“Yeah. One.” Paul leaned closer, over the counter. “I’ll tell you, but you didn’t hear it from me, right?”
“Right.”
Paul looked uncertain.
“Please, I swear.”
“Okay.” Paul sighed. “He used to get calls from a guy named Eyes. I remember that name more than the others.”
Mary felt her pulse quicken. “Eyes. A nickname, obviously.”
“Yeah. That was Bobby, with the nicknames.” Paul looked over when the door opened behind them, and a gaggle of young women entered, chattering and laughing. He acknowledged them with a wave. “Be right with you, ladies.”
“You know anything else about Eyes?”
“No, just what I told you.”
Mary handed him a business card she had ready in her coat pocket. “If you remember anything, or think of anything that might help, will you call me?”
“Sure.” Paul slipped the card in his jeans and smiled at the girls. “What’ll it be, ladies?”
“Butterflies!” they answered.
And Mary took off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
T he press mobbed the parking lot in front of the Roundhouse, and Mary parked in the public lot next door, to ease her escape later. She had tried to reach Brinkley to tell him about Eyes, but his cell phone wasn’t taking any more messages, so she’d come to the Roundhouse to tell him. She knew he’d said he didn’t want her here, but she had to let him know what she’d found out. And she’d promised she wouldn’t follow up on any Mob leads, so she wanted credit for being a good girl.
Also she was a big chicken.
She parked and got out of the car, and though the sky had gone gray, slipped on sunglasses to avoid being recognized by the press. The Donchess kidnapping was still in the news, the baby fighting the Mob for space above the fold. She kept her head down and hurried to the entrance of the Roundhouse, barreling past microphones and cameras. She entered a lobby bustling with uniformed cops, staff, and lawyers, and suddenly she heard somebody call her name. She turned, and a delighted Giulia was steaming toward her with Mean Girls in her wake, trailing their red, white, and blue extensions like an American flag on a speedboat.
“Yo, girlfriend!” Giulia wrapped Mary in a warm embrace. “I called your cell, did you get the message? Can you believe they killed Bobby? And they still can’t find T? Her mom’s freaked!”
“I bet.” Mary extricated herself, feeling oddly happy to see her. “What are you doing here? You’re not bothering Brinkley, are you?”
“Nah, we’re tryin’ to see the dude from Missing Persons. I left him a buncha messages but he won’t return them, so we’re waitin’ for him to come down.”
Missy added, “He’s gotta leave, sooner or later.”
Yolanda cracked her gum. “There’s only one way out. We checked.”
“Why’re you here?” Giulia was blocking the elevator, so Mary moved her out of the way and the two other Mean Girls followed like shavings to a cartoon magnet.
“I’m going up to talk to Brinkley.”
“Good.” Giulia grinned. “I knew you’d be on it. I knew you wouldn’t desert us. We been outta our minds. We wanna help but we don’t know how.”
“I do,” Mary said, getting an idea. “Bobby was friendly with a mobster named Eyes. Does that nickname mean anything to you?”
“Eyes?” Giulia repeated, frowning in thought. “No, not off the top a my head.”
“Me either.” Yolanda popped her gum. “I know One Eye Petrone, but that ain’t the same thing.”
Missy nodded. “I know Bobby The Nose and Chicken Neck Timmy. That’s it for body parts.”
Mary felt discouraged, and Giulia must have read her expression because she touched her arm. “Don’t stress, Mare,” she said. “We don’t know all the wiseguys, only the ones we slep’ with. How about we ask around the neighborhood who Eyes is?”
“I don’t know,” Mary answered. “It could be dangerous. Forget it. I’ll tell Brinkley. The cops can follow up.”
“Are you for real?” Giulia scoffed. “Nobody in the neighborhood’s gonna talk to the cops about that. Let us do it.”
“Us, they’ll talk to.” Missy nodded.
“Okay,” Mary said, reluctantly, “but you have to promise me one thing, crazy. Don’t go asking the actual guys in the Mob. Only ask normal people, neighborhood people. I don’t want you dead unless I kill you myself.”
“No problem.” Giulia jigged with happiness, drawing admiring glances from more than a few cops. “Now will you write down the questions for me, like before?”
“Sure.” Mary dug in her purse for her Filofax. “Let me get some paper.”
“Use this.” Yolanda offered her the Daily News, and the paper fell open to the obituaries, which were dominated by a large photo of an elderly woman with a sweet smile.
“Hey, look, that’s what’s her name!” Giulia tapped the woman’s photo with a lacquered fingernail. “She musta died. It’s a sin.”
Mary found her Filofax and glanced at the obit, of one Elisa Felton. “Did you know her, Giulia?”
“No, but Trish did. She was one a her clients. She’s Miss Tuesday Thursday.”
“What?” Mary only half-listened, opening the Filofax and pulling out a blank page.
“T was an assistant when she met Miss Tuesday Thursday and when she got old, T went to her condo at the Dorchester every Tuesday and Thursday at lunch and blew her out.”
“Like room service for your hair,” Missy explained, and Yolanda nodded.
“Miss Tuesday Thursday tipped Trish a hundred bucks each time. You believe that? A hundred bucks! Must be nice.”
Mary wrote sample questions on the tiny sheet of paper, each a variation of Do you know a guy named Eyes?
But Giulia was studying the obit. “Hey, this is whack. It says that Miss Tuesday Thursday was in the hospital for a long time. She even went into a coma last week.”
“Wrong.” Missy frowned. “Show me.”
“Where?” Yolanda asked, and the women clustered around the newspaper while Mary finished writing her questions. When she tore off the sheet, they were looking at her in confusion.
“I don’t get it.” Giulia held up the obit. “It says here Miss Tuesday Thursday was in the hospital for two months. But T blew her out last Thursday. She told me. T got a two-hundred-buck tip from her, last time. She even showed it to me when she got back to the salon.”
“I saw the money, too. I was there.” Missy chimed in. “But how could Miss Tuesday Thursday get blown out if she was in a coma?”
“T lied to us,” Yolanda said flatly, and Giulia shoved her angrily.
“Don’t be runnin’ T down, Yo. You don’t know she lied. I’m sure she had a good reason.”
“She lied, G!” Yolanda snapped. “Don’t go takin’ up for her. She’s been lyin’ about it for the past two months, she had to be. So where’s she been at lunch, every Tuesday and Thursday?”
Missy lifted an eyebrow. “And where’d she get that tip money from?”
Giulia thrust the article at Mary, upset. “Read this for me. We must be readin’ it wrong.”
“Okay, trade me.” Mary gave her the questions for the newspaper and skimmed the obit. Mrs. Felton lived in the Dorchester, on Rittenhouse Square, and was heiress to the Welder fortune. Hospitalized for two months. Fell into a coma last week. Mary looked up, intrigued. “Sorry, but Trish couldn’t have done this woman’s hair last week, or anytime in the past two months.”
