Madman's Thirst (20 page)

According to the information provided by Evelyn
that he read on the plane, Haley was a modern tertiary care teaching facility
affiliated with the University of South Florida College of  Medicine. Of its
350 beds, 180 were designated as nursing home beds. Of those, 30 were set aside
in a separate hospice unit. Banaszak had picked a good place to die.

The receptionist at the lobby desk directed him to
the third floor, where the hospice beds were. Banaszak was in room 3303. Scarne
got on the elevator with a lanky middle-age black man wearing dark green
corduroy pants, a long-sleeved checkered flannel shirt and a baseball-type cap
that said
‘U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln CVN-72.’
The man sported a bushy white
moustache and neatly trimmed beard that matched his eyebrows and sideburns.

“What floor?”

“Three,” Scarne answered. “Thanks.”

“That’s my floor, too,” the man said. “You
visiting someone?”

“Guy named, Banaszak. You know him?”

“Whitey? Sure, our crazy Polack.” The man suddenly
looked curious. “You a friend or relative? Whitey said he had none of each.”

“Never met the man. Here on business.”

“Better wrap it up quick. Don’t think Whitey has
much business left to do. I’ve got him in the Worm Pool and I think I have a
good shot.”

“Worm Pool?”

 “Yeah. Every week or so we chip in 50 bucks each
and pick names out of the hat. If the guy you pick croaks first, you win.
Serious dough. I got a good chance with Whitey. He ain’t been looking too
perky.”

They reached the hospice floor and stepped out of
the elevator.

“That’s pretty callous,” Scarne said coldly. “I
wonder what the hospital administration would say, not to mention the patients
or their families.”

“Hell, man, the patients run the pool.” He looked
at Scarne appraisingly. “What, you think I work here, or am visiting? Shit. I’m
a resident. I checked into this roach motel, and I ain’t checking out. I once
picked my own name out of the hat. That’s too creepy, so they let me pick
again.”

For the first time, Scarne noticed the hollowness
in the man’s cheeks behind the moustache and beard, and how loosely his clothes
hung.

“I’m sorry. I just thought, you know, with you
walking around…” He didn’t know what else to say.

“Some of us have more time than others, and good
days and bad days. This is a good day for me. We ain’t chained to the beds.
They let us walk around a bit if we can. I like to go outside on the lawn in
back, sit in the sun. I saw you looking at my outfit. It’s freezing in the
ward. But it’s too much effort to change just to go out for a few minutes. You
think I’d walk around in Florida in this outfit all the time? Where’s your head
at?”

They started toward a nurses’ station and Scarne
changed the subject.

“You serve on the
Lincoln
?”

“Yeah. You know her?’

“Took a tour of her once with a buddy who was
assigned to her Marine detachment. Couldn’t believe how big she was.”

“She’s a beauty,” the old sailor said reverently.
“Spent my best years on her, though I did time on other
Nimitz
-class
carriers. I was a senior chief on the landing crew. Great ships those flattops.
Pride of the nation. People want to run down this country only have to look at
our carrier fleet. Wished they named them after states, though.”

“What do you mean?”

They had stopped just short of the nurses’
station.

“The carriers are our capital ships, now, right?
Just like battleships used to be. I guess I got no complaint naming ships after
Abe Lincoln, or George Washington, or the Roosevelts or even Truman or
Eisenhower. Maybe even Kennedy. At least they were dead a while. But the
USS
Carl Vinson
and the
John C. Stennis
? Man, those were just payoffs to
guys who threw money at the Pentagon. And the
USS George H.W. Bush
? Give
me a fuckin’ break. No sir. Our big ships should be named after states. Binds
the country together. The
Tennessee.
The
Missouri
. The
New
Jersey
. When a ship with a name like that gets into a fight, people can
identify. If it gets itself sunk, that’s like losing a piece of the country.
Think about the
Arizona
. Or the
Maine
. Course, certain names
should be retired, like them two. But you get the picture. Same with cities. In
World War II, when the cruisers
Vincennes
, and
Quincy
went down
off Savo Island and
Indianapolis
was torpedoed after delivering the
A-bomb to Tinian, people in every city could identify. Can’t really get the
same feeling about the USS
Lobbyist
, now can you?” 

