“So David would know when your husband was leaving on a business trip?”
“Of course,” she prattles on. “I’d tell him, and we’d plan what we’d do while John was gone. The opera or ballet or just a long walk through Central Park. Once we went to the Cloisters. David is so good to me. And especially since John went on. You know it’s difficult for a woman to get around and see things by herself.”
“I know,” Cone says sympathetically. Then he leans close to her with a viperish smile. “You don’t suppose, do you, Mrs. Dempster, that David has a crush on you?”
It’s a calculated risk. He knows she is not a total meshuggeneh, and if she resents his question and tells him to get lost, he won’t be a bit surprised. But she leans even closer, and her voice is lower than his.
“How odd you should suggest that. You know, it had occurred to me, but I thought I was imagining things. I do that at times.”
“No reason why he shouldn’t be attracted to you,” Timothy says bravely. “You’re a fascinating woman.”
“Oh, my!” Teresa says, blushing again and putting her long fingers to her cheek. “I thank you, sir. What a nice thing to say.”
“The truth,” he says. “Well, I’m afraid I must go now, Mrs. Dempster. I hope you won’t be alone all evening.”
“Oh, no,” she says. “I have so much to do, and later David is coming over to take me to dinner and a Mostly Mozart recital at Lincoln Center. Do you like Mozart, Mr. Timothy?”
“Oh, yeah,” Cone says. “Can’t get enough of him. Thanks for letting me see Irving, Mrs. Dempster.”
“He’s yours, you know. And you have visitation rights whenever you wish.”
He wants to kiss that velvety cheek, but resists. He leaves her home, not proud of what he has done, but telling himself it was necessary. That doesn’t help much.
He drives back to the loft, wondering how the possible destruction of David Dempster might affect that sweet, innocent woman. Not a happy thought. But she impresses him as being a survivor, able to endure grief and tragedy. He hopes his appraisal is correct. It’s even possible that her wackiness is her salvation. A more rational woman might crack.
When he gets to his building, he finds the front door has been jimmied-again. But it’s not yet 6:00 P.M., so the elevator is still working, and he doesn’t have to trudge up six flights. Cleo greets him with an ankle rub and a desperate growl that signals starvation.
Cone brings out that length of garlic salami-still plenty left-and whacks off a thick chunk. Cleo takes it under the bathtub to enjoy. Cone opens a cold beer and, on impulse, pours it into an empty jelly jar. Then he sprinkles it with salt.
He can’t remember why they did that when he served with the USMC. For the flavor? To raise a head on the brew? But the taste of salted beer brings back old memories, most of which he’d like to forget forevermore.
He slumps at his spavined table, feet up, totally drained by the day’s events. All those people, all that pushing and shoving to get what he wants. And then, most recently, duping an ingenuous woman. He’s wiped out.
Before he knows it, he’s brooding about the victim, John J. Dempster. From what he’s heard from everyone, he figures the guy was a hustler-in the boardroom and in the bedroom. With all the chutzpah in the world. Willing to risk his balls in the coliseum. In fact, going from risk to risk because that’s where the fun is.
Cone has known a lot of hustlers, on the street, in combat, in the business world. He admires them all, straight or crooked, for their gall and their energy. They play the cards they were dealt to the best of their ability and never whine that they didn’t draw a better hand.
Occasionally, but not often, Cone wishes he could be like that. But he hasn’t got the temperament, and he knows it. Instead, he seems destined to plod through life armed with a push broom and dustpan, cleaning up after the hustlers.
These melancholy reflections are interrupted by ferocious pounding at the loft door. He slips the magnum out of his ankle holster. Standing to one side of the door, he shouts, “Who is it?”
“The police!” Neal Davenport shouts back. “Open up! Have you got a naked cat in there?”
Cone replaces his revolver, unchains, unbolts, unlocks the door. The city detective lumbers in, followed by a skinny, stooped guy who’s wearing a costume so decrepit that he makes Cone look like a candidate for GQ.
Davenport jerks a thumb at his companion. “Meet Officer Sam Shipkin,” he says.
“You could have fooled me,” Cone says, shaking the man’s hand.
He’s got a black beard that looks as if mice have been at it, and he’s wearing shades that are practically opaque. His ragged jeans weren’t stone-washed, they were ground between boulders, and his scuffed motorcycle boots look like Salvation Army castoffs. He’s got on a sweat-stained T-shirt bearing the legend: ALL THE NUDES FIT TO PRICK.
“How d’ya like this dump?” Neal asks Shipkin. “As ratty as I told you?”
The undercover cop looks around. “I like it,” he pronounces. “Poverty chic.”
“Listen,” the NYPD bull says, “let’s not waste time. I’ve got to get home to Staten Island-and don’t ask me why.”
“You don’t want a drink?” Cone asks.
“Who says so? What’ve you got?”
“Vodka, beer, wine, some brandy.”
“A beer for me. Sam?”
“A little brandy.”
They sit at the rickety table, and the host serves them.
“What in God’s name is that?” Davenport cries, pointing.
“A garlic salami. Want a hunk?”
“Jesus, no! You want a slice, Sam?”
“I’ll pass,” Shipkin says. “My ulcer would be infuriated.”
“Sam’s going up to Paddy’s Pig,” Neal says, “and see what he can work. I told him you’d prep him.”
“Sure,” Cone says, and describes the tavern to the undercover man: the physical layout of the place, the patrons, what they drink.
“The hard guys are in the booths on your right,” he says. “Down-and-out boozers at the tables in the center. Louie, the owner, is a fat crud with old tattoos. The night I was there he was wearing a watch cap and T-shirt.”
“He’s dealing drugs?”
“He’s dealing everything. He offered me Boom-boom. What the hell is that?”
“Gage,” Shipkin says. “From Florida. Heavy stuff.”
“Screw the drugs,” Davenport says. “It’s the motorcycle we want.”
“I told this Louie I got a buddy looking to buy a bike,” Cone says. “He said just tell me the make and model and he’ll come up with it.”
Shipkin nods, sips brandy from his jelly jar. “I get the picture,” he says. He turns to the other detective. “How about this scenario: If I get a lead on the Kawasaki, I’ll make a dope buy from Louie with marked bills. Then we’ll have him on a drug rap and can lean on him about the cycle. How does that listen?”
“Sounds good to me. How about you, sherlock?”
“Makes sense,” Cone says. “We’re not going to get anywhere with this unless someone caves. The more clout we have, the better. The way I figure it, this Louie is the broker between David Dempster and the Westies. He arranges the deals and turns over the cash after taking his cut. And once we’ve got enough to cuff Dempster, even on some shitty charge, I can finger three or four other guys who’ll be happy to make deals to save their ass.”
Davenport looks at him curiously. “Still holding out on me, huh? Okay, play it your way. Right now, all I want is that motorcycle. Anything else Sam should know?”
“Yeah,” Cone says, turning to Shipkin. “If you spot a tall guy at the bar with a black ponytail and a bad case of acne, watch your back. You can’t miss him; someone chopped off both his little fingers.”
“What’s queer about him?” Sam asks.
“He’s stretched,” Cone says. “Carries a long switchblade and thinks he’s a hero.”