01. Labyrinth of Dreams (7 page)

It was beginning to come together. If he had photos, so did others, and somebody on the wrong side, maybe even an old classmate from Harvard who was graduating Magna Cosa Nostra, knew about it and filed it away. He had another place somewhere, and that place was probably downtown. He had periods when he came to work normally, yet didn't go home at night. He wouldn't want to risk going even by taxi or public transportation, for fear of being recognized by some bank employee or other and finally being traced. That meant walking distance.

"Sansom Street," we both said together. "Now, who do we know in that area?" I added, trying to think.

Sansom was a tiny little street right downtown that was the focus for the local gay community, but also had been a refuge for the social misfits from other areas. It had those kinds of shops that sold incense and handmade leather goods, and had others that sold bean curd by the pound. It was more picturesque and quaint than raunchy, which is why it survived. The raunchy areas weren't far away, but Sansom was safe. These blue bloods sure had more interesting lives than the folks
I
hung out with.

The trouble was, while this narrowed down the area and gave us someplace to look, it also vastly complicated matters. We didn't really know what he looked like dressed as a woman, and Minnie had said that the album had vanished and was never seen again after that one time. Hell, he could be wearing a wig in any style, made-up, wearing a padded bra under a dress, high heels, and come right up to us and ask us to buy him a drink. Worse, he'd walk right past the feds at the airport or train station, laughing all the way out, carrying the money in checked luggage.

Maybe Little Jimmy
did
simply need all the help he could get.

3.

The Path to G.O.D.

I have to admit that I'd really underestimated Martin Whitlock, just like the feds and the mob had. It took some kind of brains to steal two and a quarter million bucks from the mob, get exposed in a drug-laundry scheme, and vanish for three days without a trace while not moving more than six blocks from his office. The only amateur's slip he made was calling his wife. That was the crazy thing. I think they still loved each other, in a way. She wasn't just protecting him for image's sake; this stuff was bound to hit the papers in a big way sooner or later—his disappearance already had, and the reporters had no problems tying it to federal bank examiners moving in at Tri-State. Hell, Minnie might well sell the sordid stuff for the right price if nothing else happened. No, his wife was protecting him because, in spite of everything, she still loved him. And he had risked a farewell phone call to her, too. And I thought
we
had problems! Just goes to show that millions of bucks and two Mercedes mean less than you think. Of course, I'll still take his money and my marriage any day.

The trouble was, this new situation had made me fall back on resources I really didn't like to use. I called Little Jimmy and briefed him on the case to date, and he seemed really excited about it. I also told him about Agent Kennedy, something he took in stride, and his taking it in stride made me very upset.

"Listen, Nkrumah, I'm not doing any stretch because I was hung out to dry for a measly few grand and a charge account. You want me to lead them away, you tell me, and I'll lead them away instead of pressing this. No more games, though, huh?"

"Why, Samuel! I wouldn't
dream
of hanging you out to dry on this! In fact, those people are why I cannot move through normal channels. They have everything sewed up tight. I can't
breathe
without them noticing and in their ham-handed way notifying certain parties of my, ah, problem. In fact, if it makes you feel any better, give this Kennedy a call and brief him from time to time. Just be certain it's the
second
call you make."

"That won't give you much breathing room," I noted.

"Oh, that's all right. I have resources in high places."

"Seems to me you're thinking that your own bosses are mighty dumb," I couldn't help but point out. "I mean, this guy's vanishing act hasn't hit the front pages yet, but it will sooner or later."

"Oh, they won't care about
him.
I
don't mind if they
do
think he took a powder just ahead of the bank examiners and the narcs. It's my money, not theirs, that is at stake, and they are getting things exactly as they expect. Don't worry. I can keep things under control—if you can on your end. It might be best if we arranged a different number to use. I really don't mind them discovering who you're working for—they probably already know— but I really would mind if they overheard something and queered it. Don't call again. I'll be in touch with alternatives."

