"You're in the wrong business," Reilly said to Eileen.
Maybe I am, Eileen thought.
There were four liquor stores on Culver Avenue between the last one hit on Twentieth, and the eastern edge of the precinct territory on Thirty-Fifth. After that, it was the neighboring precinct's problem, and welcome to it. They drove up Culver to the last store, and then doubled back to the one on Twenty-Third. The digital dashboard clock read 10:32 p.m.
The store was empty except for a man behind the counter who was slitting open a carton of Jack Daniels sour mash. He looked up when the bell over the door sounded, saw a burly bald-headed guy and another big guy with him, and immediately placed his hand on the stock of the shotgun under the counter.
"What'll it be, gents?" he asked.
Hand still on the shotgun stock, finger inside the trigger guard now.
Meyer flashed the potsy.
"Police," he said.
The hand under the counter relaxed.
"Detective Meyer," he said. "Detective Carella. Eighty-Seventh Squad."
"What's the problem?" the man said.
He was in his early fifties, not quite as bald as Meyer, but getting there. Brown eyes, slight build, wearing a gray cotton work jacket with the words ALAN'S WHISKIES stitched in red on the breast pocket.
"Who are we talking to, sir?" Meyer asked.
"I'm Alan Zuckerman."
"Is this your store, sir?"
"It is."
"Mr. Zuckerman," Carella said, "there've been three liquor-store holdups on Culver Avenue tonight. Starting on Ninth and working uptown. If there's a pattern—and there may not be—your store's next in line."
"I'm closing in half an hour," Zuckerman said, and turned to look at the clock on the wall behind the counter.
"They may come in before then," Meyer said.
"You don't know me, huh?" Zuckerman said.
"Should I know you?" Meyer said.
"Alan Zuckerman. I was in all the papers last year this time." He looked at Carella. "You don't know me, either, do you?"
"I'm sorry, sir, I don't."
"Some cops," Zuckerman said.
Meyer glanced at Carella.
"This very precinct, they don't know me."
"Why should we know you, sir?" Carella asked.
"Because last October I shot two people came in the store to rob me," Zuckerman said.
"Oh," Carella said.
"With this!" Zuckerman said, and yanked the shotgun from under the counter.
Both detectives backed away.
"Bang!" Zuckerman said, and Meyer flinched. "One of them falls on the floor screaming! Bang, the other barrel! And the second one goes down!"
"I seem to recall that now," Meyer said. "Mr. Zuckerman, you can put up the shotgun now, okay?"
"Made all the papers," Zuckerman said, the gun still in his hands, his finger inside the trigger guard. "Shotgun Zuckerman, they called me, the papers. They had the story on television, too. Nobody tried no tricks here since, I can tell you that. It's been a year already, a little more than a year."
"Well, these people tonight," Meyer said, "Mr. Zuckerman, could you please put up the gun?"
Zuckerman slid the gun under the counter again.
"Thank you," Meyer said. "These people tonight, there are four of them. All of them armed. So your shotgun there, if all four of them start shooting…"
"Shotgun Zuckerman can take care of them, don't worry."
"What we were thinking," Carella said, "is maybe we could lend you a hand."
"Sort of ride shotgun to your shotgun," Meyer said, nodding.
"Backups, sort of," Carella said.
"Only in case you need us."
"Otherwise we'll butt out."
Zuckerman looked at them.
"Listen," he said at last, "you want to waste your time, that's fine by me."
He yanked the phone from the receiver the moment it rang.
"Hello?" he said.
"Hi," Marie said.
"Where are you?"
"Metro West. I'm catching the ten forty-five home."
"How'd it go?"
"Tough night," she said. "Any trouble on your end?"
"Nope. They made identification, huh? I saw it on television."
"I was the one who made it. Where'd you leave the Citation?"
"Behind an A&P near the river."
" 'Cause I don't think they found it yet."
"Who's on the case?"
"A salt-and-pepper team. Brown and Hawes. Big redhead, big black guy. In case they come snooping."
"Why would they?"
"I'm saying in case. They're both dummies, but you oughta be warned. They got a bulletin out… they asked me for descriptions They're gonna be watching all the airports. What flight are you on?"
"TWA's one twenty-nine. Leaves at twelve-oh-five tomorrow afternoon."
"What time do you get to Frisco?"
"Four forty-seven."
"I'll try you at the hotel around six-thirty. You'll be registered as Jack Gwynne, am I right?"
"All the dead ones," he said, and laughed. "Like Sebastian the Great."
"Give me the number of the Hong Kong flight again?"
"United eight-oh-five. Leaves Frisco at one-fifteen Sunday, gets there around eight the next morning."
"When will you call me?"
"Soon as I'm settled."
"You think that passport'll work?"
"It cost us four hundred bucks, it better work. Why? You running scared?"
"Nerves of steel," she said. "You shoulda seen me with the cops."
"No problem with the ID, was there?"
"None."
"You did mention the cock?"
"Oh, sure."
"Little birthmark and all?"
"Come on, we went over this a hundred times."
"You went over it a hundred times."
"And hated every minute of it."
"Sure."
"You know that, damn it."
"Sure."
"You going to start on me again?"
"I'm sorry."
"You oughta be. All we've been through."
"I said I was sorry."
"Okay."
There was a long silence on the line. "So whattya gonna do till noon tomorrow?"
"Thought I'd go down for a drink, then come back and get some sleep."
"Be careful."
"Oh yeah."
"They know what you look like."
"Don't worry." Another silence.
"Maybe you oughta call me later tonight, okay?"
"Sure."
"Be careful," she said again, and hung up.
CHAPTER 8
"Torpedoman ain't gonna like this," Larry said.
"Who asked you?" Eileen said.
"For a working girl, all you done so far is sit and drink."
"Guess it just ain't my lucky night," Eileen said.
"Whattya talkin' about? I already seen you turn down a dozen guys."
"I'm particular."
"Then you shouldn't be in this dump," Larry said. "Particular ain't for the Canal Zone."
Eileen knew he was only pointing out the obvious: the name of the game was money, and a hooker working a bar wasn't a girl at the Spring Cotillion. You didn't tell a prospective John your card was filled, even if he looked like Godzilla. Larry was already suspicious, and that was dangerous. Get a few more guys giving her the fish eye, and she could easily blow the real reason she was here.
Sheryl and the frizzled brunette were still out with the blond sailor, but Eileen was ready to bet her shield they'd be back in business the moment they returned. There was no way any enterprising girl could avoid making a buck in here. The bar was in incessant motion, a whorehouse with a liquor license and a transient crowd. Any man who came in alone walked out not five minutes later with a girl on his arm. According to Shanahan, the girls—even some of them on the Canalside meat rack—used either a hot-bed hotel up the street or any one of fifty, sixty rooms for rent in the Zone. They usually paid five bucks for the room, got a kickback from the owner and also a share of the three bucks the John paid for soap and towels. That way, a twenty-dollar trick could net a girl the same twenty when all was said and done. Plus whatever tip a generous John might decide to lay on her for superior performance.