“Certainly not,” Moses said.
“To be orphaned so young. Oy vey. You know it breaks my heart to this day that Solomon died in the prime of his life in that frightful plane crash. I still suffer from the nightmare. I dream of that Gypsy Moth exploding, Solomon’s body blown to bits, the white wolves of the Arctic carrying off his bones.”
“What if he wasn’t blown to bits, but parachuted out before the explosion and walked out of the barrens?”
“What are you talking?”
“He’d walked out of the barrens once before, hadn’t he?”
“Oh come on. Please.”
“And I’m told he had to parachute twice out of his Sopwith Camel during the First World War.”
“So where has he been all these years?”
“Damned if I know.”
“His bank accounts were never touched, not a penny withdrawn. I’m surprised to hear you talk such foolishness. Listen!” Mr. Morrie leaped up and peeked out from behind the blinds again. “The car’s back. They’re going to watch ‘Dragnet’ after all. I think I’d better switch it on. Moses, I’ve been keeping you too long. I’m sure you have more important people to see.”
“What do I tell Lucy about Solomon’s journals?”
“If I had them,” Mr. Morrie said, “it would be my sincere pleasure to pass them on to her. Tell her that and give her a big kiss for me.”
“What do you think happened to the journals?”
“God knows. But I’ll tell you the best thing that could have happened is that they were burnt in the plane crash. I got a peek at some pages once and boy oh boy Solomon could tell some real whoppers in his day. If those journals, should they still exist, ever fell in the wrong hands they could be dynamite. Do you mind if I turn on the TV?”
“No.”
“Bless you. And now I’m going to ask you a favour. May I?”
“Of course.”
“My Barney, he has had such bad luck in so many of his ventures, poor boy, has decided to become a writer and has written a book. But nobody in New York will print it for him. Do I have to explain to L.B.’s son how difficult such things are?”
“Certainly not.”
“It’s a detective story, maybe a little too sexy for my taste, but what do I know? Barney’s in Mexico now, partners with this doctor in some kind of cancer clinic, and he has asked me to try the manuscript on publishers in Toronto. But first, what I’d really appreciate is somebody of your education, not to mention the literary background, to read it and tell me what you honestly think.”
“I’d have to take it with me to London.”
“I knew I could count on you. Now come down to the garage, I’ll give you the manuscript, and my driver will take you back to your hotel.”
“I can walk.”
“No, it’s my pleasure. Ida will be jealous that she missed you. L.B.’s son in our house. You know what they say, don’t you?”
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Such a nice boy. To be your uncle one day would be a genuine honour for me. Don’t stand in front of the lamp, please. It casts a shadow on the blind. Come, Moses, and let me hear from you soon.”
Five
It was sort of Friday afternoon, late, time to close down the office. Send Myrna home. Pile into my heap and tool down to Nick’s Bar & Grill on the main stem for a quick snort. Nick and I have been through hell and back again together. Sweeping Normandy clean of Nazi punks.
Normandy.
Where Nick’s right leg is buried and they pinned the Military Cross on my chest, to go with the rest of the fruit salad, forgetting that I was a Hebe, born and bred. “For valour beyond the call …” Forget it, kid. War’s over. With my MC and fifty cents I could buy myself a burger and fries and a cup of java.
Time for a snort.
Maybe two.
Trouble was my tab at Nick’s was already longer than a night in a fox-hole and my cash box emptier than my .45 after I had pumped six of the best into Spider Moran’s fat gut. But that’s another yarn.
Anyway there I stood, six foot two, reaching for my chapeau, when Myrna opens the door. “There’s a dame here to see you.”
I was in no mood for another splitsville case, tailing some henpecked sucker until I caught him with a bimbo in a motel room. “Tell her to come back Monday morning.”
“She’s got gams that go all the way and then some, and I think she’s in trouble, Hawk,” she opinioned.
Next thing I knew in sashayed Tiffany Waldorf smelling like the day the swallows came back to Capistrano. Flaming red tresses you want to walk through barefoot. Blazing green eyes. Class written all over her, but stacked. Breasts fighting her tight silk dress. Hour-glass waist. Curves in all the right places.
“Sit down,” I said
Tiffany shook off her sable wrap and poured herself into a chair, crossing those million-dollar legs. Then she opened her handbag that cost some poor alligator its skin and peeled off five c-notes. “Will this do as a retainer, Mr. Steel?”
“That depends on how many rats you want me to exterminate. Tell me about it, kid.”
“There’s a body lying on my bedroom floor with a shiv planted where his heart used to go pitter-patter.”
“Then you’ve been a naughty girl.”
“I am a naughty girl,” she said, tossing her head high, “but I didn’t do it.”
“Then why don’t you go to the cops?”
“Because that shiv happens to belong to yours truly. It’s a priceless, diamond-studded sixteenth-century dagger worth one hundred thousand dollars. It was presented to me by Crown Prince Hakim at Monte Carlo last season.”
“For services rendered?”
“I ought to slap your face,” she said, casting her eyes at me.
“You look good when you’re angry.”
“I didn’t get in until very late last night and there he was lying on my bedroom floor. The body was still warm.”
“I take it you recognized the hombre?”
“I was his chick until I found out what a louse he was.”
“What’s his monicker?”
“Lionel Gerstein.”
I had bought myself trouble. A ton of it.
Lionel Gerstein was the number-one son of old Boris Gerstein, a former bootlegger, worth zillions, who had crawled out of his sewer and gone legit some years back. But he was still connected. You could bet the farm and your beloved Granny’s Maidenform bra on that one. Old BG was meaner than a rattlesnake with a hangover and just as dangerous.