Recoil (29 page)

“I'll tell you something, Fred. One of our bugs had been tampered with. In Gillespie's office.”

“Oh?”

“We lost the transmission on his conversation with that computer blackmailer I mentioned.”

“You're not making much sense, Glenn. You'll have to go a little slower.”

“How much do you know about electronics?”

“About enough to change a light bulb when I have to. Why?”

“Whoever set Gillespie up knew about the microphones in his office.”

“So?”

“You knew about them.”

“I suppose I did. You did mention it to me. Has Gillespie dropped some goodies?”

“Enough to keep the FBI busy for about ten years, I imagine. We're still extracting it, still collating. It'll be a while before we're sure what we've got but it's a rich vein. It's all unsupported for now, of course. But it's the biggest break we've had since Joe Valachi turned inside out.”

“Congratulations. Maybe it'll give you enough to nail Frank Pastor again.”

“Sure—in five years or so after his lawyers exhaust all their delaying tactics and Pastor runs out of public officials to buy.”

“You sound jaded.”

“Well it's a little outside my bag you know. I just protect them. Interrogation is the FBI's job. I'd like to see Pastor put away but right now I'm not too happy about the idea of having to nursemaid C. K. Gillespie. He's not my favorite sort of client.”

“Look on it as penance.”

“Why the phone call?”

“Maybe I've been doing a little investigating on my own, Glenn.”

“You damn fool. You bloody idiot. If you——”

“Pipe down. You're looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

“What gift horse?”

“Who do you think gave Gillespie to you?”

“So it
was
you.”

“I'm the computer programmer.”

“You bastard.”

“I'm taking them apart, Glenn …”

“Oh you stupid bastard. You've gone bananas.”

“… by the seams.” He couldn't help the tight little smile. “And I may have some good news pretty soon for Benson and Fusco and Draper.”

“What kind of news?”

“I'd rather give it to them personally.”

“Nothing doing. No addresses, no phone numbers.”

“I'm not asking for addresses or phone numbers. You're in touch with them, aren't you?”

“Maybe.”

“You can get a phone number to each of them. That's all I'm asking.”

“Shit.”

“It'll be a pay phone. No bugs. No traces.”

“How can I trust you now?”

“Am I going to sell them out, Glenn? Use your head. I only want to talk to them. They call me from anywhere they like—in pay phones five hundred miles from wherever they live. I'll send you a check to pay their expenses if you want. Just have them call me.”

“You've got to give me more than this to go on.”

“I can't. Not now. Later.”

Bradleigh said, “What the hell do you think you can accomplish? You can get yourself killed, that's all.”

“I could do that just by standing still and waiting for them to find me. Come on, Glenn, come on.”

“What about Jan and Ronny? What about—”

“They're safe. They're fine.”

He heard the exhalation of Bradleigh's breath. “Maybe I'll see what I can do. I'll ask them if they want to talk to you.”

“Tell them it could save their bacon. Tell them: it could mean they'll be able to come out of hiding.”

“In a pig's eye.”

“Who gave you Gillespie?”

“That was a fluke but don't rub it in.”

“It wasn't a fluke, Glenn.”

After a pause Bradleigh said, “I don't know you at all, do I?”

“I'm not a bad fellow.”

“You're a fucking lunatic.”

Mathieson said cheerfully, “I'll see you.”

2

Ramiro was a big heavy dark cigar-chewing jowly sour-faced man at the wheel of an overshined twelve-thousand-dollar automobile. It slid in at the curb and Mathieson watched Ramiro get out, turning the fur collar of his coat up against the drizzle.

The passenger emerged from the far side of Ramiro's car—a short truncheon of a man with vanishing gray wisps of hair and a rigid coin-slot mouth.

“Vince Damico,” Homer muttered by way of identification. “Manages the restaurant-linen supply business.”

From the front seat of the rented Plymouth they watched Ramiro and Damico go into the restaurant.

“They eat here every Wednesday?”

“And then they go upstairs and play poker.”

“It's a gambling joint?”

“No, just a friendly poker game. Lou Tonelli runs the restaurant. He hosts the game every week.”

