Ed McBain - Downtown (19 page)

There were three credit cards in the wallet. And an Actors Equity card. And a Screen Actors Guild card. And an AFTRA card. And three postage stamps in twenty-five-cent denominations, no longer any good for first-class mail.

And this year's calendar, small and plastic and soon to expire. And a TWA Frequent Flight Bonus Program card. And a slip of paper with what looked like a handwritten telephone number on it. "Here we go," he said. "Good idea," Connie said. "Let's." "What's the matter with you?" "I don't like being here with that person on the bed." "Is this a New York exchange?" he asked, and showed her the telephone number. "Yes." "Let's try it." "No. Let's leave." "Connie ..."

"Michael, that person on the bed is dead." "I know."

"You're _already wanted for _one murder ..." "I know." "You've already been _shot ..." "I know." "So let's get out of here, okay? Before ..." "Let's try this number first."

"Michael, every time you try a number ..."

"Maybe this time we'll get lucky," he said, and winked. Connie did not wink back.

Instead, she followed him sullenly

283 down the hallway and into the study again. He sat at the desk with the wall of black-and-white photographs in front of him, and he dialed the telephone number scrawled in a spidery handwriting on the slip of paper, and he waited, waited, waited ... "Hello?" A woman's voice.

"Yes, hello, I'm calling for Charlie Nichols," he said. "Sorry, he's not here," the woman said.

"I know he isn't, I'm calling _for him. Who's this, please?"

"Judy Jordan," she said. "Who's this?" "Hello?" he said. "Hello?" she said. "Hello, Miss Jordan?" "Yes, I'm here." "Hello?" he said. "I can hear you," she said.

"I'll have to call back," he said, and hung up. "Did you get cut off?" Connie asked. "No," he said.

He was already looking through Charlie's address book again. He flipped rapidly through E, F, H ... "Here it is," he said. "Jordan, Judy."

Connie looked at the address. "The Seventh Precinct," she said. "Where they found the body in your car."

"Then we'd better go see her," he said. "Why?" Connie asked. He looked at her. And felt suddenly foolish. She was right, of course.

He'd found a telephone number in a dead man's wallet, and he'd called that number, and the woman who'd answered the phone was named Judy Jordan. So? Why go see her?

He was tired. And beginning to feel that perhaps the best thing to do, after all, was run on over to the police station and tell them he was the man they were looking for and could he please make a call to his lawyer, Mr. David Lang in Sarasota, Florida? Connie knew where all the precincts were, they could drive over to the nearest one in Shi

Kai's broken convertible. Or perhaps he

285 should call Dave first, ask him to take the next plane up to New York, hole up in Connie's apartment until he got here, and _then go to the police togeth-- "Judy _who, did you say?" This from Connie. Who not five minutes ago had been urging him to please get the hell out of here. But who now seemed to have a note of renewed interest in her voice.

"Jordan," he said, and turned to look up at her. Connie was looking at the wall. Specifically, she was looking at a photograph of Charlie Nichols and a teenage girl. Charlie was a much younger man in the photograph; Michael guessed the picture had been taken at least fifteen years ago. The girl couldn't have been older than sixteen or seventeen. She was wearing a white sweater and a dark skirt and she was grinning up into Charlie's face. Charlie was holding both her hands between his own. Written in blue ink across the girl's sweatered breasts were the words __To My Dear Daddy, With _Love and beneath that the signature _Judy _Jordan. Michael leaned in closer to the picture. The young girl had long, dark hair. But aside from that, she was a dead ringer for Helen Parrish. "Also," Connie said, "does Benny have to be a _person?" "What?" Michael said.

"Because there's a place called Benny's in SoHo, and maybe that's where Crandall went to meet Charlie's mother, in which case we should take Crandall's picture there in case somebody might remember him from last night, don't you think?" Michael kissed her. The bartender's name was Charlie O'Hare.

"There are lots of Charlies in this city, you know," he said. "Yes, I know," Michael said. They were sitting at the bar. The place was unusually crowded for Christmas night, but then again Michael had never been in a bar on Christmas

night, and maybe they were all this crowded.

