Nice Place for a Murder (17 page)

CHAPTER XVIII

It might have been a crank message, some joker getting off at my expense. Easy enough. My name was in the news, and in the Greenport phonebook. No problem finding me and ringing me up.  But I didn’t think that’s the way it went. The call from James Giannone had sounded too pained, too desperate, to be a hoax. Anyway, I wanted it to be real because I needed a break. I was pissed with myself for letting matters pull away from me, and I couldn’t get Hector off my mind.

What could I have told him to keep him alive? Don’t come to the North Fork, Hector, because Sosenko may be out here. Well, then, stay in the car so he can’t get a clear shot at you. Get away from the rail. Be smart and watch your ass, Hector.

Too late now. I didn’t shoot the man. Sosenko pulled the trigger. But what really killed Hector Alzarez was all that money.

It was ten o’clock, three hours to wait for Giannone’s promised phone call. I still hadn’t had breakfast, so I walked to Bruce’s Café, part rustic restaurant, part fancy grocery, on Main Street, chose a stool at the long granite counter and ordered coffee and a scone. What I really wanted was a stack of Bruce’s blueberry pancakes, but thinking ahead to my dinner with Alicia that night, I thought it would be smart to pace myself today. A scone was not altogether a bad compromise, as it was studded with fat raisins, and served with Bruce’s raspberry preserves. You could learn to like these.

The back wall behind the counter at Bruce’s was hung with a half dozen small hooked rugs, each with words and a picture worked into the design. I’d seen them a thousand times, drinking coffee here, but only today, with my mind roaming as I searched for logic in the universe, it occurred to me that there was mistake in a decorative line of poetry that surrounded a fanciful lighthouse and seagulls. It read, “And all I ask for is a tall ship, and a star to steer her by.” If I couldn’t deal with life’s bigger issues, I decided to pounce on a small one. I called to Bruce, who was fiddling with the espresso machine.

“There’s something terribly wrong here,” I told him when he stood opposite me, leaning on the counter. “Do you know there’s a mistake in that rug, or whatever it is?”

“Certainly I know.”

“You do?”

“You mean the part about ‘all I ask for is a tall ship?’ Oh yeah, it should be ‘all I ask is a tall ship.’ If you put in the ‘for,’ it doesn’t scan properly. Any schoolchild would know that.” He put his hand on his chest, cleared his throat and began to orate. “’I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky. And all I ask is a tall ship, and a star to steer her by.’ Shall I go on?”

“Not necessarily,” I said.

“It’s been six years since I put those things up, and you’re only the second person to spot the mistake” he told me.

“Really? What do I win?”

He got a pot of coffee and refilled my cup. “Congratulations.”

“That’s it?”

“I’ll shake your hand, too, if you want.”

“Surprised you’d keep that thing hung up there, knowing there’s such a conspicuous mistake” I said.

“Took you a while to find it, though, didn’t it?” Touché, Bruce. He set the coffee pot back on a warmer and headed for his fancy cheeses, where a customer was beckoning.

He was correct, of course. The words were right out there, not hidden away, and I’d looked at them again and again for years. Looked, but hadn’t seen. But that’s how it works, isn’t it? Some days you just don’t get it, and some days it jumps right out at you.

I had another scone, telling myself I was eating a late breakfast and an early lunch at the same time, so my second helping wasn’t an indulgence. It was, in fact, a clever way to eliminate an entire meal today. The Seidenberg Diet.

It was eleven forty-five when I returned to the house. The unpleasant voice waiting on my answering machine belonged to Roger Teague, who ranted on with orders and demands until I hit the rewind button and made him stop. Let him take care of guarding the Julian people. I had my own kite to fly.

Precisely at noon my phone rang. Even before he spoke, the strenuous breathing told me it was Giannone.

“You’re early, Mr. Giannone. You told me one o’clock.” I said.

“Twelve o’clock, I said. And right now it’s -- the time is exactly twelve o’clock noon. Precisely,” he said. “And it’s not -- it’s not Mr. Giannone. It’s Doctor.”

“What?”

“It’s Doctor, I said. Doctor James Giannone.”

“Are you a medical doctor? A physician?”

“Just what do you -- who are you to question me?” His voice was impatient and angry. He started to cough hard, rolling, violent spasms that fed on themselves, and I waited until they finally subsided. “I am a physician. Vanderbilt University School of Medicine, Nashville, Tennessee, that’s where,” he went on. “I come from a family -- a family -- a distinguished line of doctors.” He fell quiet.

“You said you knew about a plot. You said I was in danger. The message you left on my machine.”

“What? I said they might do away with you,” he told me. “And that’s -- that’s right. This shooting on the boat –- the man from the Julian company who died. I heard about it on my radio, over and over. And about the stock on Wall Street. It’s a plot. And I know what happened back when they -- so they –- they’d be happy to kill me, too. If they could. I have to be vigilant.” Silence, again.

Finally I said, “What do you know about the plot, Dr. Giannone?”

“What?”

“I said what do you know about the plot — this plot you’re telling me about?”

“Oh, I know things, Mr. Seidenberg,” he said. “They don’t want me to talk, or –- or I could destroy everything. So that’s what I want.”

“What? What do you want?”

“What do you think I want?” he said. “Money, is what. Listen to me, Mr. Seidenberg. I know they pay attention to you. You tell them –- no, you absolutely insist –- that they pay me.”  I could hear street noises in the background. He was calling from a pay-phone.

“Who should pay you money? And why should they pay you?”

“This is –- it is not a joke, and I am not a fool.” In an instant he was raging. “Just think about this. I know the secret of the Julian company. And if they don’t want me to say –- to talk –- to tell about it, then they have to pay.”

“What is it you know?”

Suddenly he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “No, no. Are you insane? Not –- not on the phone. I have to see you.”

