Hard Case Crime: Dutch Uncle (22 page)

“They suck up your booze and snort up your coke, and then you can’t get rid of them. Was Manfred Pfiser ever a guest at one of your parties?”

“We weren’t exactly what you’d call friends.”

“More like business associates.”

No mistaking it now. The cop was turning up the heat. “What business would I have had with Manfred?”

The cop said, “You tell me.”

“We were acquaintances, you know, I knew the guy a little bit. Hi and goodbye, that’s all. We didn’t exactly swim in the same pond.”

“What if I told you we have a witness who puts you with Manfred Pfiser on the day he was killed?”

“I’d say that witness had the wrong date, off the top of my head, but like I said, that was months ago. I could be wrong.”

“It was six weeks ago, and burnt-out brain cells or not, I’d say if I knew somebody who was murdered, I’d recollect pretty much to the second the last time I saw him. But that’s me. Can you remember where this meeting took place, on that vague last date two or three days before he was killed, that you saw him?”

This was turning into a complete buzz-kill. “One of those places on Ocean Drive. We sat down and had a drink.”

“You and your faulty memory, I don’t suppose you could tell me which place?”

Leo racked his brain for the name of one café, just one, any one, so he could give her an answer, but she wasn’t waiting for it.

“Now what if I told you we have another witness who not only puts you in the company of Manfred Pfiser on the afternoon of the day he was killed, this witness places you at his hotel. Right in the same room with him. On the day he was murdered. What would you say to that, Mr. Hannah?”

How? He’d be there, what, all of ten minutes? Fifteen? But that didn’t matter now.

“I know what it was. Now I remember. Manfred said he had a jacket for me, a sports coat my size. He wanted me to come up to his room and try it on. Manfred was queer, I don’t know if you knew that, and I figured he was gonna try and make a pass at me, but I went with him anyway, to humor him. That was the day he was killed?”

“Here’s what you’re telling me. You knew that he was gay, and you were expecting an advance of some kind you claim you weren’t interested in, but you accompanied him to his room.”

Leo said, “Yeah, well.”

“He was merely an acquaintance, right? That’s what you said? But he wanted to give you an article from his wardrobe.”

“One thing I will say for him, he was very generous.”

“And at five feet eight, and a hundred eighty pounds, he owned a jacket that would’ve fit you. I think you can do a little better than that, don’t you, Leo?”

The cop closed her notebook and put her shades back on, pair of cheap shit Persol knock-offs she probably bought in some drugstore. “What can you tell me about a man named Harry Healy?”

“Never heard of the guy,” Leo said, and instantly realized what a stupid lie he just told.

“You spent forty-eight hours with him in the same cell at Dade back in February.”

Of course she knew he knew Harry. What an idiot.

“I figured you two would’ve gotten the chance to chat.”

She drew a breath like she was going to say something else, but pulled up short, and left Leo standing on the steps, wobbly from the beating she’d dealt out. She turned around and Leo reflexively checked her out. Lotta junk in the trunk. This chick was like the Beach Police Department’s very own Trojan Horse. And they came for him while he slept, just like the fucking Greeks.

“By the way,” she said, turning around again, “remember how you said your plans had a way of backfiring? If you had any to leave town, consider that this is them jumping up and biting you on the ass. We’re gonna need to talk to you again.”

She smiled a smile that under any other circumstances Leo would’ve made for flirty, a smile that showed her braces, but was sexy as hell. She had gorgeous hair, too, and a booming ass, but she was trying to cut off his balls, right here at his very own seasonal rental. Help, Mister Wizard. Jesus Christ, Mister Wizard, help.

The bar on Grand Street was so slam-packed with cheapsuited finance grunts, Harry figured it must be the eve of one of those shifting, unknowable holidays, giving the place all the charm of Fraternity Row on Career Night. For a few years there, it felt like these guys had gone away, but there was no denying it anymore: They ruled once again.

The suits barked out orders like they were trading shares, hanging bills over the shoulders of the guys in front of them. Irish Mike snatched the money out of the air and stuffed it in the till.

On his bad nights, and Mike had plenty of those, he was bitter about tending bar. But it was the perfect job for him. He had that thing that made you want to give him money. He could be funny, he was polite most of the time, and he recorded the pet subjects of his regulars in a mental file.