“Funny neighborhood for it. We're only a few blocks from City Hall and the courthouses.”

“Well it's still the Italian neighborhood, you know.”

Traffic squeezed through the narrow street and pedestrians hurried by, topcoated under umbrellas. Mathieson said, “We're likely to be here for hours.”

“That's what stakeouts amount to. The thrill and adventure of detective work.”

The rain frosted the windshield but he didn't switch on the wipers; it would have been a giveaway. He could see the restaurant well enough.
ANGELO'S—Fine Italian Food
. It looked expensive.

He had never been an easy victim to boredom but it was a bleak night, autumnally cold; he thrust his hands into the pockets of his topcoat and reminded himself to buy a pair of gloves.

“Vasquez wanted to be in on this, didn't he?”

“Did he say so?”

“It was a feeling I got,” Mathieson said.

“He'd have liked it. But no way. Too much chance Ramiro might recognize him.”

“Does Ramiro know him?”

“A lot of people recognize him. Not as recognizable as Roger Gilfillan, maybe, but a lot of people do spot him.”

“I'm surprised he exposes himself to all the publicity. I'd think it would be a handicap in such a confidential business.”

“Times like this, maybe. But it's celebrity that sells popcorn. Vasquez is the best-known private detective in the world. That's what brings the clients in. It's what brought you in.” Homer ruminated over his slice of cold pizza. “It's you I'm worried about. Ramiro's never met you but he must have seen your photograph.”

“I'm nine years older than those photographs. Don't you think the disguise works?”

“It's the same disguise you used with Gillespie, without the glasses. I don't know—I guess it'll fool him. He'll have no reason to think of connecting us with Edward Merle. I guess it's not much of a risk. But I don't like taking any risks at all when I don't have to.”

“Homer, there was no way I could wait somewhere else. I've got to be in on this—I want to see his face.”

“I can understand that. But you let me do the talking, understand? You must be the silent menace. Concentrate on looking like a killer.”

“What does a killer look like?”

“Silence is the main thing. Don't say a single word. It'll shake him up more than anything else would. Keep your hand on the gun in your pocket.”

“Don't worry about that. I haven't forgotten he carries a Magnum.”

“Well we'll have to take care of that before we do anything else, won't we.”

3

Finally they came out of the restaurant—Ramiro and Damico. It was half past one in the morning; the rain had stopped and a cold mist flowed through the empty street. A third man came out into the street and there was some conversation among the three; then the third man embraced Damico, turned and pumped Ramiro's arm in a politician's handshake, left hand on Ramiro's elbow.

“Lou Tonelli,” Homer said. “He's the ward boss down here, among other things.”

Tonelli went back into the restaurant. Ramiro and Damico climbed into the Cadillac Fleetwood and after a moment its tailpipe spouted white steam.

For three blocks Homer followed without lights; then the Cadillac turned uptown on the Bowery and Homer switched on the headlights when he fed the Plymouth into the traffic. Mathieson observed how he interposed several cars between himself and the Cadillac without getting caught behind traffic lights; it looked easy but it wasn't.

Ramiro went west on Thirteenth Street, dropped Damico on University Place and went uptown again. “All right,” Homer said. “He's not going home—that's what we needed to know. We've got him. He's heading for the call girl. Forty-sixth between First and Second. Now all we've got to do is get there first.” He swung off Madison Avenue and they barreled across Twenty-sixth street, jouncing in the chuckholes, running an amber light and then the tag end of a red one; Homer went squealing into Third Avenue precariously and chased the staggered traffic lights northward.

There was no traffic; they made it to Forty-fifth on the single light and Homer wheeled left into the side street opposite the United Nations Building; he parked swiftly in front of a loading bay.
No Parking
. “So we get a ticket. They won't tow it away this time of night. Come on, let's move.”

Mathieson got out and turned toward the corner. Homer was retrieving something from the car—it looked like a plastic bottle of detergent fluid; and he had the styrofoam coffee cup. They went quickly around the corner. Homer was pouring liquid into the cup. He tossed the detergent bottle into the mesh waste can on the corner and they strode north to Forty-sixth Street.