He laughed and then headed down a
hallway, leaving Scarne standing in front of the nurses’ station. A pretty
young nurse filling out paperwork and occasionally glancing at a bank of
monitors looked up and gave Scarne a tired smile. After he asked for directions
to Banaszak’s room, she brightened.

“Gee, you’re the first visitor
he’s had,” she said. She had a lovely smile. “He’s just down that hallway, last
room on the right. Just go right in.”        

 He thanked her and headed toward
one of several short hallways that emanated spoke-like in a semi-circle from
the nurses’ station. The hospice floor of any hospital is a depressing place.
This was no exception. Despite the best efforts of staff and décor, there was
no hiding its “last stop” ambiance. Gentle palliative care, brightly painted
walls, seascape paintings, balloons and, in some rooms, attentive family
members, were only delaying the inevitable. The worms were just offstage.

He passed several rooms where
dying veterans lay silently gazing at the ceiling. Some had single IV bags
hanging from poles with thin lines into one arm or the other. Pain killers,
Scarne assumed. There were few sounds, not even the mechanical clicking and
beeping sounds common to most wards, where machines monitored vital signs,
provided nourishment and did a variety of other life-supporting activities.
Life support wasn’t on the agenda here. It was the silence of the pre-grave. In
one or two rooms, women sat silently holding the hands of feeble men who, in
the thrush of their youth, may have thrown a satchel charge into a Japanese
bunker on Tarawa , or cut down North Vietnamese sappers in the Ia Drang Valley.
In one room, a younger vet, bald and emaciated, smiled and gave a feeble thumbs
up. Scarne, feeling guilty about his own good health, returned the gesture.

He entered Banaszak’s room. In the
bed was a motionless bag of bones. The man’s skin was a ghastly white. Christ,
Scarne thought. I’m too late. But then he saw the chest rise and fall, almost
imperceptibly. He was sleeping. Scarne walked around to a small bureau on the
side of the bed nearest the window. He opened the top drawer. Amid the usual
clutter – tubes of skin cream and other salves, various pills, hard candies, an
Ed McBain 87
^th
Precinct paperback (
The Frumious Bandersnatch
– one of Scarne’s favorites), tissues – there was a cell phone.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Scarne turned toward the raspy
voice. Banaszak’s head was now lolling toward him, and his eyes were beginning
to focus. Scarne powered off the cell phone and slipped it into his pocket. The
dying man didn’t seem to notice. He made a weak effort to sit up, but then
collapsed back on his pillow.

“Help me sit up,” he wheezed.

Scarne reached under Banaszak’s
shoulder and lifted. It took virtually no effort. He had the impression he
could fold him in half like a napkin. Fluffing up two pillows, he gently leaned
the sick man back.

“Water.”

Scarne picked up a cup from the
chest and put the straw to Banaszak’s mouth. He took several small sips and
then ran his tongue around his lips.

“What I wouldn’t give for a
fuckin’ smoke. Like it would make a difference, right? That’s what I tell my
doctor. I think I’m wearing him down. Smokes like a chimney himself. Nurses
tell me he’s always sneaking out on one of the terraces. Piece of work. He’ll give
me a butt before this is all over.” Banaszak was overtaken by another fit of
coughing. He quieted, then looked at Scarne. “So, who are you? Cop?”

The man wasn’t dead yet, Scarne
thought. Not much use in lying to an old pro like this.

“Private. I’m investigating the
murder of Elizabeth Pearsall.”

 “So Jarecki dropped the dime. Not
that it will do you any good. I said as much as I’m going to. I’m no rat. I
made it clear to the priest. No names.”

“What do you owe anyone? You’re
dying, for God’s sake. I’ll get the bastards eventually. You can just speed it
up for me. You think they’re scum, too. Or you wouldn’t have gone to Jarecki to
clear your conscience.”

“Forget it, pal. You seem to be
doing fine. How did you find me?”

Scarne told him.

“Not bad, shamus. Who you working
for anyway?”

“Myself. Knew the family. You’re
lucky you’re almost dead.”

Banaszak smiled.

