Recoil (27 page)

“Anything to go on?”

“Blond hair. Blond moustache, no beard. Maybe five feet eleven but he's stooped, he might be six one if he stood up straight. A hundred and ninety, two hundred pounds. Wears glasses with black frames and big rings on most of his fingers.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Gray suit, pinstripe. Not expensive. Off the peg. Desk type—junior-grade bureaucrat. He may be a fag, the way he talks.”

“Computer auditor. They're a fairly rare breed, counselor. Shouldn't take too long.”

“I've got his voice on tape if you want it.”

“First we'll try the physical description. If we have to trot around with a cassette asking people do they recognize this voice, it could take forever.”

“Anyway I'd have to edit the tape before you used it.”

“Yeah. What's your beef with him?”

“Just find him, all right?”

“Do my best, counselor.”

“Do it fast. Spend all the money you have to.”

“OK. You want daily reports?”

“Daily reports shit, Ernie, I want him turned up this afternoon.”

“Sure you do. I'll call you when I get something. It may be today, it may be next week. You know how these things go.”

“Push it, Ernie.”

He cradled the phone and ran fingers back through his hair. “Shit.”

Then he reached for the intercom. “Send him in now.”

The rest of the morning was hell. His temper kept rising; he couldn't concentrate on the work. At lunchtime he stayed in the office in case Ernie should call back. By two o'clock he was pacing the office. He went to the interphone: “That four o'clock appointment. Call him and cancel it if you can—make it Monday.”

“You're going out?”

“No.” He switched it off.

He rewound the tape and played it back. It didn't tell him anything new. He took the spool off and put a fresh one on the machine; he put the tape in his pocket.
This thing could be dynamite
.

At three he couldn't stand it. He rang Bellamy's. “Where the hell's Ernie Guffin?”

“Why he's in his office, Mr. Gillespie. I'll connect you right away.”

“Counselor?”

“Ernie, where the hell are you? I give you a dead-simple job and I don't hear a——”

“He's not an auditor, counselor. We got that in two hours flat. He might be a computer technician, service type, programmer, anything. We've had to widen the thing and it's likely to take a while. I'm sorry but that's the way it is. All I can tell you, I'll call you the minute we turn up anything.”

When he hung up he scowled at the telephone. Not an auditor. Who the hell was the guy, then?

He waited until six but there was no call. He got the red car out of the garage and headed home but he realized he hadn't had lunch—his stomach was growling; he stopped in a Chinese place and ate a quick meal without tasting it.

When he drove up the avenue toward his apartment house he saw them sitting in a green hardtop right across the street from the entrance. He recognized the driver right away—the man had brought messages from Ezio Martin a few times.

They hadn't seen him; he was sure of it. He turned off a block early and went back through side streets toward the center of the city. He was shaking.

He pulled over and parked. It was a slum street off Fourteenth Street Northwest. He ignored the black kids playing on the sidewalk. He had to think. He slid down in the seat and leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes but that wasn't any good. He started it up again and drove aimlessly.

They were waiting for him. What for? An innocent message? Perhaps. Two of them in the car. It didn't take two men to deliver a message.

Dynamite blows up in my office and nine hours later two guys are waiting for me
.

The office. The answer had to be there.

He found a meter on the street; it was after seven and he didn't have to put a dime into it; he signed in at the security man's ledger and went up to the seventh floor knowing what he would find and hoping he wouldn't find it.

In his office he tore things apart methodically. He wasn't expert but he had a feeling he'd know it when he saw it. He opened the drawers and felt their bottoms. He got down flat on his back and inspected the undersides of the furniture. He unscrewed light bulbs. Then he took the desk radio apart. He inspected his own tape recorder to make sure no extra wires led away from it. Then it occurred to him to check the telephones. He started unscrewing mouthpieces and earpieces. Nothing there; he unscrewed the bottoms and opened the phones up.

He found it taped to the plastic inside the second phone. It looked a little like the kind of flat disk battery he used in his electric wristwatch but it had tiny grille holes and he knew what that meant.

