the joint. Part of it anyways.”
“Remember the fight?”
“I remember. How come you know about it?”
“I got a friend in the Department. He told me about it.”
“What’s it got to do with me?”
“Nothing. I don’t even know your name, and I don’t want to know it. I’m interested in the guy who broke the other guy’s jaw.”
“That sonofabitch!” the bartender burst out. “That guy should have been put away and throw away the key. A maniac!”
“He kicked the faggot when he was down?”
“That’s right. In the balls. He was a wild man. It took three of us to pull him away. He would have killed him. I came close to sapping him. I keep a sawed-off pool cue behind the bar. He was a raving nut. How come you’re interested in him?”
“Just checking up. His name is Daniel Blank. He’s about thirty-six, thirty-seven-around there. He’s divorced. Now he’s got the hots for this young chick. She’s nineteen, in college. This Blank wants to marry her, and she’s all for it. Her old man is loaded. He thinks this Blank smells. The old man wants me to check him out, see what I can dig up.”
“The old man better kick his kid’s tail or get her out of the country before he lets her marry Blank. That guy’s bad news.”
“I’m beginning to think so,” Delaney agreed.
“Bet your sweet ass,” the bartender nodded. He was interested now, leaned across the bar, his arms folded. “He’s a wrongo. Listen, I got a young daughter myself. If this Blank ever came near her, I’d break his arms and legs. He was in trouble with the cops before, you know.”
Delaney took back his business card, moved the ten-dollar bill closer to the man’s elbow.
“What happened?” he asked.
“He got in trouble with some guy who lives in his apartment house. Something about the guy’s dog. Anyway, this guy got a busted arm, and this Blank was hauled in on an assault rap. But they fixed it up somehow and settled out of court.”
“No kidding?” the Captain said. “First I heard about it. When did this happen?”
“About six months before he had the fight in here. The guy’s a trouble-maker.”
“Sure sounds like it. How did you find out about it-the assault charge I mean?”
“My brother-in-law told me. His name’s Lipsky. He’s a doorman in the apartment house where this Blank lives.”
“That’s interesting. You think your brother-in-law would talk to me?”
The bartender looked down at the ten-dollar bill, slid it under his elbow. The two construction workers down at the other end of the bar called for more beer; he went down there to serve them. Then he came back.
“Sure,” he said. “Why not? He thinks this Blank stinks on ice.
“How can I get in touch with him?”
“You can call him on the lobby phone. You know where this Blank lives?”
“Oh sure. That’s a good idea. I’ll call Lipsky there. Maybe this Blank is shacking up or something and is playing my client’s daughter along for kicks or maybe he smells money.”
“Could be. Another drink?”
“Not right now. Listen, have you seen Blank since he got in that fight in here?”
“Sure. The bastard was in a few nights ago. He thought I didn’t recognize him, the shit, but I never forget a face.”
