with her virus and you know how up in the air Margie gets when there's sickness. Tell me, Humphrey Bogart, what did you find in that store besides meat?”
“Nothing but a cold.”
“I don't understand you. In the old days you never broke your back over anything—here you work like a pig over nothing. Still think you're being tailed?”
“I know I am. Bill, I know I'm acting nuts, but there's too many coincidences in this for me to be drawing a complete blank. The kid being beaten after sticking his nose into Lande's business—that now-you-see-it, now-you-don't fifty grand—and now me being tailed.”
“What does the guy look like?”
“I've never been able to spot him—just have this feeling.”
Bill jumped up, started walking the room. “Jeez, you have a feeling? Marty, I just wasted a man on this Franconi when I doubly need every man I have. And your Mr. Lande, he's ready for a padded cell—never saw a guy so nervous.”
“Why do you think he's so jumpy?”
Bill gave me a long look. “You're acting like a damn school kid! He finds his store's been entered. Why shouldn't he be nervous? Marty, for old times' sake, or for any reason you want, wait till I get off this Cocky Anderson hook. Then you can play cops and robbers all you wish. The case is driving me batty without any help from you.”
“See by the papers you're no place.”
“Lousy papers. I've tried everything and can't get a lead worth peanuts. I've never been a third-degree loon, but I'd like to give Bochio a taste of the rubber hose! He's too sure of himself. Even with his alibi he should be more caret than these statements about he's sore somebody beat him the punch, and all the rest of the slop that makes good headline reading.”
“Bochio still down in Florida?”
Ash nodded, rubbed his neck. “What can we bring him back on? That's another crazy angle. You always stumble upon some strong lead, even if it proves a dead end later. But in this case we don't come across a damn thing. And I've squeezed and pushed everybody who might know a damn thing. So has Homicide. Nobody knows a thing!”
“I'd still bring Bochio up—try talking to him.”
“Talk to him about what, shooting off his mouth? He knows we don't have a thing. Bring him up and we'll have to turn him loose in a minute, make us look like fools. The smart louse has even volunteered to come back to New York if we ask him to!”
“These wops are oily jokers.”
Bill stopped pacing the office, stood in front of me shaking his head sadly. “Marty, sometimes I wonder how you were ever lucky enough to break the cases you did, with a mind as narrow as a pipe cleaner. For what it's worth, Bochio isn't Italian.”
“With a handle like that? I always thought he was.”
“His real name is Boch—and don't tell me all Dutchmen are oily jokers. He was raised by an Italian family from the time he was a kid. That's where he got the accent from, and they added an 'io' to his name and he had it legally changed to Bochio a long time ago. He's married to an Italian girl, considers himself Italian, and ...”
I sneezed, a hell of a sneeze that shook my toes, near tore Bill's little office apart. He jumped back, ran a hand over his face. “You pig. Told you my girl was sick. Why don't you cover your mouth?”
I was on my way to the door. “Be grateful for that sneeze. It rattled my brains—could be the break in the Anderson case.”
Bill's long face seemed to sag as he touched my arm, said, “Marty, why don't you see a doctor?”
“I already have. Be good and maybe I'll give you Cocky Anderson's killer all bound up in pink handcuffs,” I said, walking out.
In the old days when a case broke it was like being on a drinking jag, the same high feeling. Now it didn't do a thing to me except amaze me how a little thing always trips a big deal.
I didn't have proof yet, but the way the pieces were falling into place, I knew it had to be the link. The secret of police work is digging into every fact—and Bill had overlooked a couple of small ones, just as I had. And of course, you got to have luck—like my chewing the fat with Bill and him breaking things right over my head, without knowing it.
It took me a couple of dimes and a quart of sweat in a phone booth to get ahold of the guy at Immigration again. He said he'd check and call me back at the Grover after lunch.
I had time to kill and because it was on my list of “last things,” I took a cab to the Battery and the ferry to Staten Island, the cheapest and most interesting voyage in the country.
In Staten Island I went into a spaghetti joint and had a pizza pie and a couple of glasses of beer. There were a dozen or so guys eating in the joint and I wondered if my tail was among them. But it didn't matter; I had him on a string and he'd jump whenever I yanked it.
