Feelers (22 page)

And our friend Wolfman Charlie? He was still looking for the damn five million. That is why the bastard simply walked away from Dexter as he lay there in a smear of blood on the motel bathroom floor. Charlie headed home to Queens for some sleep, his gun a little more handy than before.

Ah.

But remember? The motel clerk memorized Charlie’s license plate. And the motel cameras got a picture of him and his black SUV.

Which was why he got a phone call that woke him up.

“Charlie. It’s AJ. Howareyah? How’s the boat?”

Charlie blinked at his alarm clock, and at the afternoon sun in the window, unsure of what time of day it was.

“Coming along. Almost finished. What’s up, AJ?”

“I should ask you. Detectives in East Brooklyn are hot for you, got you on tape at the scene of the beating of a reporter. Whatsupwidat?”

Charlie’s heart felt like it tripped and fell, and for a moment the room swam about him.

“Tape? I don’t understand.”

“Luna Motel. Says you was in the room where some reporter there got the shit beat out of him. He may not live. They need to talk to you, Charlie, you unnerstand? They’re callin’ here askin’ questions. I said I’d give you a call. Courtesy, seeing as how you’re a cop.”

“I don’t understand, AJ . . .” Charlie sat on the edge of the bed, batting away sleep’s cobwebs.

“They have your make of vehicle, your license, a witness, and the motel security tape. They say you was there, Charlie. Were you?”

“Yes, I was at the Luna Motel. I was trying to track down Danny Kessel, you know.”

“I know. Why else would you be in the Armpit of Brooklyn? Go on.”

“I started to follow the reporter, because I knew he was looking for Danny. Thought he would lead me to him. So he goes to the motel, and I follow him up to a room. I knock, no answer, so I leave.”

“Uh huhn. Well, you gotta come down.”

“Come down?”

“You know the drill, Charlie. You gotta tell the detectives what you know.”

Charlie groaned.

“When?”

“Now, Charlie, now.”

AT THIS STAGE OF THE
cat and mouse, I had had enough. Pete was not about to let me alone, but for the moment, I knew he was out of my way. This was a window of opportunity I might not get again.

A window of opportunity to get the money and make a run for it. There could be no hesitation once I had the Scottish suitcase in hand—I had to hit the highway and not look back, leaving my crappy furniture to the monster toad. No way could I go back there now.

Let us not forget, Father Gomez—I still had Danny to worry about, and at that point I had no idea I had just crushed his nuts. I had no reason to think that was Danny in the Trux place on Vanderhoosen Drive. To be brutally honest, it was the Donna Karan sunglasses that threw me. You do not expect a hardened murdering cutthroat degenerate con like Danny to be wearing giant Donna Karan sunglasses, do you, Father? I am certain your answer would be no.

So I drove directly from Vanderhoosen Drive to the storage place off the boulevard, a renovated factory with idle brick smokestacks. I kept an eye on my rearview mirror just in case I
was being followed and steered around the block a few times to be sure. I pulled in past the guard, parked, went in, and walked up three flights to my mini storage locker.

I pulled out my keys.

No locker key.

I stared openmouthed at the keys in my hand, but that did not make the key appear.

How was this possible? My keys are on a steel split ring, and none of the other keys were missing. Did I take the key off?

Of course not, you idiot. You have looked at that key a number of times, seen it winking and blinking and all that while you fantasized about a fountain four thousand miles away.

Last I saw it was that morning. Now it was gone. The keys had not left me at any time. Well, when I was undressed, of course, last night, I did not bring them to bed with me and . . . the shower!

I tell you, Father, I almost fainted. But moments later I was back in the parking lot lifting the battery from the Camaro, looking for the paperwork.

Gone. That bitch had really done some searching, yes? So much for Speedy’s father’s hiding place.

I climbed into the Camaro and revved her up. I think I set a new land speed record between U-Stor-It and Tangles. Check next year’s Guinness Book.

