“Oh?”
“Cross McMillan is ready to move in at the next board meeting. It’s scheduled a week before the contracts are formerly activated. Barrin Industries will come crashing down.”
The thought pulled my mouth apart and I said, “How about that?”
But Hunter didn’t grin back. He just sat there looking at me, then finally said, “That bastard streak in you sure shows. Eat your lunch.”
I had the cabbie drop Hunter off at his office, then head back down to the Flatiron Building. Al DeVecchio was still eating salami and slopping coffee from an oversize mug with one ear glued to a telephone. When he hung up he invited me to a snack, but I refused and sat in the empty rocker.
“You made the papers, kid,” he told me. “Both Madcap Merriman and Lagen have squibs about you. See it?”
“Nope.”
“Merriman’s description makes you out better than a movie star. A real sex symbol.”
“Good for her.”
“That Lagen’s a corker. He’s posing hypothetical questions ... have you come back to take over the ailing Barrin Industries and all that.”
“Should be good for a rise in the stock price.”
“Not in today’s market.” He put his cup down and leaned back in his rocker. “What’s bugging you, Dog?”
I stared out the window toward uptown Manhattan. The haze was thick and the outline of the Empire State Building was barely discernible. “You have any mob contacts, Al?”
He stopped rocking, his eyes squinting at me. “What?”
“Rackets. Mob. Organized crime.”
“Look, because I’m Italian ...”
“Don’t give me any ethnic crap, Al. You handled the bookkeeping on the Cudder Hotel chain. You set up Davewell Products and engineered all the business details for the Warton merger.”
He came halfway out of his chair. “How the hell did you know about that?”
“I do some homework too.”
He sat down slowly, the amazement on his face. “Some damn homework. Those were all clean deals or I never would have touched them.”
“How did you feel when you found out who was behind them?”
Al took another sip of his coffee and put it down with a grimace. “Shitty,” he said. “Old buddy, I’m giving you grudging respect, which is something coming from me. As for your first question, my mob contacts are nil and they stay nil. They offered me two more fat deals I told them to shove all the way and that ends it there.”
“Why did you get involved in the first place?”
“Easy, friend, real easy. They maneuvered through top-notch people I thought were clean and it wasn’t until a long time afterward that I found out I was putting dirty money into legitimate businesses. I even turned the information over to the feds, and right there it stopped. Graft can go into some pretty high places. Some of our elected or appointed officials have hot, sweaty palms.” He gave me another stare and shook his head. “Man ...”
“How about the contacts?” I repeated.
“Forget it.” I waited for a good minute, then: “Why?”
“A consignment of heroin for delivery here was sidetracked in Marseilles. I want to know who the receiver was.”
“Dog, you are out of your fucking mind!”
“I’m not in the business if that’s what’s bothering you.”
Al got up, paced the room once, then stood there glaring down on me. “What the hell business are you in?”
“Trying to stay alive, for one.”
“Man, you’re nuts. You think I’m going to ask anybody questions like that? You think I’m going to stick my neck out that far? You think I’m going to get involved with narcotics?”
“Sure I do, Al. Why fight it?”
“Go frig yourself.”
I grinned at him, a big fat grin. “You can’t help yourself anymore. Now you got to know what it’s all about.”
He let his hands drop helplessly by his sides, then turned them palms up in despair. “Where the hell did I go wrong? I put money in the poorbox, I support my family, I belong to the right clubs ...”
“Quit clowning,” I said. “Wait until you hear the facts.”
“Sure.”
“You’d better sit down.”
I didn’t tell him too much. There are times when it’s better to let them figure things out for themselves. Conscience and guilt complexes are factors that can throw a monkey wrench into anything and Al DeVeccho had more than enough of both. All I wanted from him was a probable lead on who was handling the big buys of heroin. There were other ways of finding out, but Al had an in and if he listened right even a hint could point in the right direction.
It took a while, but eventually he decided to go along because my ass was in a sling and for no other reason. I said, “How long do you think it will take?”
Al shrugged his shoulders. “The Davewell bunch wants me to do another audit. I was going to turn it down. Maybe I’ll start there.”
“When?”
“Tuesday. You care if I get somebody else in on this?”
“Use your own discretion.”
“If I did, I’d tell you to go piss up a stick. I never had any urge to go back into the gun business.”
“Just watch your step and you won’t.”
“I don’t want any bathtub treatments, either.”
My knuckles whitened when I squeezed my hands together, remembering what almost had happened. “That was before I smelled what was going on. Now I have Lee’s place locked off, a private security guard is on the floor and Lee knows enough to stay on his toes.”
“What about your other friends?”
“I’m the target. They know damn well I’ve never been connected with anyone on this side of the Atlantic. I’ll either be walking alone or ready to cover anything that happens.”
“You’d better have eyes in the back of your head then.”
“Don’t sweat it,” I said. “They may even get the picture that I’m out of the action all the way.”
“You know better than that.”
“It’s still a possibility.”
“Okay, have it your way. I still think I’m a nut for getting talked into this. At least you can keep the hell away from me for a while. If I learn anything, I’ll call that number or get you at the apartment.”
“Fine.”
“What are you planning on doing now?”
I smirked at him and got out of the rocker. “I got a date with a teenybopper named Sharon Cass who’s taking me to supper with Walt Gentry and her boss. Nothing like living big, old buddy.”
Al let out a few choice barracks words under his breath and didn’t even bother to say so long when I left.
Ordinarily, S. C. Cable could field any question with the nimble dexterity of the professional con man, but when Sharon threw the curve at him he was stopped cold and looked across the table at Walt Gentry in absolute amazement, groping for an answer. Walt just smiled his silly little smile that showed which side he was on and left the big tiger of Hollywood dangling.
Sharon wasn’t about to let it alone. “Well, why not?” she insisted. “It saves months of exploring for a practical location site, there’s power facilities, plenty of room, authentic period buildings and a cooperative
