down he got up and went back to the picket line without a word. Schmidt looked like that kind of man.
‘I am worried,’ the old man said. ‘Jo-Jo is good boy, work hard. He go and he don’t tell me? That is funny. I am worried.’
‘Kids get ideas. Maybe he just got tired.’
‘Not without he tell me, no. And the bike. There it wait.’
The old man pointed to a motorcycle in the corner of the garage. A motorcycle carefully covered by a heavy plastic cover. It shone through the plastic like a jewel. Jo-Jo took good care of his motorcycle.
‘I call by his old man,’ Schmidt said. ‘He say Jo-Jo take a trip. I should mind my sauerkraut. His kind I know, ja! I am worried.’
‘What do you know about Tani Jones or Patrolman Stettin?’
‘The woman who was killed and the policeman? I know what I read, hear. No more. You think Jo-Jo? Never! No!’
‘Did he have any trouble you know? Any new friends, maybe? Any girl trouble? A sudden need for money?’
‘No. Thursday he work here all day on the bike, Friday he don’t come to work. He don’t tell me. I don’t like that.’
‘What about a girl named Driscoll?’
‘Driscoll? So? She come here one, maybe two times. She want Jo-Jo. She talk to Petey and Jo-Jo. Jo-Jo go away. He don’t want her.’
‘Where do I find her?’
Schmidt started to shrug, and then held up a finger. ‘Wait, Ja! I think…’
He skipped away towards the office like a schoolboy. He was a peppery old man. He came back carrying a coloured brochure. I took the brochure. It was a travel piece about Italy. It had pictures of the red Ferrari racing cars.
‘She bring for Jo-Jo once,’ Schmidt said. He pointed to the line stamped on the back. ‘She work there.’
The address was: Trafalgar Travel Bureau, 52 West 46th Street.
‘Ja,’ Schmidt said. ‘She work there. You think…’
I never did learn what Schmidt was about to ask me. The telephone rang. He answered it. I saw the colour spread across his cherub face. When he put down the receiver he was red.
‘They beat Petey! Someone! In hospital by St Vincent’s!’
St Vincent’s was only a few blocks away.
I went out on the run.
Chapter 8
They told me that Petey would probably live. They also said that he would even see again. He wasn’t blind, it only looked that way. His face wasn’t a face now; it was a bandage.
‘Both eyes slam shut,’ the doctor said. ‘Nose busted, cheekbone, too. I never saw more bruises, I tell you.’
There were tubes in Petey, and bottles hanging all over that white room. I saw the morphine Syrette on the side table beside the bed where Petey was half propped up because of the internal injuries. They had broken both arms. The splinted and bandaged arms stuck straight out in front of the boy who had only white cloth where his face had been. But the real damage was the shattered ribs and the internal injuries from the kicks.
‘A very complete job,’ the doctor said. ‘I had a case on the Bowery once, but this is more complete.’
The police were there, of course, since it was pretty clear that Petey had not fallen down some stairs. It was Lieutenant Marx who let me into the room. One old cop agreed with the doctor that it was a hell of a good beating, but the old cop did not think it was professional.
‘Amateurs,’ the old patrolman said. ‘They used their hands and feet. Too much blood and damage without enough pain. It looks like they let him pass out, and kicked him while he was out. That’s a hell of a way to get something. Just amateurs.’
‘They were after information?’ I asked Marx.
‘Yeh,’ the lieutenant said. ‘He couldn’t talk, but we asked him and he nodded. We don’t know what they wanted to know.’
‘Where did it happen?’ I said, and then I heard the plural everyone was using. ‘They? How many were there?’
‘Two,’ Marx said. ‘We found him over in an alley near the West Side Highway. Some dame called in; no name.’ And then Marx eyed me suspiciously. ‘What’s your interest, Fortune?’
But I was thinking about two men. Two men had beaten Petey almost to death. It had been two men who stood out there in the street last night watching Marty’s apartment. I did not need a computer to tell me that the two men, whoever they were, were after Jo-Jo Olsen. I was in something, I did not like it; but I was almost getting mad now as I looked at the bandages and tubes and hanging bottles that were Petey Vitanza.
‘He’s my client,’ I said to Marx.
‘This kid?’ Marx said.
‘He wanted his friend found,’ I said. ‘Jo-Jo Olsen, remember?’
Marx nodded slowly. ‘Yeh, I remember. Funny, but Homicide’s got a pickup out on this Jo-Jo Olsen. What did he do?’
‘That’s what we all want to know,’ I said.
‘You think the two who worked on Vitanza were after the Olsen kid, too?’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Or maybe they were out to stop anyone from finding Olsen.’
Marx watched me. He was a smart cop. ‘You’re looking for Olsen.’
‘I know,’ I said as I looked at the ruin that was Petey Vitanza. There was something like a cold breath that went through that room and along my spine. I only have one good arm; I want to keep it in one piece.
‘Keep in the middle of the street,’ Marx said. ‘Any ideas who the two musclemen were?’
‘If I did I’d be howling for the police right now,’ I said.
‘How come Homicide is on to it?’ Marx said. I told you that he was a smart cop.
‘They think maybe it’s all tied in with the Tani Jones killing,’ I said.
Marx was thoughtful. ‘They do, huh?’
As I said, the cops give nothing away. That was all Marx said. And my mind was on Petey Vitanza.
‘Can I talk to him?’ I said.
The doctor shrugged. ‘He can’t answer.’
‘He can nod,’ I said.
‘Okay. Two minutes; no more. Then everyone out,’ the doctor said.
I bent over the bandages. It was like talking to a corpse. Petey could move nothing but his head. But he could hear.
‘Did you recognize them at all?’ I said.
A negative shake, slow and drugged.
‘Did they want to know about Jo-Jo?’
Affirmative, a small nod.
‘They did not want you to lay off Jo-Jo? They wanted to find Jo-Jo?’
Affirmative. They were looking for Jo-Jo, not warning off.
‘Did Jo-Jo know a Tani Jones?’
Nothing. No movement. Then I saw a faint motion of his shoulders. Petey had shrugged.
‘You don’t know if Jo-Jo knew Tani Jones?’
Affirmative. He did not know about Tani Jones one way or the other.
‘You said Jo-Jo seemed in trouble. Was he scared?’
A faint shrug.
‘This Driscoll girl. Was she trouble for Jo-Jo?’
