A Drop of the Hard Stuff

“You ever been to his room?”

“Ellery’s? No.”

“Well, I was, because it was where he was killed. Outside of a razor and a toothbrush and a clock radio, he didn’t own a whole hell of a lot. Some old clothes, an extra pair of shoes. Maybe half a dozen books. Some of them were AA books. Is that what you were looking for?”

“I wasn’t looking for anything. Stillman—”

“Right, Stillman. There was a brass coin about the size of a half-dollar. Maybe a little larger. Had what I guess is the AA symbol on it. Two As in a circle or a triangle, I forget which.”

“Both.”

“Huh?”

“Two As in a triangle, with the triangle enclosed in a circle.”

“I’m glad you cleared that up for me. Whatever it was, it’d be hard to buy a drink with it.”

Some groups give them out for members’ anniversaries. There’s a Roman numeral on one side, for however many years you’re celebrating. I didn’t feel Redmond needed to be burdened with this information.

“Anyway,” he said, “the poor sonofabitch didn’t have much, and I didn’t need to see any of it a second time. So whoever picked up his things, it wasn’t me. Hang on a second.”

I waited, and he returned to report that nobody else knew anything about Ellery’s leavings. I said maybe the super had kept them and made up a story. More likely he threw everything out, Redmond said, because there was nothing there to keep. He tossed it, and to avoid getting bawled out he blamed it on the cops.

“Which we ought to be used to,” he said. “You know, I was hoping you had something better than a question.”

“Like what?”

“I figured maybe your conscience was troubling you and you wanted to tell me how you shot your old childhood pal.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I just said. Because your conscience—”

“Why would I shoot him?”

“How do I know? You’re the one with the guilty conscience. Maybe he stole a baseball card from you a hundred years ago in the Bronx, and you just realized it was the one that’s worth a fortune. I forget who’s on it.”

“I can’t help you there.”

“Honus Wagner. So who needs your help? You didn’t do it, huh?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Just my luck. Hey, you’re not fucking around with the case, are you? Playing detective?”

“No.”

“You want to say that a little more convincingly? Never mind. I’d caution you about getting in our way, but the caseload we’ve got, your pal Ellery’s not getting a lot of our time. You run across anything, you know where to bring it.”

That was Tuesday. Thursday morning I was reading the paper while I had my breakfast. There was a back-page item I barely registered, a man killed on the street near Gramercy Park, apparently during a mugging. I was several pages past the story when something clicked, and I went back and looked at the victim’s name, and right away I knew which Mark it was who’d been trying to call me.

XXX

MARK SATTENSTEIN,” Joe Durkin said. “Killed shortly after midnight within three blocks of his home, death the result of multiple blows to the head. Went out for a couple of drinks at a bar with an Irish name, if you can believe such a place exists. They know him there, not a regular, not a heavy drinker, but he’ll come in now and then for a beer. Well, not anymore, he won’t. Not the first mugging in that neighborhood, not even the first this month, and it’s still early in the month. Wallet gone, watch gone, pockets turned inside out—what’s it sound like to you, Matt?”

“Robbery with violence.”

“It does sound like robbery, and there’s no question about the violence. Which leaves me with two questions. How’s this anything other than what it looks like? And, while I’m at it, what’s it to you?”

“I knew him.”

“Yeah? Old friend?”

No, I thought. That was the other dead guy. I said, “I only met him once. I was looking into a matter for a friend, and I had some questions for Sattenstein. I went to his apartment, talked with him for an hour tops.”

“Learn anything?”

“Enough to rule him out.”

“Out of what?”

“Out of the picture,” I said. “I don’t want to go into detail here, but he was one direction I could go, and after I talked to him I realized that would be a dead end.”

He looked at me, thought about it. “And this was recent?”

“Within the past couple of weeks.”

“And now he’s dead, and you figure it can’t be a coincidence.”