All those seemingly innocent questions about the money. Her wanting to help with my shelves so she could search my apartment. Instead of her date with Calgon, she came into my place to search while she knew I was at Oscar’s. Then that sneaky bitch Fanny stole the key to the storage locker while I bathed. Searched my car enough to find the paperwork, too.

My phone rang. I did not recognize the number but answered just the same.

“Morty,” a small voice squeaked over the line. “It’s Hugo.”

No kidding.

“Look, Hugo, I am kind of busy—”

“You seen Frog? He’s missing.”

“What do you mean
missing
?”

“Car is gone from his apartment complex, and when I was cashing my check down at the bank, the teller said she was sorry to see Frog go. I asked what she meant, and she said he was in earlier transferring his money to another bank.”

“So?”

“A bank in Switzerland. Morty, I think Frog skipped town.”

I scratched my head, my face contorted with confusion. I know because I saw my face in the visor mirror.

“Switzerland?” I knew that the last time I spoke with him that morning he was kind of jumpy about Dexter. Where was Dexter, anyway?

“Hugo, call me if he shows up. I am chasing something else down at the moment—talk to you later.”

What the hell was going on? No, I am not asking you, Father, because I now know. But at the time I did not.

CHARLIE BINDER SHOWED UP AT
the East Brooklyn precinct as I was closing in on Tangles. He did not know how he was going to play it because he was not sure how it was going to be. Would they treat him like a fellow cop? Or like a suspect? He knew the interrogation techniques.

There were two detectives in the interrogation room; one was white and one was Hispanic, both young. Charlie knew that was not good. It was not good because they were young and would not be as forgiving as someone of Charlie’s generation. It meant he was going to be treated like a suspect. Back in the day, it would have never gone down like this. You could get a pass on things like this if you were a fellow cop.

“Hi, Charlie, thanks for coming down,” the Hispanic one said, trying to smile. “Want some coffee or some water?”

Charlie tried to smile himself. Right away, there were four warning signs. The first was that the detectives made no move to shake hands. That would have signaled that they were equals, and an interrogator has to be in command. Second, they were not going to introduce themselves. Again, it helps them to be superior to the suspect—they know who you are but you do not
know who they are. Third, this guy was calling him by his first name—standard way of establishing familiarity with a suspect while at the same time remaining his superior. Fourth, the coffee meant they intended to take their time.

So Charlie put his hand out, and the Hispanic officer shook it somewhat reluctantly.

“Charlie Binder.”

“Detective Ruez, and this is my partner, Detective Pool.”

Charlie forced a handshake on the other detective. Now they knew he knew how to play the game.

“I was a detective here, you know, back when.” Charlie wistfully scanned the institutional room, table, chairs, and mirrored wall. “Interrogated quite a few people in this very room. I’ll take that coffee light and sweet.”

The two detectives shared a look but did not move to go get the coffee. Which meant that someone behind the mirror was going to get it. Which meant that they were probably video recording the interrogation, too. Charlie knew this was serious, and the detectives were not doing anything to make him think otherwise.

What crime had he committed, after all? Well, he knew about stolen money, Danny’s treasure, the money I had recovered. To plan to steal for his own purposes might be conspiracy, but he knew it was very unlikely the DA would ever seek an indictment on something with so little hard evidence. Finding the dead guy in the motel room—he did not believe that they could be positive Charlie went in the room. He had been careful to wipe the doorknobs and light switch. Unless they talked to that maid, the one who keyed the room for him. That could get him in trouble under some new Good Samaritan laws, if not an obstruction of justice statute—clearly he went there seeking Danny for a reason, which led into the conspiracy charge.

Charlie had to know if they talked to the maid. So he cut to the chase.

“We don’t need to wait for the coffee to start, fellahs. First, do you guys have any proof I went in that room?”

Ruez looked at his partner. Pool shrugged.

“The maid,” Ruez said.

“Right. I need a lawyer.”

This meant, of course, that even though the police were at least beginning to see what had happened, Charlie was going to tell them as little as possible. This would not make it easy for the cops to figure out what was going on. Or to figure out why so many dead—or nearly dead—bodies were showing up in their precinct.

