Getting Away With Murder (7 page)

“Rye with ginger ale if you have it.”

“I thought you were a drinker,” she said, busying herself making comforting sounds with ice and glass. When she turned, she held two old-fashioned glasses and delivered one of them to me. Her eyes were a grey I hadn’t seen for some time. I could tell that she had been a great beauty in her day. Dave Rogers had said that she reminded him of Myrna Loy, the late and lamented Hollywood beauty queen. I wondered how many people would remember Myrna Loy’s side-glances that spoke volumes in the language of sex and humour.

“I don’t have to tell you that Abe isn’t my favourite character, do I?” She lit a cigarette, which seemed completely in character. She knew how to talk and time what she said with her smoking. It was an art and it was disappearing from the face of the earth. “I first met him when I worked at Diana Sweets.”

“I just came from there,” I said, trying to help break the ice with a fib.

“I was waiting on tables in those days and Abe was a young kid on the make. I knew what he wanted, but in those days that was what everybody wanted. I had this look or something. It wasn’t anything to do with me. I just had it and Abe wanted some.” She took a long sip of her drink, then set it down on a glass-topped coffee-table.

“When did you meet him? What was he like then?”

“I’m not good at dates, but this must have been in the fifties sometime. Say 1950 or ’51. He wasn’t twenty yet and I wasn’t much older. You knew I was older than Abe? Did he tell you?”

“I haven’t had a lot of conversation with him. I only met him this morning.”

“Ha! Yeah, you were telling me! Abe’s up with the birds. He doesn’t sleep more than four hours a night. Used to drive me crazy! Nobody but Abe is on the phone before five in the morning. He used to call me all hours of the night. He’ll probably call me after you leave. Does he have Mickey Armstrong following your every move?”

“That’s right.”

“I knew it. He always has a Mickey to do his legwork for him. In my day his name was … I forget. Billington! Christopher Billington! How do you like that for a tame thug?”

“So you met at the Di?” I hoped that she wouldn’t mind me attempting to stage-manage the interview.

“Yeah. I forget exactly the circumstances. He was always a good tipper and kept on teasing me about things. He was very glib and made with the fancy talk. I thought he was a salesman at first, but he was so young. I mean where did he get all that bright chatter from and him still in high school?”

“Did he try to take you out?”

“Sure. He was always trying to get me alone. But, in those days, ‘alone’ was the hardest thing for me to be. That’s why it doesn’t stick in my mind in particular.”

“Did you know where his money was coming from?”

“Oh, sure! He never made any bones about that. He was proud of himself. Me, I didn’t give a damn, but I thought that he was going to get put away if he didn’t watch his mouth better.”

“Was that the way he always was?”

“At first. But, you know, he changed. From being a bit of a show-off, he became the opposite. After a while, I couldn’t get him to tell me anything.”

“Was that because he was getting into drugs?”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. By then I was going out with him. No, he stopped talking to me all at once. I mean he still talked. He could talk my head off. But he didn’t talk about the jobs he was doing any more. You know he was breaking into houses in those days?”

“You knew his friend Dave Rogers?”

“Oh, sure, Dave. His name wasn’t Rogers in those days. Yeah, he and Abe went everywhere together. Then Abe started seeing me and Dave got a girl of his own … You know how it is.”

“What did you like about him?”

“Oh, I always went for the tough guys. Gangster types. I liked living the danger at second hand. I still get a kick out of it. I still know a few of the bad boys from Miami. They call me when they’re in town. I guess they liked the way I could keep buttoned up. I never told tales. That’s why it makes me nervous talking about this stuff with you.”

“Can you think of anyone who would want to kill Abe Wise, Paulette?”

“Ever since you called, I can’t think of anything else. You know, there are a lot of bad characters who pick up the hates wherever they go. Abe was never like that. What I liked about Abe was that he loved a good time. He didn’t pretend that I talked him into it the way some of the boys do. He loved being seen with me and showing me off. He got a bigger kick out of it than I did, to tell you the truth. I liked his jokes and the tough guys he always surrounded himself with. Have you ever heard of Frankie Carbo? He used to fix fights in New York and all over …”

She was moving away from the area of my interest again. I knew that Frankie Carbo wasn’t a current crime figure, although I couldn’t remember where or how he’d met his fate.

“What about somebody wanting to kill him, Paulette? I’m not talking about the old days, but about right now.”

