Death Of A Dream Maker (33 page)

“You're not going anywhere today,” he said firmly.
“Except to the doctor's.”

Auntie Lil glared. Theodore rarely told her what to
do, but when he did take a stand, it was near impossible to budge
him.

“Don't even try to argue,” he said calmly. “Your
health is my responsibility. I want you checked thoroughly after
last night.”

“I am fine. I did not get clobbered over the head.
Casey did.”

T.S. glanced at Casey. “Good point. She can drive you
to the doctor and get checked out herself while she's at it”

“Is this doctor cute?” Casey interrupted.

“I find him very handsome,” Auntie Lil replied
absently.

Casey was convinced. “Count me in. I need some
Tylenol Three
anyway.” She touched a bruise cheerfully. “My
head should explode any minute now.”

“Good. It's settled.” T.S. added milk to his coffee
and avoided his aunt's eyes.

“Theodore.” The one word was an eloquent study in
frustration. Auntie Lil sipped her coffee and moped.

“You are going,” T.S. told her. “Herbert and I will
take care of questioning the security guard and the other
errands.”

“I must talk to Seth Rosenbloom myself,” Auntie Lil
insisted. “Soon. I promised his father I would get him to visit and
Abe looks quite ill. We had better hurry.”

“Okay,” T.S. conceded. “I'll try to set up a meeting
at the Swan Dive early this evening. But only if you get a clean
bill of health from the doctor. Let's say six o'clock.”

Auntie Lil nodded and contented herself with sulking
over coffee while T.S. made his phone calls. Seth was willing to
meet them again, especially when he heard that Auntie Lil would be
along this time.

Casey took the news that she would be seeing a
handsome doctor with enthusiasm. She fled to the bathroom and shut
the door, leaving the others to speculate what the clatter and
groans were about. When she emerged, she was dressed again in her
yellow sheath and had successfully covered some of the bruises on
her face. But a purplish goose egg remained. It protruded
prominently from the curve of her brow and no amount of makeup
could disguise its size.

“Perhaps he'll admire your bravery in the face of
adversity,” Auntie Lil told her. “I know that I do.”

When they reached Max Rose Fashions, T.S. and Herbert
quickly ran out of luck. The old guard who had been on duty the
night before was not due in for another four hours. His name was
Hiram Tate and he had called his coworkers to warn them that he
might be sick.

“He said he was having heart palpitations or
something,” the guard on duty said with a yawn. “The old guy ought
to retire.”

With a promise to stop by later, T.S. and Herbert
left the lobby. They planned to head for Sterling and Sterling to
question the head of the firm's trust subsidiary.

Fortunately, their disappointment at not finding
Hiram Tate was assuaged by the sight of the limousine waiting for
them outside Max Rose Fashions. Grady had buffed it to shining
perfection. It stood out against the graffiti-scarred trucks of the
busy garment district like a shark in a school of fat groupers.

“I could get used to this,” T.S. admitted as he
ducked into the back seat and slid across the luxurious
cushions.

Herbert did not answer. He was staring at a truck
parked across the street in the process of being loaded. Racks of
swinging dresses stood at the curb while a relay team of men passed
handfuls of hanging plastic-wrapped garments up into the truck. A
burly man stood guard, arms folded over his well-defined chest as
he supervised the loading and made sure no merchandise was lost to
a snatch-and-run thief.

“What is it?” T.S. said.

“That's the truck that Lillian claims tried to hit
her. I'm sure of it.” Herbert pointed out a splash of graffiti near
the cab:
kid blue & poppy.
There was a large blue moon
painted above the colorful lettering.

“You're sure?” T.S. asked.

“Yes. I recognize the blue moon.” Herbert stared at
the truck. “Seeing this truck so close to the factory is no
coincidence. It confirms what Lillian told us. And we did not
believe her. Someone did try to run over her deliberately.”

“Wait here,” T.S. said. “I'll see who it belongs
to.”

The street was crowded. He elbowed past a group of
Scandinavian tourists, nearly got run over by a bicycle messenger,
and bumped his shin on the fender of a station wagon backing up.
T.S. was thankful to reach the other side of the street in one
piece. He approached the man supervising the loading of the truck,
noting uneasily that his face was as placid and immovable as a
plastic Buddha's.