He sagged back into the swivel chair. That was it, then. Ezio. It had to be Ezio. The two men in the green hardtop—he could figure out their instructions without much difficulty.

Ezio, he thought again. The computer auditor—Robert Zeck—Ezio had sent him. A plant, to give Ezio something on tape he could take to Frank. Ezio had always hated him. And Frank would buy it. And there was no way on earth he could talk Frank out of it.

He got up slowly and walked out of the office.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

New York City: 5 October

1

M
ATHIESON LOOKED DOWN THROUGH THE WINDOW AT THE
Forty-fourth Street traffic. It was thick with empty taxis coming east from Times Square after having dropped their fares in time for the 7:30 curtains. The panes were coated with an oily grime of soot.

Behind him Diego Vasquez said, “You've left him a few choices.”

“Not many.”

“He may even try to pay you the blackmail money.”

Roger said, “That'd be fine and dandy by me.”

Mathieson said, “I hope he does.”

“I doubt he'll have time,” Vasquez said. “Ezio Martin was taping the whole conversation. The minute he listens to the tape, you may as well have killed Gillespie.”

Mathieson turned away from the window. “Is that what you think?”

“Certainly. You're making artificial distinctions.”

“I think you're wrong. Gillespie's quick enough—he'll make a run for it. He's an opportunist. He'll see he's got only one way out.”

“Only one?”

“I think so. He'll go to Glenn Bradleigh.”

Vasquez smiled slowly. “If you're right that's a nice irony.”

“He'll have to turn the bag upside down and shake it, otherwise it wouldn't be worth Bradleigh's while to give him immunity and protection.”

Roger said, “By the time Gillespie stops talking there'll be enough raw meat on the floor to feed a dozen grand juries.”

Vasquez took a ball-point pen from his pocket and played with it, clicking it. “Maybe—maybe. It may cause some trouble for Pastor and company. But it won't solve our problem. It doesn't cancel the threat. Oh, don't think I'm not impressed.”

Vasquez sat with his legs crossed, his shoes polished, his tie neatly knotted; he looked as old-fashioned as the hotel room. It had been designed by Stanford White. “It may put Pastor off balance—then again it may only influence them to tighten security.”

“That's what I want them to do. I want them to know what it feels like to know they're under attack. Not knowing where or when it's going to hit them next.”

Vasquez clicked the pen. “Waste of time. They're already paranoid, by definition.”

“I want them to know I'm coming.”

Roger had a slow chilled smile that had thrown fear into a hundred movie villains. He drawled softly, “Now you're talkin', old horse.”

A leather briefcase leaned against the base of Vasquez's chair where he'd dropped it. Vasquez opened it. “You asked for the file on George Ramiro—I assume he's your next target.”

“Yes. Because he's dangerous. We don't want him behind us when we move on Pastor and Martin. What have we got on him?”

“Not a great deal. You can't expect to flush him as easily as you did Gillespie.”

“No. Gillespie made it easy.”

“Ramiro's not a bright man. In fact his brainlessness may make it harder to attack him. You can't be subtle with him.”

“Will you stop clicking that pen?”

“Sorry.” Vasquez put the pen away and opened the file folder in his lap. He set the photographs aside and scanned the typewritten pages. “Has a license—it must have cost him at least seven thousand dollars—to carry a Colt Python revolver, caliber three fifty-seven Magnum.”

“A Magnum? I'll bear that in mind,” Mathieson said dryly.

Vasquez flipped a page. “Seems to patronize one call girl with some regularity …”

“Name and address?”

“They're here but it wouldn't be a worthwhile angle of approach.”

“Why not?” Roger said drowsily. “Catch him with his pants down.”

“Your jokes are bad.” Vasquez returned to Mathieson. “Catch him and do what? You're determined not to kill him.”

Roger said, “We could have him worked over by experts. Break a few arms and legs.”

“No. If he's beaten up he'll only call in six friends to get even for him. No. He's got to be taken right out of the game. The way Gillespie was.”

