“It’s murder, all right.”
“You didn’t do it, did you?”
The casualness of that caught me off guard.
I said, “Hell, no. Marcy, consider the three attempts on my life. You said it yourself — Borensen tried to have me killed. He didn’t have the balls to try to do it himself.”
And I told her that the bastard had been dealing with a top-dollar contract killer, with a stable of hitmen, and was now tying off loose ends. Including Leif himself.
“So this big-league professional assassin,” she said, “is who you’re looking for.”
“Yes. Would you like to help?”
“Just tell me how.”
I put a hand on her shoulder. “What I need from you is a specific piece of information that might well lead me to this killer.”
“If I have that information, it’s yours. But what exactly do you need to know?”
I leaned back and a couch spring played stick-’em-up in my spine. “Maybe you’re still too much of an Ohio girl to know, Marcy, but there are five major crime families in New York. I am assuming Leif Borensen was aligned with one of them, going back to his drug-peddling days.”
“You think he’s been in with the same mob all these years?”
“Very likely. Those kind of people get their hooks in, and they stay in. Now, I’m known to all of these families, and they’re known to me. If you... or rather the late Richard Blazen... can point me to the right crime family, I may be able to ascertain the name of this contract killer.”
She nodded slowly. “That does make sense. They’re who Leif Borensen would have gone to, to obtain a professional killer.”
I grinned at her. “You’re right on the beam, kid.”
The earnest look returned, with some confusion mixed in. “You’re thinking maybe I know a name, or the name of the Mafia family... but I don’t, really.”
“It should have come up in research, and in the taped interviews.”
She shook her head, frustrated. “Well, I’m sure that name is something I saw or heard out of Mr. Blazen. But it wouldn’t mean anything to me. I have a vague memory that some Italian names came up in this context, which is probably no surprise.”
“No, no surprise. But the name of the crime family, or a member of it, would almost have to be in your notes or those transcripts, right?”
“Right.” She rose. An air of determination accompanied her. “We have a big job in front of us, Mike. Maybe you’d like some coffee?”
“I would. Milk and sugar.”
I thought she was going to go off to a kitchenette and make some, but she went to her door, opened it and crossed to knock at her horny neighbor’s.
The kid answered, more hangdog than puppy dog, as if maybe she was going to paddle him with a rolled-up paper.
“Shack, would you be a dear and run down and get us some coffee at the deli? Maybe some sandwiches.” She called across to me. “Sandwich, Mike?”
“Sure! Corned beef and Swiss, cold, plenty of hot mustard.”
She told him, “I’ll have the usual.”
“Bacon, lettuce, tomato, mayo?” he asked.
“Hold the mayo,” she said, almost testily. “That’s the usual. You need money?”
“No. You can pay me later.”
“Get yourself something, too. I’m going to have you join us, if you’re not doing anything.”
That brightened him. “Yeah? Sure, I’m available. You need help, Marcy?”
She was still in her doorway, he in his.
“We’re going to be sorting through some of the interview transcripts,” she said. “We can use your sharp eyes. You up for that, sweetie?”
“You bet!”
“Great. But before you go down to the deli, could you come over and carry the manuscript boxes in from my bedroom?”
“Glad to!”
From the sound of his voice, I could tell her bedroom was a place he would very much like to visit.
She came bouncing back to me, her full breasts making the white dots on the dark mini-dress dance. When Good Neighbor Shack was back in his own apartment, that bedroom was somewhere I would very much like to visit myself.
Don’t do this to Velda, a voice said.
Velda who? another voice said.
When Shack came in with three storage-file boxes stacked in his arms, and then plopped them down on the floor near Marcy’s low-lying work station, I said to her, “Brother. You weren’t kidding.”
“He was a talker,” she said, “my Mr. Blazen.”
Shack trotted off toward the bedroom again, and I asked her, “There’s more?”
“There’s more. Maybe you should help him.”
Nine boxes in all.
Not all of it was transcripts, but each box had its share. Included were newspaper clippings and photo files, plus Blazen’s early attempts in longhand at writing the book himself, before wising up that he needed a ghost.
After Shack got back with the deli food, which we ate as we worked, he sat on the couch next to me — well, putting a cushion between us, which became a shared desk. Marcy returned to the floor and her chopped-off table. She continued to sit cross-legged, angled toward us, and at one point Shack and I caught ourselves both looking at the same time. We just rolled our eyes at each other, forming a bond in our mutual lechery.
The three of us couldn’t read all that stuff, not in detail. Transcript is hard to read anyway, with its lack of paragraphs and occasional misrecorded words and phrases. The idea was to skim and scan and try to catch any mention of Borensen and his mob ties, as well as any Italian name that might turn up.
Finally, almost three hours in, Marcy blurted in mock-My Fair Lady fashion, “By George, I think I’ve got it!.. Do you know a gangster called Joey Pep, Mike?”
“Joey Pepitone,” I said, frowning. A longtime capo in the Bonetti mob family. “I know him, all right.”
“Could he be our man?”
I was nodding. “He could. He sure could. And I can check that out right away. Shack, much appreciated. Marcy, you have a phone?”
She did, in her bedroom — which was a mattress on the floor surrounded by more walls of books — and I used it and her Manhattan phonebook.
A maid or anyway somebody on the household staff answered, and I gave my name and asked for Gwen.
“Mike, it’s nice to hear your voice.”
But I wasn’t sure it really was. We’d been ships who passed in the night, and maybe I shouldn’t be pulling back into port.
“Honey, did you ever see Leif mingling or talking with anybody who struck you as... disreputable? Any associate who struck you as shady? I know that’s vague, but—”
“Actually, yes,” she said quickly. “I was going to call and say something to you, Mike, because I’ve been thinking, going over so much in my mind, so many things. I don’t know the man’s name, but there was a slick, nasty-looking character who Leif would treat with... well, undue respect.”
“Did he ever drop by your apartment, this guy?”
“Not that I know of. But if Leif and I were at 21 or the Stork, this well-dressed creepy character might turn up in a booth with one or two flashy women. Leif would excuse himself, and go talk to him, just briefly. Like he was... paying his respects. Is that anything, Mike?”
“Are you doing anything tonight?”
My shift of gears threw her a little. “Not really. I’ve had a tough day. Among other things, I made arrangements to ship Leif’s body back to Hollywood. Let them bury the bum.”
That made me grin, but of course I have a sick sense of humor. “What would you say if I asked you to go out dancing with me?”
“Well... what?”
“Sounds a little inappropriate, or at least it might look that way. But I have a real good reason. I want to give you a chance to identify that ‘creepy character.’”