Joe mulled this over as he walked Starbright to the lift. He was still not sure about the minder. OK, Zak was his bod, he was contracted to protect her from physical hassle. But his involvement seemed to go a lot deeper than that.
He said, 'One thing more, when you were banged up, you ever hear any whisper among the cons about Officer Oto, you know, liking a drink, that sort of thing?'
'Zak's dad? On the fiddle? And mixed up with this? What kind of mind have you got, Sixsmith? That's really disgusting! You upset Zak with any of that kind of crap and I'll pull your tongue out!'
The Welshman was regarding Joe with such menace, he took a step back.
'Sorry. Of course I won't say anything. But I've got to check out all the angles, OK? For her sake. You must see that.'
'Yeah, OK. But you tread gently or I'll tread on you.'
The lift door closed and Joe returned to his flat, his head swimming with the mixed pain of retreating anaesthetic and advancing speculation. The Welshman's reaction to his question about Henry Oto meant little. He'd only been inside a few months, and it had been a long time after the period when the Otos had needed some real money to move out of Hermsprong and into Grandison. Once take a bribe and things might stay quiet for years, but, ninety per cent of cases, sure as eggs it would come back to haunt you.
But the fierceness of the minder's reaction to the thought that Joe might upset Zak with such ideas about her dad did suggest an answer to the problem of his apparent deep involvement.
'Know what I think, Whitey?' said Joe to the cat, who'd finished the pork pie and was waiting for afters. 'I do believe that Starbright Jones is in love!'
Nineteen.
And now the Old Year opened its bleary weary eyes for the very last time.
Joe knew how it felt.
It was the phone that had woken him and when he reached out for it, his head and shoulder drowned its clamour with their own discords of pain.
'Shoot!' said Joe.
The pain settled to a steady continuo. The phone was still ringing.
He picked it up.
'Morning, Joe. You all right?'
'Morning, Beryl. Hey, I'm really sorry about last night. And about asking Starbright to see me into the flat. Thing is, I really need to'
'Forget it, Joe. None of my business. I'm just checking on your state of health.'
'Fine, fine,' he assured. 'I mean, as well as can be expected. Bit of pain. Any chance of you coming round to check me out... ?'
He essayed a persuasive little groan, but all he got in reply was a rich bubbly chuckle.
'Good try, Joe, but no way. I'm at the hospital. Some of us have got real jobs to go to.'
'Sure. Look, maybe I should drop by to have my stitches looked at..'
'Your stitches will be fine, Joe.'
'Maybe. But I never got to see that lawyer guy yesterday
'Mr. Naysmith? Sorry again, Joe. I peeped up there to see if the fuzz were still in attendance I heard you didn't get in yesterday but the bird has flown. Seems he discharged himself not long after you'd been here. If there's a connection I could get you a job. Our manager just loves a quick turnover of beds. Word is she used to run the old Hothouse on Bacon Street.'
'Wouldn't know such places,' said Joe. Tonight then, you fancy the Hoolie down the Glit?'
She said, 'You're asking me to celebrate New Year in the unhealthiest atmosphere since the Black Hole of Calcutta with a guy who's likely to be so beaten up he can't move, if he manages to get there at all, which on recent performances seems unlikely?'
'I think you've just about got it summed up,' he said.
'OK,' she said. 'What time will you pick me up?'
'Eight,' he said. 'No, better make that nine. To be on the safe side.'
'Joe,' she said. 'Sometimes I wonder which side you're really on, but one thing's for sure. It ain't the safe! 'Bye!'
He rolled out of bed and headed for the shower. Under a scalding spray the shoulder reluctantly agreed to resume a limited service. Two aspirin and the Full British Breakfast brought the head back to almost normal use, but normal wasn't enough to help him decide which way to go next. With Zak's race now only twenty-four hours away, that was clearly the number one priority. If, as seemed likely, the effort to kill or at least put him out of commission were connected with this case, then he must be doing something right. But all he had were a few theories and a confusion of evidence implicating apparently everybody! Time to start stirring the pond a little more energetically perhaps. Certainly time to have a serious talk with Abe Schoenfeld and Mary Oto.
Whitey, who was finishing off his plateful of the Full British, coughed. Probably a bit of fried bread got stuck but it sounded like a haven't-you-forgotten-something? kind of cough.
Joe gave it full memory focus for a minute then said, 'Oh shoot. Pollinger's office manager, what's her name? Mrs.
Mattison. Going to be at Oldmaid Row this morning.'
