Too Old a Cat (Trace 6) (15 page)

Maybe if he got a lot of work for the firm out of Walter Marks. That might help. And they’d have to start getting the firm some publicity. That might help. Advertise. Solve a big case.

He had it, a breakthrough. He could load up a gun for Chico and have her walk down Eighth Avenue shooting everybody over five feet tall. That might get them ink.

Something.

Anything.

Trace expected Chico, so he didn’t look up when the office door opened. He was still trying to make some sense out of his father’s ledger books so he just said, “I was told to shoot you.”

“See? See? I told you,” a male voice shouted.

Trace looked up. It was the two men he had seen talking to Gloria Alcetta at the Swami’s headquarters, the two who had gone later to police headquarters.

The Italian-looking one in the shiny suit was jumping up and down, obviously gloating about something. He pulled a gun from under his jacket and leveled it at Trace.

The bigger one, the black one, said, “Easy, Ed.”

“Easy, my ass,” the one named Ed said. “You heard the sucker. He was told to shoot us.”

“Yeah,” the black man said, looking at Trace. “Yeah. What was that all about?”

“I didn’t know you were there,” Trace said. He made sure he kept his hands on the desk in full view of these two whackos. “I thought it was my partner. It was a joke between me and her. Just a joke.”

“Boy, I’ve heard some horseshit stories in my life,” the one called Ed said, “but that takes the prize.”

“A poor thing, perhaps, but ’tis true, ’tis true,” Trace said.

“What are you, an Englishman?” the one named Ed said.

“He’s being literary,” the black one said. “You’re Tracy?”

“That’s right. Who are you? If you don’t mind my asking.” He was staring at Razoni’s gun pointed at him.

“I’m Detective Jackson. This is Detective Razoni. New York City police.”

“Now that we know each other so well, do you think you can get him to stop aiming that gun at me?” Trace said.

“Not on your freaking life, buster,” Razoni said. “Not until I find out what you meant by that I-was-told-to-shoot-you crack.”

Trace noticed that the two policeman had separated. The white one, Razoni, was still standing just inside the door, but off to the side so he couldn’t be seen through the glass of the office window. The black cop, Jackson, had moved to a point, ten feet away, near the couch. He didn’t have a gun in his hand, but Trace had no doubt one could appear very suddenly. Standing apart this way, there was no way they could be surprised now, no way that Trace—if he had a mind to—could take them both out in one fusillade. They might be dopey, but they knew something about being cops.

“I told you, it was a joke,” Trace said. “I thought you guys were my partner coming in.”

“Do we look like your partner?” Razoni said.

“You’d be amazed at how much you don’t look like my partner,” Trace said.

“You always threaten to shoot him?” Razoni said.

“It’s a her, a her, and I hardly ever threaten to shoot her,” Trace said. “Let me explain.”

“That’s what we’ve been waiting for, ace,” Razoni said.

“I’ll make it simple,” Trace said.

“What do you mean by that?” Razoni snapped.

“What do you mean what do I mean?”

“You don’t have to keep nothing simple. We can understand anything you’ve got to say. You think cops are dumb or something? You look like a guy who thinks cops are dumb.”

Trace looked at the black cop for sympathy. Jackson said, “Tell us the story, mister. Please.”

“I was talking to one of our clients,” Trace said. “My partner was just there. This client doesn’t like my partner and he told me on the phone that I ought to shoot her. That was all. It was a joke.”

“You have a pretty funny way of joking, Tracy,” Razoni said.

“Listen. Will you put that gun away? You make me nervous.”

“You make me nervous,” Razoni said. “This client that wants you to shoot people, that couldn’t be Angelo Alcetta. could it?”

“Angelo Alcetta?” Trace said. He shook his head. “Not him.”

“But you know him, right?” Razoni was barely able to disguise his triumph.

“Yeah. Our firm is doing some work for him.”

“I bet you are,” Razoni said sarcastically.

“What does that mean?” Trace asked. He noticed that the gun had never left Razoni’s hand, nor had it deviated one millimeter from its position. If there was such a thing as relaxing one’s guard, this Razoni had never heard of it. When he drew that revolver, it was aimed at the middle of Trace’s forehead. It was still aimed at the middle of Trace’s forehead. If Razoni had any kind of a seizure, Trace was deadmeat. “Can’t you put that gun away?” he said. “Until I’m sure you don’t have Parkinson’s disease?”

“Not until I’m sure we’re not going to need it,” Razoni said. “You’re working for Alcetta. He’s a nickel-and-dime mob guy. Why does that make you have to follow us?”

