It starts to rain. Not hard. Just a steady New York rain that doesn't seem to give a damn whether it happens or not. It's no downpour to bother rushing out of, only the kind of insistent drizzle that will make you uncomfortable if you stay in it too long.
You could think, though, on a night like this. You could wander and wonder and reason and begin to get a feel for things, like knowing that the aroma of good cooking will lead to restaurant windows where even on a slow night the tables will be filled with those taking refuge from the rain.
But Doolan's death doesn't provide a nice smell at all. There isn't a logical reason in the world to doubt he knocked himself off. While he was still reasonably functional, he'd kept doing the things he knew best, making productive use of his knowledge and his contacts. He chased a skirt or two. Maybe he even bedded down a couple. Then, before the Big Pain could claw his guts out, he sat down, put his favorite music on, and blew his heart apart. It seemed logical enough, it followed a pattern others had laid down, and I could almost believe it myself.
Almost.
I go back to the Commodore, consider digging out enough medication to address aches and pains the rain has stirred up, and to beat back thoughts that might keep sleep from coming. I decide against it and go to bed, where the thoughts I pursue like uncooperative suspects seem worth the chase, and when sleep finally comes, it's deep but not dreamless, a surreal mix of faces old and new and distinct and vague on streets where the neon is even more vivid, the rain slashing, the odors pungent, and I am at home again in Manhattan, awake or asleep.
Goddamnit.
I am home.
***
At five-thirty A.M., I was down on the street in sweats, setting out in an easy jog. I had decided to take a pass on Bing's today, and instead take advantage of the cool, sunny morning.
I didn't have to estimate the distance. Twenty blocks to the mile, and I went forty north, crossed the avenue, and did forty back. There were enough other runners out that I didn't feel alone, and I got back as the early workers were starting to show.
Cooling down slowly was a must, then a hot shower took the ache out of that spot that still bore the bullet track. I don't buy that macho crap about a final cold shower, so I dried off. I shaved and, for better or worse, I could recognize the guy in the mirror again.
"Shit," I told him.
Then I got into shirt and tie and shoulder sling and slacks and sport jacket and put the hat on.
God got melodramatic and let some thunder rip just as I was snugging the porkpie in place. I went to the nearest window. That early-morning sun I'd enjoyed was gone—it was raining again. A little harder than last night. Good thing I'd thought to pack the trench coat.
I had sicced Pat on tracking down various notions I had about the two dead girls—he and his little elves could be useful at times. But Pat didn't buy that Doolan had been murdered, so that angle of the investigation was all mine. And so far I had precious little.
I took a cab to Doolan's address. I still had the key, and there was something up there I wanted to pick up. I did so, but mostly I was here not for his pad, but for his neighborhood, to ask around.
Turned out old Doolan had been a nice guy and he had nice friends who said nice things about him, only "nice" was the kind of well-meaning sweet talk you hear right before and after the funeral, and not the sharp, pointed facts I needed.
And the only facts I was getting were basic—Doolan shopped locally, paid his bills, had a good credit rating, and was a pretty visible guy in the neighborhood, having helped run the druggies out. By the time I had covered all the local businesses, I'd come to a standstill.
It was almost noon and I was damn sick of all the nice things I had been hearing. I looked up and down the street, knowing something was missing. Then it came to me: there was no drugstore in sight. Somewhere a guy Doolan's age, with his medical problems, could get his prescriptions filled. And he would likely go to the nearest place at hand.
The Yellow Pages gave up three walking-distance possibilities just outside the neighborhood, and I checked the closest one first, hitting immediate pay dirt.
The store was small, in the middle of the block, had only a handful of customers, one shopping, two at the soda fountain, and none at all at the back prescription counter. Just inside, I shook the rain off my hat and coat, and headed back there.
"I don't talk about my patients," the druggist said, with the strong implication that he recognized the name William Doolan.
He was a small, sour, flat-faced type who didn't seem to want to talk about anything, except maybe what you owed him at the register.
I considered slapping him. His patients? He was a fucking pharmacist, not a damn doctor.
But that kind of thing didn't go over so good anymore, and I just got out the card Pat had given me and handed it across to him.
"Why don't you call that number," I said, "and see if I'm square."
Finally his curiosity overcame his suspicions, and he dialed it. He spoke briefly, then handed me the phone. "Captain Chambers wants to hear your voice."
I stuck the phone to my ear. "Pat, could you okay me to this guy?"
"What's it about, Mike?"
"Just checking up on Doolan."
"Come on, man, that's a dead end."
"Maybe, but at least I'm not asking you to handle it."
"Good point. Put him back on."
When I handed the phone back, there was another brief exchange and the druggist cradled the receiver on its hook on his counter. "I guess it's permissible to talk."
"Good," I said. "Anyway, I'm not interested in Mr. Doolan's medical history—what I'm trying to pick up are any stray details about his personal life."
"I was just his pharmacist...."
I managed not to say, Oh, not his doctor?
Instead I said, "I know, but he had lots of meds to fill, and regularly, and maybe you two talked a little."
"I'm not that talkative."
"Well, anything you can share would be appreciated."
"Like what?"
"Any little thing. You ever pass the time with him?"
He bobbed his head. "Now and then. We'd sit over there and have coffee."
That was a nice surprise. "So what did you fellas talk about?"
"Bill was an old cop. I guess you must know that." The druggist shrugged. "He'd tell me his old war stories—close scrapes and busting bad guys and that. What else has an old cop got to talk about?"
"Nothing about what he was up to lately?"
"Well—he went uptown a lot. He sat in Central Park, he said, and people watched. Sometimes he would dress funny."
"Funny how?"
"One time I told him he looked like a Bowery bum and he said I was making a good guess."
Christ—so he'd been staking somebody out. Who at this point in his life would Doolan be watching, undercover?
"Funny thing, though."
"Yeah?"
"A couple of times he looked pretty damned sharp."
"Sharp."
"Yeah. Nice suit. Like he really had dough. Mostly he was dressed like, well, any old bird his age. I asked where he was going all duded up, and you will not believe what he said."
"Try me."
"I say, 'Where are you going tonight, Bill? Club 52?' And you know what he says?"
"What?"
"'You must be psychic, Fred. That's exactly where I'm headin'.' Right. An old coot like that, going to Club 52. I gave him the horse laugh, but then a week later, he came in all duded up again, and I say, 'Expectin' another wild night at Club 52, are ya, Bill?' He says sure, and says if I don't believe him, have a gander at this ... and he shows me a plastic card, signed by that guy Anthony Tret-something, who owns the joint."