Bully boy took his time walking up Broadway, window-shopping in a couple of shlock stores, stopping for an orange drink. He turned into an office building and we both went into the same elevator. The light panel said there were sixteen floors. When he called out, “Ten,” I said, “Eleven.”
I walked downstairs to the tenth floor and looked around. There were fourteen offices on the floor but fortunately a big rug outfit took up six doors. I narrowed it down to three offices, two of them without names on the doors, and one with DATA, INC. in small black letters.
I walked into DATA, INC. ready to give them a bull yarn if I was wrong. It was quite an office. I wasn't wrong.
It was narrow with a desk, phone, typewriter and two file cabinets as you entered. Then it opened into two cubbyhole offices—one was a regular office and the other had a work bench, tools and a stack of electrical gadgets.
Bully was hanging up the receiver and he stood up as he asked, “What you want, boy?”
I spread my feet as he stepped toward me, met him with a perfect left hook above his belt buckle. He let out a gasping, hissing scream as he slid to the floor, gave up the orange drink. The wiry character came out of his office on the run, coat off. He led a sucker right:. it was a feint and his left banged the side of my face. I missed a left to his gut because his blow knocked me backward, but I blocked another right and kicked him on the knee. He cursed, limped back till he hit a chair, sat down, rubbing his leg.
The side of my face was numb and when I took my hand, away it had blood—the smart bastard was wearing a heavy ring. Fatso was still moaning on the floor. I stepped away from his big feet as wiry gave me a hard look, said, “You're in trouble, kid, I'm a detective.”
“What trouble? I came in and before I can open my yap this lump starts pushing and swinging on me.”
Wiry reached for his back pocket. It looked too flat for a gun or knife but I told him, “Take it slow or you'll be on the floor too.”
He got a wallet out, flashed one of these gold private dick badges the state gives you with your license. He stood up, painfully, still rubbing his knee with his long left hand. “I said trouble and I mean it. You'd better come up with a good story and fast. What you doing here?”
“Maybe working my way through reform school. Put that hunk of gold plate away before you scratch yourself. I have a real one.” I pushed my coat back so he could see my badge on my belt, and part of my shoulder holster.
Fatty stopped moaning and stared up at me and then over at his chum, whose expression could best be called thoughtful. He said, “My name is Frank Flatts and I'm a licensed and bonded private investigator. I'm asking you to identify yourself.”
“Detective David Wintino, 201st Squad. That okay, investigator? Tell lardass to get up slowly and behave himself.” “I'd like to see your badge again.”
“Sure.” I held my coat open and he copied down my number on a phone pad, along with my name, asked, “What precinct was that again?”
“Two hundred and first. And this act makes me simply shake in my pants.”
“I'm within my legal rights in asking for identification,” Flatts said. “Is this an arrest?”
“You certainly are within your legal rights. And deliberately jostling a person might be within your rights too— except it's breaking the Penal Law.”
Flatts grinned, maybe he was relieved. He said, “So that's it. Come into my office and let's talk about this.”
“Your office is too small for the three of us to be comfortable. Talk here.”
Fatty got to his feet and sat down at his desk. Flatts limped over to the workshop, brought out a stool, asked, “Have a seat?”
“Why not? Let's keep things on a polite level,” I told him, laughing at myself for sounding like one of last night's bridge players. I sat on the stool and Flatts found a chair. I wiped my cheek with a handkerchief. It wasn't much of a cut but still bleeding.
Flatts said, “Sorry I bruised you, Wintino, but you came busting into my office and—”
“My story is I was pushed before I had a chance to say a word. Baldy is good at pushing.”
“This is my associate, Mr. Tasman. I think we should get down to cases, I have a busy afternoon ahead of me.”
“More women to jostle?” I asked.
“If you are referring to the young woman, that was an accident. I don't go in for rough stuff.”
“You don't? What was that, a feel?”
“Perhaps you don't realize it, few people do, but the modern private investigator is a long way removed from the popular version of the private eye, or even from the old-time investigator, I don't go in for rough stuff, or guard work, and rarely take a criminal case. We are essentially a business service. Our work is in the nature of research, we supply businessmen with information about their competitors. And we use the most advanced scientific methods. Electronics has replaced the gun, the—”
“Too warm for a lecture. What are you trying to sell me, Flatts?”
“Simply that striking you was the first time I've hit anybody since I was a college student. And the first time I've been hit—or rather kicked. I want you to clearly understand you're dealing with respectable businessmen not goons.”
“I knew that. That was some very respectable rough-shadowing you did put there.”
“Let me also enlighten you about the law. Section 7228 of the Penal Law was passed against pickpockets and specifically defines jostling as a crime only if it is done for the purpose of picking a pocket or purse. As for the young lady, we never saw her before she walked into me. I assumed it was an accident on her—”
“Stop it, you're getting my shoes dirty. You've been annoying her on the phone, making inquiries at her apartment house, and pushing her around on the street. I know all about the article she's writing and the four companies that hired you.”
Flatts gave me a cool smile. “I haven't the smallest idea of what you're talking about. Let me remind you again that making inquiries is not breaking any law. And I doubt if you can prove any of your other allegations. There's one more point I didn't reach in my lecture, as you so quaintly termed it. I couldn't operate in my business without a lot of connections. I'm not threatening you, understand, but you do look very young to be a detective. But in a uniform, pounding a beat, I'd say you would look far more natural. Now I'm asking you for the second time, are you here to arrest me?”
“I didn't even say I was here as a police officer. You pulled a badge first. Matter of fact I'm off duty. Let's say I'm here, at the moment, as a citizen who is a friend of Miss Henderson.”
Tasman suddenly spoke up, grunted, “Don't you know she's a Spick, her real name is Hondura?”
“Lardy, I don't like my friends called Spicks. And for a girl you claim you never saw before you certainly know a lot about her.” I stood up. “Let's stop the chatter. This isn't an official visit, although Miss Henderson has made a complaint with the precinct. If you annoy her once more I'll return and run you both in for disorderly conduct and/or jostling—let a judge determine the law.”
“The law states—” Flatts began. “You've already hit a cop.”
“In self-defense,” Flatts chimed in fast. “And I have a witness.”
“Even in self-defense it might not be healthy for you and your witness around the precinct house. I'm giving it to you straight: Stick to your phone taps and the rest of your 'legitimate' crap. Lay off Miss Henderson or I'll scramble your features.” I started for the door.