287 It was a very Irish bar. No frills. A utilitarian saloon designed for drinkers. Sawdust on the floor. No cut-glass mirrors, no green-shaded lamps like in the place last night where they'd set Michael up for theft and accusation. A nice friendly neighborhood saloon with a handful of people sitting in the booths or at the tables or here at the bar, all of them wearing caps and looking like nice friendly IRA terrorists. "Here's his picture," Michael said, and showed him the eleven-year-old clipping from the Nice newspaper. He had taken it out of its frame. The back of the clipping was a story about a Frenchman who'd leaped into the Mediterranean to save a German tourist who should have known better than to be swimming in the sea in May. Crandall smiled out from his photograph.

"He's even fatter now," Michael said.

"No, I don't know him," O'Hare said. "Is this French here?" "Yes." "What's it say here under the picture?" "Arthur Crandall before the showing of his film _War _and _Solitude yesterday afternoon." "So what is he, an actor?" "No, he's a director."

"Sheesh," O'Hare said. "And this is a new movie?" "No, it's an old one." "Then how come they showed it yesterday afternoon?" "They showed it eleven years ago." "I musta missed it." "Do you recognize him?" "No."

"Take a look at the picture again. He would've been here last night at eight o'clock." "I don't remember seeing him." "Were you working last night?" "Yeah, but I don't remember seeing this guy."

"He would've been meeting somebody's mother."

"Well, we get a lot of mothers in here, but I don't remember this guy sitting with anybody's mother," O'Hare said. "Were you working the bar alone?" "All alone."

"So he couldn't have been sitting at the bar." "Not without my noticing him." O'Hare looked

at the newspaper clipping again. "This is

289 a French movie?" he asked. "No, it's American." "Then why is this written in French?" "Because that's where they showed it."

"I can understand why they never showed it here. That sounds really shitty, don't it, _War _and _Solitude? Would you go see a movie called _War _and _Solitude?" "They did show it here." "Here? In New York?" "I think so." "I never heard of it. _War _and _Solitude. I never heard of it. It sounds shitty."

"A lot of people agreed with you," Michael said. "Don't she speak English?" O'Hare asked, jerking his head toward Connie. "I speak English," she said.

"'Cause I thought maybe you spoke only Chinese, sitting there like a dummy."

"I don't have anything to say," Connie said. "You're a very pretty lady," O'Hare said. "Thank you," Connie said. "She's very pretty," O'Hare said to Michael.

"Thank you," Michael said. "Who would've been working the booths last night? And the tables." "Molly."

Michael looked around. He didn't see any waitresses in the place. "Is she here now?"

"She was here a minute ago," O'Hare said. He craned his neck, looking. The door to the ladies' room opened. A woman who looked like Detective O'Brien, except that she was fully clothed, came out and walked directly toward where someone signaled to her from one of the booths. She had flaming red hair like O'Brien's and she was short and stout like O'Brien, and she waddled toward the bar now with a sort of cop swagger that made Michael think maybe she _was O'Brien in another disguise. "Two Red Eyes," she said. "Water chasers." O'Hare took from the shelf behind him a bottle of what looked like house whiskey, the label unfamiliar to Michael. He poured liberally into two glasses, filled two taller glasses with water, and put everything onto Molly's

tray.

291 "When you got a minute," he said, "this gentleman would like a few words with you." Molly looked Michael up and down. "Sure," she said, and swaggered over to the booth. "Molly used to wrestle in Jersey," O'Hare said. "Really?" "They called her the Red Menace." "I see." "Because of the red hair." "Yes."

"Which is real, by the way," O'Hare said, and winked. Molly came back to the bar. "So?" she said. "What now?"

Michael showed her the newspaper clipping. "Ever see this man in here?" he asked. "You a cop?" Molly asked. "No," Michael said. "You sure?" "Positive."

"'Cause I was thinking of calling the cops." "No, I don't think we need ..."

"Last night, I mean. When I heard what the two of them were talking about." "Who do you mean?" "Mr. Crandall. And the Spanish guy with him." "You mean you know him?" "No, I don't _know him. I only recognize him." "Arthur Crandall?" "I don't know his first name. I only know he's Mr. Crandall." "How do you happen to know that?" "Because of the phone call." "What phone call?"

"The phone call that came in the phone booth over there. For Mr. Crandall."

"Who turned out to be the man in this picture, am I right?" "Yes." "Arthur Crandall." "If that's his first name." "That's his first name." "Then that's who it was." "What about this phone call?"

"Don't rush me. That was later. Earlier,

they were sitting at that table over there," she

293 said, and gestured vaguely, "which is when I heard them talking." "What time was this?" "Around eight-fifteen."

