Shivers (19 page)

“Aww, some kiddie picture. I forget. Cinderella or somethin’.”

“So you got lonely and decided to call your mother-in-law?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”
Where was Gloria? Did she have an accident? Wasn’t her mother
expecting
her?

“Well, that’s sweet.”

“I won’t keep you too long. I know you go to bed early.”

“Yes, I usually do. But tonight, I wasn’t that tired. My, Bobby’s going to be awfully sleepy tomorrow. It’s after eleven. What was it, a double feature?”

“No. No, I think Gloria was going to drop in on one of her girlfriends on the way back. You know how she is, once she gets talking. Bobby’s probably asleep over there somewhere on the couch.”

Grandmama giggled. “Sure, Poor little thing. Your daughter sent me a lovely card last week. She can certainly write well. Loveliest letters I ever get.”

“Yeah. She’s got talent. Look, I won’t keep ya. I didn’t realize how late it was.”

“Well, you probably want to call up and find out when your wife is coming home.”

He laughed. “Yeah. That’s right. My kibbit-zing wife.”

“Look, darling, take care of yourself. And give my love to Glo and to little Bobby, will you?”

“Of course, Mother. I’ll do that.”

“Fine. Goodnight now. And thanks for calling.”

“Okay, Mother. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Sonny.”

He listened for the click on the other end of the line, then slowly placed the receiver in its cradle. He should have said something. But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to worry her. There were only two possibilities. Either Gloria hadn’t told her mother about her plans, and had not yet arrived at her house for reasons unknown. Or else she had never planned to go to her mother’s at all. John didn’t know which idea was more repellent. No one had answered the phone at the house since early in the morning, which meant she must have left not long after he’d left for work. Surely she would have reached her destination by now? Unless she’d decided to stop at a motel. She tired easily when driving. But the trip wasn’t
that
long, and she had left hours ago.

Who was he kidding? Her mother was obviously not sick. Gloria had only used the old lady for an excuse. She had never intended to go to see her. She was leaving him after all. She had gone somewhere where he wouldn’t find her. He couldn’t understand why she had even bothered writing that she’d gone home to Mother, since she must have realized how easily John could check it out. Maybe she
had
originally set out for her mother’s, then decided it would be better to be off by herself. Alone with Bobby. That must be it. The other option was simply unthinkable. He would wait until the morning—if he didn’t hear from her by then, he would start checking morgues and hospitals; hell, he would put out an APB on the bitch.

She had left him. He was sure of it. Left him.

And like everyone else . . . she’d disappeared.

Four hours earlier Ralph Andrews and Steven Everson were standing on the steps of the exit from the Broadway Junction station. They had climbed down the stairs where Lina had fallen and were inspecting the reddish smear spread out over several of the steps beneath their feet.

Steven looked at Ralph. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I suppose, if you used your imagination, you can roughly see it taking on the shape of a man. Especially when you stand at the top. But it’s hard to tell, spread out over the steps that way. Most of the goo has been worn away anyhow.”

Ralph extracted an envelope from his pocket and bent down to examine the stuff more closely. He took a pen from his shirt pocket. One end was a tiny flashlight—he shined it over the reddish material clinging to the underside of the steps where the thousands of feet that went up and down the stairs each day couldn’t disturb it. He shut the light off, put it away, then pulled a book of matches out of his pants pocket. He used the matches to scrape some of the glob into the open envelope. After he had a sizable amount, he sealed the envelope, folded it, and placed it in his pocket. He got back up on his feet. “I can have a lab check this out. Should have the results pretty soon.”

“Let’s hope it’s not what this George character claims it is.”

“I wouldn’t worry. Probably it’s animal gunk. Or fake movie gore more likely. We’ll find out.”

“What time is it?” Steven asked him.

Ralph consulted his watch, its numbers glowing faintly in the dark. “Not quite eight-thirty. Let’s go down to the car. We’ll get to the bar early.”

They went out through another exit and went down to street level. Ralph’s car was parked two blocks away, near the end of the train yard by a grubby lot full of overgrown weeds and garbage stacks. They got into the car and drove off in the direction of McGreeley’s.

