Hostile Witness (47 page)

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Careful now,” said Morris, and I followed him down the empty carpeted hallway. At Room 4016 he pointed at me. I shook my head. He knocked lightly on the door.

“Yes?” said the voice from inside.

“I’m sorry, miss,” said Morris, “but I need to be checking on the heat inside your room.”

“One minute,” she said and one minute later the door opened and a loosely draped Veronica, still wet from the shower, peered out. Before she could slam the door in my face I stuck one Florsheim wing tip in the opening. What they don’t tell you in vacuum cleaner salesman school is that sticking your foot in the door can hurt like hell, but pain or no pain it worked.

“You’ve been subpoenaed to appear in court today to testify,” I said when Morris and I were inside her room, the door locked and chained behind us.

“Who’s he?” she said, motioning with her head at Morris. She was wrapped in a light silk robe, her arms were crossed on her chest. Her hair fell flat and clean against her beautiful shoulders. I could barely stop myself from dropping to my knees before her, she was that beautiful.

“He’s a friend who is here to protect you,” I said.

“How comforting,” she said.

“Thank you, miss,” said Morris, ignoring her sarcasm.

“Who is he protecting me from, Victor? From you?”

“From Goodwin. His men are outside. He doesn’t want you to testify.”

“Fuck,” she said in a desperate voice. “Dammit, Victor. See what you’re doing to me.” She walked back into the room and sat on the far bed.

I followed her, like I seemed always to be following her, and stood beside the bed. Morris stayed by the door, listening to the outside, so we were talking in private. “He is probably going to kill you whether you testify or not,” I said quietly. “At least that is what it sounded like. How much do you owe him, Veronica?”

She shrugged her shoulders even as she hugged her chest and wouldn’t look at me. “Not too much,” she said unconvincingly.

“Is there ever too much for you?” I said.

She said nothing, her gaze still on the floor.

“Tell me something else, Veronica. How did Goodwin end up with the missing quarter of a million?”

“Is that who has it?”

“You didn’t know?”

She shook her head. “I was just holding it for Jimmy in the account.”

“The one with Chester’s name on it?”

“Right, but then he asked for it back, said he needed it all.”

“But first he wanted it in an account with Chester’s name on it. Setting Concannon up for the fall from the start, just in case.”

“I never knew what Jimmy did with the money,” she said.

“How would Goodwin have gotten it?”

“He must have stolen it somehow,” she said with a shrug.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.” I looked around her fancy hotel room: two king-size beds, color TV, easy chairs, and velour curtains, and began wondering. “You’ve been here a couple days now. Have you been buying any crap from Goodwin?”

“No, not from him, Jesus. One of the reasons I decided to leave was to get away from him and his damn dead animals.”

“So only Jimmy knows you’re here.”

“And you.”

“Yes, and me. But I wasn’t the guy who told Goodwin.”

She looked up at me questioningly. I shrugged. Her eyes opened wide and she shook her head. I nodded my head sadly. She screwed up her face in incomprehension, but then it started working, like the surface of an old computer, lights flashing, tapes winding, as the logic of it all unfolded for her, one syllogism after another, leading ultimately to a look of shock. Jimmy Moore had set her up, her face said, the bastard had put her in this hotel so that Goodwin could take care of both their troubles. Her head shook no, it couldn’t be. But she knew it could be, she knew it was. She turned from me quickly and began to cry. It was that moment, for the first time really, that I knew Veronica Ashland would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth on the witness stand.

I bent over to pick up some of her clothes off the floor and took them to the suitcase laying open on the top of the bureau.

“
Nu?
” said Morris from the door. “Is she coming?”

“No,” said Veronica weakly.

“She’s coming,” I said.

“If she is coming then she must come now,” said Morris. “Because I think that maybe our nice friend from outside might decide to force his way past Sheldon and come up here himself to find out what is happening.”

“Who exactly is outside?” she asked.

“Wayman,” I said. “And he’s the one who killed Chuckie.”

That ended all hesitation; in ninety seconds her bag was packed, she was in a pair of jeans, a shirt, her overcoat, and we were out of the room, running down the hallway, following Morris.

“Where are we going?” she asked me.

“Damned if I know,” I said.

As we ran, we heard an elevator opening. We ran away from the elevator, around a corner and another. By the time we turned the last corner and reached the stairs we could hear a door banging and Wayman’s thick and slippery voice yelling, “Open up, bitch. Open the fuck up.”

