A Cast of Killers (26 page)

Herbert hee-heed quietly as if he had just
heard an irresistible joke and T.S. had to be content with rolling
his eyes. He should have known better than to question her ability
to remember a dress.

"So, it was either this black one here…" she
placed it to one side and continued, "or this black one. Possibly
this brown one, though I would certainly disapprove. The white one
is out. She had better sense than that. And this straw bag might
have passed… but not these." She pushed a purple job and the green
suede to one side. "Dig in."

Herbert opened up the straw pocketbook and
emptied out the contents in a small heap in front of him, revealing
a small rayon wallet, now empty except for a photo of a chubby baby
of indeterminate sex. The bag also contained three pencils, a
nearly empty purple lipstick, a small compact of garish eyeshadow
and a $10 coupon off weekly sessions at a nearby tanning salon.
"Not hers," he decided, shaking his head.

Auntie Lil was quick enough to empty out two.
But the brown bag held a prophylactic and was ruled out on that
basis. The other, a black one, held an address book that
inexplicably contained only male names. A matching wallet was
crammed with photographs, though no money or credit cards. Most of
the photographs were of beefy young men in macho poses. The
inscriptions on these photos quickly eliminated the pocketbook as
being Emily's, in Auntie Lil's opinion.

"You're sure?" T.S. asked. "After all, this
one fellow's written: 'Thanks for an evening I'll never forget.'
Maybe she took him to the theater."

"It has to be the one you're hoarding,"
Auntie Lil insisted. "Empty it before I burst."

T.S. did not answer. He was too busy staring
at the clippings he'd pulled from the small black pocketbook.

"What is it?" Herbert asked.

"These clippings," T.S. began. He spread them
out across the table top.

"What are they? Just a columnist for one of
the local papers if I remember right," Auntie Lil replied. She held
one up and examined it. "This one is about corruption in awarding
liquor licenses in Manhattan."

"This one is about a schoolteacher who beats
children with a paddle," T.S. added. "And this one exposes inferior
test scores of Catholic high-school graduates."

"What's so special about that?" Herbert
asked. "The author is an investigative reporter, correct?"

"Correct," T.S. replied. "But not just an
investigative reporter. She's my favorite reporter. Margo McGregor.
I was just trying to read her column today, but she's been away on
vacation."

"Well, I doubt it's important," Auntie Lil
decided, scraping the pile of possessions her way. "There's no way
Emily could have had a connection to any of those stories. Perhaps
she simply liked to cut and save interesting articles. If this is
even her purse." She quickly sorted through the small stack of
items. "A tasteful shade of mauve lipstick. Could be Emily's…
Here's a small pocket Bible, so we're still in the running … and…
bingo! This is her pocketbook. And this is the proof." She spread
out an entire handful of theater ticket stubs that had been
carefully bound together with a large paper clip. "She was saving
them for her collection."

"Notice what's missing," T.S. pointed out.
"No wallet, no identification, no address book."

"No way to know who she is or where she
lives," Herbert summed up.

"Yes," Auntie Lil agreed. "He stole this to
make it harder, if not impossible, for the police to find out who
she was."

"That means we're right back where we
started," Herbert said sadly.

"Not quite," T.S. broke in. They looked up at
him expectantly. "We now know she liked Margo McGregor's
writing."

Auntie Lil did not have time to be irritated.
The bartender had finally roused herself from her pro wrestling
stupor and was standing by their table. "Sorry to keep you
waiting," she boomed in a nasal voice. "Most people around here
don't exactly expect table service. Which is good since my feet are
killing me." She stopped abruptly and stared at the pile of
discarded pocketbooks, then looked from T.S. to Auntie Lil to
Herbert Wong. A wad of gum worked itself from one cheek, across her
tongue, and into the other cheek as she puzzled the situation out.
Finally, she shrugged and addressed Auntie Lil. "Now that's a
switch," the bartender admitted. "Usually, it's the little old
ladies who get their pocketbooks snatched. Not the other way
around."

"We didn't steal these," T.S. interrupted
firmly. "We found them in the trash and are now trying to determine
the owners." It didn't sound very convincing, not even to his own
ears. Herbert even winced and T.S. resisted the temptation to ask
if he could have done any better on such short notice.