Mathieson said, “What's in the cup?”

“Window cleaner. Ammonia. Less drastic than acid but it does the job.” They went around the corner. “Good. He's not here yet. It's that second awning—the girl's got an apartment on the seventeenth floor.”

“We go in?”

“No, there's a doorman. We wait for him outside.”

They posted themselves on the curb just short of the awning where they were not within the doorman's angle of view. “Which way will he come from?”

“No telling. Depends where he finds a parking space.” Homer held the styrofoam cup casually. Two friends saying good-night after an evening on the town, sobering up with a cup of takeout coffee. “Keep your hand in your pocket and your mouth shut. Use the gun if you have to—
he
won't hesitate.”

He curled his hand around the .38 in his pocket. “We're not here to do any shooting, Homer.”

“Sometimes something goes wrong. Just stay loose and be ready to—heads up, here he is.”

The big Fleetwood growled along the street seeking a place to park. There wasn't any; the car disappeared around the corner, moving slowly.

“He'll find a space somewhere. Take it easy—don't get jumpy now, for God's sake.”

Mathieson looked both ways. There was no one on the street. Above them numerous windows were still alight. Up at the farther intersection a woman with a heavy shopping bag walked across on Second Avenue. Eddies of mist curled like steam on the wet black surface of the street. The canvas awning dripped.

A taxi cruised past, empty, dome-signal alight; it paused hopefully but Homer shook his head and the taxi drove on. Then a pedestrian appeared at the corner of First Avenue and turned into the street, coming toward them—wide shoulders, heavy bulk, coat flapping: George Ramiro.

Homer said, “We're having a conversation, OK? I just told you a joke. You're a little drunk.”

Mathieson uttered a sharp bark of laughter. It sounded unconvincing to him but he said, “Hey that's a pretty good one,” his voice sounding too loud and too forced. He turned without hurry, facing Homer, his shoulder to the approaching pedestrian. He could see Ramiro out of the corner of his eye—walking steadily, unafraid, unalarmed; but his right hand stayed in his coat pocket and with it, Mathieson knew, there had to be the .357 Magnum.

As Ramiro approached, Homer gestured with the coffee cup. “So I says to him, ‘Billy, the day she takes her pants down for you is the day whales start flying.'”

Ramiro was three paces away and Homer turned abruptly. “George? Hey, that you, George?”

It brought Ramiro's head around and that was when Homer flung the contents of the styrofoam cup in his face.

4

When the ammonia hit his eyes Ramiro brought both hands to his face and cried out, lurching back against the brick wall. Homer was on top of him instantly, dropping the cup, pinning Ramiro to the wall. Mathieson darted in; fumbled in Ramiro's coat pocket; found the Magnum and relieved him of it. It took no more than three seconds. He slipped the Magnum into his own pocket and Homer was pressing a handkerchief into Ramiro's hand. “Here, wipe yourself off.”

Ramiro whimpered and clawed at his face. Blinded and in excruciating pain he was completely without fight. Homer batted Ramiro's arms away and wiped his eyes with the handkerchief. “Come on, it's only a little window cleaner.”

“What the hell——”

“Grab an arm,” Homer said.

Supporting Ramiro like a drunk between them they walked him toward the corner. He was in enough pain to disable him. They walked him around the corner and the Cadillac was just up the block.

They propped him against the back door of the car. “Keys,” Homer said. Mathieson went into Ramiro's pockets again.

Ramiro was getting his breath. “I can't see …”

“Take it easy, George, you'll be all right in a minute.”

Mathieson unlocked the car door and reached inside to pull up the knob of the back door. They got it open and shoved Ramiro into the back seat. Mathieson got into the front seat and took out the Magnum and held it against the headrest, casually aimed at Ramiro's belly.

Homer pushed Ramiro across the seat and got in beside him. The doors chunked shut.

The UN street lamps were bright; they threw reflected illumination against Ramiro's features. He clutched the handkerchief and scrubbed at his eyes. “Jesus I'm blind—I can't see. You fuckin' bastards.”