“Maybe you’d prefer to leave a message,” the coal-eyed, hollow-chested clerk suggested.
“Maybe you don’t understand English,” Fearless said.
The clerk dialed a few numbers. He picked at the cord nervously while shooting glances at my friend. I thought he was calling for help, but instead he said, “Mr. Manly? I have two men down here who want to talk to you about a Mr. Tannenbaum.”
I smiled and nodded.
“But sir,” the clerk said. “Wouldn’t you prefer to come down and meet them first?”
The clerk didn’t like the answer he was getting.
“Yes sir. I’ll send them up directly.” He put the phone down behind the counter somewhere, then took up a brass bell, which he shook, causing a shrill ring.
A Negro bellman came running from somewhere. Ignoring us he spoke to the hotel clerk. “Yes, Mr. Corman?”
“Not you, Randolph. I want Billings.”
“Yes sir,” Randy said, and he darted away.
While we waited, Mr. Corman became very interested in a loose thread on his jacket sleeve. He took out a pair of scissors and tried to see if he could cut the errant strand at the root. But the run was halfway between his wrist and elbow and it was impossible to hold the thread and cut it at the same time. It was a dilemma. He couldn’t cut the string without taking off his jacket and couldn’t take off his jacket while standing at the front desk. But he couldn’t leave his desk with two Negroes standing there unattended.
“Are we waiting for something?” I asked.
Mr. Corman concentrated on his sleeve.
A new bellman, white this time, came to the desk.
“Yes, Mr. Corman?” he asked, just as fawning as Randolph had been.
“See these gentlemen up to three-twenty-two.”
“Yes sir.”
The walk through the lobby with its plush carpets and potted bird-of-paradise plants was even more humiliating than Corman’s condescension. The women wore fine clothes and all the men had suits on. I was in the same tired slacks and loose shirt, in shoes that had done more than their share of walking. It felt like going to church in your dirty work clothes.
We didn’t molest our escort. It wasn’t his fault that he had to accompany us every step of the way. He knocked for us. The door was answered by a handsome and well-built white man in his late twenties. The same man I had seen bidding farewell to Sergeant Latham and Elana Love.
“Mr. Manly?” I asked affably.
“Thank you,” the bellman Billings was saying to Fearless, and I realized that my friend had given our warden a tip.
“Mr. —?” Manly hesitated.
“Minton,” I said. “And this is Mr. Jones. May we come in?”
“What is this about?”
“It’s about a Jewish fortune stolen by Nazis and one turncoat Jew named —”
“Come in,” the man who answered to the name John Manly said. He backed up, ushering us into the sitting room of a large suite. A yellow couch and four blue chairs were arranged around a table with all kinds of official-looking papers on it. The room was heavy with strange-smelling tobacco smoke. It wasn’t an American blend.
From a side door two more men entered. One was short with heavily muscled arms. He wore a gray T-shirt and ocher pants with no shoes. He had a big belly and a hawkish nose. He wasn’t happy to see us, but from the look of that scowl, I doubted if much made him happy. The third man, and the youngest of the three, was taller and sleeker than Fearless. His skin was pale, and he wore a small black cap on the back of his head.
“This is Ari,” Manly said, pointing at the shorter man, “and Lev.”
We stood there for a moment, wondering what manners to follow.
“Would you gentlemen like to sit down?” Manly asked us.
Fearless moved for a blue chair, I followed suit. Manly took a seat on the yellow couch, but Lev and Ari stayed on their feet.
A pair of glass doors led out to a vine-encircled patio. The sun shone in, slightly green from the vines.
“What do you have to tell us?” Manly inquired.
I was getting ready to launch into the business at hand, but Fearless beat me to it.
“Sol an’ Fanny Tannenbaum’s dead,” he said, “an’ I don’t like it one bit. They was good people, and I promised to look after ’em. I got a pretty good idea’a who killed ’em, but I want to get the man that was the cause of their death.”
Manly glanced at the stocky Ari. The latter hunched his shoulders and turned down his lips.
“That has nothing to do with us,” Manly said.
“That’s a bunch’a shit,” Fearless said. “You want the lost money, the money that Sol took. Whoever killed him was after that. An’ if it’s you, I’m’a find it out.”
I came for a parley and found myself on the verge of war.
“Vat do ve care about you?” Ari said in a surprisingly high voice. Fearless stood up.
“You don’t wanna know what I can do.” The motherfucker wasn’t said, but everyone in that room heard it.
Ari looked like he wanted to test Fearless’s claim.
“We didn’t have anything to do with the Tannenbaums’ deaths.” Manly was tense but still thinking.
“What do you know about a man named Zimmerman?” Fearless asked.
I didn’t think that the atmosphere could stand any more tension, but the mention of that name caused tremors in all three of our hosts.
“Vat do you know about Zimmerman?” Ari demanded.
“I think it was him caused Sol and Fanny’s killing,” Fearless said. “You know I do, ’cause if I didn’t, I’d’a come in here with my guns blazin’.”
“Zimmerman,” Lev uttered his first word since we entered. “Zimmerman.”
“Why’ont you two guys sit down here with us?” Fearless demanded. “Either we gonna fight or we gonna talk.”
Ari was still taking Fearless’s measure when Lev took a seat.
“Sit down, Ari,” Manly said.
“I want the finder’s fee,” I said.
Maybe I was a little hoarse, because Manly asked, “What did you say?”
“The finder’s fee,” I said, clearing my throat as I did so. “I want the finder’s fee.”
“Vat is it you do for this?” Ari asked.
“We know how you can get to the money,” Fearless said with absolute confidence. “But we don’t tell you a thing unless you tell us about Zimmerman.”
“If you’re talking about the bond that Hedva Tannenbaum gave the woman, it is useless,” Lev said. “The policeman brought her here with it. We took the number and our people checked it. It was a single issue. Tannenbaum had no other dealings with that bank.”
“I ain’t talkin’ ’bout no bond,” Fearless said. “I’m talkin’ ’bout the money, the money you guys is lookin’ for.”
“Why would we believe that you can help us?” Manly asked Fearless.
“Morris Greenspan killed himself last night,” Fearless said. “He left a note. He been workin’ for a man called hisself Minor, and then he fount out what Sol did with the money. But then he fount out who Minor was.”
There was a question in John Manly’s gaze.
“Zimmerman,” I replied.
Manly sat back and considered. There was an arrogant twist to his lips. He looked at each of his friends, making eye movements that I couldn’t read.
“Where is this note?” Manly cocked his head to the side as if he were trying to see if the suicide note was hanging out of one of our pockets.
“Where’s Zimmerman?” Fearless asked.
Manly answered, “We will pay you to tell us where the money is,” not as an offer but as a foregone conclusion.
That sounded like a good first step to me. All we had to do was talk about a number; no thugs or blood or blackjacks.