Ralph told him about the afternoon’s activities. “I’ve got someone digging into Vivian Jessup’s background and the facts behind her death. Someone else is contacting people Joey was interviewed by. A young fellow is touring the singles bars tonight, asking questions. A couple of tireless trainees are scouring the more desolate sections of Central Park. And we’ve duplicated hundred of copies of that photo you gave me. And that’s just the beginning.”

Steven was gratified. Maybe, just maybe, this would work. “Thank God,” he whispered.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.
Ralph!
—stop here. There’s the bar.”

McGreeley’s was as empty as Lina had found it the night before. They ordered two beers and stood by the counter. Steven’s glass had brown stuff smeared on the top so he drank his beer from the bottle.

Ralph asked the bartender—the same young Irish guy—a few questions, but the fellow only had a vague recollection of Lina and no recollection of George whatsoever. “We got pretty busy last night,” he said.

Ralph looked at his watch. “It’s almost time. I’ll go sit at one of the tables and look inconspicuous. Don’t be nervous, now.”

“I’m not,” Steven said. “I wonder how he’ll know what I look like.”

Ralph took a pointed look around the bar. “The only other two people in this joint who are male look like they’ve been here since yesterday morning. So don’t worry. If he doesn’t come over to you, go over to him.” Lina
had
given a pretty detailed description of George during her spirited rendition of what had happened.

“Okay.”

Steven sipped his beer, his eyes on the clock. The young bartender came over and wiped the counter with a wet cloth. By the time Steven had finished his beer, it was five after nine. He ordered another one.

Looking through the front window from his table, Ralph was carefully studying anyone who even came near the bar. There weren’t many people on the street now, as it was getting colder and windier. Even bar habitués were still at home digesting their meals, watching the idiot box. Most of the people he saw were kids, groups of boys looking for fun. McGreeley’s was not a young-persons’ bar. Without exception, they passed it by.

He checked his watch. They had planned to give George one full hour to show, though Steven had said he was willing to wait all night if need be—that’s how desperate he was to see the guy. Though Ralph was also anxious to see how this all fit into Joseph Everson’s disappearing act, if it did fit into it, he also knew that some jokers never intended to keep their appointments.

Soon it was nine-thirty. And then a quarter of ten.

At ten o’clock Steven walked over to Ralph’s table and gave the detective a frantic look. “I don’t want to leave,” he said. “Maybe something detained the guy.”

Ralph was hoping that this George character wouldn’t walk in while they were talking together. If he saw them he might get awfully suspicious when he found out one of them was his quarry. “I don’t think he’s going to show, but it’s up to you. Look, why not let
me
stay here. If he comes in, I can grab him easy enough.”

“No. You look nothing like me. Joey and I have some familial resemblance, at least. Even if you grabbed him, he might not talk to you.”

“Look, you hired me—have a little confidence.”

“I do. Please—it’s just that . . . He’s my brother.”

“Okay,” Ralph sighed. “I understand.”

“There’s no need for you to stay here any longer. If he does come, I’ll call you afterwards and tell you what happened.”

“You might need me. I could tail him.”

“Look, I’ll only stick around a few minutes more. I just need some time by myself.”

“Suit yourself.” Ralph squeezed Steven’s shoulder and grinned. “Okay. You stay here. I’m going to pursue a few angles of my own, as they say.”

Steven nodded. “I’ll be all right.”

As Ralph walked out of the bar he knew that Steven would probably stay at McGreeley’s until closing time. He could tell when clients wanted to handle things themselves and he knew better than to try and dissuade them.

Ralph drove around the block, then parked his car three streets down on Jamaica Avenue. There were plenty of bars in the neighborhood, and there was bound to be a bartender or patron somewhere who could give him more information on the mysterious “George.”

He might even be lucky enough to find out where he lived.

Or unlucky enough . . .

While Steven nursed another bottle of beer, Ralph went into several nearby taverns and described George to the bartenders, asking if they knew who he was or where he resided. Nothing came up until the sixth bar, a dimly lit cocktail lounge with a black, polished, oval counter. A chubby barmaid in her forties, dressed in tight, black slacks, sauntered over to him with a winning smile.

“What’ll it be?”