We rushed down the stairs, Morris leading as quickly as he could, which was quicker than I would have thought, down two flights. The sign said no reentry from stairwell, but Morris pulled open the door to the second floor, snapping tape off the lock as he went by, and we stumbled through the doorway after him, into the hallway, and a quick left to the room beside the stairwell, Room 2082, where Morris, without knocking, pushed open the door and rushed inside. We fell in after him, as if sucked in by a vacuum. The door closed quietly but quickly behind us.

The room was the same as Veronica’s, same size, same furnishings, same two huge beds, same color TV. The door to the bathroom was closed, the window curtains drawn. Morris locked and bolted the door behind us.

“Okay now, Miss Veronica,” said Morris. “You must give to me your fine coat.”

“My overcoat?” she said.

“Yes, of course. By now they have people watching the front and the back, there is no way out. So what we need is what is called in the profession the
holtzene kochka.
A wooden duck.”

“A decoy?”

“That’s it, yes. The
holtzene kochka.
”

“Who?” I asked.

“Why, you, of course, Victor,” he said. “And someone else to look like Miss Veronica, and for that we need the overcoat.”

“With all due respect, Morris, I don’t think you’ll pass.”

“Don’t be so much the
cham,
Victor. You think I would let myself be the
holtzene kochka?
You don’t live as long as I have lived in this business setting up yourself as the
holtzene kochka.
No, rule number two is that the detective is never the
holtzene kochka.
Maybe that should be rule number one and the coffee rule number two. The numbering, sometimes, it gets so confusing.”

“Then who?” I asked.

Just then the bathroom door opened and out she walked in jeans and a wig, a brown wig with soft shoulder-length hair, hair that was styled exactly to match Veronica’s. Beth. It was more than strange, my best friend styled to look like the lover of my dreams, a disorienting blend of comfort and kink. In a way, standing there, framed by the bathroom door, was my ideal woman, a fusion of all I could ever want or love. So I stared for a bit and then a bit longer, stared until Beth started to giggle, which broke the mood and let my fantasies slip away until I realized why she was there.

“No,” I said. “Not Beth. Absolutely not.”

WAYMAN SPOTTED US
as we ran out the hotel’s front door. I held tight to the suitcase. Veronica’s unbuttoned overcoat swung like a cape behind us. Before Wayman could catch us we were in the Honda, windows closed, engine straining in rhythmic moans to life. He had just reached the car, his huge gun waving in our general direction, when I popped it into gear and shot out.

I took a quick turn left on Walnut and another left up 4th Street. I raced past Spruce Street, past Lombard, ran a red at South Street, and kept going. I hadn’t gone but two blocks past South before the silver BMW was cruising behind us and gaining.

At Washington I spun into a right turn and headed west, BMW tight behind. It rammed me once as I tore along Washington, then once more. I ran another red and the Beemer followed and I wondered where the cops were, wondered where the closest donut shop was, and then with a screech of tire I turned down 7th and slammed on my brakes smack in front of the Sons of Garibaldi Men’s Club.

The silver BMW came to a turning stop right behind us and Wayman jumped out as if his seat was afire. I barely had the time to open my door before he stuck his arm in, jabbing the point of a huge switchblade knife into my throat. The drummer was guarding the passenger door, grinning into the window.

“Run from me again, Vi’tor Carl, you just try and run
from me again without I say so and I’ll slice another smile in your motherfucking neck.”

I tried to say something but with the knife sticking into my larynx and me shaking like a stripper nothing came out.

“But don’t you worry yourself, it’s all cool now. Ronnie, sweetie, let’s you and I take a little drive, what you say?”

Beth turned from the drummer to face Wayman and Wayman’s jaw dropped and when he spoke his voice was deep and precise with shock.

“Who are you, lady?”

“She’s my partner,” I managed to get out between shakes.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he said, and then he added, “Shit,” drawing out the word until the T just disappeared. “Where is she, Vi’tor Carl? Tell me now or your neck be history. Tell me, Vi’tor Carl.” He twisted the knifepoint into my neck, almost lifting me from the car seat. I could feel a line of blood run down my throat. “Tell me quick, tell me now, tell me, tell me, tell me. Tell me, Vi’tor Carl, my knife here it is thirsty once again and it don’t got much more patience.”

