Snowjob (8 page)

“It doesn’t happen here. It happens in New York. That’s where the money’s made, out of teenage hookers, dying, or wearing themselves out in four or five years for creeps like Manatelli.”

“But why can’t you just give this out? Surely you can make it public and then the mob takes care of Manatelli and we all live happily ever after.”

Doug sucked his teeth. “I’ve got no proof. All I know is that I saw Manatelli having dinner in town with the bank president and the boss of Cat’s Cradle. The cash arrives every week, from an address in Florida. It’s tallied by Cindy or the other woman, that Ella Frazer, and then the slips are cashed and the money put into a different account, for the numbered company.”

“And is Cat’s Cradle declaring the extra income they’re making on the slips?”

“That won’t be an issue until they make their tax return. I imagine the extra percentage is going into somebody’s pockets, but we don’t know yet,” Doug said. He pressed the table very hard with both hands. “But you see where I’m coming from. There’s no names. Just numbered companies playing games with money.”

“I don’t understand your case,” I admitted. “It looks legitimate, if dumb. Why did you get knotted up about it?”

The guard against the wall looked at his watch. I knew my time was running out and I still didn’t have enough to go on. If this was all Doug was working on, it wouldn’t persuade a jury to free him from his murder charge and there was no chance to smoke out the guys who had kidnapped Angela.

“It goes back,” Doug said. “I left the NYPD because of a problem I couldn’t handle. I was partnered with a guy called Gianelli. We worked uptown where most teams are black but we were a salt and pepper team and I got on well with Gino. Then we got a break on the hookers on the street. Instead of the case choking off at the pimp, we got a pimp to roll over and give us a lead to the top.”

“And then?” The guard was looking at his wristwatch. We were down to the wire.

“And then Gino’s house burned down. His wife and son were killed, he and the baby survived but barely. He was burned so bad he’s never going to work again. And the baby was disfigured. That’s when I came looking for a job here.”

The guard came to the table. “Time’s up, sir,” he told me.

“Thank you, officer.” I stood up. “Okay, Doug. I understand.”

He nodded at me, grimly. “Whatever you do, be careful, Reid.”

I winked at him and he grinned. “Semper fi,” he said and held up a clenched fist.

I hit the street and found a pay phone to call Irv Goodman. “Hi. What happened last night?” he wanted to know.

I filled him in on the kidnapping and he grunted. Then I skipped him through Doug’s account of the money-laundering and he told me that it sounded right. “But your buddy’s a long way from making a case. It’s out of his league, unless he’s an accountant. And even then it’s hard to prove anything except that the principal is a poor businessman.”

“That’s not the point, as I see it. Doug wants to get Manatelli in Dutch with his boss. They don’t bother with trials. Manatelli’s dead if word gets out that he’s skimming.”

Irv didn’t speak for a long while and I wondered if the line had gone dead on me. Then he said, “So I guess you need to know Manatelli’s pedigree.”

“Yeah. Then I can stir things up on Doug’s behalf, get this sorted out nicely.”

“It’s dangerous,” Irv said quietly. “They’ll blow your head off sooner than let an outsider cause trouble.”

“If it wasn’t for Doug that would have happened in Nam. I owe the guy.”

“Okay then. Good luck. Got a pencil?”

When I was set up he read out what he had and I made notes. It seemed that Manatelli was the brother-in-law of Antonio “Mucho” Mucci, who ran the biggest family in New Jersey. But that was all he had, no address at which I could contact Mucci, nothing else. He told me he’d get in touch with the RCMP, our federal police department, and see if they had anything more.

I thanked him and hung up, then went for a coffee and thought about it all. It seemed there was nothing I could do to stir things up at the top, over Manatelli’s head. So I would have to do it from where I was. I finished my coffee and set out to start.

The parking lot at Cat’s Cradle was choked with cars on this bright Saturday morning but I found a spot and left Sam inside with the window down and headed for the office. The same attractive girl was at the desk and she must have recognized me. She smiled and said, “If you’re looking for Ella, she’s not in. She called in sick this morning.”