“Who owns this truck?” T.S. asked.

“What's it to you?” came the universal reply.

A plausible lie leaped immediately to his lips,
evidence that he and Auntie Lil shared the same gene pool. “I'm a
buyer for a large Midwestern retail chain. I've been looking for a
source of affordable ladies' wear.”

“Sorry, we don't carry your size,” the guard told
him.

T.S. slipped a twenty from his wallet and dangled the
bill in the air.

“Belongs to Max Rose Fashions,” the guard said,
spitting the words out of the side of his mouth like a gangster in
a forties movie. “Across the street. Top four floors.” His hammy
hand plucked the twenty delicately from the air. It disappeared
inside his shirt pocket.

T.S. hurried back to the limo, his mind considering
the possibilities. Who had been driving the truck? Why hadn't he
paid more attention to Auntie Lil's description?

He nodded at Herbert, who did not need a further
explanation. They headed back inside Max Rose Fashions with a
different destination in mind—the offices of Thomas Brody.

“We have eight drivers on the payroll,” Brody
explained. “And maybe ten more on call if we need them.”

“How many of them are of slight build with dark
coloring and a small mustache?” Herbert asked. He remembered most
of Auntie Lil's description.

“How should I know?” Brody scowled. “I can't be
expected to recognize every employee on sight. This is only a
temporary assignment for me.”

“Thinning hairline but with longer hair,” Herbert
insisted. “Pulled back in a ponytail. Big ears. Maybe Pakistani,
Lillian said. He was wearing a plaid woodsman shirt.”

Brody shook his head wearily. “I appreciate your
efforts, but I really can't—” He stopped suddenly.

“What is it?” T.S. demanded.

Brody looked up, his eyes wide with worry. “That
sounds a lot like the clerk I fired for signing off on those phony
deliveries from the shell company Davy set up.”

“Could we see his file?” T.S. asked. “Let Herbert get
a look at his photo?”

“I'll see what I can find. It may be at the lawyers'.
Tricky business firing someone these days, you know?” Brody left
the office in search of the clerk's personnel file. Herbert and
T.S. stared at each other.

“Maybe we should not attempt this by ourselves,”
Herbert suggested. “Perhaps Lieutenant Abromowitz is better suited
to such things.”

“What harm could it do?” T.S. asked. His adrenaline
was pumping. He had stumbled on an important clue. He wanted to run
it down, wring it out for all it was worth. Present Auntie Lil with
new information for a change. Besides, how dangerous could one
clerk be? When he wasn't behind the wheel of a truck, of
course.

Herbert did not have time to answer. Jake Rosenbloom
loomed suddenly in Brody's doorway, his pudgy frame filling the
opening. He wore an expensive suit that had been tailored to fit
perfectly about twenty pounds ago. It now strained at the chest and
the shirt beneath gaped open, revealing a white T-shirt between the
buttons. His belt was cinched too tightly and his stomach sagged
over his pants like escaping pizza dough.

“Who do you think you are, coming here at a time like
this?” he demanded. Jake's eyes were red and swollen from lack of
sleep. He did not look well.

“I am a part owner of this company,” T.S. reminded
him. “And I have as much right as you to be here.”

“We'll see about that.” Jake said grimly as he turned
abruptly and hurried away.

“I don't know about you,” T.S. told Herbert, “but I'm
going to be looking over my shoulder until we get away from this
place.”

Brody returned with what little they had on the
discharged shipping clerk. Most of the personnel folder was taken
up by legal opinions and memos on the V.J. Productions mess and how
best to fire the clerk in order to avoid legal action. The single
photo was grainy and blurred. It showed the young man posed against
a white wall somewhere in the factory. The unflattering lighting
bestowed him with a permanently guilty look.

“I don't even know why they bother to take employee
photos,” Brody admitted. “Everyone comes out looking like a
convicted felon.”

“This guy might end up being one,” T.S. pointed
out.

Herbert examined the photograph carefully. “I fear
that I can't be sure,” he finally said. “It may or may not be
him.”

“We'll go see him,” T.S. decided. “You can get a
better look at him in person.”