Mike needed bigger pants. The pounds he’d added around the breadbasket doubled his waistband down. He was sporting a five o’clock-shadow beard, but it didn’t make him look hip or masculine, it made him look like a bum.

Harry decided he’d go kill an hour or so somewhere else when Mike caught his eye and pulled down a bottle of Dewar’s. He capped the pourer with a tumbler, tipped the bottle upside down, and let the whiskey run into the glass. Pouring a drink for himself, Mike shelved the scotch, and threw down the measure in a gulp.

By the time Harry was ready for his third Dewar’s, Mike had found a Louis Armstrong cassette, and it was playing over the bar’s sound system. Harry couldn’t possibly hear Satchmo and not think of his father. The old man was a huge Armstrong fan. What jazzbo wasn’t? Give him a kiss to build a dream on.

Mike pointed at Harry, touched his own thieving heart, then pointed back at Harry. He guessed it meant Mike wanted a word. The crowd was leaving, and there was room at the bar.

The way Mike drank, Harry wondered why he bothered with a glass. Another dog-choking shot, down the hatch. He had to be drunk. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to talk to him. Then again, what were the odds of catching Mike sober?

He wanted to know what happened in Florida. “I can tell by that tan, you must just be getting back.”

“Couple of days ago,” Harry said.

“Jesus, I’m glad to see you,” Mike said. “Haven’t been this tired in a long time.”

“You work hard,” Harry told him, and on nights like this, he did.

“I could use a little something to pick me up.”

Harry had wondered when he was going to get around to it. Mike didn’t give a shit what had happened in Florida, or anywhere else in Harry’s life.

Mike was an on-again-off-again blowhound, with a dry-out, two detoxes, and a rehab on his resume. Mike had been doing it for years. Whenever they let him out, he’d lip-serve their one-day-at-a-time jive, which coincidentally was the precise span of Irish Mike’s typical rehabilitation. One day.

“So what’ve you got for your old buddy?”

Harry laid a twenty on the bar, to coin up for his drinks. “I gave up on that shit,” he said. “All it ever brought me was grief.”

“I hear you woofing, big dog.” Mike forced a phony smile that deepened the lines at his temples and made his face look like it was going to crack. “But that’s no reason to quit. Cut down, sure. I could see wanting to cut down.”

Harry said, “Remember that girl, Julia? I was hanging out with her about a year ago?”

“What about Julia? I told you stay clear of her, didn’t I?”

Mike popped a beer for an ossified suit. The guy counted out some singles and held one back, to make sure Mike knew he was setting aside the whole, entire dollar for a tip. The guy got his beer, a light. He stood there cuddling it.

“Is there somebody you can call,” Mike said, “that can straighten me out? I could really go for something right about now.”

Pretending to think a minute, Harry walked over to the phone, dropped in a quarter, and punched out the Downtowner’s numbers. Phil the night guy snapped it up after half a ring. Maybe Phil was expecting something of his own.

Harry said, “Phil, this is Harry in 801.”

Phil said, “What can I do for you?”

“Have I got any messages?” He could feel Mike’s stare boring holes in the back of his head. He turned and winked and turned around again.

Phil said, “Who knows you’re staying here?”

Harry angled his profile to let Mike lip-read him saying, “Hey, I’m just asking.”

“No messages for you. Can I be of any further assistance?”

“That’ll do it, Phil. Thanks.”

“The guy’s all done for the night,” Harry told Mike when he got back to the bar. “Can’t do anything right now.”

“Done for the night? Fuck. What kind of coke dealer is he? It ain’t even four yet.” Mike zeroed in on that suit, frozen in the same spot where he bought his beer. “Hey, buddy,” he said, “We’re closed.”

The guy’s jaw slackened, and he trained his blurry vision toward the source of this noise. “Closed?”

“That’s right, closed.” Mike slipped the bottle out of his hand, and the suit pawed the air.

Mike was way too creaky to be vaulting any bar, but he did hustle around it to grab the guy’s arm. He pushed him toward the exit. When Mike shut the door and bolted it, the guy cocked his head like a terrier faked out in a game of fetch.

This was the six hundred pound gorilla, a mighty monkey indeed, ventilating a hapless, beer-gutted soak too looped to stick up for himself. Not that Harry felt sorry for the guy, but Mike was nasty with him, and for what? For nothing. Because Mike needed to get beamed up and Harry wasn’t holding.

