“Uh-huh.”
“So this morning I sort of followed you.”
“Sort of?”
“I’m a pretty good tail. You didn’t make me.”
“That’s right, I didn’t.”
Frann took out a small, spiral-bound notebook and flipped it open. “At nine thirty-three this morning you came out of here and caught a cab down to the West Side Airlines Terminal. You arrived there at nine fifty-one and then sort of fooled around outside. You were carrying a blue Pan-Am airline bag.”
“I was meeting some friends.”
“Huh. At ten sharp you went inside the building and then entered the men’s room upstairs. You stayed in there until thirteen after ten. Then you came out carrying a blue airline bag. But it wasn’t no Pan-Am bag; it was a United one.”
“You’ve got a great future on the force.”
“That’s when you made the switch — the buy back, wasn’t it?”
“Whatever you say.”
“I say this. I say you come out of the men’s room and meet two people, a man and a woman. In their twenties, about my age. All three of you get in a Carey Cadillac limousine and then go to a certain address on East Seventy-fourth. You want the number?”
“No.”
“It took me a little while to check this out, but that address is where somebody called Abner Procane lives. I couldn’t find out nothing about him yet. But that’s who you’re working for, I bet.”
“Doing what?”
“Making a payoff for him this morning. Buying him something back.”
“What?”
“Well, Christ, I don’t know that yet.”
“You don’t even know that I’m working for him. For all you know he’s an old friend. I met two people at the airline terminal this morning. Maybe they’d just come in on a flight.”
“They didn’t have no luggage.”
“Maybe they lost it.”
“Yeah, well what about the airline bags? You take a Pan-Am bag into the crapper and bring a United one out. What about that?”
“I think you made a mistake. Or if you didn’t maybe I did. Maybe while I was washing my hands I picked up the wrong one. Maybe the bag I took into the men’s room contained some gifts for my friends and I didn’t notice I’d picked up the wrong one until I got to the address on Seventy-fourth. You haven’t got a thing, Frann, but a wasted day off.”
His pink face got pinker. He rose and put the empty glass down. “I’m gonna check this guy Procane out, then we’ll see who made a mistake.”
“You want some advice?”
“From you?”
“No charge.”
“Okay, what?”
“If you check Procane out, don’t check him out too hard. He’s got a few million dollars tucked away here and there and I don’t think you’ve ever had a few million dollars land on you.”
“Money don’t scare me.”
“Then you’ve got guts all right. No brains, but guts.”
Frann shook his head slowly and then smiled at me. I could find nothing friendly in it. “I haven’t told you everything, St. Ives.”
“But you’re going to.”
“I’ve been saving a little.”
“Okay. What?”
“While I was waiting for you to come out of the men’s crapper.”
“Well?”
“Well, I seen who went in.”
“And?”
“And a blue United airline bag went in at the same time.”
“So?”
“So I happened to recognize the party that carried the bag in.”
“But you’re not going to tell me who.”
He shook his head again. “No, I think this Mr. Procane would be a little more interested in that than you are.” He turned toward the door and made it almost halfway there before he turned and grinned at me again with absolutely no humor. “Like I said, money don’t scare me none. It don’t scare me at all.”
Then he was gone and I walked over to the phone and dialed Procane’s number. When he came on I told him about Frann and what he’d said.
“What do you think?” Procane said.
“He might be trying some kind of a shakedown. I’m not sure. But I’m going to try to get him off your back. At least for the next few days. But to do that I’ll have to promise something.”
“What?”
“To reveal the name of my client. You.”
“When?”
“Not before Friday or Saturday.”
“Under the circumstances, I suppose it has to come out”
“I can stall it though.”
“All right,” Procane said. “Do what you think best.”
After we hung up I called another number and then had to wait a minute or so before the extension I asked for wasn’t busy. Finally, I got through and when I did a gruff voice that was almost a snarl said, “Detective Deal speaking.”
“This is St. Ives.”
“What do you want?”
“You’ve got a poacher.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You remember that young cop who was at the laundromat that night? His name’s Frann.”
“What about him?”
“He’s using his time off to investigate Bobby Boykins’s murder.”
“Yeah,” Deal said and put a little interest into the word, but not much.
“He’s bothering me. I don’t like to be bothered by snot-nosed cops.”
“Jesus, that’s really too bad.”
“It’s not just that I don’t like it. What’s more important is that my client might not like it.”
“I feel sorry for him too. Whoever he is.”
“Get Frann to stop bothering me and I’ll tell you.”
“You’re beginning to interest me, St. Ives. What’s Frann been doing to you?”
“For one thing he’s been tailing me.”
“When?”
“This morning — and I suppose this afternoon.” There was a brief silence and then Deal said, “When do you want to talk?”
“Friday is as soon as I can make it.”
“Okay. Friday’s fine.”
“What about Frann?”
“Oller and I’ll take care of him.”
“Can I count on that?”
“As much as you can count on anything.”
15
I took a risk, of course, when I called Deal to get Officer Francis X. Frann off Procane’s back. It might have been worth a little money, or even a lot, for Procane to learn who Frann had seen going into the airline terminal men’s room. Whoever carried the United bag in may have been a member of the team that had killed Bobby Boykins, thrown Jimmy Peskoe out of a hotel window, and was now planning to knock off the million-dollar heroin buy in Washington and then blame it on Procane.
But it seemed logical that if Frann had recognized whoever it was that had gone into the men’s room, Oller and Deal would know all about it within a few hours — as soon as they caught up with Frann. A young rookie cop doesn’t hold out information long from two seasonal homicide detectives, not if he likes his job. Or even if he doesn’t.
And, too, once Deal and Oller found out who it was that Frann had spotted, they just might catch up with him in time to spoil whatever plans he had for stealing the drug merchant’s million.
I spent the rest of the afternoon and part of the evening indulging in a mild bout of self-congratulation on how my cleverness and cunning probably had saved Procane no little money and much grief. I even made some notes that I felt might be included in the report that I’d been commissioned to write on the million-dollar steal. I was still feeling a little puffed up and debating about whether to open a bottle of fine $2.98 California champagne when the phone rang. It was Janet Whistler.
“Are you busy?”
“Not at all.”
“I’m downstairs. In the lobby. And I’m hungry.”
“Come on up and we’ll figure something out.”