Silent Screams (8 page)

It was dark when Lee walked up the steps to his apartment on the third floor. As soon as he put his keys down on the table next to the front door, the phone rang. He reached it in two steps and picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Heya, Boss Man, it’s me.”

There was no mistaking that voice, high and squeaky, with a pronounced Bronx accent. It was Eddie Pepitone—hustler, Vietnam vet, professional gambler, sometime con man—and quite possibly the one person to whom Lee owed his life.

“Hi, Eddie. What’s up?”

“What’s up? What’s
up
?” Eddie’s tone was mock irritation. “You tell me, Boss Man—you’re the one with the dead girl on your hands.”

“How did you—?”

“News travels fast in my circle, my friend. I keep my ear close to the ground, know what I mean?”

“I mean, how did you know I was—?”

“On the case? Oh, I just figured—kinda put two and two together, you know? Seemed like it was up your alley and all.”

“Okay, but—”

Eddie cut him off. “Look, I got a little time right now. What do you say we meet at McHale’s in about half an hour?”

“Well, I—”

“Come on, you got nothin’ better to do right now. Am I right?”

Lee had to admit Eddie was right. Seeing Eddie would distract him from his disappointment at not having the Jane Doe file to work with.

“Okay, half an hour.”

“Right, see you then—and I’m buying.”

There was a click, and the phone went dead. It sounded as though Eddie was calling from a pay phone. Lee hoped he wasn’t out on the street again. Since he gave up gambling, it had become difficult for Eddie to make a living. Eddie was the most unlikely friend he could imagine, but not a day went by that he didn’t thank his lucky stars that during his stay in the psych ward of St. Vincent’s Hospital, Eddie Pepitone had been his roommate.

It was a short subway ride to McHale’s, one of the throwbacks to the old days of Hell’s Kitchen before it was renamed Clinton, and expensive sushi restaurants began to replace the old Irish bars, with their steam tables, cheap beer, and all the free pickles you could eat. McHale’s wasn’t as grungy as the late, lamented Shandon Star, but it wasn’t a tourist trap either. You could get a pork chop with all the side dishes you could want for about twelve dollars. The bathrooms smelled of mildew, and some of the red leatherette booths were torn and clumsily mended with duct tape, but Lee loved the place. Unpretentious and welcoming, it was comfortable as an old shoe. Snuggled on the northeast corner of Eighth Avenue and Forty-sixth Street, at the edge of the theatre district, McHale’s brought in a steady crowd of locals that included actors both famous and unknown, playwrights, directors, and other assorted theater types.

McHale’s was also Eddie Pepitone’s favorite watering hole.

Lee arrived first and chose a booth in the bar, near the front door. He knew Eddie sometimes liked to smoke, and while he didn’t like the smell, he wanted to accommodate his friend. McHale’s was dark and quiet, and the lamps were already lit. The lights of the cars on Eighth Avenue shone diffusely through the grime on the windows, casting a sullen shadow across the back wall of the bar.

Lee had hardly been there a minute when the front door swung open and Eddie entered.

He looked like a bad hangover. His dirty blond hair—or what was left of it—was rumpled, there was a two-day growth on his chin, and his fingernails looked like they needed sandblasting. Yet somehow he exuded optimism. He had the bright, restless eyes of a con man, and his slovenly appearance was deceiving—Eddie was one of the most perceptive people Lee had ever met. He didn’t know what Eddie did for money now that he had given up gambling, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. But he would always remember what Eddie’s presence had meant in that hospital room a few months ago. They would sit up all night and talk and talk, as they poured cup after cup of black coffee down their throats, until the graveyard shift at the nurses’ station gave way to the morning shift and the gray dawn crept across the faded yellow hospital walls.

Eddie Pepitone settled himself into the booth and put his elbows on the table. “So, how ya been, Boss Man?”

For some reason, during those dark days last fall, Eddie had taken to calling Lee “Boss Man.” Lee had never asked him the reason for this—during that time, just getting through a day was an accomplishment. Eddie seemed to like the nickname, and Lee didn’t mind.

Eddie leaned forward. His breath reeked of cheap cigarettes and gingivitis.

“What’s on your mind? Is this case getting to you?

“How did you know I was on a case?”