I was back in the Grover by one and Lawson told me, “I wish you would stay around to take care of your personal business, Bond. A Dr. Dupre has been calling you every hour. And a rather striking-looking woman was here, left this number for you to call. She claimed she was your ex-wife.”
I crumbled the paper with Flo's number. “What do you mean, claimed?”
“How a gorgeous woman would ever fall for you is beyond my ken.”
“Your what? Look, Nancy, don't let it worry you—you'll never get within fondling distance of anything like Flo, and if you did, you wouldn't know what to do. I'm expecting a call—put it right through to my room.”
“Mr. King is in the office.”
“Who cares!”
I was feeling so good I overdid it—in my room I knocked off a big slug of rye for no reason and my belly began acting up, as if to remind me of the reason I was in the deal.
Shortly before two Barbara dropped into my room and when I asked why she was at work so early, she said, “I never went home last night. Gee, Marty, you shouldn't have cut Harold's hair. He thinks you're sore at me and if I'd gone home last night he would have whipped the hide off me.”
“Going home tonight?”
“Maybe,” she said, pouring herself a small one.
“Look, you take one of the rooms here—permanently—and if that fat punk tries to ...” I stopped talking. I wouldn't be around much longer to take care of Harold, or anybody else. It was an odd feeling, like somebody had pulled me up short.
Barbara finished the drink. “Thanks for worrying, but it will be okay when I go home tonight with two days' dough. With Harold, I always got to build him up—he has to be the big I-am. And money is the best builderupper. I did swell last night—a ten-buck tip. Nice-dressed guy—asked about you.”
“About...? What did he ask?”
“Nothing exactly, but a whole lot. I pegged him for a racket-fellow. I think he was casing the setup here, but then he got off on you—how long had you been here, you have any side jobs, any dough? Lot of questions that didn't add up. He knew about you being on the force. You know me, I knew from nothing.”
“What did he look like?”
“Big, hard body, out-of-towner with a twang. Sort of good looking in a ...”
“Look like Dick Tracy?”
She stretched all her lipstick in a large grin. “Say, I kept thinking he reminded me of somebody and that's it—Dick Tracy, all them sharp features, hat low on his head.”
“What time was all this?”
“Oh... about one, two. Why you so interested?”
“Why didn't you call me, or tell me?”
“Marty, you toss Harold out and he tells me to stay away from you. And you been so grouchy these days and I figured you were asleep. Anyway, the guy wasn't tough or nothing, very friendly and casual like.”
“He use the word bastid? Not bas-tard but...?”
Barbara stiffened. “Please, what kind of conversation you think we were having?”
She wasn't kidding, so I let it drop. “Dewey see him come in?”
“How do I know? But that wino was off last night, stinking, and I know Kenny had to run the elevator and cover for him most of the night. Gee, Marty, so a guy asked about you—all friendly-like. What's so important about all this?”
“Nothing.” That had been a slip on my part, not alerting Kenny. Dewey, the damn lush! And last night, Smith probably didn't know about the store being broken into, so he was just looking around. Must be puzzled as hell about me sticking my nose in things.
“Marty, you angry with me?” Barbara asked, playing coy, coming over and putting her hand on my shirt, making it stick to my damp skin.
“No, honey. Wait here for a couple of minutes. I'll be back.”
“Mind if I take a shower? I smell like a couple of other gals.”
“Take a brace of showers,” I said, going out. I called Sam from the desk, asked what his most expensive perfume cost. It was twenty-seven bucks with taxes and I told him to send over a bottle right away.
Lawson was on the elevator with King keeping an eye on the desk. He came out of the office, told me, “Mr. Bond, it's time we had a little talk. You have not only been impertinent, but also negligent in your duties as a...”
I went over to him. His skin was waxy and drawn tight over his bony puss. “Why don't you change your record? You're an old man and I guess you want to live longer, although I can't figure why or...”
“You can't bully me!” He actually made his little hands into fists.
“Yes, I can, King. I can bully you all I want because if I feel like it, I'll belt that funny-looking chin of yours, bust all the bones, including your store choppers. I can do that with one punch, one good ...”
“Roughneck!” He almost screamed the word at me as he retreated into his office.
I don't know what it was, maybe the hatred in his eyes, but it was like looking into a crystal ball, seeing my life, and that one word, “roughneck,” summed it up. Roughneck, lout, bully... they covered the years, my lousy stupid life, all of it. It made me feel
