Death Of A Dream Maker (35 page)

“Jake Rosenbloom was hanging around in the lobby of
the building the day that Max got killed by the bomb?” T.S.
asked.

“Yeah. Just sort of standing in the shadows, like.”
Hiram twisted his hat anxiously in his hands. “I saw Mr. Rosenbloom
come down in the elevators, meaning Max, of course. He'll always be
the real Mr. Rosenbloom to me.” The old guard’s eyes filled
unexpectedly with tears. “I might have been just about the last
person he ever spoke to. He tipped his hat to me and said good
night. He always wore this kind of English driving hat, with a bill
on the front of it, you know? Then he noticed his nephew, and Jake
sort of puffed up and said something to him. Sucking up to him,
like. That boy wanted to take over the business bad. The older Mr.
Rosenbloom was asking him a few questions, looked like business
stuff, and Jake was nodding his head.” The old guard wiped some
fine beads of sweat from his brow. “Hot in here.”

“They were friendly?” T.S. asked.

“Oh, sure. Boy was falling all over himself to be
friendly. Walked him to the door of the lobby. Heard him ask his
uncle where he was going and Mr. Rosenbloom mumbled something. I
couldn't hear, but I don't think that Jake could either. He just
sort of turned away and went back to waiting in the hall.”

“Why would he want to fire you over that?” Herbert
asked.

“I don't know,” the old man told him. “Maybe it was
what happened next.”

“The bomb went off?” T.S. asked.

Hiram nodded. “Maybe five or so minutes later, it
went off. I heard it from a block away. People were screaming and
running down the sidewalk to see. I stuck my head out the door.
Well, maybe I went out for a second or two. But I didn't leave my
post. No, not me.” He shook his head vigorously. “I was just coming
back inside when Mr. Rosenbloom, I mean Jake, came up to me. He was
all pale and was sweating. ‘What was that?’ he says, grabbing my
uniform and like to lifting me off my feet. I pried his fingers off
and said, ‘Well, sir. It sounded like a bomb.’ I was in the big
war, you know. I know what a bomb sounds like when I hear one.”

“What did Jake do then?” T.S. said.

“He turned on his tail and ran.”

“Out the door?” Herbert asked.

Hiram shook his head. “No. Opposite direction. Toward
the stairway. He opened up the metal doors and they banged against
the wall something fierce. Then he started tearing up those stairs
like he was going to run up all seven flights without
stopping.”

Herbert and T.S. exchanged a glance. Had Jake known
what the bomb blast meant?

The old man was relieved to be unburdening his
secrets. He could not shut up now. “A couple minutes later,” he
continued, “Gerry, one of the salesmen, comes flying in the front
door and yelling something about Max, and he's gone up in the
elevators before I can make sense of what he's saying. And then all
hell breaks loose and people are pouring out of the elevators and
the ladies are crying and the other nephew, Davy, comes flying down
the steps. Booms out of those doors and liked to flatten two men
who were standing nearby. He's running as fast as he can, just
tears out through the front and hightails it down the sidewalk,
following everyone else toward the blast. A couple minutes later I
see Jake leaving the building. But he's holding a briefcase and
wearing his jacket like it's just another regular night. He walks
out in the crowd, and a few minutes later a lady comes in and tells
me that it was Max who got blown up in the bomb. I couldn't hardly
believe it. He was the one who gave me a job in the first place. My
wife used to work for him until she got sick, and he knew that we
needed the money.”

Hiram paused and wiped his eyes again. “I should've
told the police everything. But Jake came down a few days later and
starting dropping these hints about how I'd never seen him and it
was just between us and how if I liked my job, it was good for me
to continue to be his friend because he was going to be the new
owner. The funny thing is, I never would have remembered seeing him
if he hadn't made such a big deal about it.” Hiram's shoulders
slumped. “It wasn't the honorable thing to keep the information
back, I know. I should have gone to the police. My wife would be
ashamed if she knew.”

T.S. patted the old guy's knee. “Then we just won't
tell her,” he promised.

Half an hour later the nurse awakened an exhausted
O'Conner. They could see the patient now.

As they entered the room, the cop guarding the door
looked up from his magazine just long enough to check out Casey's
rear end. He yawned and returned to his article.