There’s a lot of sickness on Saturday mornings among heavy drinkers but I just said, “Oh, not to worry. Is Walter Huckmeyer in his office then, please?”

“Could be. He told me he was heading out on the slopes later but I don’t think he’s gone. Hold on.”

I waited while she clicked back down the hallway and opened an office door. Then she turned and waved to me and I came through and followed her. “Thanks,” I said and went into Huckmeyer’s office.

He was around thirty, tanned and lean, a good-looking six-footer with a slim, wiry build like a movie star. He was wearing ski pants, smooth and form-fitting, and a yellow sweater of soft wool. He beamed at me from his side of a desk filled with papers. “Morning. Walt Huckmeyer. What can I do for you?”

“How’s the ankle?” I asked and he frowned, then said, “Oh, fine, thanks. Just a sprain. Soon fixed.”

“I didn’t think good skiers sprained their ankles these days,” I said. “Break their legs, necks even, but sprained ankles? What are ski boots for?”

His face darkened. “Who are you?”

“The name doesn’t matter. I’m a friend of Doug Ford’s and I’m on to you,” I told him.

“You’d better leave.” He stood up but didn’t come around his desk. I outweighed him by ten pounds, was broader in the shoulders and at least as fit.

“Or what?” I sneered. “You’ll bring in some creep from New Jersey to steal my kids?”

He flushed but answered immediately. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get out of here right now or I’ll call the police.”

“Why? Scared you, have I?”

He pressed a button on his phone. “Lois. Call the police department. I want this man out of my office.”

He sat back and I reached over and pressed the button. “Save your quarter, Lois, I’m going. For now.”

I let go of the button and wagged the finger at Huckmeyer. “It’s not over till it’s over, Walt, old sport. I’m going to be in your face everywhere you go.”

The girl at the desk was on her feet as I passed. She looked shocked. “Who are you?” she asked.

“The avenging angel,” I told her and left, wondering if I’d done any more than stir up Huckmeyer’s corpuscles for him.

That was my plan, what there was of it. The only other thing to do was to walk into the bank and start making noises to the owner. But I didn’t do that. Banks have alarm systems and if I started leaning on the manager the cops would be at the door before I knew it. And anyway, this was Saturday. The bank was closed for the weekend. No, I decided, that was as far as I could go for one morning. I didn’t even go into the coffee shop. If Huckmeyer had clout with the local police department he could call them in and have me taken out for causing a disturbance, anything at all to harass me, and I wanted to keep the initiative. So I went back into town and stopped at the library. They had the phone books of most major metropolitan areas in the states and I pulled out a stack of New Jersey phone books and checked the Mucci listing. There were lots of them but no A or Antonio listed. So I couldn’t take any shortcuts. All I could do was stay visible and see if Huckmeyer was going to do anything more than quake in his ski boots.

The day dragged but at six o’clock I drove out to Brewskis to check if Huckmeyer was in residence. He wasn’t there. Neither was Carol Henning, the bartender I’d spoken to. So, knowing I might have trouble later, I ordered a ginger ale and sat at the bar with it and waited.

Huckmeyer turned up a while later with a brunette in ski clothes. He made for his usual table and sat down before he noticed me. When he did I raised my glass to him and beamed. His face went dark but he ignored me and ordered from the waitress. I sat where I was until the waitress had served him and his date, then sauntered over. He was talking to her and pretended not to see me. I acted like the usual overfriendly drunk. “Hi, Walt. Long time no see.”

The girl looked up, then at Huckmeyer. “You know this guy, Walter?”

“Sure he does,” I said cheerfully. “We have a mutual friend.” I reached down and picked up the beer bottle in front of Huckmeyer. “Changed your brand, I see. I thought you were a Coors man.”

He looted at me now. “Why don’t you take off before I have you thrown out?”

“Who’s going to do it? The waitresses?” I laughed at him. “But I can see you need some privacy now. See you around.”