Trace noted that the black man, Jackson, had sat down on the couch. Maybe that was a good sign. Maybe when he sat down, that meant that Razoni wasn’t going to shoot anybody. He wished he’d put that gun away, though.

“Because I didn’t know who you were and I was wondering why you were talking to Mrs. Alcetta,” Trace said.

“G’wan,” Razoni sneered. “We never talked to no Mrs. Alcetta.”

“Sure you did. Down at the Swami’s joint. That woman.”

“Sister Glorious?”

“That’s her,” Trace said.

“She said her name was Gloria Charterman,” Jackson said.

“I guess that’s her maiden name. Then she married Alcetta.”

“How do you know all this?” Razoni asked.

“Alcetta hired my father to check up on his wife for a divorce case,” Trace said.

“Your father?” Jackson said.

“Patrick Tracy. It’s his company. He’s a retired city cop.”

“Then who the Christ are you?” Razoni said. The barrel of the revolver lowered a millimeter.

“I’m Devlin Tracy, the son.”

“You’re a p.i. too?”

“No,” Trace said. “I live in Las Vegas. I’m just visiting.”

“And this partner of yours?”

“She’s out somewhere. Damned if I know what she’s doing,” Trace said.

“So that was Mrs. Alcetta?” Razoni said. The gun lowered more.

“That’s right.”

“And you saw us talking to her so you decided to follow us?” Razoni said. Trace nodded and Razoni snapped, “Why? You think you got a right to follow anybody who talks to anybody else?”

Trace shook his head. “My father was trying to get some dirt on Mrs. Alcetta. I saw her talking to you guys. I just wanted to know who you were.”

“Aaaaah,” Razoni said. The gun dropped.

Jackson chuckled. “Put the gun away, Ed. What he means is that he saw us talking to her and he thought we were criminals.”

“Well, maybe you look like a criminal,” Razoni said to his partner. “A lot of black criminals in this city,” he said to Trace. “You have to watch yourself.” He put the gun back behind his belt.

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Jackson told Trace good-humoredly. “You pay attention to him, he’ll have you nuts in no time at all.”

“You’re working on the Swami murder case?” Trace asked.

“Looking into it,” Jackson said.

“Yeah. That and everything else. We’re looking for fagolas in our spare time,” Razoni said.

“Why?” Jackson asked Trace. “You know anything about the Swami murder?”

“No,” Trace said. “I was just wondering what a nice girl who marries an Italian goon from Brooklyn winds up doing in an Indian free-love cult.”

“Ask her,” Razoni said. “We’re not ‘Dear Abby.’” He looked across the room at Jackson. “We ought to do something with this guy.”

“I don’t know,” Jackson said.

“Like what?” Trace asked.

“Like put you away for a while to keep you out of trouble,” Razoni said.

“You ought to have a reason at least to put me away,” Trace said mildly.

Then came Chico’s voice. She stood in the doorway, wearing a long tan trenchcoat despite the July heat. Her right hand waggled menacingly in her pocket.

“Before you try to put him away, you’re gonna have to deal with me, asshole,” she said.

Razoni wheeled around at the voice. Jackson looked mildly interested. Razoni’s hand went under his jacket.

Chico waved her finger inside her trenchcoat.

“All right, you. Over there.” She nodded for Razoni to get to the sofa. He didn’t move. “Go ahead, Trace,” she said. “Call the cops. Tell them to hurry because my gat’s got an itchy trigger finger.”

Trace rolled his eyes.

“You got a gat?” Razoni said.

“That’s right, brown eyes,” she said. “Now get over there and sit down next to the other one. Trace, why aren’t you calling the cops?”

“These
are
the cops. Believe it or not.”

“Oh, for crying out loud.”

Razoni had a gun on her.

Trace said, “Chico, you shouldn’t threaten to shoot someone with your gat when that someone is already holding his own gat.”

“That’s right,” Razoni snarled. “Hands out of your pockets, lady. Careful. Bring that gun out between two fingers.”

Trace shook his head. He looked at Jackson, who was shaking his head. As if by prearrangement, they both got up and walked to the window to look out at West Twenty-sixth Street.

“This happen all the time with you?” Trace asked.

“All the time,” Jackson said morosely. “How about you?”

“Like clockwork. If that woman ever really gets a gun, we’re all in trouble.”

They paused for a moment. Razoni and Chico were yelling at each other.

“Keep your hands out of my pockets, you moron, or I’ll have you up on sex charges.”

“Hey, lady. You don’t have no gat, don’t talk about having a gat.”

“I want a lawyer before I talk to you.”