There was only one bed in the room and it was
surrounded by a pair of folding screen that masked all four sides.
A small opening led them to the foot of the bed, where they could
look down on the heavily swathed patient. Frankie Five Alarm did
not look happy. Every inch of his exposed torso was covered in
bandages. The left side of his head was wrapped firmly in padded
gauze, including his left eye. A cross bandage extended over the
bridge of his nose, masking the center of his face. The untouched
quarters of his head stood out in startling contrast. One ear
protruded like a flower, and a shock of bright orange hair sprouted
wildly from between anchoring bandages. A single exposed eye stared
out at them malevolently. It was bright blue, sharp, and alert.

“Frankie's refusing painkillers,” O'Conner explained.
“Just say no, right, Frankie?”

The man was silent.

Casey inched closer and bent over to stare him in his
good eye. Shanahan did not flinch. He opened his eye wider and
glared back. Casey backed away and looked thoughtful. Auntie Lil
took her turn. She crept up to his side and peered down, then
fumbled in her pocketbook for her reading glasses. She hated to
wear them in front of other people, but had no choice in this
instance. She examined Shanahan carefully, dragging her gaze from
his head down to his torso and even lifting the covers to peek
underneath them.

“Hey!” came a grunt from the patient.

“He talks,” O' Conner pointed out “That's
progress.”

“See anything you like?” Shanahan mumbled, glaring at
Auntie Lil with one bright blue eye.

“He's not bulky enough,” Auntie Lil announced. “And
he's too tall. I don't really think it could have been him.”

The federal agent's shoulders slumped. He nodded and
led them out into the hall. For a moment he said nothing. He just
leaned against the wall and ran his fingers through his thick brown
hair. “I'm trying too hard,” he finally admitted.

“I've seen him before,” Casey said.

O'Conner's head jerked up. “He was one of them?” he
asked.

“No. Auntie Lil is right. The two that attacked us
were shorter and plumper. But I have seen this guy before. I mean,
it is kind of hard to forget hair that color and his ears... well,
those ears. But you know how it is when you sort of recognize
someone, but on the other hand, maybe you saw them in a dream or
saw their photograph in the newspaper or maybe just sat next to
them at some diner last week?”

O'Conner fidgeted impatiently. “So you're telling me
that you dreamed about this guy?” he asked.

The cop reading the magazine snorted.
Women. What
did they know?

Casey sensed their mood and it angered her. “Okay,
smart guys. God forbid a female help you out.” She glared at
O'Conner. She was definitely over her crush. “Maybe I do remember
where I've seen him before. And maybe I'm just not sure. And maybe
if I did see him, he was with one of the Rosenblooms.” She smiled
and shut her mouth.

“You saw that guy with a Rosenbloom?” O'Conner
asked.

“Maybe.” Casey examined her fingernails carefully. “I
might tell you if you beg.”

“Want him to roll over, too?” the uniformed officer
asked. He guffawed and flipped to a new page in his magazine.

Auntie Lil intervened. “Casey, dear, you're a
wonderful detective but really quite immature at times. Tell this
nice special agent what you've seen, and tell him right now, or
I'll repeat everything you said about him the first time you met.”
It was Auntie Lil's turn to smile.

“That's blackmail,” Casey said. “And it's a deal.”
She took a deep breath. “I might have seen him, if I'm right,
meeting with Davy Rosenbloom a couple of weeks before Max's
death.”

“Where?” O'Conner demanded.

Casey sighed. “The
Hide-Away Tide-Away Motel
in Long Beach.”

“What were you doing following Davy Rosenbloom?”

“I was following Sabrina Rosenbloom,” Casey
explained. “At the request of her husband. She and Davy went into a
room, though not for very long. Then Davy came out and met someone
in the coffee shop of the motel. I think it might have been the guy
in there. The guy Davy met had red hair, I remember that. And he
was really tall. Plus, those ears, well, those ears...”

“That's good enough,” O'Conner said. “Wait here.” He
disappeared inside the room.

Auntie Lil and Casey looked at each other. They were
near the door of the room but not close enough to hear what
O'Conner was saying. Casey looked down at the preoccupied uniformed
cop, then back up at Auntie Lil. Auntie Lil nodded.

