were gone and there was nothing left in the universe for him but Deirdre Fallon. What more could a woman ask? Especially when wealth, position, and maybe even power went with it?
I followed them into one of the lounge rooms. Deirdre Fallon ordered for all of us: martinis for them, an Irish for me.
“You wanted to know about Paul Baron, Mr. Fortune?” she said.
“I wondered how Walter lost so much to him.”
“By playing bad poker over quite a few months,” Walter said. He had changed again. He was more open, direct, a pleasant young man. He was something of a chamelon, changeable. “Paul was always very nice about accepting my markers.”
“How did you meet him?”
“When my uncle closed Costa, I was shut off everywhere in Westchester. They were all afraid of Jonathan. So I moved into New York and met Baron at a party about seven months ago.”
“Sammy Weiss, too?”
“I met Weiss twice. He hung around some bigger games Baron took me to. I usually played in small games at Paul’s East Sixteenth Street apartment. I told him I’d pay the $25,000 in installments. I thought he had agreed. I told him that Jonathan wouldn’t pay.”
“You didn’t know he was sending Weiss to collect?”
“No. I’d never have let him.”
“Did your uncle know Weiss was only a messenger?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t tell Jonathan about the money this time. Paul must have contacted him directly.”
“How did you plan to pay even in installments? From what I hear, you don’t have any money like $25,000.”
Deirdre Fallon said, “I don’t see how that matters.”
“I don’t know what does matter yet,” I said.
“I hoped to float small loans,” Walter said. “I’m twenty-nine; there was less than a year before I got all my father’s money anyway. People will lend on that even with my record. Baron just wouldn’t wait! He had to send Weiss, and Weiss killed my uncle!”
Deirdre Fallon said, “I’m sorry for your friend Weiss. I’m sure he didn’t mean to kill Jonathan, but he did.”
“He’s no friend, and he’s a cheap hustler, but I can’t see him as a killer. Was Jonathan involved in anything shady?”
Walter laughed. “Not Jonathan.”
Deirdre Fallon didn’t answer me. She was watching something behind me. I turned. Two men in dinner jackets stood over us. The taller of them had an easy smile aimed at Miss Fallon.
“Mr. Costa,” she said.
Carmine Costa bowed. “Miss Fallon, Mr. Radford, nice to have you back. Gives the place class.”
Costa was big, dark and handsome. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist; clean hands and thick dark hair and snapping black eyes. He seemed to paw the ground like a stallion as he looked at Deirdre Fallon.
“Nothing could do that,” she said with contempt in her voice, “but at least you don’t cheat, or do you?”
“For you I’d cheat myself.”
“You’re a pig, Mister Costa,” she said.
He put his hand on her shoulder and moved it up to her neck. “A boar, Miss Fallon. A wild old boar.”
She looked up into his face, and then reached up with both hands and gripped his wrist as if to pull the hand away. For a second or two she just held the wrist. Walter Radford moved.
“Get your hands off her!” Walter said, and swung at Costa’s face.
The other man with Costa moved like a snake. His hand caught Walter’s wrist before it had gone four inches. Costa barked:
“Strega!”
The man, Strega, dropped Walter’s wrist and stepped back as if he had never moved. I had never seen anyone move so fast. Strega was not as tall as Costa, not as broad, seemed quieter in his dinner jacket, and yet there was no question which of the two was the stronger man. Strega was blond and smooth and there were no marks on his Nordic face, but he seemed to exude pure power. The muscleman, the bodyguard.
Costa bowed. “My mistake, no offense to the lady. Strega, apologize to Mr. Radford.”
Strega inclined his head. “Mr. Radford.”
“Sure,” Walter Radford said. “Okay, Deirdre?”
She nodded. “Mr. Costa can’t help his bad manners. He probably intended a compliment. But we better leave, Walter.”
I watched her lead Walter out. Costa watched her, too.
“There’s a woman,” Costa said. “Right, Strega?”
“Some woman, Sarge,” Strega said.
Costa became aware of me. “You want something?”
“A little talk,” I said, “about Jonathan Radford.”
Costa eyed me. “Sure, why not? Come in the office.”
I followed him toward a curtained doorway.
Strega followed me.
8
Costa’s office was modest and had no windows. Air-conditioning hummed, the safe was a vault only an army could crack, the chairs were leather, and the desk was steel and small.
“Sit down,” Costa said.
I started for a chair. Strega’s hands frisked me from behind with a delicate touch and no wasted motion. Costa sat behind his desk and waited.
“Okay,” Strega said.
I sat. The bodyguard walked away to a corner. He made no noise as he walked. Strega was the new-style bodyguard, what they call now a “show-guard.” He could go anywhere and blend in-a society party, a political dinner, a ladies’ tea.
“No iron?” Costa said. “That’s smart. Guns win battles, brains win wars, right?”
“Lawyers win wars,” I said. “Our kind of wars.”
“You got a point. Who are you?”
“Dan Fortune. A private detective.”
Costa closed his eyes, leaned back. “Fortune? Yeh, wait now… wait
… Danny the Pirate, sure. Chelsea. I was East New York.” He opened his eyes. “You’re small beans, baby.”
“Real small,” I agreed. “You’re East New York? Profaci’s family, or the Gallo boys?”
“To hell with that. I do business, sure, but that’s all.”
Profaci was the former Mafia leader of Brooklyn. He had been a tough leader-so tough he had died of natural causes. The Gallos were Profaci’s enemies. What Costa was saying was that he was an independent, not Mafia. He looked as if it meant something to him. His dark eyes considered my missing arm.
“The war?” he asked.
“I never made it.”
“Too bad. I was master sergeant. In the Big Red One. We made the landings, baby. We pushed the Krauts back on their cans. Real war, real soldiers. When you got that behind you, you don’t cozy up to punks like the Mafia. There ain’t one of them wouldn’t have fainted in a real war, and that goes for Charley Lucky, too. Without guns they couldn’t handle an old ladies’ bridge club, and with the guns they can’t hit the Queen Mary at fifty feet. They got to use choppers to hit a parked car. They shoot guys in the head ’cause they got to get that close or miss. The bosses can’t walk into a bar without six punks casing it first.”
