'Smart bet,' I said.
Chapter 47
PATRICIA UTLEY'S MAN Steven showed up at my hotel the next morning. He called from the lobby. I gave him the room number and let him in when he knocked. He handed me a lavender note-sized envelope with my name written on it, purple ink in a beautiful cursive hand.
'Mrs. Utley asked me to give you this,' he said.
I opened the envelope and found a piece of matching note paper with the name Attorney Morris Gold written on it, and an address in the East Nineties. Under that was written in the same beautiful script, 'You will need a place to receive calls. You may use my home. You know the number.'
'Tell Mrs. Utley thank you,' I said.
'She also instructed me to offer you any help you might need.'
'Thank you, Steven, but I think this will be a solo dash.'
He nodded.
'If you decide otherwise,' he said, and let it hang.
I nodded.
'I'll go see this guy, then I'll come to the house.'
'Very good,' he said, and left.
I had no plan. All I had was the name and address of a guy who might get me to the Gray Man, and a Smith Wesson.357 Mag, with a four-inch barrel, which I slipped onto my belt and positioned on my right hip. No machine guns, no siege cannon. This would be a simple deal. Either I'd get him or I wouldn't. No more than a couple of shots would be fired. And they'd be at close range. I put some extra bullets in my shirt pocket and went out of the hotel.
I walked through the park to the art museum and then up Fifth to Ninety-seventh Street and across to the East Side. The address was next to a Spanish grocery store. On the second floor. The door had a pebbled glass window and on it was lettered 'Morris Gold, Attorney at Law.' The lettering was in gold with a black outline. I went in. The room was barely big enough for a big old gray metal desk and a large swivel chair. Behind the desk was a short very fat man. He wore glasses and a powder blue sport coat, and a dark blue shirt that was too tight around his neck to button. His white tie was narrow and loose and hung crookedly as if he hadn't tied it right. The wider part was shorter than the narrow part. His hair was artificially dark and he wore it long in the back and swooped it up over a large bald spot. On the desk was a computer and a telephone. On the left wall was a file cabinet that matched the desk. Behind him was a window with a crack in it. The overhead light was on. He was reading the Daily News, the paper open flat on the desk in front of him. As I came in he licked his thumb, turned a page, looked at it briefly, then looked up at
'Whaddya need,' he said.
'Morris Gold?'
'Yeah.'
'I have some work for Rugar,' I said.
'Don't tell me what it is,' Gold said.
I nodded.
'Who are you?' he said.
I shook my head.
'Who sent you to me?'
I shook my head again.
Gold nodded, and turned and picked up the phone and dialed.
'Guy wants to see you,' Gold said. He was silent.
Then he said, 'Big guy, beard, wears his hair long, over the ears. Black Oakley shades. Wearing a blue blazer, a white tee-shirt, chinos, and white running shoes.'
He listened again.
Then he said, 'Okay,' and hung up.
'You from around here?' he said.
I didn't answer. Gold nodded with approval, as if he admired reticence.
'You got a phone you can be reached at?' he said.
I gave him Patricia Utley's number.
'Ask for Mr. Vance,' I said.
'Okay, somebody will call you at this number at'-he looked at his watch-'two P.M. You got that?'
'Yes.'
'You got any questions?'
'No.'
'Hasta la vista,' Gold said and began to read his newspaper again.
