confession plus an eight-by-ten glossy of him strangling her and we couldn't do shit with it. It's not admissible because we got it through an unauthorized search and seizure.' He sighed. 'Now if you were to go in on your own and I didn't know about it-'
'I haven't got the skills. He's got pickproof cylinders. I could spend a week and not get in the door.'
'Then forget it. It's his confession's gonna hang the bunch of them, not any evidence sitting in his apartment.'
I said what I'd been thinking about. 'Suppose he's in there.'
'Dead, you mean. Well, dead's dead, you know? If he's dead now he'll be just as dead tomorrow, and if you still haven't heard from him by then I'll have enough grounds to hunt up a judge and get in legally. Matt, if he's already dead he can't say anything to you that he can't say tomorrow.' When I was silent he said, 'Tell me straight out. You were standing in front of his door. Did you get the sense that he was dead on the other side of it?'
'Come on,' I said. 'I'm not a psychic.'
'No, but you got cop instincts. How would you call it? Was he in there?'
'No,' I said. 'No, the place felt empty to me.'
BY six he still hadn't shown and I was tired of lurking in doorways. I called my hotel again, and while I was at it I wasted two more quarters on calls to Paris Green and Grogan's. Not surprisingly, he wasn't at either of those places.
Three cabdrivers in a row made it clear that they weren't going to Maspeth. I went into the subway station at Fiftieth and Eighth and studied the map. The M would get me to Maspeth, but it seemed enormously complicated to get to it and I wouldn't know which way to walk when I got off it. Instead I took the E train two stops into Queens, getting off at Queens Plaza where I figured there would be taxis waiting. I got a driver who not only knew how to get to Maspeth but was able to find the arena. He pulled up in front of the entrance and I could see the FBCS vans parked where I'd seen them a week ago.
The sight was reassuring. I paid my cabby and walked over to the vans but didn't see Thurman. I bought a ticket and went through the turnstile and found a seat in the same spot where Mick and I had sat a week earlier. The first prelims were under way and a couple of listless middleweights were swinging at each other in the middle of the ring. I scanned the ringside seats of the center section, where I'd seen Bergen Stettner. I didn't see him now, or the boy either.
The four-rounder went to a decision. While the official was collecting the scorecards from the judges I went over to ringside and got the cameraman's attention. I asked him where Richard Thurman was.
'I don't know where the hell he is,' he said. 'He supposed to be here tonight? Maybe he's in the truck.'
I went outside and nobody knew where Thurman was. One man watching the telecast on a monitor said he heard the producer was going to show up late, and another man said he had the impression Thurman wasn't coming in at all. Nobody seemed greatly concerned over his absence.
I showed my stub and went through the turnstile again and returned to my seat. The next bout matched two local featherweights, a pair of scrappy young Hispanics. One was from nearby Woodside, and he got a big hand. They both threw a lot of punches but neither of them seemed capable of doing much damage, and the fight went six rounds to a decision. It went to the kid from Brooklyn, which seemed fair to me, but the crowd didn't like it.
There were two eight-rounders scheduled before the ten-round main event. The first one didn't go any distance at all; the fighters were heavyweights, both carrying far too much flab, both given to telegraphing their punches. About a minute into the first round one of them missed with a roundhouse right, spun around full circle, and caught a left hook right on the button. He went down like a felled ox and they had to throw water on him to revive him. The crowd loved it.
The fighters on the top of the undercard were in the ring waiting for the introduction when I glanced up the aisle toward the entrance. And there was Bergen Stettner.
He wasn't wearing the Gestapo coat a few people had described, or the blazer I'd seen him in last week. His jacket was suede, light brown in color, and beneath it he wore a dark brown shirt and a paisley ascot.
He didn't have the boy with him.
I watched as he chatted with another man a few yards from the turnstile. They finished the introductions, rang the opening bell. I went on watching Stettner. After another minute or two he clapped the other man on the shoulder and left the arena.
I walked out after him, but when I got outside I didn't see him anywhere. I drifted over to where the FBCS vans were parked and looked around for Richard Thurman, but he wasn't there to be seen and I didn't really think he was coming. I stood in the shadows and saw Bergen Stettner come around the side of the building and approach the vans. He talked with someone inside the van for a minute, then returned in the direction he'd come from.
I waited a few minutes before approaching the van. I stuck my head in the back and said, 'Where the hell is Stettner? I can't find him anywhere.'
'He was just here,' the man said without turning around. 'You just missed him, he was here not five minutes ago.'
'Shit,' I said. 'Say, did he happen to say where Thurman went to?'
Now he turned. 'Oh, right,' he said. 'You were looking for him earlier. No, Stettner wanted to know where he was, too. Looks like Thurman's gonna catch hell.'
'You don't know the half of it,' I said.
I showed my stub and went through the turnstile again. They were in the fourth round now. I didn't know anything about the fighters, I'd missed the introductions, and I didn't bother to reclaim my seat. I went over to the refreshment stand and got a Coke in a paper cup and stood in back drinking it. I looked around for Stettner but couldn't find him. I turned toward the entrance again and saw a woman, and for a second or two I thought she was Chelsea, the placard girl. I looked again and realized I was looking at Olga Stettner.
She had her long hair pulled back off her face and done up in a sort of bun on the back of her head. I think it's called a chignon. The style accented her prominent cheekbones and gave her a severe look, but she probably would have looked fairly stern anyway. She was wearing a short jacket of some dark fur and a pair of suede boots that reached to the tops of her calves. I watched as she scanned the room. I didn't know who she was looking for, her husband or Thurman. She wasn't looking for me; her eyes passed right over me with no flicker of recognition.
I wonder how I'd have reacted to her if I hadn't known who she was. She was an attractive woman, certainly, but there was something about her, some magnetism, that may have owed a lot to what I already knew about her. And I knew too goddamned much about her. What I knew made it impossible to look at her, and impossible not to.
BY the end of the fight they were both standing there, Bergen and Olga, looking out over the big room as if they owned it. The ring announcer gave the decision and each fighter in turn, along with a three- or four-man retinue, made his way from the ring to the stairwell off to the left of the entrance doors. After they'd dropped from sight two other fighters emerged via the same set of basement stairs, fresh where the outgoing fighters had been spent, making their way in turn down the main aisle to the ring. They were middleweights and they had both had a good number of fights in the area. I knew them from the Garden. They were both black, both had won almost all of their bouts, and the shorter and darker of the two had knockout power in either hand. The other kid wasn't as strong a puncher but he was very quick and had a reach advantage. It figured to be a very good matchup.
Like the previous week, they introduced a handful of boxing figures, including both scheduled participants in next week's main bout. A politician, the deputy borough president of Queens, got introduced and received a chorus of boos, which in turn sparked some laughter. Then they cleared the ring and introduced the fighters, and I glanced over at the Stettners and saw them making their way toward the stairs.
I gave them a minute's head start. Then they rang the bell for the start of the fight and I walked down the stairs to the basement.
At the foot of the stairs was a broad hallway with walls on either side of unfinished concrete block. The first door I came to was open, and inside I could see the winner of the previous bout. He had a pint bottle of Smirnoff in his hand and he was pouring drinks for his friends and taking quick nips from the bottle for himself.
I walked a little further and listened at a closed door, tried the knob. It was locked. The next door was open but the light was out and the room empty. It had the same interior walls as the hallway, the same floor of black
