"Sure, when it comes to extortion, drugs, prostitution—you name it."
Billy's nod was age-old and unconcerned. "You name it," he agreed, "and wherever you are, you'll find it. They say Junior was behind a hundred hits but never got indicted once."
"They aren't wrong."
Billy cocked his head. "Why is it he's called Junior, Mr. Hammer? He's no kid."
"He was named after his uncle, a Syndicate guy who bought it back in the early '50s. He looks a lot like his uncle did, and got nicknamed Junior as a kid, and it held, even as he rose to a similar position of power. He's a bad apple, Billy. You don't want to get too friendly with the likes of Junior Evello."
"Funny thing," Billy said, shaking his head, "but you'd never know that. He was nice to everybody, Mr. Hammer! Hell, he gave gold watches to the nurses, money to the orderlies—I got a ten-dollar tip for mailing a letter for him."
"What was he in for?" I asked.
"Not what you'd think," Billy said. "You'd figure maybe one of his enemies would get him, or he'd get shot up by the cops over something. But instead he started to cross against the light on Lexington Avenue, and got clipped by a lady driver making a turn. He made them bring him up here, because he didn't want to be too far from where he lives. Dr. Harrin took care of him, personally. Junior left a beaut of a watch for him."
I wondered if Harrin had kept it.
"That actor was something else, too. The nurses went crazy trying to keep the girls out of there. But at the same time, they were swarming all over that poor guy themselves. Half of them bawled when he was released, would you believe it?" Billy stopped, and a half-embarrassed smile blossomed. "Was there ... something you wanted to see me about, Mr. Hammer?"
"Yeah, there was," I said, letting more smoke out. "You familiar with the Village Ceramics Shoppe?"
"Sure," he said with a shrug. "Dr. Harrin's sent me over there for materials a few times. The kids in therapy use the stuff. Dr. Harrin started the project last year and it works swell. They seem to—"
I cut in: "A guy name of Russell Frazer worked there. You know him?"
After a moment's thought, he said, "Tall, slim fella, kind of slicked down, about twenty-five?"
I said that could fit him all right.
"Didn't know his name," Billy went on, "but he took the doc's order from me once. He delivers the ceramics here for the shop. Why?"
"Somebody killed him."
Billy frowned. "That's too bad. I mean, I didn't really know the guy, but ... why are you telling me this, Mr. Hammer?"
"Frazer used to live close to the Brix kid. He could have known Felton and Haver, too."
The blood drained from his face, leaving the abrasions more prominent than ever. "How was he killed?"
I gave him the whole thing, from the attack on me through the discovery of Frazer's corpse.
"Christ," the kid said, breathlessly.
"Billy," I asked him, locking eyes, "the other day when we were talking—are you sure you gave it to me straight?"
His answer was quiet, but very direct: "Right down the line, Mr. Hammer."
"Nothing you might have left out?"
"Like what?"
"This ceramics shop is a new wrinkle. You knew Frazer from there, a little. Did you ever see those punks hanging out there—Brix, Felton, Haver?"
"No, but ... well, I might have seen them near the place. On the street. I mean, it's the same general neighborhood, but never in the shop or loafing in the alley or anything."
"Okay," I said with a nod.
And when I nodded, he knew that I believed him and he smiled back, the color returning to his face.
I was getting up from the carton when he added, "But, Mr. Hammer—I didn't tell you everything I was thinking."
That stopped me. "Want to try it now?"
He took a deep breath and looked right at me. "You have any idea what hospital security is like in this city?"
"From what I read in the papers, pretty lax."
"Lax is right. Get an addict in for treatment, and he'll still get his junk. Try the big hospitals, and they're buying and selling all over the place. Somebody even stole the copper roofing off Bellevue to pay for the stuff."
"So I heard."
"Mr. Hammer, some of the guys who work here at Saxony worked other places, before, and when I hear how they schemed to lay their hands on narcotics, I get sick. They brag about how they used to switch stuff around, so the loss wasn't noticeable right away."
"You report this, Billy?"
"No. Could just be talk, and I got to swim in these waters, don't I? I go around finking, and something bad will happen."
I didn't remind him that his face was battered and he'd just crawled out of a hospital bed.
"Anyway," he was saying, "it can't happen at the college, and because Saxony is small, it's pretty tight here, too. But even in this place, when you match the inventory sheets with the checkout lists, you can see the shortages."
I sat back down on the carton. "Go on, Billy."
"I don't use, Mr. Hammer. But I know people who do...."
"What kind of people?"
"Various kinds. Please don't press me on it."
"Okay."
"I'll just say, you'd be surprised how young some of them are right now. And I hear things."
"What have you heard?"
We couldn't have been more alone, but his voice dropped to a hush. "There's a shortage of stuff on the street. It isn't hitting the guys with the big money, but it's got the nickel- and dime-bag buyers in a real bind. Hospitals are getting forced withdrawal cases all over the city. Either the dealers are holding back, to jump the prices, or the stuff isn't coming through."
"Which is why Brix and Felton put the squeeze on you to supply them."
"Exactly right, Mr. Hammer. They figured, with me on the inside, and them pushing? We could grab off all the small stuff, and really clean up."
"Could you have gotten the stuff?"
He shook his head. "Not at the college."
"What about here?"
His half-smile was more a smirk. "I could have figured something out," he told me honestly. "If I had wanted to."
"And your old schoolmates knew that."
He nodded glumly. "They knew it."
I dropped my cigarette butt in the half-empty soda bottle somebody used for an ashtray, and stood up. "Thanks, Billy." I handed him my business card. "Keep right on thinking. If anything comes of it, let me know."
"Sure." He tucked the card in his back jeans pocket. "And, Mr. Hammer—this Frazer guy? You didn't ... didn't come back and take him out, did you?"
"No, son," I said. "Somebody else beat my time."
Dr. Alan Sprague, friend and colleague of Dr. David Harrin, also worked at both Saxony Hospital and Dorchester Medical College. I caught up with him at the latter.
He was a round little guy with bristly gray hair and a tired but ready smile. He was in a short-sleeve white shirt with a blue bow tie, his white coat hanging on a hook, and was rocking in the chair behind Dr. Harrin's desk, the office being about the only quiet place on the floor.
Harrin had left that morning for Paris, to make the first three days of seminars before touring the hospitals where experimental work in cancer research was in progress. Sprague had taken over Harrin's caseload and his classes, and right now was catching a breather from his work.
I settled in the chair opposite him. I had a Lucky going and he his pipe.
I said, "Paris isn't bad this time of the year, Doc. You should have joined him."
Sprague waved off the idea with a grunt. "We have enough of that right here in the States," he said in his gruff baritone. "Finding time to keep up with all the new medical developments, and just getting the work done, is bad enough, let alone taking a trip on the social side of the scientific world. I'm surprised David even bothered with it."