No One Rides For Free - Larry Beinhart (22 page)

I spotted Gene in the fifth-floor corridor. I called
to him, and he turned and headed toward me.

"Tony, where the hell have you been?"

"Where the hell have I been? The real question
is where the fuck was Franco?"

"Jeez, Tony, you look like hell. What happened
to you?"

He reached out, with concern, and grabbed my upper
arm on the bullet wound.

"You stupid fuck, get your hands of me."

"Whatsamatta? Whatsamatta?"

"That's where I was shot, you stupid fuck."

"Jesus, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were shot."

"Is thatta him? Is thatta him?" another
voice cried from down the hall. I turned to see a woman of about
sixty-five, short, squat and mean-looking, rolling at me like a tank.
By the time I realized who she was talking about, it was too late to
run.

She came at me, spinning her pocketbook like a
Russian hammer thrower angry about not going to Los Angeles. She was
screaming in a mixture of Italian, English and a Sicilian dialect.
Roughly what she was saying was, "You bastard, you bastard, you
did this to my Franco. I'm gonna kill you. I'm gonna make your blood
flow till your veins run dry. I'm gonna wring your neck like a
scrawny chicken."

First I gaped in astonishment, then I grunted in pain
and shock as the pocketbook connected with my ribs.

She wound up for another shot. But I was too smart
for her. I doubled over and sank quickly to the floor. The pocketbook
whistled over my head and caught Gene, who was stupidly trying to
step between us.

Disappointed at hitting only a secondary target, she
drew back her foot to kick at me. Screeching in her mangle of
languages she said, I think, "I'm gonna tear off your little
balls and put them in a garlic press. I'm going to remove your tiny
masculine tool and sell it to the sausage factory where they will
grind it up into small Neapolitan salamis." Sicilians generally
have a low opinion both of Neapolitans and their salamis.

At that point a tall young man reached us. He put his
arms around her, and as I watched from shoe level, he dragged the
screaming Eumenidie away.

Gene squatted down beside me.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

"No."

"Listen," he said urgently, "you gotta
act like what happened to Franco is your fault. It's real important."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I
inquired.

"You know, act like what happened to Franco was
your fault."

"
Who was that woman? Have they removed her for
good?"

"That's Mrs. Polatrano. She's upset."

"No shit."

"So will you do what I asked?" he asked.

"
Gene, you better explain what you're talking
about. What did happen to Franco?"

"You don't know what happened to Franco?"

"How the hell should I know what happened to
Franco? In fact, it better be something fairly horrible to excuse him
for not being there."

"Being where'?" Gene asked.

"What are we, Jews? Every question gets answered
with i a question. Be Italian. Make statements. Use your hands for i
emphasis. But don't touch me."

"
You didn't know that Franco had a heart
attack?"

"No more questions. I'll do questions, you do
answers. Later, if you're good, we can switch."

"Sure, Tony, sure."

"Franco had a heart attack. You want me to say
it was my fault. Why?"

"
Isn't it?"

"Stop that. Just do answers."

"Yes, I want you to say it's your fault."

"
I think that's very dangerous. I assume the
killer bag lady is his wife. I could die. Besides, it's not my
fau1t."

"
It doesn't matter, Tony. I mean you can go back
to New York. Franco has no escape."

"
Then he probably wants to die. Have you thought
of that?"

"Yeah, but the poor bastard is gonna live."

"How is he?"

"
Oh, the doctors say he's gonna live. He can
live a normal life except for this, that and the other thing."

"
Good. "

"Will you do it?"

"Do what?" I asked.

"
Tell Mrs. Polatrano that it was your fault and
you talked him into whatever he was doing. You know, take the weight
off him."

"Yeah, I'll do it. By telegram. I'm not going
within pocketbook distance of that woman. Help me up."

"You know, Tony, you don't look that good."

"No shit, Gino. The old bitch clobbered me right
in the ribs. The ribs were busted last night, and I have a doctor who
thinks aspirin is top of the line in painkillers."

"Jeez, maybe I can get you some percodan."

"
Please do that, Gene," I said, and my
sweet brown angel eyes pleaded.

"
Trade you," the blackmailing bastard said,
"you do the routine for the wife, I'll get you the percodan."

"D0ne. But I get the percs first. I 'm not going
back in the ring without 'em. "

He helped me up off the floor, then went off to find
my pacifier. I went into the john to take a little toot. I carefully
scanned the hall before I re-emerged. She was nowhere in sight. I
went in to see Franco.

"Hey, paisan," I said, "you look like
hell."

"Yeah," he grunted. "Didja get him?"

"No. He got away."

 
"Damn. You'll get him, Tony, I'm counting
on you."

"Sure, Franco."

"It's gonna be one damn big case, kid, the
biggest."

"Sure, Franco."

The nurse came in. "It's time for our rest now,"
she bustled. "Can't get too tired now, can we."

"Jesus, you really do talk like that," I
said to her.

"What!" she bristled. "You. You don't
belong here."

"Hey, Franco," I said, "I'll see you
around."

"See you around, Tony," he said sadly.

When Gene got back with the percs, we went to a
visitors' lounge made entirely from torn green vinyl. First things
first. I made him give me the percs. He offered to get me water, but
one was down my throat by then. I dug through my wallet. The note was
dirty and worn, but the name that Gerald Yaskowitz had given me, way
back when it all began, was still legible. I gave it to Gene.