"Okay, but I need a guide through these local sewers. Somebody with clout whose information will be reliable and who won't go squealing to Kennedy all the time."

"I have an idea. Go home. Get some sleep. I'll see what I can do."

And he was as good as his word. Believe it or not, the next morning the man from Federal Express came by with one of those overnight letters and it was from somebody I never heard of in Sacramento, California. Still, when I opened it, there was a note that I could only assume originated with Little Jimmy a couple of miles across town.

There will be somebody at a phone booth at seven AM and again at seven PM at each of the numbers below. Call them, in order, at the indicated times with your reports and needs. Ask for Sandalwood. If the person on the other end is not responsive, hang up and try the next number. Do not reuse a number. When the last one is dead I will get you a new list. As for your trusty guide, try Sgt. Albert Paoli, Central District Vice. You and he will just hit it off perfectly.

I knew Paoli—or, at least, I knew
of
him. He was wholly owned and operated by the mob, although which branch I never really knew. Still, with his years on the pad and who-knew-what skeletons in his vast closets, he wasn't the kind of guy to betray anybody—and he was too low a fish to get complete immunity if he got a sudden case of nerves or conscience. The last thing any cop wants is to do time in the pen.

Paoli was an all-right sort of guy with some people, but he had certain strong dislikes that you might call hatred. He hated Jews, for example, even more than he hated blacks, and he hated the idea of mixed marriages even more than both of those groups. These paled only in comparison to his total and complete hatred of all private investigators. The word to cooperate might have originated with Little Jimmy, but I'd bet my life it was delivered in Italian.

Brandy and I stopped by a shopping mall before going into Philadelphia, and spent some time there, and a fair amount of Little Jimmy's dough. In fact, I was beginning to think that if we recovered all two and a quarter million, we'd still owe the big weasel money. Still, with me there to try things on, I had clothes now that looked decent and fit me, and Brandy had almost a wardrobe. It was the first time she'd done much with cosmetics and jewelry since she played that hooker, and even though this was understated and looked real good, it still didn't seem natural looking to me after all this time. After a nice, expensive charged lunch, we drove over to see Sergeant Paoli.

He was a thin, dour-looking man of maybe forty-five going on sixty, with less hair than I had, all gray, and one of the biggest noses this side of the ocean. Had a desk out in the middle of a combined office, but ushered us back immediately to a small private office obviously used in interrogations. The look of total disgust on his face was undeniable. Shoot somebody, yeah. Frame 'em, sure. Take bribes, screw your fellow officers, fine. But
we
were garbage.

"I need some reliables in the Sansom Street district," I told him. "Ones who might know the transvestites and the queens equally well, and know where they hide out in the daytime."

"Thinking of coming out of the closet?" he shot back like he meant it. "That's a pretty closed society in there, even harder because it's quite small. Most of that sort aren't downtown, they're down in south Philly."

"Either who I'm looking for is there, or he goes through there to make his changes," I responded. "He's real good at covering his tracks and he's now on the lam from You-Know-Who, and maybe the law as well."

"You want to give me a name?"

"You sure you want to know?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Whitlock. Martin Whitlock."

"The banker? Well, I'll be damned.... He's hotter than the Fourth of July right now. The feds are in. I can't do nothing about the feds."

"Screw the feds. I want him, and when I'm through they can have what's left. I've already got a deal with them, so don't think of getting into this thing yourself. I guarantee it'll just give you a choice between a bullet or ten years' hard time."

"It's your funeral," he replied, making it sound more like a wish than a warning. "All right, I'll give you a couple of names and places. You'll have to track them down yourself. You can use my name to open the door, but after that, you don't
ever
use it again."

That was fair enough. I was fascinated by the fact that although we both sat there, he had refused not only to address Brandy but to even acknowledge her existence. We didn't like to stay where we weren't wanted, and we got out of there as quickly as we could.

