“Because we're going to have many more nights like last night, even better ones, if we stay alive. There's a boatyard in the East River, near the Polo Grounds. Old place, kind of run down, but I dock there in the winter—the yacht basin closes end of October. That's where we're going now. Bobo's meeting us.”
“You live on this ship during the winter?”
“Sure. Winters haven't been too severe. Have hot water piped in from the boathouse, and when it gets real cold, I spend the night in a hotel. Forget the winter: we're playing with a joker who's already killed four people, so a few more stiffs won't mean a thing to him. Why I want you to stay put, don't take chances.”
Laurie blew a kiss at me. “Yes, darling.”
“Is that with a small 'd'?”
“You're my darling, Darling. Big and small 'd'. That all right?”
“Love the sound of it.”
3
The trip up the East River excited Laurie, as it does all New Yorkers who've never seen the city from the water. Bobo was waiting for us and, after I docked, arranged to keep the boat there for the day. I dressed, and impressed upon Bobo the need for staying with Laurie. “Where you going, Hal?”
“Off to see what's on the rail for the birds,” I said, walking toward the Eighth Avenue subway, on my way to the 41st Street bus terminal. I couldn't chance going cross-town for my car.
Getting off a bus at North Bergen, I took a cab to a spot near the fishing shack. For what had been bothering me was an innocent remark Laurie made when we started fishing last night. She'd said she hoped we caught
There was a wire fence, about six feet high, running around the shack. I bounced a couple of pebbles off the windows, but the joint seemed empty. I climbed the fence, tried the door. It had a simple lock and I opened it the easy way—kicked the door open.
The cottage was one large room opening on a porch that hung over the river, from which the members could fish in comfort. There was a neat kitchen in one end of the room, a door that opened on the John, a large table, and a row of steel lockers along one wall. Names were lettered on each locker and one of the handles was George Shelton. It took me a lot of minutes to jimmy the locker open with a beer opener I saw on the table; inside I found a couple of rods, the usual toolbox full of hooks, lines, cleaning knives, and other fishing junk. Also a pair of old shoes and a torn raincoat. There wasn't any money.
I went over the room, which was kind of silly—nobody would leave dough around loose. Before I busted open the other lockers, I went through Shelton's again. The toolbox was rusty and smelly. I dumped it on the table. A hunk of old brown cardboard that had been covering the bottom of the box dropped out—under it was a flat package wrapped in one of those plastic bags used for covering food in a Frigidaire... and a lot of green showed through the misty plastic.
There were hundred-buck bills—150 of them. I tore open the raincoat, the shoes, busted the rods... and no more dough.
It didn't make sense—Brody and Shelton clipped Big Ed for fifteen grand... and he'd spent five times that for the diamond bullet, the punks he imported. Franklin had been known to drop fifty grand on a roll of the dice, so he'd hardly kill for fifteen thousand.
4
But Margrita said he'd been scared—and suddenly that added up: the money must be hot! I wanted to bang my head against the wall—it sure hadn't been working much these past few days I'd been on the merry-go-round. The “Cat” had killed not because he gave a damn about the fifteen grand, but to stop Brody and Shelton from spending it. It fitted in with searching their homes before the murders, with those goons making a wastebasket out of my office, the attempted burglary in Anita's house, the constant shadow on Laurie. All Franklin wanted was to get the dough back... because it must lead to something a hell of a lot bigger than fifteen thousand of the green. And there was an oh-so-easy way of locating the pot waiting at the end of this green rainbow.
Pocketing the money, I straightened up the place as best I could and left. As I climbed over the fence I saw a kid of about fifteen, standing in the road, watching me. He was one of those overgrown kids, with a lard-ass, rosy cheeks, and wire-rimmed glasses that were too small for his serious puss.
“What's the matter, mister, lose your key?” he asked, staring down at me.
I waved my car keys in his face. “Nope, always go in and out of the club this way.”
His fat face was full of suspicion, and a kid's hesitation. If that brat ran for the cops, I'd be in a hell of a spot, with the hot dough on me. He said, “I'd better tell Mr. Matthews about this.”
“Reminds me,” I said, casually, glad there weren't any houses near. Matthews couldn't be within yelling distance. “Tell old Matt that Jack won't get the new glass rod for him till tomorrow. That's me, Jack.”
“Well... I won't be able to see him till after school, after supper.”
“No rush. I was supposed to leave the rod for him, but you tell him, save me the trouble of making the trip. Tell him the factory said they'd have it tomorrow or the next day. Got that straight?”
He repeated the nonsense and I waved and walked up the road, praying the kid was satisfied. I thumbed a ride to the bridge, got a bus across to New York, and a cab down to Saltz's office. I called to find out if he was in. He was. It was a few minutes before two. I found a jewelry store a block from the police station. I went in and asked to see a watch in the window that sold for $79. There was a woman behind the counter, her husband was probably out to lunch, and she gave me a fast sales talk. I told her, “I like the watch fine, but all I have is this hundred-dollar bill, and... eh...” I hesitated, gave her one of the bills I'd found in the locker.
She looked it over carefully. “Looks good.”
“Frankly, I'm not sure, lady. Won it in a crap game from a suspicious character. Don't want you to get stuck, so let me give you the bill and you give me a receipt for it. You've time to make the bank, see if it's good. I'll call tonight and pick up the watch and my change. That fair?”