“Benny, I don’t see him any more. Not for the last ten years. If it wasn’t for the phone … But people don’t change. I’m sure he still rubs people the wrong way. He has a vile temper. But he tries to keep his business as fair and square as a crooked businessman can. He never went out of his way to buy trouble. Even when he drank, he was a happy drunk, big tipper. Still …”

“Still?” I coached, hoping for a breakthrough.

“Still, Abe was what he was. He did what he had to do. And he did it fast, and as tidy as he could. Like the pro he was. None of the Mafia-style dramatics. That wasn’t his way.”

I heard a noise in the hall followed by the sound of the door being slammed. Before we could both readjust, a redheaded young man with a wedge-shaped face strode into the room. His face was bright with anger.

“Hart! I wasn’t expecting—”

“Shut up, Mother! Just what do you think is going on? What are you doing to me? Can’t you leave me alone for ten minutes?”

“Darling, what are you talking about?”

“Him, for a start.”

“Darling, I told you on the phone about Mr. Cooperman. Mr. Cooperman, this is—”

“The last thing I need is a private eye prying into my life! Get rid of him!” I returned my outstretched hand to my glass.

“Hart, he’s here as my guest.”

“
Get rid of him!
I want him out of this house!”

“Darling, be reasonable!” I got to my feet. The last thing I needed was a fight with this madman.

“Maybe some other time,” I said to Paulette. When I turned, Hart was standing blocking my way. “Excuse me,” I said and repeated it in the same reasonable tone. Hart remained fixed like a post. Paulette’s face had gone quite white as she felt the conflicting roles of hostess and mother. Hart still hadn’t moved when I looked back at him, so I sat down again, which seemed to confuse him.

“I want you out of here!”
he said, not quite facing me. “You have no business mixing in our lives!”

“Maybe you’ll clear a path to the door. I can’t walk through you.” Hart sputtered, then moved over to his mother’s side, as though completing an alliance that had only been hinted at. I got to my feet again.

“Mr. Cooperman, I hope you’ll understand,” Paulette said, her eyes pleading with me louder than her words.

“Mr. Cooperman will keep out of my business, if he knows what’s good for him.” He was gambling on the unlikely possibility that I would knock him down with his mother in the room. I had already decided not to lay hands on him, even mine, unless he touched me first. I collected my hat and coat and left the tender scene to unroll without me.

The dark green Triumph was parked in front of the house. I walked around the sports car twice, taking in as much as I could before marching away up Queen Street, looking for maple buds in the trees overhead. I couldn’t see any. In the bookstore across from the
Beacon
I went hunting for mysteries at the back of the store. There were a few favourites in paperback, which attracted me. I may have been a little rougher than usual as I pulled them off their shelves and flipped through the pages. I was getting rid of the feelings I carried away from Duke Street with me. Then I saw McKenzie Stewart’s new book, the one I had been reading about. Five copies of
Haste to the Gallows
were displayed face front. They took up a whole shelf. Very impressive for McStu, I thought. Still, it was in hardcover. I paused in my resolve to buy it, flipping through the pages looking for a flaw. But McStu was a friend, the only local author I knew, although I heard there was one at Cranmer College. I hated buying hardcover books, but since I might run into McStu at any time on St. Andrew Street, I softened and carried the book to the cash.

“You know that this one’s non-fiction, don’t you, Benny?”

“What? Sorry, Sue, my mind was unplugged.” Susan Torres who ran the bookstore usually looked out for me. She put me on to Walter Mosley, John Dunning and William Mcllvanney.

“This newest title by McStu isn’t a novel, Benny.”

“You mean Dud Dickens isn’t in it?” My enthusiasm had developed a slow leak.

“It’s about a
real
case, Benny. I know you’ll like it because it’s a local story.”

“Great!” I said, “Great!” damning McStu under my breath and passing my plastic to Sue. I wouldn’t even let her put the book into a bag for me. I slipped it into a pocket and returned to Duke Street feeling as though McStu had played an expensive joke on me. The Triumph sports car that had been parked in front of Paulette’s front door was gone. I should have given it a kick when I had the chance. I rang the bell a second time.

Paulette looked relieved when she saw me standing on her threshold. “I’ll bet you could use a drink,” she said. “I know I could.” She backed out of my way and we returned to the back room. Paulette poured shots of Scotch without asking my preference or forgetting what I had in my glass when Hart walked in. I sat where I’d been sitting, looking forward to the Scotch.