I was about to tell him something when a thick, hairy hand landed on Wayman’s shoulder. Beth gasped, or maybe it was me, I couldn’t tell. There was something obscene about that hand landing there, like a bony spider. The pressure of the knifepoint slipped from my neck and when Wayman turned to see what it was the hand slid over and grabbed hold of his neck. Before Wayman could say a word of complaint, the hand’s owner slammed a brick into Wayman’s head. Blood burst from Wayman’s forehead. The blow sent him spinning away from the car, his knife sliding with a sweet scrabble across the asphalt. The man with the brick was Dominic and for the first time ever I saw him smile.

It was not a pleasant sight.

I swiveled to check the drummer on the other side of the car, but he was no longer leering inside the window. Instead he was being lifted in a great bear hug, his arms struggling futilely against the pin of some giant whose waist only I could see through the passenger window.

“Step on out, Victor,” I heard Dominic say and when I got out I saw him sitting on top of Wayman, his knees holding Wayman’s arms to the ground, his bony hands tight around Wayman’s throat.

“Hey, Dominic, where do you want this package?” asked the man bear-hugging the drummer. From behind the thug’s shoulders I could see it was Giovanni, his hard face illuminated now with a wide grin.

“Throw it in the garbage,” said Dominic, hands still around Wayman’s throat.

Jasper leaned over Wayman, still held down by Dominic, and started searching him. He reached into Wayman’s sweatpants and pulled out the huge revolver I had seen Wayman brandishing before I had kicked the Honda into gear and fled from the hotel. “Whoa, what do you know?” said Jasper. “What a nasty piece of work this little shit is.”

Jasper checked the gun, unloaded it shell by shell, and then took hold of the barrel. He raised the gun about a foot and a half and dropped the butt end onto Wayman’s shoulder blade. Wayman shouted out something wild and started struggling, cursing even as Dominic’s hands tightened around his neck. Jasper lifted the gun again, just a foot and a half, and let it drop. He hammered at the shoulder blade again, and again, raising the gun a foot and a half and dropping it, over and over and over.

There was a loud crack, Wayman let out a howl and his right arm went dead.

Calmly, methodically, raising the gun the same height of a foot and a half and then dropping it over and over,
Jasper went to work on the other shoulder. There was a practiced air about his movements, the fulfillment of a familiar and somewhat pleasant chore.

“Jesus, this feels good,” said Dominic, still atop the struggling Wayman. He couldn’t help but smile again, a smile filled with satisfied blood lust.

I rubbed at my neck, my hand came away slick with my own blood.

“It’s not too often us old
goombahs
get a chance to work out,” said Dominic.

“What we need,” said Jasper as he kept hammering at the collarbone, “is a gym, you know, a few weights, a ring to spar in, a punching bag.”

“You got the punching bag right there,” said Dominic.

“I need something tougher, something with heft,” said Jasper over Wayman’s shouts. “Something to give me a real workout.”

Across the street Giovanni was slamming the drummer’s head into the side of a construction dumpster once, twice, thrice for good effect. Then he lifted him like a sack of lime and threw him in.

“What is going on, Victor?” said Beth, who was also out of the car. “What just happened?”

“We’ve been saved by the cavalry,” I said. “Beth, I want you to meet some friends. The young kid is Giovanni, the fellow banging on our friend Wayman is Jasper.”

Just then there was another sickening crack and Wayman let out a desperate wild howl.

Wayman had killed Chuckie, had stuck the point of his knife far enough into my neck to draw blood, had promised to kill me, but even still I couldn’t help but wince.

“And this here is Dominic,” I continued. “Don’t play poker with Dominic, Beth, he’s a shark.”

“A weekend player,” said Dominic as he rose from the helpless Wayman, slapping his hands clean. “Here you go,
pal,” he said, reaching into his pocket and handing me a handkerchief.

I wiped my hand and neck clean. So I had become Dominic’s pal. We had fought the common enemy and come through as blood brothers.

“He’s bawling like a goddamn baby,” said Jasper. “What’s this scumbag’s name, Sport?”

“Wayman,” I said. And then on the spur of the moment, like some all-powerful don, I added, “Don’t kill him.”