“You lift weights?” Casey asked the guard, moving
closer so that her thigh brushed against his arm. She bent over to
examine the photograph that he was scrutinizing. It featured a
well-oiled weight lifter, bronzed and rippled. “He's a little much
for me.”

The cop grunted. “Guys like that don't have jobs.
They can stay in the gym all day if they want.”

“How many times a week do you work out?” Casey asked.
She knelt beside him to get a better look. Her hand rested lightly
on his chair, just brushing his leg.

“Me?” The policeman chuckled modestly. “Not
anymore.”

“Sure you do.” Casey squeezed his right biceps. “Tell
the truth. You still lift, you're just embarrassed to admit it
because the other guys would kid you. I think you look better than
the guy in that photograph. He looks like a side of beef.”

The cop laughed and admitted that, sure, maybe he did
stop by the gym a couple of times a month, but he hadn't realized
that it showed. He began to describe his lifting routine with
enthusiasm, flipping to certain pages and pointing out models to
Casey.

Behind them, Auntie Lil slipped quietly into the
hospital room. O'Conner was out of sight, the outline of his back
visible inside the protective screen that shielded Frankie Five
Alarm. She tiptoed to the screen and listened in.

“You want a deal?” O'Conner was saying, sounding
exasperated. “Okay, here's a deal for you: in a week, I release you
with no protection. And we leak to the press that you're
cooperating with a federal investigation into the activities of
Joseph Galvano.”

The muffled reply was part roar and part indignant
squeal.

“I wouldn't take that deal either,” O'Conner
admitted. “You'd be dead in twenty-four hours. You ran out of luck
on this one, Frankie. You guys aren't usually so sloppy.”

Auntie Lil could not understand the muffled
reply.

“I can't buy that,” O'Conner said flatly. “I have a
witness who saw you meeting with Davy Rosenbloom, so we know you're
involved. It's a good witness, too. A professional. So don't tell
me you don't know any Rosenblooms. If you keep saying you don't
know any Rosenblooms, then I'm going to personally sign your
release papers myself.”

There was a long silence. O'Conner's shadow shifted:
he was looking up at the ceiling, whistling a tuneless funeral
march. Waiting for Frankie to make up his mind. Auntie Lil inched
closer and her pocketbook grazed an extra IV stand. It clanged
softly, but she was saved from detection when the patient began
talking at the same time.

“I didn't take out the old man,” Frankie Five Alarm
said in a raspy voice. “It was an accident.”

“What was an accident?” O'Conner asked calmly.

“The old man dying. The bomb was meant for the
nephew.”

“Why?” O'Conner asked.

“It's a long story,” Shanahan mumbled.

“Start at the beginning,” O'Conner said. “I've got
the time.”

“Galvano had cut Davy off. From his money, you
know?”

“Davy had already borrowed too much money from
Galvano and had gambled it away?” O'Conner asked.

“Yeah. At first, he was paying him back. Some kind of
scam at the company. But then he got found out by a new financial
guy. He couldn't come up with the rest. So Galvano cut him off. And
Joey wasn't too happy about eating the loss either. He'd rather
have whacked the kid, believe me. But he needed Davy there in the
company. Alive. He had these big plans for taking the company
public and grabbing a piece of the profits. Davy was going to be
his guy on the inside.”

“But Davy kept gambling,” O'Conner stated.

“Yeah. They always do. So the kid came to me. He'd
heard that sometimes I do a little work on the side. You know,
under the table. Lend a little here. Lend a little there. Nothing
big. Joey probably knew about it.”

“Sure,” O'Conner said.

“He was a bad risk, maybe, but the kid said he was
getting ready to come into some money,” Shanahan explained.

“By killing his uncle?” O'Conner asked.

“No. I told you. That was an accident. The kid said
he was cutting a deal with his brother. The kid was going to
inherit big one day and everyone in the family knew it, so he was
trading off a lot of money then for some money now. From the
brother. It sounded good to me.”

“Especially when the kid agreed to pay your vig,”
O'Conner commented.

“Yeah, well, if people don't like my interest rates
they can take their business to the bank.” Shanahan coughed and
continued. “I lent him what he needed. But he didn't come through
with the payback on time. I called to remind him, just friendly
like, of course.”