“A beer. And some information. I’m looking for a friend of mine, guy who used to hang out around here. Name’s George. I’d like to pay him a visit but I don’t remember where he lives.”

“George?” the woman said. “Used to hang out here?”

“Maybe he still does. I haven’t seen him in a while. Short guy, in his forties. Slick black hair. Kind of nervous.”

The barmaid reacted instantaneously. “Oh him.
That
George. I know him. He comes in here a lot. He lives right around here. Porky could give you his address. They used to play cards together all the time.”

“Porky?”

“That’s his nickname. He usually comes in sometime after eleven. I’ll get you your beer, and he’ll probably be here in a few minutes. I’ll ask him where George lives. All right?”

“Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it.”

“Sure, honey.”

Ralph smiled and watched her waddle to the middle of the bar, where she pulled a bottle from beneath the counter, snapped off the cap, and poured the beer into a freshly washed glass, the foamy head spilled over onto the bar. She wiped the bottom of the glass with a towel and brought it and the bottle back to Ralph. “Here you go,” she said.

Ralph extracted a dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to her. “That’ll be eighty-five cents,” she said. She took the bill, rang up the price on the cash register, and brought him his change.

The door opened with a jingle, and in walked a balding, pot-bellied man of about forty-five. He was dressed in a sharp-looking suit and had a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth. His features were broad and rubbery—he looked as if you could throw a ball at his face and it would stick there in the folds of his flesh before bouncing back out onto the floor. He was in a very happy mood.

“Dolly, Dolly, Dolly,” he said cheerfully. “How are you today?”

“Fine, Porky. What did you do, win at the races today?”

“I sure did. Had a real lucky streak.”

“Well, don’t spend it all in one night. The usual?”

“Please. And don’t worry. I’m holding onto
this
wad. I won’t be doing any gambling for at least another day. Ha ha ha.”

Dolly fixed a martini while she spoke. “This gentleman—” she indicated Ralph, “and you have a mutual acquaintance. George—y’know, the guy comes in here all the time? You play cards with him now and then, don’t ya?”

“Ah, yes. My friend, George. Haven’t seen him in a while. Nervous little fellow. Always looking around his shoulder. Comes and goes.”

“But do you know where he lives?” Dolly asked.

“Yes. In that big, brown building on the corner, two blocks down. First building on the right. I don’t know the address. It’s right next to the dry-cleaning store,” he waved his hand in the direction of the door, “on the other side of the street.”

“Two blocks down, first building on the right,” Ralph repeated.

“Yes, right next to the dry cleaners. His last name is—” he snapped his fingers, trying to remember, “Foran, Forrest, something like that.” He looked at Ralph. “Well, you must know.”

“Yeah.” Ralph gave a noncommittal grunt.

“He lives on the third floor in a crummy old furnished room. He’s got roaches as big as mice.”

Dolly grimaced playfully and Ralph smiled. “They grab the cards right out of your hands, eh?”

Porky laughed heartily. “That they do, yessir. Well, George isn’t a bad sort of guy, especially after you know him for a while. He’s a good loser and a good card player. And he pays up— right then and there. I like that. But he was odd—can’t quite put my finger on it. A strange, quiet man. Never did figure out what he did for a living.”

Ralph waited for the fat man to take another sip of beer. Porky had never even met Ralph before, yet there he was practically pouring out information about his “friend” George. Bar friends. They were like that. They existed for each other just to assuage the loneliness of otherwise friendless people. Ralph would have been like that, once his wife died, had it not been for his work. It kept him well occupied.

But not that occupied. He found himself wondering what Dolly would be like to sleep with, her body close to his, warm, comforting.

“Once he told me that he drove a cab—for Blue Dot here in Brooklyn—though I don’t know when he gave it up. Can’t blame him. Cabbies these days are in for trouble, what with the robberies. Too much crime in this city. Too much.”

“What do you think he does for a living now?” Ralph asked.

“Beats me. Mechanic maybe. Seems to be good with his hands. Say, he did mention once that he used to work for the subway system. Could have been one of those guys that fix the tracks, walking around with the dirty clothes and the headlights. Yeah, that would have suited George to. a tee.”