Cat on a Cold Tin Roof (24 page)

“I'm sorry, Val.”

This time he
did
smile. “
You're
sorry?”

“You saved my life,” I said. “But what the hell were you doing there?”

“When you didn't agree to go to Simmons right from lunch, I figured you'd found the diamonds, so I drove around the block when we left the restaurant and followed you. You never saw me.” He coughed weakly. “Damned lucky I did follow you. The Bolivian must have been tracking you too.”

“I'm sorry I kept you in the dark about it,” I said.

He gasped for air. “Probably thought I'd grab the diamonds and take 'em back to Chicago instead of claiming the finder's fee?”

I nodded. “Yes, I did.”

“Did he have the other nine?”

“No, just three of them.”

“Can't trust nobody these days.” He coughed again, even more weakly this time. “Including me. I
had
planned to take the diamonds back to Chicago.” He paused, wincing in pain. “On the other hand, if I'd played it fair and square, you'd be dead now.”

“I know.”

“And because of that, I have a last request.”

“Screw the last requests,” I said. “You'll be up and around in two weeks.”

“Don't bullshit me, Eli,” he said. “We both know I'll be dead before morning.”

“Okay,” I said, suddenly aware of the sound of machinery whirring, machinery that was keeping him temporarily alive. “No more bullshit. What can I do for you?”

“I've got two daughters,” he said. “I haven't seen them since my wife left me four years ago, and I haven't been as good about sending them money as I should have been. This is my chance—my last chance—to make amends.” He made an effort to open his eyes, which kept falling shut. “I know it's only three diamonds instead of nine, but that's three more than we had yesterday.” A tear—of pain, of regret, who knows?—trickled down his cheek. “Give them the finder's fee.”

“I will, Val.”

“Shake on it, partner,” he said.

I reached over and took his hand in mine. It went totally limp while I was shaking it, the machine whirred and transmitted a Code Blue to the staff. I heard footsteps racing toward the door, and I knew that my friend was dead.

27.

I stopped by Orestes Mela's room. His wound was little more than a scratch, but the hospital was keeping him overnight just to be on the safe side. He seemed in reasonably good spirits for a peaceful, law-abiding guy who'd just been shot by either a Bolivian hit man or a Chicago mafioso. (The bullet had just grazed his arm—the part we call the bicep on boxers and body builders—and was probably lodged in the store's exterior wall if the CSI guys hadn't dug it out yet. I supposed it didn't make much difference whose bullet it was at this late date, since both shooters were dead.)

“I'd give you the diamonds,” he said apologetically, “but they took everything I had in my pockets—my wallet, my comb, even my jeweler's eyepiece, when they put me in this gown in the emergency room, and of course they took the box with the diamonds too. I'll be able to pick them up when I'm released tomorrow morning.”

“The local cops know about the diamonds and have probably confiscated them by now,” I told him. “The Cincinnati police will do the paperwork and get the diamonds in a week or two, and there's no way Delahunt goes to trial in less than a few months, so that can't hurt the case. Are you still willing to come to Cincinnati police headquarters with me when you get out of here and make your statement?” I half-expected that being shot would have soured him on the whole thing.

“Absolutely!” he said firmly. “If it wasn't for Abner Delahunt, I wouldn't be sitting here with my arm in a sling—and feeling incredibly lucky that it's nothing worse. Check with my doctor or nurse or whoever you have to check with, find out what time they're releasing me tomorrow, and be waiting for me in the lobby.”

“You got it,” I said, walking to the door. “You're a good man, Orestes.”

“I don't know how good I am,” he said. “But I am by God an honest one.”

I saluted him, which seemed to please him enormously. Then I checked with a nurse who was passing by, waited a minute while she hunted down whoever it was that actually knew when Mela would be allowed to leave, and told me that it would be ten in the morning. I thanked her and went out to my car.

I was feeling pretty down. I'd lost a friend, one who'd risked and lost his life to save mine. And because I owed him my life, I knew I'd keep my word to him, and that meant there'd be no finder's fee for me. Except for Velma's retainer, I'd been working for free for a week.