“What are you, an idiot? I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of hurting him if I was going to kill him,” said Jasper over Wayman’s moans. “Now—Wayman,” he shouted, loud and slow as if he were talking to a Frenchman. “I—don’t—want—you—should—bother—Victor—no—more—do—you—understand?”

Wayman let out a little shriek of assent.

“I—don’t—want—I—should—hear—that—he—is—troubled—or—that—he—is—dead—because—then—I—will—be—angry—do—you—understand?”

Another shriek of assent.

“That’s—good—Wayman,” said Jasper, patting his cheek. “You’re—in—no—condition—to—drive.—We’re—going—to—let—your—friend—drive—you—home.”

Giovanni shrugged and reached into the dumpster, pulling out the dazed and bleeding drummer by his collar and his crotch. The drummer collapsed to the ground and tried to half crawl away. Giovanni kicked him in the ribs so hard the drummer shook uncontrollably for a moment before letting out a breathless cry. Then Giovanni lifted him to his feet by his neck and kicked him in the rear, sending him lurching for the car. He fell on its hood like a drunken beggar at an intersection offering to clean the windshield. Dominic opened the front door for him. He took hold of the drummer, pulled him around the front of the car, and shoved him inside. Jasper lifted Wayman by
his belt. Wayman, bent and bowed, cradling both arms into his chest, hunched his way over to the car. I opened the passenger door. Without looking at me, he dropped onto the seat.

“Stay the fuck out of South Philly,” said Dominic. When there was no movement from the battered occupants, he shouted, “Get out of here. Now.”

The car didn’t speed away from the scene, it sort of staggered. First it swerved to the right, then stopped suddenly, then drifted to the left, sideswiping a maroon meat van parked in front of a store. There was the loud crinkle of metal bending and plastic cracking. The car dipped back to the right before it shot forward and stopped and moved slowly forward again.

“Where did they come from?” asked Beth as she stood beside me, watching the silver BMW painfully make its way down 7th Street. “And how are they your friends?”

I shrugged. “Poker buddies. Remember the phone call I made just before we left the hotel?”

“Yes.”

“That’s who I called.”

Just then a great white Cadillac, rear windows tinted so dark it was impossible to see inside, slid to a stop right in front of us. Lenny was driving. He waved at me. With a hum, the rear window opened and the ugly pitted face of Enrico Raffaello appeared.

“Everything is all right, I see,” he said.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Raffaello,” I said. “He would have killed me if you hadn’t stepped in.”

“You’re welcome, Victor. Protection is what we do, but generally we don’t do it for free.”

“I’m very grateful.”

“Well, grateful is something, yes, but it doesn’t pay for the ricotta. Consider this a favor, Victor. We take pride in doing favors for the citizens of this city. We expect, of
course, that the favor will be reciprocated when the time comes.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Now about that project you were to do for me. I hope you haven’t disappointed.”

I gestured at the silver BMW slowly making its way down 7th. “If you follow that car it will take you right to the money, Mr. Raffaello. A man named Norvel Goodwin ended up with it.”

“Now that’s almost too ironic, Jimmy’s money ending up with a drug kingpin. There must be quite a story in this. You will tell it to me sometime, Victor, but not now. Now I think we’ll follow that car. Come here, son, I have something for you.”

Sheepishly I stepped forward. Raffaello lifted a white bag out of the window. I took it from him and stepped back.

“We’ll be in touch, Victor, you can be sure.”

He nodded his head and the window rose, concealing his face. Dominic, Jasper, and Giovanni slipped into the car and slowly, carefully, it drove off.

Beth stepped to my side. She was staring at the car. “Was that who I think it was?” she managed to say.

“Yes,” I said. I opened the bag and looked inside. “What kind of custard do you like in your cannoli, Beth, chocolate or vanilla?”

“Vanilla,” she said.

I reached into the bag and took out the vanilla cannoli and gave it to her and then reached in and gave her the chocolate one too. “Hold this for me a moment, will you?”

With the bag in hand, I walked a bit down 7th, scanning the street, searching. Finally I found it. It had slid up against the curb and was resting there, its blade pointing due north like a compass. I took one of the paper napkins graciously supplied by my new liege Enrico Raffaello and,
with the napkin between my fingers, took hold of the blade, lifting it carefully before dropping it into the bag. I figured Slocum would be delighted to get hold of the knife that had killed Chuckie Lamb, complete with a clean set of prints. I just wanted to be sure that the prints on the knife weren’t mine.