“He’s in there,” said Reed.
“Who?”
“Gearhart. He’s in there and he’s bawling like a girl. He spilled it to Mr. Burke straight off. It all came out when Burke asked him. Like he’s been waitin’ for someone to ask him about it: ‘Hey, Gearhart, by the way, I was just wonderin’, was it you who chilled them broads?’ I’m tellin’ you, he couldn’t wait to sing about it.”
“What did he say?”
“Somethin’ about his mommy. His fat whore mommy, who used to do it for a buck on Sailor’s Row. She never loved him, and like that. Only loved the niggers, and the white niggers, and anybody else who could come up with eight bits. Blah, blah, blah.” Reed dragged on his cigarette, blew a smoke ring across the landing. “You ever horsefuck a fat girl, Joe?”
“Shut up, Reed.”
“It ain’t so bad.”
“I said, shut up.”
Reed grinned, brushed ash off the lapel of his sharkskin suit. “You’re somethin’, you know it? You lucked out and came through with this Gear-hart thing before the law could step in. A real hero, aren’t you. Let’s put another star on the report card from Mr. Burke.”
“I’m going inside.”
“But now we got a problem don’t we? What are we going to do about our fat friend?”
“I’m going in.”
“Who tipped you, anyway?”
“That’s my business.”
“Oh?”
“It’s mine if I say it’s mine.”
Recevo knocked on the door. Burke yelled for him to enter. Recevo turned the knob, went in, was followed by Reed. Reed leaned himself against the gun case; Recevo had a seat at the big table.
Gearhart sat in his usual spot, his hands tented over the balloon of his lap. There were tear streaks running down both puffy cheeks. His shoulders were scrunched up, burying what was left of his neck, and he stared straight ahead. All he needed was the dunce cap to complete the picture: a three-hundred-pound boy, humiliated in class.
“I’m so sorry,” whispered Gearhart.
Burke reached over his desk for the bottle of bourbon, poured three inches straight. He tasted the whiskey, considered the glass. He turned it in the light.
“You talked to Reed outside?”
“Yes,” said Recevo.
“Then you know.”
“Yes.”
“We’ll figure this out now. We’ve just got to figure this out.”
“That’s right, Mr. Burke.”
“But we’ve got another problem we have to deal with first.”
“What’s that?”
“A witness to that last one on Friday night. Another working girl who was at the scene. For some reason, Gearhart over here decided to spare her life.”
“Who is she?” Recevo glanced at Gearhart, still staring ahead. He considered asking the fat man, but Burke seemed to be ignoring his presence. Recevo figured he’d go that route, too.
“Gearhart doesn’t know.”
“Go to her pimp, then.”
“He doesn’t know the pimp. Gearhart was in the habit of ordering his women through middlemen. The cabbies at the hotel hackstands, the bartenders, like that.”
“So you go ask the night man at the Hi-Hat. It was him that arranged things.”
Burke said, “That’s right, isn’t it Gearhart?”
Gearhart nodded one time.
“Yes,” said Burke. “He’ll know the pimp. Through the pimp we’ll get the girl. And we’ll have to convince the bartender and pimp to keep their mouths shut. Reed.”
“Yeah?”
“Would you like to take this on?”
Reed smiled, pushed away from the gun case. “It’s my meat, Mr. Burke.”
“I know it is, Reed.”
“There’s something else,” said Recevo.
“What?” said Burke.
“The murder weapon. Gearhart used a straight razor on those women, right?”
“Gearhart?”
“Yes,” said Gearhart. “I’m sorry...”
“Never mind that. Where’s that razor now?”
“In my apartment,” said Gearhart. “In my bathroom. Right there in the medicine cabinet—”
“What’s it look like?”
Gearhart looked down at his lap. “An ordinary razor. It folds into a brown, tortoiseshell handle.”
“Okay, Reed. Talk to the tender and find out the name of the pimp. Then get over to Gearhart’s dump and get rid of that razor.”
Reed said to Gearhart, “Gimme your key.”
“My key,” mumbled Gearhart. “I keep my key beneath the mat. I always lose my key...”
“Okay, Reed,” said Burke. “Do it.”
Reed smiled at Recevo, clipped him roughly on the shoulder on his way out. Recevo listened to the heavy footsteps fade. He removed his hat, brushed back his hair, replaced the fedora neatly on his head.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Burke. We’ll figure this out.”
“Yes,” said Burke, taking a healthy swallow of bourbon. “I only need to think.”
Recevo looked at Burke, slumped down in his chair. You need to think, all right. And that goddamn whiskey is really gonna help.
Recevo stood up. “Well, I’m gonna grab a little chow. I’ll swing back around later on.”
“Go on, Joe. Go have a little dinner. But come right back. I need you around here. You’re the only one I’ve got with any sense in his head.”
“Sure, Mr. Burke. I’ll be right back.”
Recevo walked quickly from the room. Gearhart and Burke sat in silence for the next five minutes. Then Gearhart moved his turtle’s eyes curiously beneath their lids.
“Mr. Burke?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you mind if I go downstairs? I’d like to sit around with the boys a little bit, if you don’t mind.”
Burke looked into his empty glass. “Go ahead. Don’t drift.”
“I won’t.”
Burke said, “Then go ahead.”
Joe Recevo pulled the Olds to the curb, parked in front of the Patio Lounge, a beer garden at 13th and F. He bought a mug of draught from the barman and took it into the phone booth back by the head, left the booth door open so he could smoke. He found Jimmy Boyle’s number in the book, dialed it up.
“Jimmy.”
“Yeah?”
“Joe Recevo.”
Boyle didn’t answer. Recevo listened to him breathe.
Boyle said, “What do you want?”
“I got somethin’ for you, Jimmy.”
“I don’t want nothin’ to do with you, pal.”
“Sure you don’t. You hate me straight down to my guts. But I’m gettin’ ready to hand you the biggest break of your life.”
“Yeah? What for?”
“On account of Pete Karras asked me to, that’s why.”
“You talked to Pete?”
“Yeah. I talked with him this afternoon. But we don’t have time to go into all that. Now listen, you write down this address...”
Recevo gave it to him.
“I got it,” said Boyle.
“Good. Now you get your ass over to that apartment. Go to the bathroom and then in the medicine cabinet. You’ll find a straight razor there. The razor folds into a tortoise-shell handle. Wear gloves when you get it, then take it out of there and get it to your lab boys.”
“Why would I do that?”
“’Cause that’s the razor that killed them whores.”
Recevo lighted a Raleigh, waited for Boyle to sort it out.
“How do you know?”
“Karras tipped me, and don’t ask me how. Get goin’, Jimmy. You gotta move fast, on account of someone’s gonna be there in an hour or two look-in’ for the same thing.”
“Who?”
“One of mine.”
“Who’s the killer, Joe? One of your guys, too?”
“Never mind that. Get the razor first. I’ll deliver you the killer later on.”