I just stared at him till he gave it to me.
He said, "The Chicago police sent through Frazer's rap sheet on request. He had six mugging arrests before he was twenty, one conviction for an eight-month stretch, then he dropped out of sight. Mugging seemed to be his game."
"Swell, but he wasn't trying to mug me."
"Mike..."
"It was a knife attack, Pat, plain and simple. Or maybe not so simple. Anyway, it was going to be a hit-and-run deal, and if he hadn't been a little sloppy about his approach, you'd be renting a tux to bury the corpse about now. One jab through the heart from the rear, and I wouldn't have been able to clear my rod. You stagger a couple of seconds, hit the pavement like a tired drunk, and the killer walks away."
"You're sticking to that, huh?"
"This thing smells of orchestration. Frazer is told to shiv me, during what seems to be a mugging, and whoever sent him knew that if his boy got exposed, you smart cops would soon learn that Russell Frazer had mugging in his rap sheet."
"That's far-fetched even for you," he said.
A waitress refilled my coffee. Pat was still working on his first cup.
"Since I'm on the sidelines on this thing," I said, stirring in cream and sugar, "I wonder if you could do me a favor."
"I'm listening."
"That kid, Billy Blue—what if Brix and those other punks targeted him for more than just turning them down when they wanted him to supply them with pilfered drugs?"
He frowned. "Such as what?"
"Not sure. These players are all bumping into each other at odd angles. I think we're missing something. Maybe the kid witnessed something at the hospital he shouldn't have."
"Suppose he did."
"Then he'd still be a target. How about assigning some men to keep an eye on him—stake out where he lives. He's staying with his grandparents, I understand."
"Yeah, I know. They have an apartment over a cigar store." He thought it over. "You may have a point. I'll put some men on him. You want the boy notified?"
I held up a hand in a stop motion. "No. Strictly sub rosa."
He frowned at me some more. "You don't suspect Billy Blue of anything, do you?"
"No." I let smoke out my nostrils, and grinned. "But we've been surprised before."
He smirked and nodded. "That we have. That we have."
"By the way, Pat," I said, as if casually shifting the subject, "the narcos keeping tabs on the Snowbird?"
He didn't say anything, but the lines deepened around his eyes.
"How about my old pal Junior?" I asked amiably. "You know ... Junior Evello?"
Through a clenched mouth, Pat said, "Man, I should have seen it coming. I should have remembered you're nothing but a package of pure trouble, because you can't let things alone that are none of your damn business."
He had forgotten about the big blonde and the jumps in his hands were long gone. He was nothing but a calm, inscrutable cop now, with eyes of solid gray ice. "You faked me out, Mike. You've really learned to act."
I shrugged. "We're off-Broadway, aren't we?"
"Sidelines my ass. You damn near had me believing you were out of this. That the old days were gone."
"They are," I said. "We're starting fresh. Now ... how about those two solid citizens, Jay Wren and Junior Evello? What's new with them?"
"Go screw yourself. I don't work narco detail. And, anyway, how do you even know the Snowbird? That's way off your beat."
"Don't stall me, Pat. Why do I think if you goose the Snowbird, Evello will jump? And vice versa?" I shrugged, sipped coffee, then asked, "Besides, what's the harm? It's only a question. After-dinner conversation..."
He crumpled his napkin and tossed it on the table. "Jay Wren's in Miami nursing a broken leg. We've kept in touch with the PD down there, but there've been no beefs reported. The Snowbird sits in the sun by a swimming pool, with some dame for a companion, makes no contacts, and doesn't seem to be doing anything more than recuperating." He paused, and added, "Why the interest in somebody you don't even know?"
"Maybe I want to widen my circle of friends. Maybe some of my old buddies don't appreciate me."
"Maybe you should tell me what you're getting at...."
I shrugged. "I gather there's a short supply of junk on the streets in the area the Snowbird services."
Pat's small grin was pleased and tight—I knew its meaning: he loved it when he knew more than I did.
"I told you before," he said. "Stuff's short on the street, buddy. Like the man said, things are tough all over."
I didn't want to push him, so I took a drag on the butt and watched the smoke drift toward the ceiling.
Somehow, my silence prodded him.
Softly he said, "You may have a low opinion of real law enforcement, Mike, but that's how the supply got choked—solid police work. The Treasury Department nailed four heavy shipments, the Border Patrol got two, and when they tried an airdrop into Arizona, the state police were there to intercept it. If that kind of heat stays on, there's going to be a lot of hurting junkies between here and L.A."
"Maybe," I reminded him, "but for every T-man in the field, the Syndicate has a hundred operators on the streets."
Pat looked at me sideways. "But what are they selling? Dribs and drabs from here and there. To serve their public, the Syndicate needs huge quantities—the stuff has got to come in in bulk."
"What's with that big load you told me about," I said, "that's stashed in Europe somewhere?"
His shrug was eloquent, but he elaborated anyway: "Wouldn't tell you if I knew, pal. It could be a big fat lie, designed to keep the cops over there too busy chasing a myth to spot other, smaller, real traffic ... or it could be a fact."
I frowned at him. "You didn't sound so uncertain when you first mentioned this super shipment."
"Myth or fact," he said with a shrug, "a couple hundred pounds of pure H has to be taken seriously. Call it a de facto fact."
"Cute," I said, and took a last drag on the butt and snubbed it out in my saucer. "Then why hasn't anybody come up with anything? You were bragging about solid police work a minute ago."
"Let's put it this way," Pat said. "Some countries don't consider illegal narcotics traffic in the same light we do—especially those countries where the profit can filter up into political hands. And some have outlets for handling the stuff legally."
"And our agencies haven't got a lead, and are getting ready to cover their asses with the myth angle."
Pat batted the air with his palms. "Hey, I don't have access to what's on the mind of the federal boys."
I studied him. "Myth or fact, chum—what's your opinion?"
"Don't have one."
"Sure you do. I can see you thinking, and because you're an idiot, it's not about getting into Helen DiVay's panties."
Though I doubted she was wearing any.
"All I'm thinking," Pat said defensively, "is how the hell the Syndicate figures they can get that much stuff in at one time. Security might be less than ideal, but it's tight enough that they couldn't take the chance of that kind of loss ... and the way the demand is, they can't afford to waste the market value, trying to dribble it in. They seem to have got something going for them, some kind of smuggling system ... but even the federal experts can't figure it out."
My tone was innocent but my expression wasn't: "Maybe I ought to ask Junior Evello. He used to be top man in the dope racket before he retired into an advisory capacity. Make that, supposedly retired."
He gave me that flat look of his. "You'll live longer, Mike, if you keep your hands on your pecker and out of my business."
I spotted the girls coming back, giggling and talking, and grinned at Pat. "You've been a bachelor too long, kid—it's showing in your table patter. These days a guy doesn't have to hold his own—there's always somebody else to play with it for you."