I went back to my place at the bar and waited. He got up and went out through the kitchen. To use the phone, I guessed. I finished up my ginger ale and headed for the door, waggling my fingers at the girl who had hardly taken her eyes off me since I’d visited the table. She turned away huffily and I went out into the night. It was showdown time, I figured, at the Brewski corral.

FIVE

It was cold outside but I didn’t put my parka on. It figured that Huckmeyer had phoned someone to convince me I should move on. If there were guys around waiting to put the boots to me, mobility would be more valuable than warmth.

There was no immediate menace. As I went down the steps a good-looking young couple was heading in, holding hands and radiating the happy glow that announced they had just made love. And I didn’t see anybody else around but still I made my way warily along the center of the aisle between the parked cars. Sam was five seconds from me but I didn’t whistle him. I had lots of time to do that, I figured, before push came to shove.

It did, when I was halfway down the back row of the lot. The reception committee was waiting in the same Oldsmobile I’d seen two nights before. They got out without speaking. Three of them. I guessed the one who had been nervous of Sam last time had chickened out. They were wearing ski masks like terrorists on a mission and they moved toward me, shoulder to shoulder. I stopped in my tracks and waited. Their pace slowed but they came on, the biggest one making circles with his clenched fist, anticipating what he was going to do. They were ten paces from me when I acknowledged them. “Well, well, well, the return of the Three Stooges,” I said.

I’d hoped it would rile them so that one of them would rush me. One at a time I figured I could take them. But they just came on, two of them silent. The big one laughed. “Still feeling smart?” he sneered. That’s when I whistled Sam.

He was out of my car in a moment, bounding down behind them. The big one pulled off his glove and dug his hand into his pocket as he turned and I saw he had a gun. I shouted, “Fight,” and there was the flat bang of a small-caliber round and then Sam had him by the gun hand. The other two men had stopped and turned to check on him and I charged, slamming one of them with the point of my shoulder, sending him flying against a car and into the snow.

The other one turned back and I punched him hard in the gut. He folded and I followed up with a two-handed thump on the back of his neck that put him facedown in the snow. The guy with the gun was still struggling vainly with Sam and I turned to the man I’d charged first. He had scrambled to his feet but the fight had gone out of him. He stood where he was, spreading his hands in a gesture of submission. No threat. I turned to help Sam. The gunman was trying to yank his gun hand free as he batted at Sam with his left. “Drop the gun and I’ll call him off,” I said.

He swore and tried to lift his arm with Sam’s weight hanging on it, high enough to aim at me. I stepped aside and gave him a short right-hand punch behind the ear. It knocked him down, still holding his gun. “Easy,” I told Sam, and as he backed off I put my heel on the guy’s gun hand and bore down while I took the pistol off him. It was a Ruger .22 automatic and I held it while I ripped the ski mask up off his face. He was the groper I’d stopped in the bar two nights earlier.

“You’re in a whole mess of trouble, buddy,” I told him heartily. “Attempted armed robbery. You’ll be inside for three years, minimum.”

“It was self-defense,” he hissed. “Your goddamn dog was out to kill me.”

“Tell that to the police,” I said. “Give me your car keys.”

He was slow to respond and I pressed harder on his wrist with my boot. He yowled then and said, “They’re in my pocket. Leggo my hand.”

I lifted my foot and he lay there and dug into his coat pocket for his keys. I took them and told the other two guys, “In the car.”

They got into it, helping one another painfully. Then I opened the rear seat and told Sam, “Good boy. In.” He jumped in and I commanded, “Guard,” and he sat up behind them.

One of them tried to turn his head and look back but Sam snarled and made a little lunge at him and he pulled his head forward with a yell of alarm. “Stay still and you’re gong to be all right,” I told them. “Move and he’ll have your head off before you can open the door.” It wasn’t true. Sam’s a police officer. He’s not trained to savage people, just to show enough force to keep them in line, but those two were prepared to believe he’d kill.