"That so?" The bartender shifted on her
aching feet and stifled a yawn. "Takes all kinds, I guess. Now,
what d'ya want?" she demanded with a crack of her gum. Then,
noticing their expensive attire, a brief smiled curled the corners
of her mouth. Perhaps this group had actually heard of a tip
before. She'd give it her best shot. "Afternoon special is on," she
added politely. "Draft beer's sixty cents."

"Is there a minimum?" Auntie Lil inquired
politely.

"Yeah. Two drinks per floor show. And here
comes the first show." The bartender's right foot darted out and
she crushed a large roach firmly beneath her plastic shoe. It
crunched and she whooped at her own joke. When no one else laughed,
she coughed, straightened up, and added in a get-tough-quick voice,
"People don't get to sit here who don't buy nuthin', if that's what
you mean, honey."

"My nephew and I will have the special,"
Auntie Lil quickly decided. The bartender stared at T.S. like she'd
never run across the concept of a nephew before.

Herbert Wong politely ordered a glass of
water. The bartender shifted her stare to him, then ambled behind
the bar, busied herself over an unseen sink and returned carrying a
tray that held three small smudged glasses. Herbert's water was
tepid and slightly brownish. In fact, it looked a whole lot like
the beer.

"One water for Mr. Rockefeller here," she
said, plunking the glass on the table. "And here's a couple of
brews for you two mad, mad party people."

"We're looking for a Detective George
Santos," Auntie Lil said.

"Yeah? You family? Or planning to confess?"
The bartender eyed the pocketbooks again and cackled loudly. "Well,
Georgie don't usually come in until five." She snapped her gum and
squinted at them to get a better view. "Say, what do folks like you
want with a guy named 'Santos'? You don't look like no Spaniards to
me." Herbert Wong received a particularly thorough once-over.

"We're friends," T.S. said.

"Georgie's got no friends. Just an ex-wife, a
couple of suspects and a lot of acquaintances." The bartender
followed this gloomy pronouncement by marching back to the bar and
pouring herself a healthy shot of vodka. She slammed it back in one
gulp and banged the glass down on the bar.

T.S. watched the bartender's gesture with
envy. Such blatant uncouthness! Such freedom! An irresistible urge
overcame him. "Allow me," T.S. yelled to her from across the room.
He peeled off a few bills from the small wad in his pocket and
threw them on the table for effect. "Have another on us. And what
the heck—buy the house a round of drinks!" He returned Auntie Lil's
stare and confessed in a low whisper, "Sorry. But I've always
wanted to do that."

The house—which consisted entirely of the
toothless old man— cackled its gleeful approval. He pounded the
bar, hooting and grunting with an enthusiasm far surpassing his
demonstrated zeal for wrestling.

"You for real?" The bartender eyed the bills
as if they might be counterfeit, then shrugged and poured herself
another. "Sure you won't join me?"

"No, thank you, madam. This will do us just
nicely." T.S. raised his beer glass in salute and nudged Auntie Lil
until she did the same.

"Have you lost your mind?" she whispered to
her nephew.

"Not at all. You're always telling me to
loosen up." T.S. took a deep breath, followed by a tiny sip, which
ended up in a fine spray over the pocketbooks. "This beer tastes
like it should be tested for steroids," he said, swabbing his mouth
out with his handkerchief.

Auntie Lil took his word for it. "Let's come
back later," she decided. "I can think of better places to kill a
few hours."

"A good idea," Herbert said. "Perhaps by then
the rust will have settled to the bottom of my glass of water. I
have no doubt it will still be on this table." He led the retreat
by hopping up and waving to the bartender. "We shall return," he
promised as he bowed his head at her. She bowed hers back, the
chain on her cat-eye glasses jingling as she did so.

"We'd like to surprise Detective Santos,"
T.S. added, throwing a few more bills onto the pile.

"Sure you would. Wouldn't we all?" She
slammed back her second shot of vodka as her cat-eyes followed them
out the door.

"I could hardly breathe in there!" Auntie Lil
gasped as she gulped in bursts of air that, while not exactly fresh
given they were standing by a major highway, were at least foul in
a more familiar way.

