“Oh, Bonetti! Sure, I remember him.”
“You knew him pretty good, didn’t you?”
“A little business here and there.”
“So listen. He had a punk in his crowd called Snell. Joseph Snell.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Sort of short, popeyed.”
“Never heard of him, Jackie.”
“All right, all right. Snell was in his crowd, though. Who’s still around that Snell might know?”
There was silence for a moment and then Carter said, “Bonetti’s dead.”
“I didn’t ask that, damn it!”
“There was Pickles, but he’s on the rock.”
“Bonetti had a brother, didn’t he?”
“That’s right. But, Christ, he must be seventy or something. Besides, he never hung around much. Did the fencing, is all.”
“And kept a hideout for the boys, didn’t he?”
“That’s right. But he must be over-”
“Never mind. What happened to him?”
“Christ, Jackie, I wouldn’t know.”
“Who would? Think, Paul.”
“He had a daughter. Cook’s the married name.”
“Here in New York?”
“I think so. At least, five years ago I remember-”
“O.K., Paul, thanks a million.”
Jesso hung up. He turned to Kator, who had lit a cigar and stood by the window watching Jesso.
“I need a phone book, Kator. Manhattan first.”
“To your left, in the drawer.” Kator rolled the cigar between his lips and watched Jesso.
There was a long string of Cooks, and Jesso felt disgusted before he started. Then the phone rang. “This is Murph. May I speak-“
“It’s me, Murph. So?”
“I checked around by phone, Jackie, and so far nothing. Nobody’s seen anything like that Snell guy around. And I meant to tell ya, Jackie, Gluck came down and the car wasn’t ready. So I tried to explain to him how you-“
“To hell with Gluck. What else?”
“I sent a few guys checking the flops and got some names for you. Names of guys what used to keep a hole in the wall for special guests.”
“Let’s have it.”
“Well, there’s that farmer Cook, out near Nyack.”
“You say Cook?”
“Yes, Jackie. He’s in New Orleans right now, due back in a week. Then there’s Murrow, Able-sometimes, anyway-another Cook, Jenowitch-“
“That’s enough. Stay at Gluck’s place and I’ll be right over.”
“O.K., Jackie, but I wanted to tell you, Gluck was sore when his car wasn’t-“
“Forget it. And wait for me.”
Jesso hung up. This job was going to be over so fast that Gluck was going to have sleepless nights thinking of bigger and better ways to get under Jesso’s skin.
“Where are you going?” Kator was still by the window.
“To find your man. I’ll phone you.”
“Just a moment.” Kator was in the middle of the room when Jesso turned. “You will take one of my men with you. As I explained to you earlier-”
Jesso stopped at the door. He made it short. “I work alone. Send one of your monkeys and you won’t find your man for weeks. I’ll see to that.” He slammed the door.
Chapter Four
The other Cook lived in Brooklyn. After Jesso had taken Murph’s list, he decided on the Cook in Brooklyn first. Murph had finished with the carburetor in the meantime, so Jesso took Gluck’s car.
The address was a store that said, “Notions.” The dim insides hung full of dusty dresses, and everything looked twice as cheap where a naked bulb made a glitter on the boxes of fancy buttons. When Jesso came in, a fat woman with an apron over her coat was scratching a fingernail over the plastic eye of a button. “No, thanks, dearie, it ain’t what I want,” she said. Her other hand dropped something into her pocket. “No, dearie, this ain’t the right color,” she said, and left through the door.
The other one didn’t look any better. She watched Jesso walk up to the counter. When the glare from the bulb hit his face she said, “What do you want?”
“Buttons,” Jesso said.
She patted her hair. It was a rumpled gray and she kept patting it as if that were going to make a difference.
“The buttons I’m after are blue. Popeye blue, Mrs. Cook.”
She stopped patting. “How’d you know my name?”
“Your father told me.”
She leaned her face closer and Jesso saw wrinkles stretch in her neck.
“You’re lying. He ain’t left the back in years.” She straightened up again and folded her big arms. “What do you want, copper?”
Jesso laughed. Then he stopped and put his hands in his pockets. “Where’s Bonetti?”
She still look rattled. “Who’s that?”
“Your old man, in the back. He ain’t left the back in years, you said.”
She was stupid. “Who’s Bonetti?” she said again.
Jesso shrugged and walked through the curtain in the back. It was even darker there. He stumbled over an empty carton that lay on the floor and hit his leg against a sewing machine. Then he stood still, trying to get his bearings. Tissue paper crackled under his feet and there was a smell of burned coffee.
“He’s a copper,” the woman said from the curtain.
“Oh, no, he ain’t.”
Jesso turned, looking for the cackly voice. Then he saw Bonetti. He sat all sunken in a wheel chair, his old man’s jaws chomping in a constant tic, and there was a big. 45 in his hand. It trembled a little, but the aim was good enough.
“Call the police, Ann,” Bonetti said.
Jesso kept his hands down, turned slowly.
“Go ahead, Ann,” he said. “Gluck’s going to like that. And Snell.”
But Gluck didn’t mean a thing to Bonetti and he ignored the name Snell.
“Go on, Ann,” he said. He kept working his jaws.
Bonetti’s daughter stepped around the sewing machine and grabbed the phone off the hook. “Police,” she said.
When she was connected with the police she gave her name and address, and asked to have a man sent out right away, because her daddy had caught a prowler and was holding a gun on him. She hung up and turned to Jesso. “Smart guy,” she said, and worked her mouth the way her father was doing it.
“That’s right,” Jesso said. He stood still and watched the old man’s gun. The muzzle was making short, trembly arcs, the safety was off, and one bony finger held the trigger the way it ought to be held.
“Lemme reach for a smoke,” Jesso said. He waited for an answer.