“Come on, now, Boss—I read the papers,” Eddie said, flipping a grin at the waitress as she went by. She was neither young nor pretty, but that didn’t matter to Eddie—he was an equal opportunity lech. He once said about himself, “Hell, I’d flirt with anyone with a uterus, and if I’m drunk enough, I don’t even draw the line there.”

To Lee’s surprise, the waitress returned the smile. Eddie was neither young nor handsome, but women responded to him. He was like a big, happy leprechaun, or the dopey, eternally cheerful uncle who turns up at family occasions with a whoopee cushion. He might not exemplify class, but Lee thought you had to be a pretty sour person not to like him.

“I don’t think I’m mentioned in any of the articles,” Lee said.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “What, you think I believe only what I read in the paper? If you’re not in on the killing of that girl in the Bronx, I’ll eat my hat.”

Lee raised his hands in surrender. “I don’t know, Eddie. Sometimes I think you should be the professional, not me.”

Eddie frowned. “What do you mean? I
am
a pro!” He turned to flag down the waitress, who was passing with a tray of drinks. “Hiya, darlin’—can we get something here?”

She glanced at him and nodded ever so slightly as she passed.

Lee leaned forward in his seat. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m a professional at what I do, but let me tell you, I wouldn’t wanna do what you do, Boss—not for a bundle of change.”

As the waitress walked back toward the bar, Eddie’s hand casually brushed against her thigh. When she turned to look at him, her eyes narrowed, but Eddie just grinned, showing yellowed, crooked teeth.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but my friend’s tongue is about to fall out of his mouth. He’s a mean drunk, but he’s even meaner sober.”

The waitress smiled wearily. “What can I get you?”

Lee sensed the resignation in her voice and in the slump of her shoulders. It was late in her shift, he imagined, and her feet must be hurting. Her mascara was smudged, her sprayed hair was beginning to droop, and her makeup could no longer cover the circles under her eyes.

“I’ll take a draft Sam Adams,” Lee said.

“Make it two,” Eddie responded. “And do you have some chips or something you could bring over?”

“There’s nachos or chips with salsa.”

“Great. We’ll take one of each. Thanks,” he said, giving her arm a squeeze. To Lee’s surprise, she looked at him warmly, as if grateful for the contact. A lot of men would get into trouble if they tried what Eddie did, but somehow he always seemed to get away with it. Looking at Eddie’s round, smiling face, Lee had an uncomfortable thought.
The killer will appear unthreatening to his victims until it is too late
.

When the waitress arrived with their drinks and chips, Eddie pressed a bill into her hand.

“Thanks, sweetheart—keep the change.” Lee couldn’t see how much it was, but he had seen Eddie tip twenty dollars on a thirty-dollar bar tab.

The waitress looked at the bill in her hand.

“Th—thanks,” she said, frowning.

“Don’t worry—I’m not hitting on you,” Eddie said, popping a chip into his mouth. “Not that you’re not very attractive,” he added.

“Uh, okay. Thanks.” She raised one eyebrow and walked away, shaking her head.

“A habit left over from my Vegas days,” Eddie told Lee when she had gone. “You take care of the waitstaff there, they take care of you—y’know?”

“So I’ve heard. How’s that going, by the way?”

Eddie fished a small round wooden token from his jacket pocket and held it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Six months this week. Clean…and poor.” He laughed and shoved the token back into his pocket.

“What are you doing for money these days?”

“Oh, this and that. Mostly that.” Eddie grinned. “You know, I was one of a rare breed—a gambler who actually made money. I was good, you know—damn good.”

“I’m sure you were.”

Eddie fingered the cardboard coaster on the table, turning it over between his fingers as if it were a blackjack card. “Those days are behind me. Too bad—I miss it. Any addict who tells you he doesn’t miss his addiction is a liar.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“You know, it’s kind of too bad we ended up in St. Vincent’s.”

“Why?”

“Oh, it’s just that it would have been cool to be in Bellevue, like the crazy people in the old days, y’know? I mean, we still talk about people ending up in Bellevue, but nobody talks about being crazy enough to end up in St. Vincent’s, right?”

Lee smiled for the first time in days. Eddie had that effect on him.

He took a long drink from his pint, the amber liquid cold and bitter on his tongue. It was a familiar and comforting taste, a ritual that took him back through all the years of bars and patio parties, back to his college days, to dorm parties and rugby games, late-night pool halls, back to his sister’s first drink in a bar with him there playing the role of protective older brother…but in the end, of course, he had failed to protect her.