"And you're sure this is the man?" Michael asked, and showed her the clipping again. "Yeah, that's him all right. Though he's fatter now."

"But you say he was with another _man? Not a woman?" "Not unless she had a thick black mustache," Molly said.

"Why'd you want to call the cops?" Connie asked.

"Who's this?" Molly said, and looked her up and down. "Connie Kee," Michael said. "Is she Chinese?" "Yes."

"I thought so," Molly said. "Is it okay to talk in front of her?" "Yes, absolutely." "Because Chinese people are funny, you know," Molly said. "Funny how?" Connie asked, truly interested. "They're always yelling," Molly said.

"That's true," Connie said. "But that's because they're not sure of the language. If they yell, they think you'll understand them better."

"Well, I wish they wouldn't yell all the time." "Me, too," Connie said. "It makes me feel like I did something wrong."

"Japanese people never yell, did you notice that?" O'Hare said. "Excuse me," Michael said, "but why _did you ...?was "Yes, they're very quiet and polite," Molly said. "Why did you want to ...?was "Well, they're two very different cultures," Connie said. "Oh, certainly," Molly said. "The Korean, too. And also the Vietna ..."

"Excuse me," Michael said, "but why did you want to call the police?" "What?"

"Last night."

295

"Oh. Well, because of what they were _talking about, why do you think?" "What were they talking about?" "A _body," Molly said, lowering her voice. "A dead _body." "Who?" Michael asked.

"The two of them in the booth. Mr. Crandall and the Spanish guy with the mustache." "I mean, the body. Who was it?" "They didn't say." "Well, what did you hear them ...?was

"The Spanish guy was saying he already had the corpse. That's when I almost called the police." "But you didn't."

"No. Because I figured the man had to be an embalmer." "Uh-huh."

"Or one of those people who does autopsies at the hospital." "Uh-huh."

"But then Mr. Crandall said if Charlie could de ..." "Charlie!" Michael shouted and almost leaped off the stool. "Jesus, you scared the _shit out of me," Molly said, backing away. "Did you say _Charlie?" "What the hell's wrong with you?" "What _about Charlie?"

"I think this guy's crazy," Molly said to O'Hare. "Nah, he's okay," O'Hare said, indicating with a shrug that in his lifetime as a bartender he had served many, many nutcases picking at the coverlet.

"Tell me about Charlie," Michael said. Molly sighed and rolled her eyes.

"He said if Charlie could deliver what they needed ..." "Crandall said?"

"Yes. Said if Charlie could deliver what they needed, then they could plant the stiff before midnight." "Plant the stiff." "He meant the corpse." "Uh-huh." "He meant they could bury the corpse before midnight."

"That's what _you think," Connie said

297 knowingly. "Which is when I almost called the cops again," Molly said. "Because even if the man

_was an undertaker, why would he be burying

anybody at midnight? On Christmas Eve, no less."

"_Before midnight," O'Hare corrected. "Right," Molly said, "on Christmas _Eve. But then the Spanish guy told Mr. Crandall there wasn't any hurry, the body would keep, it was on ice, so I guessed he was a legitimate undertaker, after all." "Did you happen to catch his name?" "No." "What this was," O'Hare said, "this Spanish undertaker was waiting for Charlie to bring the dead man's suit and underwear or whatever, his _stuff, you know, so they could dress him all up before they buried him." "That's what _you think," Connie said again. "Which is another thing I don't like about Chinese people," Molly said. "What's that?" Connie asked, truly interested again. "They think they're so fucking smart," Molly said. "Yes, that's true," Connie said.

"That's 'cause they _are so fucking smart," O'Hare said. "That's true, too," Connie said.

"Excuse me," Michael said, "but did either of them say what Charlie was supposed to deliver?" "Your I.D., of course," Connie said. "So when they planted the corpse with _Crandall's I.D. on it ..." "They could _also drop ..."

"Do you know what these two are talking about?" Molly asked O'Hare. "Sure," O'Hare said. "What?" "The stiff's dog tags." "What dog tags?" "To put in his mouth. The stiff's."

"I think _you're crazy, too," Molly said, shaking her head. "What else did they say?" Michael asked.

"Mr. Crandall said he wanted to get moving

on it, and he wished Charlie would hurry

299 up and do what he had to do." "Did he mention Charlie's last name?" Michael asked. "No." "He didn't say Charlie Nichols?"