He asked for another scotch.

Mike said, “I’m gonna need some money for this, you know. You can’t just drink here for free.”

Harry slid the twenty at him. Mike snapped it up and spitefully rang an eighteen dollar sale into the vintage NCR. The drawer flew open and Mike banged it shut without making change. He reopened it and started counting the night’s take.

“I’m trying to find out about Julia,” Harry said. He peeled another twenty off his roll, to replace the one Mike had stuck in the register. “I’m assuming she’s still in town.”

Mike said, “Uh-huh.” He wound a rubber band around a stack of singles. “Julia, right? Sharp-looking chick, tall brunette?”

“That’s the one, Mike. So do I get my drink, or what?”

“Sorry,” Mike said, “sorry,” reaching for the Dewar’s. “I’m a bit rattled tonight.” He poured until Harry said whoa. “This one’s on me. Happy days. What went on with you two, anyway?”

“What went on was, we took a trip to Florida, but then I got into some shit and I had to stay.”

“Told you that bitch was trouble. You gotta listen to old Mike.”

“Okay, you were dead-nuts on that one, but what I’m trying to do is get the rap on her now. Did she move some guy in? Is he banging my girl? Is he drying his ass with my towels?”

Mike was counting again, the fives this time, counting and nodding, maybe listening, maybe not. “You know what I was thinking, Harry? I was thinking you could ask somebody else.”

“The problem is, everybody I know that knows her is a friend of hers. They’re not gonna give her up. She’s got ’em all convinced I’m a monster. You follow me?”

“He’s not the only blow dealer in New York, is what I’m saying. You gotta know somebody else.”

Jeez. He was still fixated on getting his coke. “No, Mike,
you
gotta know somebody else. Cause I’m out of it. Like I said. Only you must not have heard me, because if you did, you wouldn’t keep fucking asking. I don’t know anybody, and I don’t wanna know anybody, that’s gonna make a fifty dollar drop at four o’clock in the morning.”

“I’d go a hundred,” Mike said, putting the singles with the fives.

“Try the car service on Avenue D. Go talk to Hector.” Hector was most likely in Rikers, but Harry was hoping Mike would run into some desperate crackhead and get robbed. “Otherwise, First Avenue, 8th Street, 9th Street. Those guys are always open.”

“Scrubbing powder,” Mike said. “Pure, unadulterated street garbage. I don’t put that trash in my body.”

Ah, yes. It was the cheap stuff that hurt you. “You remember the last time you saw her?”

Mike said, “Who?” He was halfway through a stack of tens, and had to start over. His totals were bound to be miles off. “Oh, yeah. That tall girl with the dark hair. What’s her name?”

“Julia, Mike. Her name is Julia.”

“Right, Julia. You gotta be careful of girls like her.”

“Seen her lately?”

“She was in, I don’t know, one night last week. Why? What’ve you got going with her?”

“Was she alone?”

“She came in alone and got guys to buy her drinks until her boyfriend showed up. You know the guy.”

“I know what guy?”

“The boyfriend. Kind of a big nose, real Italianlooking. You used to be friends with him.”

Harry said, “Who?”

“Jimmy,” Mike said, “Jimmy De Steffano.”

Harry was right. Hector was still on the good-boy bench, and the car service was shuttered, but Hector’s cousin Junior had moved the operation, and he was running it out of a bodega on 2nd Street. Junior carved him a gram of rock from his private stash. For old time’s sake, he said.

Harry bindled the gram into a fifty, and that more than got him past Felix, the four-till-midnight doorman at Julia’s co-op. After Harry assured him he’d keep his name out of it, Felix slipped him in with keys he should’ve been fired for using.

The apartment was basically one big room with an arched, wall-length window that faced east and let in lots of light but didn’t offer much of a view. In another part of town, the pad would’ve passed for a loft, the rambling space split into rooms by furniture, about twenty-five percent of it plasterboarded into a bedroom, and through there, the bathroom.

Julia’s estimated time of arrival, one half-hour. To get showered and changed and telephone vicious, half-true gossip to friends about other friends who were either in or out of their dinner plans. He hoped she showed up alone. He didn’t want to deal with De Steffano, not right now. Jimmy no doubt did backflips to convince Julia how tough he was, and if he felt any pressure to put his money where his mouth was, Harry’d have to kick his ass for him, and he didn’t want to do that.