"Good to hear." Hell, it was good to hear anything.
He raised a forefinger. The DJ was spinning an instrumental with a distorted guitar solo, and even Wren had to work to get up over it. "I also did not sanction that unprovoked attack on William Blue."
"Those were your people."
His smile continued, but the teeth disappeared. He gave me that one-man-of-the-world-to-another look. "Certain of my employees are not of the caliber I'd like. Aspects of my business require taking on help that can be less than ... wholly reliable. And, anyway, all of my people—like me—are really Junior Evello's people."
I gave him the hairy eyeball. "You're saying Evello's behind the bungled Billy Blue rip-off? And the flubbed hits on me?"
The Snowbird shrugged elaborately. "He can reach out and make things happen, Evello. You know that, Mr. Hammer."
"He denies any responsibility."
Wren was smiling again. "And you believe him?"
"I'm reserving my judgment." I gave him some teeth. "Hearing your denial, Mr. Wren, I'm still reserving it."
Another shrug. "I can understand that. But you and I have no argument, while—"
"I have history with the Evello Family, yeah ... but Junior doesn't really have cause to go after me."
And yet another shrug. "Maybe he thought he did."
"Go on." I wondered if I'd shout when I talked for the next few days till I noticed I was doing it.
He upraised a palm. "You were at the scene when William Blue was attacked. Then you went around talking to Dr. Harrin. You have been known to ... look into things that aren't entirely your business. Meaning no offense at all."
"So I talked to Harrin—so what?"
He worked surprise into the smile. "Mr. Hammer, don't you know who Dr. Harrin is to Junior Evello? That he is Evello's personal physician?"
I notched it up one: "His Dr. Feelgood, you mean?"
That pleased him and the smile returned. "Precisely. I'm impressed, Mr. Hammer. You really do have a way of digging things out."
"It's a gift."
He turned over a hand. "As for why Evello would try to remove you from the scene, consider—Dr. Harrin is a confidant of Evello's, a valued and trusted associate. You sniffing around the doctor, after the Blue assault, might well make Evello nervous. Very nervous."
I didn't deny that.
He leaned back. "Now, Mr. Hammer, I'm going to reach into my inside coat pocket. Please don't interpret it as a threat."
"Fine. But first I'll reach inside mine." I did. "Feel free to interpret that any fucking way you like."
For the first time, the big toothy smile grew nervous. I had my hand around the .45's butt and he damn well knew it. But Wren reached inside his coat anyway, slowly and with care, and withdrew a folded-over envelope. He handed it to Velda.
She looked it over, hefted it, then said to me, "Sealed. Feels like cash."
"That," Wren said, "is because it is cash. Four thousand dollars in hundreds." He jabbed a finger at the air. "I want you to give that to Billy Blue. He has college plans, I hear."
"Why so generous?"
"Consider it a settlement. I didn't order it to happen, but either my people took this upon themselves, to jump the Blue kid, for their own petty reasons ... or Evello reached out to them. Either way, they're my people, and I take full responsibility."
Velda gave me a look and I shrugged. She stuffed the envelope in that big purse of hers.
"In the meantime," Wren said, getting up, "you're guests of the house. The bar serves cold sandwiches until two A.M. And thank you for stopping by. How do you like the club?"
"I dig it. It's handy having the idiots all in one place."
That wiped the smile off him.
I got up and so did Velda.
I said, "For now, I'm taking you at your word. But if I find out you sent Russell Frazer to shiv me, and then those St. Louie boys to bat cleanup? I'll start with rebreaking your goddamn leg, then see where inspiration takes me."
I took Velda by the arm and guided her away, though she did smile back pleasantly at him and say, "I wish I could tell you he's all talk...."
Chapter Eleven
VELDA HAD BEAT ME to the office and was standing at her desk threading tape into our old Ampex reel-to-reel, the one that used to catch messages before we replaced it with a new cassette recorder.
It was raining again, so I'd shaken the moisture off my hat and coat out in the hall, and now hung them up in the closet. I had a paper sack of Danish, figuring Velda would probably have coffee ready.
Without looking at me, she said, "Vincent Rector dropped this off personally this morning. You just missed him. Coffee's made—get us a couple cups, would you?"
I did, and she was saying, "Rector said he was able to improve the signal-to-noise ratio—his company is working on a system for the recording industry, to improve dynamic range...."
"I'll pretend that means something to me," I said.
"What it means is, these are advanced techniques not in general use by government or law enforcement yet."
"That I can follow." I handed her a cup of coffee and sipped my own as she hit the switch.
The tape rolled through its predetermined path and she said, "Our former client claims this should greatly improve the chance that Pat can get a workable voiceprint analysis of the tipster."
The caller was male, and the exchanges between the emergency operator and the anonymous tipster were short and sweet.
"Tell the Narco Division," each call began, followed by the time and place of a shipment.
Though these calls came into the NYPD, not every location had been here in the city—several tips told of bundles set to come in over the Mexican border, while the local shipments that got tagged were not at point of entry, but drops where a supplier was turning over a sizable quantity of cocaine or heroin to some major dealer.
"Never allowed time for a trace," I said, after we'd gone through half a dozen of the calls.
Her head bobbed in agreement. "Shall I get this over to Pat? For voiceprint analysis?"
I was perched on the edge of her desk now, nibbling a Danish. I'd had time to get used to something I'd realized from the first few words of the first tipster call we listened to.
"Nope," I said.
"We're sitting on this? Why?"
"Dr. Harrin gets back from Paris this morning."
Her eyes tightened. Her head cocked. "How is that an answer to my question?"
I nodded to the tape recorder, where the spools were now motionless. "That's the doc's voice, kitten. I don't need voiceprint analysis to make it."
"Dr. Harrin is the anonymous tipster?"
"Yup. Junior Evello's Dr. Feelgood himself—the mob insider who spilled just enough dope on the dope racket to dry up New York. And who got half a dozen key lowlifes tossed in the Tombs and various federal pens."
Her eyes widened, her mouth dropped, and she didn't seem able to even form a question.
That was okay. I wasn't sure I had any answers.
I just knew I wanted to get to Dr. David Harrin before I let the NYPD and the Treasury Department in on it.
If Harrin was the new self-appointed kingpin moving in on both Evello and the Snowbird, I might have a more direct way of dealing with the problem than Captain Chambers or those T-men, Radley and Dawson.
"Call Dorchester Medical College," I said, sliding off her desk, "and leave word I want to see Dr. Harrin today. I'll be available this afternoon or this evening, at his convenience."
"Where are you off to now?" she asked, seeing me head for the closet.
"Suddenly remembered," I said.