"They ought to mop the floor once in a
while," T.S. observed. "It wouldn't hurt the atmosphere any."

"Your Detective Santos must be one depressed
man," Herbert Wong added. "A healthy person would not frequent such
an establishment."

"I'll say. I feel like having a few tests run
on myself after that visit," T.S. declared.

Auntie Lil just sniffed. She'd seen worse in
her day. "I'm coming back early this evening," she announced. "Are
you with me or against me?"

"Damn right, I'm with you. You're not
prowling around here after dark alone." T.S. looked up and down the
deserted sidewalks. Cars whizzed by every few seconds without
slowing. It was a lonely place for a bar and a great place for a
mugging.

"I must begin the surveillance," Herbert
apologized. "I will not be able to join you."

"Then it's just you and me, kid," T.S. told
Auntie Lil. "But if we're coming back here, I've got to confess
that I definitely need to find a nice bar and have a few drinks
first."

Several drinks, several hours and several
dinners later, T.S. and Auntie Lil returned to the Westsider. A few
hours had made a big difference. Not necessarily a positive
difference, but a big one just the same. They could hear the
loudest change as they approached. Behind the black-painted
windows, jukebox music blared and they were assaulted by a fresh
wave of pulsating sound when they pushed open the front door. The
female bartender was gone, replaced by two fat balding men in dirty
white aprons who scurried back and forth serving the thirsty crowd.
Nearly every stool at the bar was taken and many of the booths were
occupied as well. The patrons were an odd mixture of construction
workers, sanitation and traffic department employees, neighborhood
rummies and an occasional waitress still in her uniform. The smell
of old beer had been replaced by the odor of bodies packed together
après ten hours of manual labor.

They found Detective Santos sitting alone at
a booth, staring at a soundless baseball game on the television.
Three empty highball glasses sat before him. He held a fourth,
filled only with ice, cradled in both hands.

Without asking, Auntie Lil and T.S. slid into
the seat across from him. He looked up with bleary eyes. "No hope,"
he told them, shaking his head sadly. "They're twelve games out and
only have ten games left. Another magnificent season is at end for
the New York Yankees." He raised his glass of ice cubes toward the
television set in toast.

"Do you know who we are?" Auntie Lil
demanded. She was furious to find her friendly detective replaced
by this boozing, discouraged human being.

Detective Santos stared at her, mystified.
"Is this a scam?" he asked. He answered his own question by
flipping open a small wallet and displaying a gold detective's
badge. "If it is, better find a new mark."

"Young man. You're drunk and it's not even
eight o'clock." Auntie Lil was truly indignant. She did not believe
in getting drunk until ten o'clock, at the earliest.

"I remember you," George Santos said
suddenly. He leaned forward and blinked. "You're the lady that
Lieutenant Abromowitz hates."

"That's me. And this is my nephew, Theodore.
The lieutenant hates him, too," she added helpfully.

"Is that so?" Santos looked T.S. up and down
and smiled drunkenly. "In that case, it's a pleasure to meet
you."

"The pleasure is all mine," T.S. returned
drily.

"Are you on duty?" Auntie Lil demanded.

Santos tilted back his head and stared at her
through red-rimmed eyes. "Of course I'm not on duty. I'm piss-ant
drunk. Can't you tell?"

"Yes, I can tell," Auntie Lil replied. "And
it's a shame, because we wanted to ask you some questions."

"Ask away," the detective told them casually,
waving a hand in the general direction of the bar. One of the
bartenders scurried over and set a fresh drink in front of him.
"Thank you, my good man," Santos told the bartender. "Would any of
you lovely people care for a drink or two?"

"No, thanks," T.S. said. "I'll let you have
my share."

"Most kind of you," Santos admitted with
exaggerated politeness. He belched lightly and covered his mouth,
then sighed. His shoulders slumped as if a plug had been pulled and
all of his energy drained out at once. "What do you want to know?"
he said glumly. "It's about the old lady, right?"

"Right," Auntie Lil answered crisply. "What
have you found out?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." The detective
shook his head and murmured into his drink. "Perhaps I should
explain," he said.