Lady Killer

'Address?'

'336 North Thirteenth.'

'Anything else on the card?'

'Right-hand corner of the card says "Fine Food". That's it.'

'Thanks, Sam. I'll get right over there.'

'Sure. Maybe the suspect eats there, who knows? Or maybe he's one of the owners.'

'Jo or George, huh?'

'It could be,' Grossman said. 'You don't figure this joker lived in that apartment, do you?'

'No. Do you?'

'A few signs of habitation, but all recent. Nothing prolonged. My guess is that he used it as a pied à terre, if you'll pardon the Japanese.'

'That's what I figure, too,' Hawes said quickly. 'Sam, I'd love to throw the bull with you, but it's getting late. I'd better hit that diner.'

'Go ahead,' Grossman said. 'Good luck.'

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Jo-George Diner was on The Stem at Thirteenth Street. Because the diner's entrance was on the side street rather than the avenue, the address was 336 North Thirteenth. There were no trucks parked outside it, but Hawes formed no opinions about the quality of the food. Perhaps trucks would have been there were there not parking regulations against them.

The diner looked like any other diner in the city, or perhaps even every other diner in the world. Metallically glistening in the sun still lingering in the sky, it squatted on the corner, a large sign across its top announcing the name JO-GEORGE DINER.

It was 6.15 p.m. when Hawes climbed the steps and opened the front door. The diner was packed.

The juke box was blaring, and there was the persistent hum of conversation bouncing oif the walls and the ceiling. There were several waitresses scurrying back and forth between the booths and the counter. Two men were behind the counter, and Hawes could see beyond the pass-through into the kitchen, where three more men worked. The Jo-George Diner was a thriving little spot, and Hawes wondered which of the men were the owners.

He looked for a stool at the counter, but they were all occupied. He went to stand alongside the cash register at one end of the counter. The waitresses scurried past, ignoring him, picking up their orders. The men behind the counter dashed from customer to customer.

'Hey!' Hawes said.

One of the men stopped. 'There'll be a short wait, sir,' he said. 'If you'll just stand over there near the cigarette machine, away from the door, somebody'll get up and you—'

'Jo around?' Hawes asked.

'It's his day off,' the man said. 'You a friend of—?'

'George here?'

The man looked puzzled. He was a man in his late fifties with iron-grey hair and blue eyes. He was heavily built, his shirt sleeves rolled up over muscular biceps. 'I'm George,' he said. 'Who are you?'

'Detective Hawes. Eighty-seventh Squad. Is there anyplace we can talk, Mr…?' He let the sentence trail.

'Laddona,' George said. 'George Laddona. What's this about?'

'Just a few questions, that's all.'

'What about?'

'Can we talk someplace besides here?'

'You sure picked a hell of a time. I got my big supper crowd here right now. Can't you come back later?'

'This can't wait,' Hawes said.

'We can talk in the kitchen, I guess.'

Hawes listened to the sounds emanating from the bustling kitchen, the orders being shouted, the pots and pans being thrown around, the dishes being washed.

'Anyplace quieter?'

'The only other place is the men's room. It's okay with me if it's okay with you.'

'Fine,' Hawes said.

George came from behind the counter, and they walked to the other end of the diner. They opened a door that had no lettering on it, just the figure of a man in a top hat. The ladies' room featured a woman with a parasol. When they were inside, Hawes locked the door.

'What's your partner's name?' he asked.

'Jo Cort. Why?'

'Is that his full name?'

'Sure.'

'The Jo, I mean.'

'Sure. Jo. J-o. Why?'

Hawes pulled the police drawing out of his pocket. He unfolded it and showed it to George.

'This your partner?'

George looked at the picture. 'Nope,' he said.

'You sure?'

'Don't I know my own partner?'

'Ever see this man in the diner before?'

George shrugged. 'Who knows? You know how many people I get in here? Take a look outside. That's how busy it is every night at this time. Who recognizes individuals?'

'Take another look,' Hawes said. 'He may be a regular.'

George looked at the picture again. 'There's something familiar about the eyes,' he said. He looked at it more closely. 'Funny, I…' He shrugged. 'No. No, I don't place him. I'm sorry.'

Disappointedly, Hawes folded the picture and returned it to his pocket. The card looked like another false lead. The picture was certainly not a drawing of George, and George had just now said it wasn't his partner, either. Where did he go now? What did he ask next? What time was it? How long before the bullet from a Luger crashed into the body of an unsuspecting woman? Was a cop with the prostitute known as The Lady? Did Jay Astor have her police protection yet? Had Philip Bannister left to meet his mother at the ballet? Where was John Smith now? Who was John Smith? What do I ask now?

He pulled the business card from his wallet. 'Recognize this, George?' he asked.

George took the card. 'Sure. That's our card.'

'You carry them?'

'Sure.'

'Jo carry them?'

'Sure. Also, we leave them on the counter. There's a little box for them. People pick them up all the time. Word-of-mouth advertising. It works, believe me. You saw how packed it was out there.' He seemed to suddenly remember his customers. 'Look, is this going to take much longer? I got to get back.'

'Tell me about your set-up here,' Hawes said, unwilling to leave just yet, unwilling to let go of a lead that had taken him here to this diner, a card found in the apartment of the man who'd called himself John Smith, a man who was not George Laddona and not Jo Cort, but where had the man got the card? Had he eaten here? Hadn't George said there was something familiar about the eyes? Could the man have eaten here? Damnit, where was he? Who was he? I'm losing my grip, Hawes thought.

'Regular partnership set-up,' George said, shrugging. 'It's the same all over. Jo and me are partners.'

'How old is Jo?'

'Thirty-four.'

'And you?'

'Fifty-six.'

'That's a big difference. Know him long?'

'About eleven years,' George said.

'You get along with him?'

'Fine.'

'How'd you meet?'

'At the 52-20 Club. You were in the service, weren't you?'

'Sure.'

'Remember when you got out, they had this thing where the state gave you twenty bucks a week for a maximum of fifty-two weeks. A sort of a rehabilitation thing. Until you found work.'

'I remember,' Hawes said. 'But you weren't in the service, were you?'

'No, no, I was too old.'

'Was Jo?'

'He was 4-F during the war. Had a punctured eardrum or something.'

'Then how'd you meet at the Fifty-two—'

'We were both working there. For the Welfare Board, you know. Jo and me. That's how we met.'

'What happened then?'

'Well, you know, we got friendly. I'd trust him with my right arm. Straight from the beginning. It was just one of those friendships. You know, we hit it off right away. It started with us stopping for a few brews on the way home from work. We still do it. Whenever we work together, we stop for a few brews. Place down the street. Jo and me, the guzzlers.' George smiled. 'The guzzlers,' he repeated fondly.

'Go ahead,' Hawes said. He looked at his wrist watch. He had the oddest feeling that he was wasting precious time listening to this fraternal account. 'Go ahead,' he said again, more impatiently this time.