Dead Street

He read off five names, giving me their backgrounds and I stopped him in mid-sentence with, “Who was that last one, Darris?”

He checked back and said, “Romero Suede. Suede — like the shoes.”

“Late twenties, six feet tall, dark, pockmarked complexion?”

“Sounds like the very beauty,” Darris replied. “You know him?”

“If it’s the same Suede, my old partner nailed him twice for possession of narcotics. He got six months on Riker’s Island, did four and was turned loose.”

“Who got him off?”

“That came at the request of the city. The place was overcrowded and they needed the space.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll check it out. Incidentally, where’s home base for that ice cream business?”

“That’s one of the Garrison projects.”

“You know anything about that operation?”

“No,” he told me, “But if you want to take a ride to the county seat with me, we can check out the tax rolls and see if we recognize any names.”

“You’re on, Darris. Pick me up in the morning. You’ll give a nice official overtone to the inquiry.”

And he did.

Sunset Lodge was a well-respected development and the nature of our requests was simply to see who we might contact to share mutual interests in expansion possibilities.

We got what we needed.

Al Capone liked Florida. So did a lot of other hoods in the old Prohibition days. Some of them drifted down the Keys for retirement, away from the probing of big city cops, or to establish a new line of illegal traffic. For a while Cuba made a great base, then South America opened up a new narcotics trade potential. The ones who got rich went back to being part of the financial underworld, turning dirty money into clean cash.

Retired mobsters weren’t just living at Garrison Estates — they owned it!

On the way back, Darris behind the wheel of his hopped-up black Ford, I said, “Buddy, I think we’re up to our ears in one big, deadly scam.”

“What?” His voice was soft, but the way he said it was like thunder cracking.

“Do me a favor,” I said, “keep a close watch on Bettie. And I mean close. Get one of the station house bunch, or several, to keep a relay cover on her. They know the routine and they know me.”

“How about Joe Pender — he was a pal of yours, right?”

“Perfect. And anybody Joe recommends.”

“Weapons?”

“Damn right.”

“But...”

“The old warhorses’ll be glad for the action.”

“Jack... these guys are all married.”

“I know. You think their wives protested when they were on a hot case?”

He didn’t answer me.

I said, “They’re cops’ wives, pal. They’re with us.”

“I should have known better than arguing with the Shooter,” he told me. “Now, where will you be?”

“Unfortunately, back in the Big City.”

“Unfortunately for the Big City,” he said.

Something had happened to me.

The Big City had become jammed with those “teeming” throngs that had always seemed so natural before. Suddenly they were all strange faces and behind each face was some odd agony that no one else knew about and the afflicted didn’t want to divulge. I used to see these aberrations and try to study them, but this time nothing formed into a clear matrix. I tried to ignore them and go about my business.

Sometimes I’d had to shoot one of them. I didn’t like it, but if I hadn’t, that one would have shot somebody else. Now, there was that feeling again. Something was happening and it wasn’t clear yet. It was arising like an animal awakening from hibernation and it was going to be angry and vicious if anything got in its way.

It was an instinctive gesture, but my hand ran over the familiar bulge that said the old, well-oiled Co... .45 was in its hip holster where it was ready in case all the action was suddenly shoved in my face.

Going into this alone was bad news, so I called Davy Ross and got him just as he was leaving his office at his new assignment.

I said, “I’m back again, Dave. This thing keeps getting bigger and bigger.”

“They all do, Jack. What’s going on?”

“I need backup, buddy — this is going to need more hands.”

“Want me to alert some of the group here?”

“Tell them to keep their cell phones handy. And their sidearms.”

“Got it... and by the way... I got a call to be passed on to you. Remember that vet, Brice, from Staten Island?”

I felt a coldness come down on me like a sudden shower.

“Yeah. What happened?”

“Somebody tried to knock him off. They got into his bedroom and took a shot at him, but one of those pet dogs of his jumped the guy from behind, and the bullet missed. The mutt got his teeth into the guy.”

“Bastard get away?”

“Yeah, guy pulled loose, left part of his coat sleeve behind and got into a car that was running outside the office. An old man, a light sleeper, heard the car’s engine going and looked out the window to see what was happening and caught the end of the action. Couldn’t identify the car and didn’t see the plates.”

I put the phone down and stared at the wall.

How would they get the connection between Bettie and the vet?

And why? That part was easy... she could have hidden the information that was so critical to the mob there and a hit man was sent to search the place, knocking off anyone who tried to interfere.

There was only one answer. I called Bettie and after four rings she answered.

I said, “Bettie, this is Jack. Did you call Dr. Brice recently?”

“Why... yes. The other day. With my memory returning, I just... just had to. Why? Was that bad?”

“No, kid. Just tell me what happened.”

“It was just to say hello and we didn’t talk for more than five minutes. He had a sick animal he was tending to.” She stopped, then asked quizzically, “Why?”

“You call Darris over now. Like right away. Tell him I said to clean your phone circuitry.”

“But...”

“Please, doll, do it. Now.”

“Very well.” After a brief pause she said, “Is everything all right?”

“It will be,” I told her and hung up.

Technology.

It had changed most of the criminal minds so that they knew how to use the greatest scientific advances for their own ends. They had the money to do it and the manpower to make it work. How they knew to tap Bettie’s phone was a mystery right now, but all mysteries finally get solved sooner or later.

There was another part of the puzzle that was evident now. If they knew where she was, why didn’t they kill her?

Because she still had something vital they needed, and that was buried in her lost memory.

Then something else flittered through my mind. How did the mob know she had lost her memory? Nothing was ever printed in the papers except the fact that she had been presumed killed when the car went over the bridge.

There was a damn leak.

Someplace in her past, someone knew of the infirmity and somehow passed word to somebody else and the