This was turning into a complete buzz-kill. “One of those places on Ocean Drive. We sat down and had a drink.”
“You and your faulty memory, I don’t suppose you could tell me which place?”
Leo racked his brain for the name of one café, just one, any one, so he could give her an answer, but she wasn’t waiting for it.
“Now what if I told you we have another witness who not only puts you in the company of Manfred Pfiser on the afternoon of the day he was killed, this witness places you at his hotel. Right in the same room with him. On the day he was murdered. What would you say to that, Mr. Hannah?”
How? He’d be there, what, all of ten minutes? Fifteen? But that didn’t matter now.
“I know what it was. Now I remember. Manfred said he had a jacket for me, a sports coat my size. He wanted me to come up to his room and try it on. Manfred was queer, I don’t know if you knew that, and I figured he was gonna try and make a pass at me, but I went with him anyway, to humor him. That was the day he was killed?”
“Here’s what you’re telling me. You knew that he was gay, and you were expecting an advance of some kind you claim you weren’t interested in, but you accompanied him to his room.”
Leo said, “Yeah, well.”
“He was merely an acquaintance, right? That’s what you said? But he wanted to give you an article from his wardrobe.”
“One thing I will say for him, he was very generous.”
“And at five feet eight, and a hundred eighty pounds, he owned a jacket that would’ve fit you. I think you can do a little better than that, don’t you, Leo?”
The cop closed her notebook and put her shades back on, pair of cheap shit Persol knock-offs she probably bought in some drugstore. “What can you tell me about a man named Harry Healy?”
“Never heard of the guy,” Leo said, and instantly realized what a stupid lie he just told.
“You spent forty-eight hours with him in the same cell at Dade back in February.”
Of course she knew he knew Harry. What an idiot.
“I figured you two would’ve gotten the chance to chat.”
She drew a breath like she was going to say something else, but pulled up short, and left Leo standing on the steps, wobbly from the beating she’d dealt out. She turned around and Leo reflexively checked her out. Lotta junk in the trunk. This chick was like the Beach Police Department’s very own Trojan Horse. And they came for him while he slept, just like the fucking Greeks.
“By the way,” she said, turning around again, “remember how you said your plans had a way of backfiring? If you had any to leave town, consider that this is them jumping up and biting you on the ass. We’re gonna need to talk to you again.”
She smiled a smile that under any other circumstances Leo would’ve made for flirty, a smile that showed her braces, but was sexy as hell. She had gorgeous hair, too, and a booming ass, but she was trying to cut off his balls, right here at his very own seasonal rental. Help, Mister Wizard. Jesus Christ, Mister Wizard, help.
Chapter Thirteen
The bar on Grand Street was so slam-packed with cheapsuited finance grunts, Harry figured it must be the eve of one of those shifting, unknowable holidays, giving the place all the charm of Fraternity Row on Career Night. For a few years there, it felt like these guys had gone away, but there was no denying it anymore: They ruled once again.
The suits barked out orders like they were trading shares, hanging bills over the shoulders of the guys in front of them. Irish Mike snatched the money out of the air and stuffed it in the till.
On his bad nights, and Mike had plenty of those, he was bitter about tending bar. But it was the perfect job for him. He had that thing that made you want to give him money. He could be funny, he was polite most of the time, and he recorded the pet subjects of his regulars in a mental file.
Mike needed bigger pants. The pounds he’d added around the breadbasket doubled his waistband down. He was sporting a five o’clock-shadow beard, but it didn’t make him look hip or masculine, it made him look like a bum.
Harry decided he’d go kill an hour or so somewhere else when Mike caught his eye and pulled down a bottle of Dewar’s. He capped the pourer with a tumbler, tipped the bottle upside down, and let the whiskey run into the glass. Pouring a drink for himself, Mike shelved the scotch, and threw down the measure in a gulp.
By the time Harry was ready for his third Dewar’s, Mike had found a Louis Armstrong cassette, and it was playing over the bar’s sound system. Harry couldn’t possibly hear Satchmo and not think of his father. The old man was a huge Armstrong fan. What jazzbo wasn’t? Give him a kiss to build a dream on.
Mike pointed at Harry, touched his own thieving heart, then pointed back at Harry. He guessed it meant Mike wanted a word. The crowd was leaving, and there was room at the bar.
The way Mike drank, Harry wondered why he bothered with a glass. Another dog-choking shot, down the hatch. He had to be drunk. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to talk to him. Then again, what were the odds of catching Mike sober?
He wanted to know what happened in Florida. “I can tell by that tan, you must just be getting back.”
“Couple of days ago,” Harry said.
“Jesus, I’m glad to see you,” Mike said. “Haven’t been this tired in a long time.”
“You work hard,” Harry told him, and on nights like this, he did.
“I could use a little something to pick me up.”
Harry had wondered when he was going to get around to it. Mike didn’t give a shit what had happened in Florida, or anywhere else in Harry’s life.
Mike was an on-again-off-again blowhound, with a dry-out, two detoxes, and a rehab on his resume. Mike had been doing it for years. Whenever they let him out, he’d lip-serve their one-day-at-a-time jive, which coincidentally was the precise span of Irish Mike’s typical rehabilitation. One day.
“So what’ve you got for your old buddy?”
Harry laid a twenty on the bar, to coin up for his drinks. “I gave up on that shit,” he said. “All it ever brought me was grief.”
“I hear you woofing, big dog.” Mike forced a phony smile that deepened the lines at his temples and made his face look like it was going to crack. “But that’s no reason to quit. Cut down, sure. I could see wanting to cut down.”
Harry said, “Remember that girl, Julia? I was hanging out with her about a year ago?”
“What about Julia? I told you stay clear of her, didn’t I?”
Mike popped a beer for an ossified suit. The guy counted out some singles and held one back, to make sure Mike knew he was setting aside the whole, entire dollar for a tip. The guy got his beer, a light. He stood there cuddling it.
“Is there somebody you can call,” Mike said, “that can straighten me out? I could really go for something right about now.”
Pretending to think a minute, Harry walked over to the phone, dropped in a quarter, and punched out the Downtowner’s numbers. Phil the night guy snapped it up after half a ring. Maybe Phil was expecting something of his own.
Harry said, “Phil, this is Harry in 801.”
Phil said, “What can I do for you?”
“Have I got any messages?” He could feel Mike’s stare boring holes in the back of his head. He turned and winked and turned around again.
Phil said, “Who knows you’re staying here?”
Harry angled his profile to let Mike lip-read him saying, “Hey, I’m just asking.”