“Tall order. Very tall,” Vasquez observed.

“He can be framed,” Mathieson said. “Anybody can.” He looked at his watch. “I've got to go. I'll be back in an hour.”

2

When he returned to the hotel from his errand he found Homer in the room with Vasquez and Roger. Mathieson hung his coat in the hall closet and rubbed his hands together.

Roger said, “Right. Us Californians get thin-blooded. I'm still not thawed.”

Vasquez didn't rise from his chair. “Homer's been talking to Nick D'Alesio.”

“The reporter?”

“The same,” Homer said. “Very interesting guy. He knows the New York mobs as well as anybody alive outside the mobs themselves.”

Mathieson opened one of the ginger ales on the room-service tray. He scooped a handful of ice cubes into a glass. “What did you find out?”

“First you ought to know what I had to give him in trade. Detectives and reporters—we're all in the same business, you know. Information.”

“So?”

“I gave him a nice scoop. Told him how the Benson shooting in Oklahoma and the bomb attack on your house in California were connected.”

Mathieson looked at him sharply. “How much did you tell him?”

“I didn't tell him anything that Pastor doesn't already know. Relax. I didn't say anything about Gillespie. The only time your name was mentioned was in connection with the explosion in Sherman Oaks and the sniper on the motorcycle. It's a bit of news that hasn't been reported anywhere else. He'll have to attribute it to an informed source or something like that. I told him he couldn't use my name.”

Vasquez said, “But don't be surprised if you see the name Edward Merle in the newspapers tomorrow. They'll probably go back into the morgue files to dig up a summary of your testimony against Pastor.”

Mathieson said wryly, “I always like to see my name in the papers. OK, what did you get in return?”

“A lot of detail about Pastor and Martin. I'll type up my notes in the morning.”

“What about George Ramiro?”

“A little. Not very much. He's not a complicated sort. Too stupid to be devious.”

Roger said, “He got many friends?”

“Not many. Mostly he cares about showing off his new Cadillac and smoking Cuban cigars and driving his big power boat around Long Island Sound. A typical suburban citizen.”

“He and his wife live on the same premises with the Pastors?”

“Yes. Three sets of premises. In Manhattan they're in the Park Avenue building, same floor. Next door apartment. In Brooklyn it's a semidetached, one of those big old Victorian houses that go for a quarter of a million nowadays. The Ramiros have the top floor. Summers they all go out on Long Island. The Ramiros live in the gatehouse.”

“Well we're not concerned with what they do in the summertime.”

Vasquez said, “Perhaps what we need to know is who his enemies are.”

“He's rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. It might be a long list.”

“I'm talking about serious enemies,” Mathieson said.

“D'Alesio didn't mention anything specific. Ramiro's not too well liked—but mortal enemies? No, I pass.”

“We may have to do some excavating,” Vasquez said.

Mathieson shook his head. “Take too much time.”

Vasquez said, “We've got to find an opening, haven't we. If it takes time then it takes time.”

“If we can't find one we'll make one.”

“How?”

Mathieson poured more ginger ale. “He's a man who's obviously done a few things that must make him nervous in the middle of the night.”

Roger said, “You'd spend half of forever rooting them out.”

“We don't need to. All we need is the assumption that something exists that might cause trouble for him if word of it leaked out to other hoodlums. Something that might even turn Frank Pastor against him.”

Homer said, “He seems to be reasonably loyal. Anyway he's married into the family. He wouldn't pull anything that would make Pastor come down hard on him.”

“Somewhere along the line he's probably slipped a little off the top for himself,” Mathieson said. “That's all it needs—just the wedge of something that could make him feel guilty. Or nervous. Anyhow we'll want an update on Ramiro's movements. Find his patterns—then we'll move.”

Mathieson swabbed his dry throat with ginger ale; he was trying not to think about Jan, the way she'd sounded on the phone when he'd called her. He tried to force her out of his mind. “Roger, how'd you get into the hotel without being recognized?”