There was no sense going to headquarters, not without Mela and the diamonds. I stopped at the Twenty Yard Line, ordered a beer, and borrowed the bar's phone long enough to call Jim Simmons and tell him what had happened and that I'd be by with Mela but without the diamonds at about ten-thirty in the morning. He knew about the shootings, asked a bunch of questions, expressed some almost-sincere sympathy at the loss of Sorrentino even though he was a monster, and told me he'd be waiting for us in the morning.

I finished the beer, went back to the car, and tried to think. Was there anything else I had to do on this idiot, nonprofit case?

And I realized there was one last thing, even though I wasn't the least bit interested in doing it. But Velma had paid me fifteen hundred dollars, and as much as I didn't like her, I figured I owed it to her to tell her about the diamonds. And the fact that I could all but guarantee that she'd never see at least six of them again was my reward for facing her one more time.

I figured I'd been gone too long, and I'd better stop by the apartment and walk Marlowe first. Mrs. Garabaldi actually blew us a kiss when he drenched her petunias, and I almost made it back up the stairs before Mrs. Cominsky could complain about today's batch of perverts while refusing to turn the letters over to the vice squad, or to me, or to anyone except perhaps Mrs. Garabaldi.

I finally made it into the apartment, saw that Marlowe's food bowl was empty, opened a can of pork and beans and poured it in. I remembered that I hadn't shaved in three days and stopped by the bathroom long enough to take some of the fuzz off, turned on the TV to see if we were at war with anyone, and finally ran out of reasons and excuses not to drive over to the Pepperidge house.

It was dark when I got there. I pulled up the driveway, got out, and went to the front door. It had the kind of knocker on it that you'd swear was made to be looked at rather than used, and I rang the bell. About thirty seconds later the door opened, and I found myself facing Velma's very formidable figure and thinking the bullet that grazed Mela's arm would have bounced off hers.

“You again!” was her way of greeting.

“For the last time, I promise,” I said. “May I come in?”

She considered it for a moment, then almost imperceptibly nodded her head and stepped aside. I noticed that Fluffy had come to the large foyer too, doubtless to see who was crazy enough to visit her owner.

“Well?” Velma demanded.

“It looks like the police are going to be able to arrest Big Jim's killer,” I told her.

“I don't give a shit about that!” she snapped. “Where's the money he stole from the Bolivians?”

“The police will have three of the diamonds soon.”

“That's three million, maybe a little more,” she said. “Where's the rest?”

I shook my head. “That's three hundred thousand, maybe a little less.”

“What kind of bullshit is this? We both know he stole millions from the Bolivian mob!”

“Maybe he overestimated,” I answered. “But two reputable jewelers have valued them at a hundred thousand apiece, tops.”

“What the fuck are you trying to get away with?” she demanded.

“Not a thing. You hired me to find the cat,” I said. “Well, the diamonds. I've found three of them. The killer has the other six, and he's so far in debt that he's probably sold them already. The seventh is in a ring he gave his girlfriend. You
might
be able to get that one back. I'm just here to report that the job you paid me for is done.”

“Who's the killer?” she said.

I figured if I told her, she'd walk over to Delahunt's house, kill him if he was there, rip the joint apart and maybe kill Mrs. Delahunt if she got in the way, and find a way to blame me for her being there at all.

“The police will let you know as soon as they've arrested him,” I said.

“You are a goddamned fucking liar!” she screamed. “We both know those diamonds are worth a million apiece! Jim had been ripping those assholes off for years. He could have hidden a million every three months!”

“The cops will have their hands on three of the diamonds in a few days,” I said. “If you don't believe me, maybe you'll believe them.”

“You kept the real ones and substituted some cheap ones!”

“They'll match the descriptions on your insurance policy,” I said.

“You're
all
liars!” she bellowed. “You, the cops, the insurance company, all of you!”

She stamped her foot down and managed to land it on Fluffy's tail. The cat screeched in pain and surprise.