“You can have the whole Simple Liberties Union if you want,” Razoni shouted, “but you’re going to empty out your pockets.”

“Where’s your father?” Jackson asked Trace. “He runs the agency, right?” He was still looking down on West Twenty-sixth Street.

“Right. He’s on vacation with my mother. All he had was this divorce case, keep an eye on Gloria Alcetta for Angelo, and so he asked me to handle it for him while he was gone. He said no heavy lifting.”

“You a detective in Vegas?” Jackson asked.

“No. I kind of check out claims for an insurance company. I just get paid to be nosy.”

“And the girl?”

“She’s a blackjack dealer by trade,” Trace said. “I think she wants to be a detective.”

“You’re a moron,” Chico was shouting behind them.

“I saw enough of you people in Vietnam,” Razoni said. “You always had hand grenades strapped to your body. I’m searching you.”

“You ought to go back to Vietnam and search for your brain,” Chico shouted. “M.I.A., M.I.A.”

“They seem to be hitting it off pretty well,” Trace said to Jackson.

“Yeah, I think so,” Jackson said. “He hasn’t punched her yet.”

“He punches women as a rule?” Trace said.

“Ed would punch the fender off a truck if it made him mad. But don’t worry. This is all for show. He likes to yell a lot.”

“Hey, I’m sorry about tailing you two. I was just trying to check out everything about Gloria Alcetta.”

“Just what I would have done,” Jackson said. “Is there a good restaurant around here?”

“Downstairs,” Trace said. “Bogie’s. Good food, big drinks, and they leave you alone. You men aren’t really assigned to the Salamanda murder?”

“No,” Jackson said. “We work out of the commissioner’s office. Trouble-shooters, sort of. We were down at Salamanda’s on something else.”

Behind them, Chico’s voice raised to a scream. “I’ll tell you for the last time, cement-head. I don’t have a gat.”

“Then, goddammit, you’re the only person in New York who doesn’t. Empty them pockets.”

“No.”

Razoni hollered, “Jackson, get over here. Hold her down.”

Jackson moved even farther away from Razoni and said to Trace, “Any ideas who might have killed Salamanda?”

“Sorry, no. I just got into town yesterday.”

“Well, if you find out anything or come up with any ideas, you let us know.” He reached into his pocket. “Here. Take my card. Maybe it’ll come in handy.”

“Thanks,” Trace said, pocketing the card. “You think we ought to break this up?” He nodded over his shoulder toward where Razoni and Chico were shouting at each other, face to face.

“You’ll never get a gat in this town,” Razoni was yelling. “Not as long as I’m working here. You’re a subversive.”

“You’ll probably be kicked off the force before I apply for my license. You’re a moron.”

“Before one of them gets hurt,” Jackson said. “I guess so.”

The two men walked back from the window. Jackson said, “Detective Razoni.”

Trace said, “Miss Mangini.”

The two stopped yelling.

Jackson said, “We really ought to be off.”

Razoni looked at Trace and said, “What did you call her?”

“Miss Mangini,” Trace said. “Her name.”

“I thought she was some kind of Oriental,” Razoni said.

“She is. But she’s half a Sicilian too.”

“Don’t talk around me like I’m not here,” Chico said.

“Ignore her,” Trace said.

“And she’s your partner?” Razoni asked Trace, who nodded. Razoni nodded too. “Mister, you’ve got some weird kind of partner,” he said.

“Yeah?” Chico yelled. “Well, let me tell you—”

Jackson said, “Hush now, lady. Before you say anything you regret.”

Razoni said to Chico, “You don’t look Italian.”

She said, “At times like this, you dumb greaser, I’m glad I don’t.”

Razoni snorted under his breath like a puzzled bull. “Tracy,” he said.

“Yes?”

“You vouch that she’s unarmed?”

“Yes,” Trace said.

“The blood of innocent people will be on your head,” Razoni warned.

“She’s unarmed,” Trace said.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jackson said.

Razoni said, “I’m still not convinced about you, Tracy. Stay off our tail.”

Jackson said to Razoni, “I already told him all that.”

Razoni said, “Well, it’s about time, Tough. Let’s get out of here.”

Chico told him, “Go stand at the curb. They pick up garbage tonight.”

“Yeah?” Razoni said from the doorway. “You’re on my list, lady.” He looked at Trace. “I really pity you,” he said. “Come on, Tough,” he said, and left.

They could hear his footsteps thunking down the stairs.

Chico smiled at Jackson. “Thanks,” she said. “Why do they call you Tough?”

“Just a nickname.”

“Are you really tough?”