“So no wonder you had so much faith in me!” Dondero said witheringly.
“Sure. Why else? Anyway, the man said he hadn’t wanted Lazaretti in the first place. He had made a terrible mistake. From the way he spoke, it appeared there was a certain lack of communication between him and Lazaretti, among other things. What he wants, now, he says, is the other one. Patrone, or whatever his name is.”
“It’s Patrone.” Dondero considered the situation and sighed disconsolately. “Man, I really screwed up this time, didn’t I?”
“Like a champ,” Reardon said with honesty. “Given twenty years’ practice, I doubt you could have screwed up any better. However, there’s a bright side, if you want to look at it—”
“What’s that?”
“You can’t get up into the cell blocks and release Patrone, thank God! Zelinski would be waiting for you.”
“Very funny,” Dondero said sourly. He finished his beer, looked at the can in his hand a moment as if wondering how it got there, and then tossed it moodily into the bay. Just thinking about all his problems was enough to depress anyone, so he picked up Reardon’s can from the dock and tossed it in after his own, for luck. “Trouble, trouble!” he said bitterly. “Why did I ever learn Italian at my mother’s knee? Why didn’t I learn Esperanto, like everyone else? Why didn’t I—”
He paused suddenly, struck by a beautiful thought.
“Hey!”
Reardon looked at him. “Hey, what?”
Dondero thought about his beautiful thought a bit longer, but could find nothing wrong with it. “Wait a second! You said this guy said he made a mistake in wanting Lazaretti?”
“Those were practically his exact words.”
“Tell me what he said, will you? As close as you can remember? Exactly?”
Reardon frowned. Dondero was deadly serious.
“All right,” he said slowly. “He said he was sorry he’d killed Lazaretti, that it was a terrible mistake, ‘a dreadful one’ were his exact words. Then he said it was water over the dam, but that he was afraid now he would have to trouble us for the other one, Patrone, he said he believed his name was. He added the exchange was to be at two o’clock, same place, same drill, added to that that Pop Holland was a bleeder, and hung up.” He studied Dondero’s exultant expression with curiosity. “Why?”
Dondero was grinning savagely.
“Sure!” he said triumphantly. “That’s it! I should have seen it sooner!”
“See what?”
“You know something, Jim? That character never saw either Lazaretti or Patrone in person in his entire life!”
“Maybe not,” Reardon said, totally unimpressed. “So what?”
“So lots of things, don’t you see?” Dondero was getting more excited by the minute. “If he doesn’t know Patrone by sight, he sure as hell won’t know if the guy he picks up at the bridge tonight isn’t Patrone, will he?” He answered his own question. “No, ma’am, he will not!”
Reardon studied his friend for several moments as the meaning of the other’s words slowly sank in. Then he shook his head forcefully.
“No way, buster!”
“Why not?” Dondero said aggressively, liking his idea more and more by the minute. “Hell, I speak Italian like a native—”
“Lazaretti also spoke Italian like a native.”
“Hey, that’s right! Wait a second—” Dondero snapped his fingers. “You said he had a communication problem with Lazaretti. Five gets you ten that Lazaretti didn’t speak English, and that Patrone does! I won’t even need my Italian; my superb English will do. I—”
“Cut it out,” Reardon said sternly. “It’s just a wild guess the man doesn’t know Patrone on sight—”
“He doesn’t, I tell you! Would he have made a mistake in which guy he wanted out, if he knew one from the other? Or knew either one from a hole in the wall? He hasn’t a clue—”
“I said, cut it out! This man plays rough. He killed Lazaretti, and he wasn’t neat about it, either. And he cut off one of Pop’s fingers. He’s got his hands on one cop, and that’s one too many. He wants answers, and maybe this Patrone knows those answers or maybe he doesn’t, but it’s damn sure you don’t even know the questions!”
“So there’s one sure way to find out what those questions are,” Dondero said logically. “That’s to keep your big fat ears open when the man asks them; right? Anyway,” he pointed out, “I’m in the doghouse so far by this time, the only way I can come out is through the other end. If I come up with something real bright, maybe the brass won’t do any more than hang me.”
“Except for lots of things—”
“Such as?”
“Well,” Reardon said, thinking about it, “in addition to all the hundreds of other objections, let’s take just one. Let’s suppose the man picks you up where he says, when he says—”
“Yeah.”
“And he takes you to wherever he plans to take you after he picks you up—”
“Yeah.”
“And when you get there, he takes you into this room—”
“Yeah.”
“And Pop is sitting there, and Pop says, ‘Hello, Don, so you guys finally got here, huh?’”
“Now, wait a second,” Dondero said hastily. “It won’t work like that at all. To begin with, there’s no reason why this character should introduce me to Pop — I’d think he’d want to keep us apart. I don’t imagine he’s out to advertise he kidnapped a cop, especially not to some character he just sprung from jail.” He thought about it a moment more, and then shook his head. “No, that’s the least of my worries.”
“If that’s the least of your worries—”
But Dondero was not listening. He was already back with his planning.
“I’ve got a black suit just like the one Lazaretti had on, I use it for weddings and funerals, and I’ve got a whole hamper full of dirty white shirts, all we have to do is take out the label—”
Reardon felt himself being drawn into the scheme despite himself. “Except we’ve got a man on your apartment.”
“But he wouldn’t stop you,” Dondero pointed out, and went on before Reardon could say anything. “The suit’s hanging—”
“Now, wait a second!”
Dondero looked at him a long moment. “I started to say, the suit’s hanging in the front closet,” he said quietly. When Reardon remained silent, Dondero smiled faintly and went on. “As I say, we’ll have to take out all the labels, and probably get it wrinkled and dirty, which is no chore, since I should have sent it to the cleaners months ago. The shirts are in the hamper in the bathroom. I’ve got an old pair of black shoes here on the boat that ought to do. I’ll manage to get any maker’s name off them, although I doubt he’ll be down on the floor peeking at my booties—”
“Look,” Reardon said desperately, and ran his hand through his hair. “If we’re really going to do this insane thing, then it has to be properly planned, and I can’t think clearly on an empty stomach. What do you have to eat on this bucket?”
“What?”
“Eat. Food. Vitamins and minerals.” Reardon motioned toward his mouth with bunched fingers. “What kind of Italian are you, you don’t read simple sign language?”
“The word’s mangiare,” Dondero said loftily, and jumped down to the slanted deck. “Well, come on, then, although I’m damned if I can figure out how you ever manage to solve a case, when all you can think about is your stomach!”
Chapter 10
Tuesday — 1:05 A.M.
Fog was beginning to sweep up from the bay as Reardon bumped down the rutted lane leading from the main road to the jetty and the dock mooring Dondero’s small fisherman; a light drizzle was attempting to dissipate the mist and managed only to compound the general unpleasantness of the night. Reardon kicked himself for having left both umbrella and raincoat at home, pulled the car around to face the way he had come in, and turned off the ignition. He flicked the lights to the parking position, stared out at the rain for a moment, and then ducked from the car with his bundle, holding it over his head for as much protection as possible. He made his way down the precarious length of the dilapidated slippery dock, almost going into the water several times, and finally reached his goal, cursing loud, long, and fluently. As if in response, the hatchway was opened and light angled up from below, losing itself at once in the sodden night.