“When Sugarman was killed, my son had the idea to take the newspaper back to the club and show her picture to the owner. He said yes, it was Jessie.
“So I sent my son to Sugarman’s apartment, and he found this.” He took a strip of paper from his pocket, held it up for me to see. It was a torn money band, the sort banks wrap around stacks of bills. “It was behind the dresser.” He put it away.
“Now it’s your turn, Mr. Blake. I understand you’ve been going around, asking questions. I want to know everything you’ve learned. You see,” he said, “if you find the killer, I’ll find my money.”
What was it I saw in his eyes? They weren’t dead like his son’s, they were alive, but what was it that animated them – greed? Anger? A hunger to get back what was his? He sat leaning forward, eager to hear what I had to tell him. What I felt like telling him was that he disgusted me, that sitting in the same car with him and his son made me feel physically ill. But it wasn’t worth it. There were many disgusting men in the world, some of them worse than these two. If I wanted the man who killed Miranda, I had to save my energy for that fight.
“I might be able to help you,” I said. “I don’t know who killed her, but I’ll tell you what I do know.”
So I told it again, from the beginning, from waking up to Miranda’s face in the paper through my second run- in with Roy. I left out the trip to Zen’s – they didn’t need to know about that if they didn’t already. But there was no point in leaving Susan out of it, since either Roy had already told Lenz about the encounter we’d had or he would soon enough, and I assumed Lenz would tell Murco. All I left out was where she was staying now, and they seemed to accept it when I said I didn’t know, that we’d separated on the subway.
“Who do you think did it?” Murco said.
“I’m going to have to think about that. Until now, you were at the top of my list.”
“Was Sugarman living with anyone?” he said. “A boyfriend? A girlfriend?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about this old girlfriend, Mastaduno? What happened to her?”
“I don’t know that either,” I said. “Just that somewhere along the line she and Miranda went their separate ways.”
“You think they stayed in touch?”
“I have no idea.”
“It sounds to me like you’ve got a lot of work to do,” he said. “And you understand, it’s work I’d like to see done.” He tapped me in the chest with the gun. “Quickly.”
When it was over, I found myself back on the sidewalk across from my building, watching the sedan pull away.
For the second time this evening, I thought about taking a shower, changing my clothes – I could smell my own sweat. But I wanted to hear Leo’s voice first, know that he was okay. I called the office as I climbed the stairs to my apartment. Our answering machine picked up, so I tried dialing him at home.
“This is Leo Hauser. Leave your name at the beep-”
I hung up. Maybe he was in transit. That was the good possibility. The alternative was that Roy had been waiting for him at the hotel, had overpowered him and taken his gun away, had given him the sort of beating you couldn’t expect a man Leo’s age to survive, no matter how tough he was. I tried the office again, hung up when I heard my own voice.
I just had to wait. I unlocked the door to my apartment. I’d try him again at home in a half hour, and if that didn’t work One of my windows was open.
I tried to pull the door shut again, but from the side a long arm snaked around my waist and pulled me off balance. I fell to the floor and tried to roll out of the way but didn’t get far before I felt one hand grab my belt and another grab a handful of my jacket collar. Then I was off the ground and in the air. I landed on the floor on the far side of my bed, the phone charger in my pocket digging into my side. The man who’d thrown me was taking the long way around the bed. The lights were off and the door had swung shut, and in the darkness I couldn’t make out his face, but there were only two people I knew with a silhouette that massive, and one of them had just driven away with his father.
“Roy, stop.” I looked around for something I could use as a weapon. I grabbed my desk lamp and yanked the cord out of the wall, brandished it like a club. He batted it out of my hands.
“Don’t do this,” I said. He grabbed the front of my jacket and pulled me close. I could smell his breath.
“Why not, motherfucker?”
Why not.
“Murco just hired me,” I said.
“What?”
“Your boss. He was here, just a minute ago. With his son. They want me to do some work for them. Call them. You’ll see.” I couldn’t stop talking. As long as I was talking, he wasn’t hitting me. “His cell phone number’s in my pocket. Call him. He’ll be very angry if you hurt me.”
I could almost see the gears turning in his head, the enormous effort it took for him to hold himself back. But Murco’s name scared him.
“If you’re lying… ” he said. He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t have to.
He released me with one hand and took the slip of paper from me when I dug it out of my pocket. He pulled me over to the window so he had enough light to read it. “Dial,” he said and read the number off to me. I pressed the buttons on my desk phone, held the receiver out to him.
I heard someone pick up and Roy took the phone. He was still holding tight to the front of my jacket with one huge fist.
“Mr. Khachadurian? This is Roy from the club. Yes. I’m with John Blake, he says you – Yes, in his apartment. Wayne did. Because he’s sticking his nose – He’s hanging around the club, he’s bothering the girls – No, I haven’t. Yes. Yes. Yes, I understand.” He slammed the phone down.
He pulled me close again. “You’re one lucky son of a bitch,” he said. He shoved me back and my knees buckled against the bed. I went sprawling. Then he was standing above me, blocking what little light came in through the window. I didn’t see his fist come down, but I felt it as he buried it deep in my belly.
“Murco,” I croaked.
“I don’t work for Murco,” he hissed. “I work for Wayne Lenz.” An uppercut slammed against the underside of my chin, snapping my head back against the mattress. “That’s first of all. Second, I don’t like getting sprayed in the eyes.” One more punch, this one aimed at my groin. I turned and caught it on my hip.
“He’ll kill… he’ll kill you.” I could barely get the words out.
“Well, now, that’s third,” he said, and I could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “The man said don’t do any permanent damage. Didn’t say don’t hit you.” The next blow caught me on the side of the head. After that, I didn’t feel the rest, just heard them as they landed.
Eventually he got tired of the game. “Lucky son of a bitch,” he said again.
He walked out, slammed the door behind him.
Chapter 15
The window was still open, letting the cold air in. I rolled to the edge of the bed, got my feet under me, limped over to the window, and pulled it shut. Though I knew it wouldn’t do much good. This apartment was too insecure and getting a little too well known.
Moving slowly, I stuffed a duffel bag with an armful of clothes, slung it over my shoulder, grabbed the Serner files and my notebook, and made my way down to the street. There were no cabs, so I started walking.
The streets were dark and empty, and the few people I saw left me alone. Bit by bit I made my way to Ninth Street.
The heated lobby was a balm at first, warming my stiff fingers and cold face, but by the time I got to the fourteenth floor the protective numbness the cold had provided had worn off and I felt sore in every part of my body. I don’t have a lot of padding and, like most people, have never learned the right way to take a beating. Some of the worst of it had been absorbed by the mattress, thank God, but the rest of it had been absorbed by me, and I could still feel every spot his fists had landed. I leaned against the wall and put all my effort into pressing the