“Why me? Why don’t you go directly to the company?”

“Ingo Julian, you mean? Arthur Brody?” he said. “No, I can’t put myself in that position. These men, they have powers, connections. They’d destroy me. No, I want to meet you, Mr. Seidenberg. They said on the radio you tried to protect the man who was — who got killed on the boat. I want to meet you to see if — you are a smart person I trust to speak for me. You have a Jewish name. You’re a Jew, right?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “Does that make a difference to you?”

“Oh yes, yes. You Jews are smart. You keep your word. I’m a judge of these things. I have it all completely –- all figured out. You’ll meet me at the train station in Ronkonkoma. You know where that is?”

“Where are you? Are you in New York?”

“I’m in Shangri-La. But I’m going to Ronkonkoma. You know Ronkonkoma?”

“I know.” Ronkonkoma is two-thirds of the way out on the main body of Long Island, a busy commuter center, trains running often, with a good-sized station and vast expanses of parking lots.

“I’m taking the 1:33 from Penn Station. Come by yourself,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone, because –- because they’ll find out and follow you and the blood this time will be yours and mine. Understand?”

“All right. What time?”

“Understand?” he said again.

“Yes, I understand. What train will you be on?”

“The 1:33, I told you,” he snapped back. The anger again.

“That’s when your train leaves Penn Station. When does it arrive? What time do we meet in Ronkonkoma?”

“Look it up,” he said. “I’ll be at a bench near the ticket windows. Take the back roads. Look in your mirror. Don’t let anyone follow you.” There was a click. His voice and the background noises ended abruptly. Somewhere on a street in New York, Dr. James Giannone was walking away from a public phone.

I got in my car at one PM, calculating that I could make it from Greenport to the Ronkonkoma station in fifty minutes, an hour at most. The 1:33 from Penn Station wasn’t due until 2:58, but I wanted some slack to get the feel of the place, discreetly and carefully, before Giannone walked off the train. Also, it would be prudent to get there before he did. I thought:  about time for me to be the power guy. Any more surprises, I’d like them to be on somebody else.

I took inventory of what I knew about this man. He was unbalanced, barely coherent. He could become angry in an instant. He knew who Ingo and Brody were. He was a doctor, or said he was. He claimed to know a dark secret, wanted money to keep quiet. He was about to trust me because he thought Jews were the good guys. And he was scared.

Would I be wise to share Giannone’s fears, or should I just be worried about Giannone himself? Either way, I took a certain comfort in sensing the bulge of the revolver holstered under my jacket, as I parked at the Long Island Rail Road station in Ronkonkoma.

This was basically a commuter station for the Monday-through-Friday crowd, with peak hours early and late in the day. On this Saturday afternoon at 2:20, there were only a handful of passengers waiting to go to New York, and when the 2:25 pulled out, they were gone and on their way. The station was empty, except for a ticket agent and an old man in a stained fedora hat who appeared to have fallen asleep over his newspaper. He was snoring on a bench.  I had over half an hour to wait for Giannone, and I took the time to walk the platforms, the two pedestrian overpasses that crossed the tracks, and the sprawling commercial plaza that surrounded the station. The station building itself could be approached from any of a half dozen places, but because my visitor was coming from New York, he’d get off his train on the other side of the tracks, opposite the station. He’d have to use one of the overpasses to get to the station side.

I decided to wait outdoors, a distance away, where I could observe both stairways. I wanted to make certain Dr. James Giannone was alone and inside the building before I said hello.

CHAPTER XIX

I had no idea what Giannone looked like. If he hadn’t rung off the phone so abruptly I would have asked him to describe himself. As it was, I ‘d have to rely on my instincts, try to pick out someone who looked as batty as Giannone sounded. He’d said I’d find him on a bench near the ticket office, but considering he was the same guy who’d phoned me an hour earlier than he promised — and then insisted it was my mistake — there was a good chance he’d screw me on the meeting, too.

I didn’t think he was tempting me into some kind of disaster. It just didn’t sound that way. But then, I hadn’t thought the ferry ride would end as it did, either.

The trick was, I kept telling myself, to stay in control. Don’t let Giannone get the high ground. The thing was, there were so many possibilities in this place, so many doors, so many approaches.

On the other hand, I was a seasoned security professional with a gun, and Giannone was a green civilian. That was the more comforting thought. I’d stay with that one. I decided I’d be fine so long as I didn’t have to tempt my angina by running.

In any case, here I was, and this was it.

At 2:55 I started checking my watch every minute, and listening carefully for the approach of the train. But there was no train from New York, as 2:58 came and went.

Now passengers began drifting in to wait for the 3:15 going to New York. Some stood on the westbound platform, but most went into the station building. There were several well-dressed couples, headed for Saturday night dinners and shows in the city, I suspected. Easily three hundred bucks a couple, with the train fare and all. Conspicuous consumption, I thought.

The train from New York arrived six minutes late. I watched it roll to a gentle stop on the eastbound track, but I couldn’t see passengers get off because the doors opened on the other side, facing away from me, and the train was quite a distance from where I stood, anyway.  I’d have to wait to see who walked down the stairs from the overpasses across the tracks.

Not many came. Most of the passengers headed for the vast parking lot on the other side. Finally people began descending from the overpasses. There was a pack of boys, teens horsing around on the stairs, whooping and shouting obscenities to prove to themselves how tough they were. They disappeared into a donut shop on the plaza. Then a young couple toting a stroller with a child, she clinging to the handle above, he below on the stairs holding up the front end.  There were two women laughing together, a white-haired man with an attaché case, a tiny foreign-looking woman all in black, a girl with some kind of animal in a cage. Then several clusters of passengers, walking down the stairs  and dispersing quickly into the plaza, or down the street.