"He don't like us much," Brandy noted. "I guess he likes the old days when everybody was named Capone, or Banana-nose, or something or other. Well, Lone Ranger, what we do now?"

"We park the horses, Faithful Indian Companion, and we leg it."

Joey Teasdale, Paoli's first suggestion, wasn't hard to find if you were patient, had a lot of twenty-dollar bills, and didn't seem to be cops. We were all three, although we must have walked three miles and spent a couple of C-notes before we found him sitting at a table in the first joint we'd covered. He was almost your stereotypical queen, with loud clothes, high-heeled boots, earrings, and more perfume than Brandy had worn in a lifetime. At least you felt reasonably safe with him; he sure wasn't any threat to Brandy, and I sure as hell wasn't his type. He was, however, extraordinarily courteous to Brandy, which was more than Paoli had been.

How long you been off the gooseberry lay, son?

"Paoli sent us. We're looking for somebody," I told him.

"You cops?"

"Private. The man lifted something of value from somebody you should never, never steal from, and split. He's hot and we need him before the good guys get him." Teasdale whistled. "That hot, huh? Who?"

"Whitlock. Martin Whitlock, the banker."
"Him?
What makes you think
he
would come through
here?"

"Look, we got no time for games," Brandy put in. "We got money 'cause the Man got ripped and he don't care what it takes to get even. You got it? Now, those who make themselves useful earn big brownie points with the Man. Those who don't, well, that goes in the report, too."

That hit home. "Yeah, okay, he comes through here regularly," Teasdale said with resignation. "Been coming down here for years. Not the usual kind, though. I mean, I'm a
man,
wouldn't be anything else. No offense, dear lady. We get a lot of those kind of guys who have a wife and kids and position because that's
important
to them, and then they come down here sneaking around to make little liaisons, if you know what I mean. He's not that kind. When
he's
down here, it's total. Looks, acts, sounds all girl, if you know what I mean. Even gets the voice soft and sultry. The drag queens, they just like the
pretending.
They're good, but they're acting and they always know they're acting. Not him. It's like they were two different people, one male, one all female. I sometimes had the idea he'd gotten the operation. Become a she, if you know what I mean, and that the man part was the acting."

I exchanged glances with Brandy and knew that we were both thinking the same thing. Suppose Joey Teasdale was right? It would explain a lot about why he and his wife hadn't had a real marriage in a long time but might still care for one another. It would also explain some of the long absences and why a guy like that would need enough money to be into the mob. If so, there might be nothing short of fingerprints that would nail him.

"You got any line on him?"

"Not immediate, but he never played around. Oh, he'd come into a place now and then, but mostly he didn't stick around here. He had a regular thing with somebody up in northeast Philly, I'm pretty sure. Only saw the guy once, when he came down to Honey's to get some of her—Whitlock's—things and they wouldn't let him in the door. I happened to be passing by and played kind of Sir Galahad; got somebody who could go get what he wanted."

"What'd he look like?" Brandy asked.

"I dunno. Average height and build, I guess. The only thing I remember clearly is he had long, flowing blond hair and a bushy blond walrus moustache and really
gorgeous
blue eyes. Looked kind of like an overage drummer from some rock band. Dressed that way, too. He was
quite
attractive, but it was kind of funny."

"Yes?"

"You sometimes get a sixth sense about these things. It can't be, of course, but I'd
swear
he wasn't the least bit gay."

I nodded. "When was this?"

"Just day before yesterday. That's why I remember him."

That was about all we could get from Joey, but it was both valuable and puzzling. Now we had at least one other player in Martin Whitlock's bizarre double life, and that player was a total unknown.

Honey Rodriguez was the second and last name on our list, and was also the one referred to by Joey Teasdale. This was strictly Brandy's to handle now, for the same reason that our mysterious blond man couldn't get in to get Martin Whitlock's things, although it was frustrating to me. They just didn't let men in the Center City Lesbian Center and Coffee House without a warrant.