“Tough guy, huh? You’d be doing me
a favor. That’s why you won’t do it, right?” He leaned back and stared at the
ceiling. “Tough guy. Like me.” He closed his eyes. Scarne thought he was
drifting off. But then the eyes opened and he turned to Scarne. “Tell you what.
No names. But here’s how it went down. I freelance, but most of my work is for
the local mobs in New York. I generally like to work alone but this time I got
set up with a black dude from out of town. He’s the one who raped and killed
the girl.”

“Don’t you want him to pay for
that?”

“I killed him.” Banaszak confessed
to murdering his partner with the ease of a man ordering a ham sandwich. “Fuckin’
animal.”

“Nice to know you have standards.”

“Fuck you. I’ll kill anyone they
tell me to. Been doing it for 30 years. But it’s always business. The rape
wasn’t business. She died hard. Wasn’t right. The hit was meant to shake up the
girl’s father, a newspaper guy who was getting in the way of something.”

 “Any idea what it was? NASCAR?”

“You’ve been doing your homework. But
it had to be bigger than that.”

“Like what?”

“How the fuck do I know? Now beat
it, I’m getting tired.”

Scarne was going to press the
issue when a voice behind him said, “Any problems, Mr. Banaszak?”

He turned to see a huge man in a
green smock filling the doorway.

“Doc, get rid of this guy. He’s
been trying to sell me life insurance. What kind of operation you running? How
did he get in here?”

Banaszak started coughing again.
He was partially acting, Scarne knew, but it worked.

“I’m Doctor Levin. Time for you to
leave.” Scarne nodded and they walked into hallway. “I don’t know what your
game is, but Mr. Banaszak is a dying man. I don’t like anyone screwing around
with my patients. Why don’t you vamoose before I call security. And don’t come
back.”

Scarne thought it politic not to
argue or explain. He wanted to go before anyone noticed the missing cell phone.
So he ‘vamoosed’ with as much dignity as he could muster. Levin would be on the
lookout for him the rest of the day. He’d have to try again the next day. Banaszak
looked like he’d be around for a few more days at least. Maybe there would be
another doctor on call.

***

Back in his hotel room, Scarne
took out Banaszak’s cell phone and checked the battery icon. It only had two of
three bars. Damn. He knew he could get it charged somewhere and probably have
an expert download the S.I.M. card, but that would take time. So, he opened up
the phone’s contact list and copied down every number, as well as all those
listed in the ‘Recent Calls’ file. There weren’t that many in either list. Presumably,
hired killers aren’t the most social animals. Then he called Evelyn Warr and
asked her to run down all the numbers that had an area code for New York’s five
boroughs. Many of the numbers had generic tags, such as ‘Cleaner’, which could
be a euphemism for another contract killer, but Scarne doubted it. But he told
her to call them all, especially those without name tags. He would check the
out-of-state numbers.

None of the numbers he kept for
himself had names attached to them, and  he was soon convinced he was wasting
his time. All he discovered was that Banaszak apparently used escort services in
several cities. He also struck out with the ‘Recent Calls’ to and from the cell
phone. All the numbers he called, including the escort services, were of the
type that could be found in any man’s cell. No one answered the phone with
‘Murder Incorporated, Please Hold for the Next Available Assassin.’

Evelyn called back.

“I didn’t realize there were that
many escort services in New York, Jake. Are you sure he isn’t dying of
exhaustion. He likes his ‘slap and tickle’ as we say in England.”

“Nothing else?”

“Not really. The only numbers that
didn’t fit in with the dry cleaners, limousine services, liquor stores, Chinese
restaurants and comfort ladies were two on Staten Island, a real estate office
and a yacht club. In fact, they were the only Staten Island numbers.”

Scarne felt a small jolt in his
stomach. He recalled Banaszak’s “fat prick” comment. He also thought it
unlikely he was house hunting on Staten Island.

“What’s the name of the realtor?”

“Bimm Real Estate Inc. The number is
the direct line of Nathan Bimm, president. His personal secretary screens the
line and wanted to know how I got the number. I told her I must have misdialed,
and hung up. I’ve just started Googling him, and I can tell you he’s a big deal
out there. Lots of stuff about him in the papers. Land developer, lawyer,
philanthropist, pal of the Borough President, etc. Jake are you there?”

Scarne realized that he hadn’t
spoken.

 “What about the yacht club?”