“I hear that Hart hates his father. Is there anything in that?”

“If there is, you won’t hear it from me. I try to be as loyal as I can. Hart sometimes tests my patience, as you’ve just seen. You mustn’t let that little drama sour you on the boy. I try to be fair to both the kids, both Hart and Julie.”

“Julie? I don’t understand. Isn’t Julie Lily’s problem?”

“Not when Abe gets on the telephone after midnight. God, I’ve been intimate with all of her problems from diaper rash to the present. Abe spares me nothing. In our divorce settlement, Abe got the phone and he plays it like, like a—a—”

“Virtuoso?”

“Yeah, like that,” she said, smiling at me with her eyes over her drink. “God knows, I tried to get Abe to show a little common sense in dealing with them. They always got their own way. Abe saw to that. As a result, they got a pretty distorted picture of what the world was like when Abe wasn’t there to put in some money or some muscle.”

I waited. I didn’t want to fill the pause with another question until I got a good answer to the last one. She went on: “It’s not Abe they hate, you know. It’s what he’s done to them. They couldn’t tell you about it in so many words, but that’s what it is. He’s spoiled them from having ordinary decent lives. Bad enough having a criminal as a father! But having a father who’s as bull-headed as Abe is a combination that’s hard to beat. That’s another thing: Abe hates losing. That goes for bets and for people. That’s why I went to live in Hunter.”

“Where?”

“Hunter. It’s in New York. You know the Catskills?”

“Oh. I think my parents stayed at a hotel in the Catskills. But as you were saying?”

“I’m a sentimental old woman, Mr. Cooperman, and you can discount everything I’ve said, but I know that in spite of everything he has done to hurt them, in spite of everything they’ve done to hurt him, he loves his kids. I know it.”

“But they can’t stand him. I get the picture.” Paulette didn’t respond except by making a face. I thought I’d better move on. “Paulette, I’ve tried to get Lily to talk to me. She won’t play. Do you think you could help me? I know that it’s asking a lot.”

“Not as much as you think, Benny. Lily and I came to an understanding a long time ago. Remember we’ve got a lot in common. Oh, we’ve had a great deal to laugh at over the years about that crazy, crooked bastard we were both married to. I hear what you’re saying and I’ll see what I can do. I can’t be fairer than that, can I?”

I had run out of questions. I knew I could talk to her all day and hear all sorts of interesting stuff about her colourful life, but it wouldn’t get me anywhere except maybe by accident. To finish up, I asked her about Hart’s difficulties about the Triumph that she had mentioned on telephone. She gave me the details and I scribbled a few names on a piece of paper.

Paulette poured another drink for herself and tried to refill my glass, but I covered it with my hand. The last thing I needed on this long day was to be high on top of everything else. I thanked Paulette for her help and paved the way for a return visit when I was deeper into the investigation. She put down her glass long enough to see me out of the house. I could tell that she wasn’t getting all of the company she could accommodate, but it was a busy day. I said goodbye at the front door, and she let me shake her hand, which was the only part of her that looked like it had seen more years than Abe Wise himself had.

SEVEN

In the Diana Sweets, between sips of coffee, I took the book out of my pocket. It looked like a novel, it was the right size for a novel, but it did say “true” on the back and on the front as well, when you really took a second look.
Haste to the Gallows
was a catchy title. I tried to get some idea of the contents from the back cover. A woman named Mary Tatarski was the subject of McStu’s nonfiction sabbatical. I’d seen the name somewhere recently. Yes, it was the case that Duncan Harvey, a local architect, was perennially trying to get revived. In the centre of the book was a block of black-and-white pictures: a pretty young face in a high-school year-book, a soldier in uniform, a confused-looking middle-aged woman with a kerchief covering her dark hair. There were others, but I was growing curious about the text. I started reading the first chapter and lost myself in it for some time until I felt that I was being observed. It was an uncomfortable feeling. I put the book away. Looking around the restaurant, I saw nothing unusual: lawyers were joking over coffee, storekeepers were unwinding after a bad half-hour with the bank manager. I thought saw a shadow pass across the window. For a moment, had a sense of relief when I saw that it was only Phil, one of Abe Wise’s hoods. Then I had to laugh. How quickly we adapt to any situation.