Even in East Brooklyn, three bodies in twenty-four hours was a lot of bodies.

They would not find Pete’s body, victim number four, anytime soon. Even while Ruez and Pool were interrogating Charlie, Danny was busy at the house on Vanderhoosen Drive dragging Pete down the stairs by his feet, the head clunking on each step.

Until the last step, where Pete’s head hit the cement with a sound not unlike a coconut falling from a palm tree onto a California patio.

“WHERE IS FANNY?”

A mousy woman in a pink tank top and clear plastic smock, with suspicious button eyes, stood before me. Her hands were in clear plastic gloves that massaged black gooey hair dye into the head of an old Italian woman in a salon chair. It looked like the mousy hairdresser was making a mud pie with a cow patty.

Beyond these two was the majesty of Tangles. A row of pink salon chairs and mirrors lined the right wall, and turquoise pedicure thrones lined the left. Women were seated in some of these chairs in various stages of transformation. Faces were smeared with bright green beauty ointments, hair was spiked in tinfoil for streaking, feet were boiling in blue liquid, and hands were inserted into buzzing electric nail dryers. The attendants were prodding, poking, smearing, filing, and rubbing body parts. I tell you, it looked more like the lair—not the
liar
—of some mad scientist than a beauty salon. If I simply say “Bride of Frankenstein” you will understand what I am talking about.

“She ain’t here,” said the woman with the black gooey dripping plastic hands.

“Have you seen her?”

“Who are you?” She stopped massaging, and I was glad, because it made me slightly queasy.

“Me? I am an . . . associate of Fanny’s.”

“If you were really an
associate
of Fanny’s, you’d know where she was, wouldn’t you?”

I did not care for her snide grin.

“My name is Morty, and you are?”

“Silvia.” Now her grin turned slightly furtive, and she began smooshing the black cow patty again, but with more force.

From snide to furtive in a mere moment. Their minds work on so many levels at once. I believed it was time for some heavy flirting.

“
Silvia
. What a pretty name.” I smiled, smiling the smile I reserve for the girls, and sometimes for my landlord. “Fanny never said there was someone as charming as you working here.”

I know, you are groaning from my obviousness, but as I told you before, it is my considered opinion that with women it often pays to be obvious.

She suppressed a giggle, looking sideways at me like she did not believe a word of it, but wanted to. “What’s the emergency, Morty?” She looked down at the black squishy hair, smiling to herself coyly.

How long would I have to keep up my flirtations? I wanted to strangle her, make her mind just work on one level. Mine.

“It is a long story, Silvia, and I would not want to bore you with it. What I would want would be to meet you some night at Octavio, yes? But I would not bore you.”

Color came to her cheek, but her gaze remained on the
squish squish squish
of the cow patty in front of her.

“Octavio. Hmm. I go there sometimes. Saturdays.”

“Well, I might just see you there. Yes?” I puffed out my chest, my smile turned on full force. “Buy you a daiquiri, perhaps?”

“Promise?”

Oh, for Christ’s sake.

“I never joke about drinks with a beautiful girl.”

Now the old woman under the black cow patty shot me a glance. Even she could not stand to hear this nonsense.

“Fanny was in first thing but canceled her appointments and took the day.”

I tried to contain my anxiousness.

“Silvia, do you dance? It would be a great disappointment if you did not, as I would most look forward to doing so after that daiquiri.”

The old woman shot me another look, and I heard her mutter, “Get a room, willyah.”

“I dance, and I might dance with you.” Silvia wiggled her hips in a way that I think she thought was kittenish. “You talk funny, but I like it.”

“I will then be hopeful for the pleasure of a dance. Until Saturday?”

I turned to go, but turned back. She had a dreamy look in her eyes.

“Oh, Silvia, darling, can you tell me where Fanny lives? I really must deliver some important documents to her. It has to do with . . . the estate of a dead relative, and some inheritance.” Scammers are always trying that one on me in e-mails, so I figured it must work a lot of the time.

“You mean her uncle?”