“Here!” she said, reaching down, grabbing Fluffy up by the scruff of the neck, and hurling her at me with a motion that would have been the envy of Roger Clemens.

I caught her against my stomach, let out an “Oof!” and tried to think of what to do next.

“I never want to see either of you again!” she shrieked. “Now get the fuck out of my house!”

I considered putting Fluffy down, but I decided no one, not even a cat, should have to live in the same house as Velma, so I opened the door with my free hand, carried the cat out to the car, deposited her in the backseat, and backed out of the driveway before Velma remembered that Palanto had a gun and went looking for it.

The cat meowed unhappily all the way home. I found a parking place just a couple of doors down from my apartment, picked the cat up, climbed up the stairs, and was about to unlock the door when I realized who was waiting on the other side of it.

Marlowe had squatter's rights on that apartment, and he probably outweighed Fluffy by a good five pounds, which may not have been much difference when Ali fought Frazier, but it gave him a 50 percent body weight advantage.

Well, I'd just have to use a firm hand and keep an eye on him. Fluffy hadn't asked to be literally thrown out of her home, and I decided it was my job to keep Marlowe from ripping her to shreds until I could find a new home for her.

I needn't have worried. I opened the door, stepped inside, set her on the floor, and said, “Marlowe, say hello to your new roomie.”

He took one look at her and spent the rest of the night hiding under my bed.

28.

Marlowe was still under the bed when I got up about eight o'clock. As for Fluffy, she was curled up on his favorite couch cushion, looking for all the world like she owned the place.

“Okay,” I muttered. “I don't know much about cats, but one thing I do know is they use litter boxes. Hold yourself in check another twenty minutes.”

I got dressed, put on my coat, and walked a couple of blocks to the little mom-and-pop grocery store, picked up a bag of cat litter and a plastic box, then let them sell me a scoop to clear the litter out of the box, and a couple of minutes later I was back in the apartment, pouring litter into the box and sticking it under the bathroom sink.

I picked Fluffy up, carried her to the bathroom, set her down in the box, and waited.

She stared right back, stood there for a minute, then jumped out, walked back to the couch with all the dignity she could muster, and hopped back up onto the cushion.

I figured as long as I still had my coat on, I might as well take Marlowe for his walk, since to the best of my knowledge dogs didn't use litter boxes. I had to reach under the bed and drag him out. Then he practically pulled me out the door and down the stairs. At first I thought he had to go, but when we got outside he just stood there, and I realized what he really wanted to do was get away from Fluffy.

I walked him to Mrs. Garabaldi's where force of habit took over, he watered her petunias, and we headed back home. This time he didn't make a beeline for the space under the bed but just sat in the farthest corner of the living room and stared at Fluffy.

“You know,” I said aloud, staring at the cat, “if you're going to stick around for any length of time, you need a better name. A manly, macho private eye can't have a pet called Fluffy. A dame, maybe, but not a cat.” I considered my options. “He's named after Philip Marlowe, but you're the wrong color to be Sam Spade. Besides, if I call you Spade, some of the black guys at the Twenty Yard Line might take serious offense.” I stared at her further, and finally it came to me. “You're a female, and Samantha's a name for a female. And since we're going to be living together, at least for a while, that's too formal, so I think I'll call you Sam. How does that sit with you?”

She opened one eye and stared at me.
That's fine. I can ignore you when you call me Sam just as easily as when you call me Fluffy
.

Marlowe gave me an
I could have told you so
look, and then I checked my watch and realized that they'd be releasing Mela in about forty-five minutes, and I didn't want him going anywhere but to the Cincinnati police with me.

I opened a can of sardines that was old enough to grow a beard and left it on the kitchen counter where Marlowe couldn't reach it. I figured Sam could smell them, and when she got hungry enough she'd make her way back there and grab a little breakfast or lunch, and of course she could share Marlowe's water bowl.

Then I was out the door, and a minute later I was driving across the Ohio River to St. Elizabeth's. I parked, went in, got a fierce glare from the receptionist I'd spoken to yesterday, and was about to ask about Mela when he approached from wherever he'd been waiting.