Art’s a funny guy. He does feature writing for a syndicated outfit, but he could have been a great reporter or TV analyst if something hadn’t happened between him and some broad before he got back from Germany in ’45. Now he was spending all his time on assignments, working hard to get himself killed.
His eyes peered at me over the top of the galley proofs he was checking. “What’re you crawling after now?”
I grinned at him. “Something funny’s happening to me.”
“That shouldn’t be a new feeling for you, Ryan. Who’s bump list you on now?”
“Art,” I said. “Tell me something. Have you ever known the fuzz to use a hood for anything except a stoolie?”
The corners of his eyes stretched taut. “No. Not the straight boys, anyway. What have you got going?”
“Nothing special. I’m just curious about a few things.”
“Any story in it?”
“Maybe.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not yet. Things aren’t squared away. Maybe you can fit in some pieces. Ever hear of a man named Billings?”
His eyes opened a little wider. “Same one who got gunned down a few days ago?”
I nodded.
“It was just a squib in the paper. Called a gang killing.” He stopped suddenly and looked at me hard. “Ryan... I remember ten years back when you were talking about killing a guy by that name. Did you tap him?”
“I didn’t have the luck, kiddo. That tap was somebody else’s.”
“The conversation is fascinating, Ryan. Keep it up.”
“Okay, read this. Billings wasn’t a small tap at all. That guy had something so big it would have made front page for a week.”
“Like what?”
I shook my head. “I’m new to it too.”
“How are you involved?”
“Because Billings had something he knew could get me killed too. It was the last thing he ever did, but he did it good. That warped slob had to live like a snake just to stay alive ever since he framed me and he made up for it, all right.” I stopped and grinned real big. “At least he thought he did.”
Art dropped his chin in his hand and nodded. “What can I do?”
“As an accredited reporter, you can get some official answers. Get any statement Billings made and any details on how he was killed. Can do?”
“Shouldn’t be hard. Those reports are on file.” He waited a moment, then said, “You’re giving me a small worm for a big hook.”
“Thanks.” I uncurled myself and got up. “Ever know anyone called Lodo?”
He thought a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing there. Important?”
“Who knows. Think on it.”
“Sure. Where can I reach you?”
“Remember Papa Manny’s old three-floor brownstone?”
“Off Second?”
“I own it now. I live in the basement apartment.”
The Murray Hill exchange the thin one had given me wasn’t a phone. It was a coded password that got you admission into a horse parlor operating right on Broadway. It wasn’t one of the things the cops could be expected to know, not even the grafters.
But I knew. I even had the latest job. The one they gave me was three weeks old. The boy on the door winked, said, “Hi, Ryan, come in an’ spend a buck.”
The place had changed some. The loot was flowing in. The board was bigger, there was free booze at a service bar and fat chairs where the benches used to be.
Jake McGaffney came out from behind the pay window, saw me and came over. “Changing rackets, kid?”
“Not me, Jake. I like mine better. They got to be sure things for me.”
“We got a few of those too,” he chuckled. “What’s on your mind?”
I nudged his arm and steered him to the end of the pay window. “You getting touched by anybody?”
“You know this operation, Ryan. We’re not paying off. Hell, the cops know we’re operating, but we move too fast for them to line us up.”
“Nobody trying to cut in?”
“Get with it, boy. Since I played ball at the trial, uptown lets me go my own way. Sure, they give me limits and it’s okay with me. Nobody’s shaking me though. What’s got you?”
“Did you know Billings?”
“Sure. He got gunned.” Then he stopped and his face looked drawn. “He didn’t leave any tracks to this place, did he?”
“Nothing that can tie in. The fuzz had an old MU code he wrote down.”
Jake let his face relax and picked a butt from his pack and lit it. Through the smoke he said, “I’m okay then. They would’ve hit me before this if they figured it.”
“Jake... got any idea why Billings got tapped?”
“Idea?” He laughed in his chest. “Hell, man, I know why.”
“Why, Jake?”
“He had twelve thousand skins in his pocket when he left here. A nag called Annie’s Foot came in and he was riding it hard.”
“He been coming here long?”
“A month, maybe. I got a memo on him from his first play if you want it.”
“Who steered him in?”
“Gonzales. You know little Juan Gonzales... he’s the one pulled that kid outa the Hudson River sometime back and got his picture in the tabs. He was down the docks goofing off when this lady starts to scream and...”
“Where is he now, Jake?”
“Gonzales?” he seemed surprised. “He got killed three weeks ago. He got loaded and stepped right out in front of a truck. He got dead quick. No waiting around.”
I said, “He have a family?”
“Just some dame. You wait... I’ll get you the business.”
He went behind the window and poked around in a card file until he found what he wanted. It was a short history of Juan Gonzales and when I memorized the data I handed it back. “Keep it if you want,” he said.
“I don’t need it.”
Juan Gonzales had lived on 54th, a few houses down from Tenth Ave. It was a fringe area where total integration of the underprivileged of all classes fused into a hotbed of constant violence. Lucinda Gonzales had a second floor rear apartment. The bells never worked in these tenements so I just went up and knocked at the door. It opened on a chain and a pretty, dark face peered at me and queried, “Si... who is it?”
“Lucinda Gonzales?”
“Si.”
“I want to speak about Juan. Can I come in?”
She hesitated, shrugged, then closed the door to unhook the chain. I stepped inside and she leaned back against the door.
“I can tell you are not the policeman.”
“That’s right.”
“You are not one of Juan’s friends, either.”
“How do you know?”
“His friends are all peegs. Not even tough guys. Just peegs.”
“Thanks.”
“What you want?”
“I want to know about Juan. You married?”
She made a wry face. “Nothing by the church. But this is not what you want to say.”
This time I gave her a little grin. “Okay, chicken... I’ll put it this way... Juan got loaded and got himself killed. He...”
“He did?” the sarcasm was thick. I stopped and let her say the rest. “Juan did not drink, señor.”
“What’s bothering you, Lucinda?”
“You, señor.” Her arms were folded tightly across her breasts, making them half rise from her dress. “To me you look like the one who could do it.”
“Do what?”
“Make Juan go crazy with fear. Maybe chase him so he runs in front of the truck and gets killed. All this time I have waited because I knew soon that somebody would come. They would have to come here. There is no other place. Now you are here, señor, and I can kill you like I have been waiting to do.”
She unfolded her arms. In one hand she had a snub-nose rod and at that distance there wasn’t a chance she could miss me.