that she was okay, but there was no easy way to accomplish that. I considered stopping at the Derby after hours, but my side twinged at the thought.
There was only one other thing for me to do, and I’d been putting it off. I didn’t relish going to Zen’s even when I was in full health. But I needed to find out more about Khachadurian, and if the cops couldn’t tell me anything useful, that left – Well, it left some people Leo wouldn’t have been happy to see me talking to. And Zen’s was where I would find them.
Chapter 9
Zen was Zenobia Salva, and her bar wasn’t called Zen’s except by the people who went there. Its official name was Dormicello, which was an in-joke of sorts, since Reuben Dormicello had been Zen’s first husband, and he’d drunk himself to death. No one had ever seen Zen take a drink, but she worked the stick well enough to please her thirsty clientele. She’d have pleased her husband, too, if he’d lived to see it, but back when he was alive, she didn’t own a bar yet, didn’t own much of anything, in fact, except the clothes on her back, and she’d take those off readily enough if you had two hundred dollars you were willing to part with. I hadn’t known her then, but I’d heard the story many times over the years from people at the bar, and if it wasn’t quite the same any two times I heard it, Zen herself never seemed troubled by the inconsistencies. She had the impassive expression of someone who was beyond offending, though also the look of someone you didn’t want to push too far.
The story had it that her second husband, who died of a knife wound in the laundry at Riker’s Island while serving seven-to-ten for armed robbery, had won the bar in a poker game and willed it to her. The poker game part of the story sounded like a romantic embellishment to me, but who knows?
“You don’t look so good,” Zen said. She took a pull on a cigarette, laid it down on a saucer. “You getting enough sleep?”
“Probably not, but that’s not the problem. Someone I used to know was killed the other day. I’ve been looking into it and getting nowhere, but someone must have thought I was getting somewhere, since they sent some muscle to teach me a lesson.” I mimed a rabbit punch and got the slightest little shake of her head in response.
“You’ve got to take care of yourself, John.”
“I’m still here, aren’t I?” I said.
“You got any idea who you’re dealing with?”
“Some. That’s why I came here. Thought you might know someone who could help.”
“You know,” she said, “you can come by when you’re not working on a case, too.”
“I know.”
She looked around the room. It wasn’t packed yet, and it wouldn’t be till later in the night, but already you could see the crowds forming. The ex-cons stayed near the walls, by themselves or in pairs, watching the doors and each other. The rummies sat at the bar nursing their drinks and telling old stories about great hauls they’d only pulled off in their imaginations. A few men clustered around the pool table, trading gibes and laying down bets on the ledge of the chalkboard. There were straight patrons, too, people who walked in off the street for a beer, ignoring the blacked-out windows and lack of a sign, but there weren’t many and they generally got the feeling they weren’t welcome pretty quickly. Though not always. Once, I remembered, a Wall Street power broker in striped tie and braces had gotten into a shoving match with a scrawny Puerto Rican kid named Simon Corrina. A smarter man would have seen the look in Corrina’s eyes and stopped shoving, but then a smarter man would have taken the hint and stayed out of Zen’s to begin with. Three of us were eventually able to pull Corrina off him, but then you can pry open the jaws of a bear trap, too.
How much blood had been spilled on the floor of this bar, both before Zen took it over and since? I generally tried not to think about it, beyond the immediate problem of making sure none of mine was added to the tally.
“Tell me who you think it is,” Zen said, “and I’ll tell you if anyone here’s likely to know anything.”
“Murco Khachadurian,” I said.
“Oh, Jesus. You sure can pick them. You talking about Big Murco or Little Murco?”
“Actually, I’m not sure. Whichever owns the Sin Factory.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“It’s a strip club-”
“I know it’s a strip club. And your friend was a stripper, wasn’t she? I seem to remember reading about some poor girl getting shot there. It was in the Post.”
“ Daily News, too. Page eighteen.”
“And how did a college boy like you come to know a Sin Factory stripper?” She waved away her own question before I could answer it. “Forget I asked. You’d think I’d have learned to mind my own fucking business after all these years. You bring out the mother hen in me.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I knew her ten years ago, when we were in school together. She was going to be a doctor. An eye doctor. You know, treat glaucoma and prescribe glasses.” Suddenly, I did feel tired, awfully tired. I was feeling the effects of the drink Leo had given me, and my bruises, and the night spent on the office couch, but even more than that, I was feeling the weight of the task I’d taken on, which was more than just finding Miranda’s killer, it was finding Miranda herself, finding out who she had been, and how in God’s name was I going to do that? “The day before she was killed, she told someone she expected it to happen. She said she was afraid of Murco Khachadurian. It’s the only lead I’ve got.”
Zen bent forward, pointed to a table in the corner near the bathrooms. “See that guy there, the one with the forehead? Blue shirt, jeans. There.” I saw who she meant. There was nothing special about his forehead except that you could see a lot of it, since his hairline had receded halfway up his scalp. The skin of his face showed the ravages of old acne scars, but otherwise he was a reasonably good-looking guy. “That’s who you need to talk to.”
He looked normal enough, and as Zen walked me over to him I found myself wondering what crimes he had committed. I imagine everyone else in the place was wondering the same thing about me.
When we got there, he looked from Zen to me and back again. “Yes?”
“This man’s a friend of the house,” Zen said. “He doesn’t need to know your name, and you don’t need to know his. I thought you could help each other out.”
“What sort of help does he need?”
“I’m trying-”
“He’s got a beef with Big Murco,” Zen said. The man’s eyebrows rose. “You see why I thought of you.”
“What’d Murco do to you?” he asked me.
I lifted my shirt to show the bruise. “That, and killed a friend of mine.”
“Let’s talk,” he said.
Zen brought over my glass and refilled his, but otherwise left us alone. The tables on either side of us were empty, and the noise from the pool table and the TV set and the bar masked our conversation pretty well, but he kept his voice low and so did I.
“What did Khachadurian do to you?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Let’s talk about you.”
How many times had I told the story? I was starting to feel like the Ancient Mariner, buttonholing everyone with my tale of woe.
But what other way was there? I told him, told him about seeing Miranda in the paper, about going to the Sin Factory and getting thrown out, I told him about the bouncer and about what Miranda had said to Susan about Murco. I left Susan’s name out of it – both her names. But the rest I told him.
“Your girlfriend was right,” he said. “Murco does use the girls to move drugs. Not dime bags to the customers, nothing like that. He’s a middleman, he’ll take a few kilos and spread it out to three small dealers, maybe four, take a cut off the top. They’re the ones who sell it to the street, and by then he’s out of the picture.” I knew better than to ask how he knew this. My money was on his being one of the three or four dealers – or more likely he had been one once and now Murco had cut him out. “A ditch in Jersey City I don’t know about, but he certainly wouldn’t let one of the girls get too talkative. Your girlfriend had a mouth on her?”