"I need some assistance," I told him.
"Would you call this guy? Then let's find a relatively friendly
cop who's not going no bust my chops too much while I explain how I
fucked up a murder investigation. Then let's all three of us, the
cop, the attorney and me, meet up at the same time and place. Can you
do that?"

He read the name and appeared to recognize it. "Did
you kill someone last night, Tony?" he asked with concern.

"What has happened to you, Gene? Why are you
answering questions with questions?"

"Aren't you doing the same thing?"

"Gene, snap out of it."

"Yeah. Sure. I'm upset about Franco. Also, if
you told me what was going on, it would be easier for me to help. I
mean I'm kind of in the dark here."

"Yeah, well, you come along and you'll hear
everything. I don't mind you knowing, but I'm too damn tired to
repeat it anymore than I have to."
 
"I'm
telling you it'l1 be easier to help if I know what's going on."

"Goddamn it, Gene," I flared. "I'm
paying the bills. I got two busted ribs and a shot-up arm. I'm tired
and I have a Demerol hangover. Now do what I tell you."

His body tensed like he
was ready to start swinging. Then he took hold of himself, gave me a
look that said he didn't beat up crips and marched off down the hall
to a pay phone.

* * *

Seymour Whitaker had iron-gray hair swept back from
his high forehead and spilling down over his collar. His sideburns
were almost muttonchops. He slouched into interrogation with his
hands thrust into the pockets of his chino pants so that his arms
held his chino jacket back and open over a belly that lunged over his
belt. Everyone called him Cy and he wanted cash up front, $300,
against $150 an hour. He knew his way around the precincts and, I
guessed, D.C. criminal court better than the cops, which is the way I
wanted it, and I gladly paid his fee.

He kept a detective named Moynihan civil and pleasant
while I summarized. The first thing Moynihan did was put out an
all-points on Alexander Jr.. Then he called the D.A. for warrants to
search his domicile.

When I described my assailant it seemed to ring a
bell. There aren't that many people who look like Dave Butz, except
they're black, like to use a silencer and work for Doc Wellby. I
picked out George Roland "Peanut Butter" Bernard from the
mug shots. He had once been a thirteenth-round draft pick for Buffalo
but had been cut after two weeks in camp because of an attitude
problem. He apparently liked collection work better than the
offensive line, as any rational person would, since in one job he
traded pain, in the other he only dished it out.

"I'm surprised," Moynihan said with a
certain grudging respect, "that you got past him."

I was flattered. But I was also in pain. I went to
the men's room, swallowed a perc and snorted a couple of lines. When
I returned, the mood in the room had turned sour. I soon found out
why. We all packed up, the four of us, and went to the morgue. There,
I ID the remains of James Carlton Alexander, Jr.

Whoever took him out, got up close behind him with a
shotgun. A large portion of the back of his head and some of the side
was missing, but most of his features were still intact. Unlovely in
life, he looked worse dead.

"This punk could have led us to Wellby,"
Moynihan said across the corpse.

"Maybe," I said.

"And he was 'it' on your Edgar Wood thing. You
crapped up that case too. "

"Could be," I admitted.

"
I could keep you around and make life extremely
difficult for you ...."

"But you won't," Cy cut in.

"But I won't, " Moynihan said. "The
hell with it. There's plenty of harm done. What can be cleaned up,
I'll clean up. Your attorney assures me that you'll be available to
testify against Bernard . . ."

"I do," Cy said.

". . . and about anything else that comes out of
this load of crap. You got a good lawyer, so I know it's a waste of
time to do a number on you. You wanna know why I would?"

"No," I said.

"Cause you think I'm so stupid you can snort
cocaine in my men's room and I won't know it .... Get the fuck out of
here," he said and punched me on the arm. The wound opened under
the bandage and began to bleed.
 

22
LIAR

I WENT FROM
the morgue to
National, from National to LaGuardia. Snortin' and swallowing percs,
thinking savagely lewd thoughts about two out of four stewardesses.
Slipping back to my same old used-to-be. From LaGuardia to the
office. When I arrived, Glenda was there.

"I did something foolish," she said.

"Oh? You too?"

"Wel1, you have to understand, when I didn't
hear from you, I began to worry. You didn't call or anything."

"Go on," I said.

"I called Joey, and he hadn't heard anything
more than I had, so I came here."

"
Then what?" I asked, watching the tension
in her slender body crying out.

"
Then I noticed your answering machine. It's
none of my business, but I was worried, I thought you might have
called and left a message for Joey. Sol played your messages."

"You played my messages?"

"Yes," she said, biting her lip.

"OK, what was on there?"

"You don't know?"

"No. I don't know. Why don't you play it, then
we'll both know."

"I've heard it about twenty times," she
said.

Making no attempt to hide the effort it cost to cross
the room, I shuffled over and switched the machine to play.

"0h Tony," Christina's voice, all yearning
and soft, came off the tape, "please, call me, please, as soon
as you get in. I need to talk to you. To see you." It wasn't
something to go to court on, but it was enough to shipwreck a
relationship. My insides went hollow, but I played it poker-faced.
She had played her card, I hadn't. It was a game that I needed to
win, and could, because she also needed me to win.

"So?" I said, looking square at her.

"What's going on between you and . . . her?"

"Don't be ridiculous, that's a client."

"Don't lie to me. I can stand anything, but not
lying."

"Oh, you can stand me being unfaithful?"

"I never said you had to be. I never said you
had to be anything. I don't tell you what to do. You make your own
choices."