“…so then she asks if she should bring her twin sister in on the deal, and I’m like—hey, are you listening to me?”

Eddie leaned forward and waved his hand in front of Lee’s face.

Just then the door to the bar swung open, and two of the most singular-looking men Lee had ever seen entered the room.

The taller of the two, an African American with coffee-colored skin, had an elaborate swirl of colorful tattoos on his powerful arms, only partially hidden by the sleeves of his blue flannel shirt, rolled up to the middle of his bulging biceps. His shoulders looked as though they had been stuffed into his denim jacket, and his shiny bald head rose directly from his collarbone, without the intervention of a neck. Everything about him suggested enormous physical strength. His face was dominated by thick, sensual lips, set between wide cheekbones, and his deep-set eyes looked yellow in the dim light. Lee estimated his height to be about six foot seven inches.

His companion was at least a foot shorter. Also powerful of build, his body was like a study in Cubism—all right angles and edges, not so much muscular as square. His palms were broad, with stubby pink fingers thick as sausages. Even his head, with its flattop crew cut, resembled a cube, with a sturdy chin that was as wide as his forehead. His rock scrabble nose twisted in oblique angles, suggesting it had been broken more than once. But his most striking feature was his hair. White-blond, pale as summer wheat, it perfectly matched his eyebrows, set over blue eyes. A tiny gold hoop glinted from his left ear, but unlike his companion, he sported no visible tattoos. He was dressed all in black, creating a dramatic contrast to his pale complexion.

“Hey there, fellows!” Eddie sang out in his high, squeaky voice. “Come join us!” The pair came over to their table and slid into the booth, one on each side. Lee was surprised the taller one could fit at all, his legs were so long. Lee was just over six feet, but sitting next to this guy, he felt like a toy poodle squeezed next to a St. Bernard.

“I’d like you to meet my pals,” Eddie said as he signaled the waitress for another round. “This here is Diesel,” he continued, indicating the giant sitting next to Lee, “and his buddy is Rhino. That’s what we call him. His real name’s Rhinehardt, John Rhinehardt, but he likes his nickname, don’t you, Rhino?”

John Rhinehardt, a.k.a. Rhino, pursed his lips and gave a small nod of assent. With his stocky build, crooked nose, and small eyes, he did bring to mind an albino rhinoceros.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Lee.

Rhino responded with another lip pursing.

“And his buddy is Diesel,” Eddie went on, “named on account of—come to think of it, no one knows how you got your nickname.”

“I used to drive the eighteen-wheelers,” Diesel responded in an elegant baritone. “And I like to drink quite a bit.”

“I don’t even remember your real name,” Eddie admitted.

“No one uses it anymore,” Diesel answered. “I prefer Diesel.”

“Right,” Eddie agreed as the waitress approached their table.

“What’ll you have?” she said, standing over them, pen in hand.

“We’ll have another round of the same, thanks, sweetheart,” Eddie replied. “And add my buddies’ drinks to my check.”

She turned to Diesel. If she thought he was odd looking, her face didn’t betray it. Lee figured that working in a bar a block from Times Square, she had pretty much seen it all.

“What’ll it be?” Her voice was ragged with fatigue.

“Two pints of Guinness, please,” Diesel said. As she turned to go, he added, “And a Diet Coke for my friend.”

The waitress did a double take that consisted of one raised eyebrow; then she turned and headed for the bar.

“What’s the idea of ordering a Diet Coke?” Eddie demanded.

In response, Rhino patted what appeared to be a rock-hard stomach.

“He’s always calorie counting,” Diesel said with a disgusted snort. “Oh, well, looks like I’ll have to do the drinking for both of us.”

“Bet you’ll never guess what these guys do for a living?” Eddie chirped.

Break kneecaps?
Lee wanted to answer, but he said nothing.

“Tell ’em, boys.” Eddie leaned back in the red leatherette booth, enjoying himself hugely.

“We are currently working as hospital orderlies,” said Diesel. Evidently he was the talkative one.

“Oh,” said Lee, not sure what he was supposed to make of that information.

“But you didn’t tell him the best part!” Eddie said. He leaned across the table toward Lee, and Lee could smell his tobacco-stained teeth. “These boys work at
Bellevue
!” He pronounced the word as though he were announcing the discovery of the Holy Grail. “So I figure they can get the lowdown on all sorts of nutcases—maybe your guy, for instance.”