Brody shook his head skeptically as he scrawled the
clerk's address on a piece of paper. He snapped the file shut.
“Hope you know what you're doing,” he said grimly. “And if you'll
excuse me, I have to get back to work.” He reached for the
telephone.

The clerk lived in upper Manhattan, in a neighborhood
called Washington Heights. Once a spacious haven for families, it
was fast becoming one of the most troubled precincts in all of New
York City. Drug dealers had moved in; families had moved out. The
streets were littered with fast-food wrappers and tiny vials made
to hold crack cocaine. The area was on its way down. Until the
survivors could pull together in a cohesive front, it would not
begin its way back up soon.

Grady double-parked the limousine in a narrow side
street, directly in front of the address they'd been given. No
other cars would be able to get by.

“You're blocking traffic,” T.S. said.

“That so?” Grady emerged from the front seat and
perched on the hood of the car, looking around like the driver of a
stagecoach who was anticipating an Indian raid. He folded his long
legs to fit on top of the bumper and settled back, scanning the
apartments around him. T.S. had never noticed just how massive the
man was until then. With Lilah gone, Grady had gradually permitted
himself the luxury of more casual clothes. Today he wore a pair of
neatly pressed blue jeans and a long-sleeved rugby shirt. His
muscles flexed beneath the cotton.

“Don't like this street much,” he told T.S. “Can't
think why. Could be it reminds me of Belfast in the early
seventies. You go in while I watch the car.”

Grady was right. The street hummed with unspoken
malevolence. Herbert could feel the implicit threat in the air.
“Let's hurry,” he said. 'Take the clerk somewhere else to
talk.”

T.S. nodded. “Grady can convince him if he's
reluctant.”

They would never know if the shipping clerk was
reluctant to talk or not. And they'd never get a chance to confirm
whether he had been the driver of the truck. The beautiful young
woman who opened the door made it quite clear: her brother had
returned to his homeland. He was not coming back. Ever. If they
wanted to question him, they would have to track him down in Sri
Lanka. She wrapped her ruby-and-gold sari closely around her,
obscuring the bottom half of her face, then shut the door firmly on
them. Only the pungent odor of curry remained.

“Made his money and went home,” Herbert said
glumly.

T.S. agreed. “Because someone made it worth his while
to go home,” he added.

Grady recognized their disappointment. “Come on,
lads,” he told them, opening the limo door with a flourish. “Cheer
up. I know a great place to have lunch. We'll have bangers and
mash. And then we'll be hot on the trail again.”

Auntie Lil snagged the sofa by cleverly distracting
Casey with a request for a glass of water. She was not supposed to
be home in her own apartment but did not care. Casey was with her
and she'd be protected. She wanted to sit in peace and think.

The visit to the doctor had taken hours. Auntie Lil
had hated the fuss. Dr. Osle was a lovely man but always clucked
over her like she was a freak in a sideshow, murmuring about her
extraordinary health and “enduring strength” as if it were a
miracle instead of the result of her own good sense and hard work.
It made her want to slug him so he could experience her enduring
strength for himself.

“You didn't tell me he was married.” Casey pouted.
She plopped down on the sofa beside Auntie Lil and touched her
bandage gingerly.

“Sorry, dear. If he was a little bit older, perhaps
I'd have noticed.”

“Still, it's good to know that we're as healthy as
horses.”

“I could have told him that,” Auntie Lil said. “And
saved several hundred dollars in doctor's fees.”

The phone rang shrilly. “Who could that be?” Casey
asked, settling back against a pillow and closing her eyes. “If
it's good old Rosalie Benpensata, calling from hell, please hang
up.”

Auntie Lil abhorred idle speculation, preferring
elaborate speculation herself. She answered quickly and was
rewarded by the disgruntled voice of Lieutenant Abromowitz.

“You're not supposed to be there,” he barked without
bothering to say hello. “I thought we agreed you'd stay put at your
nephew's.”

“I just dropped by to pick up a few things,” Auntie
Lil lied. “Why are you checking up on me?”

“Stand by,” he said. “A call's coming through for
you.” She heard the click of his receiver. He was certainly in a
fine temper.

The phone rang again within seconds, cutting off
their conjecture about who it might be. Auntie Lil made a great
show of answering. “Lillian Hubbert speaking,” she said in crisp
tones.