Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite (26 page)

 

I was yawning and bleary eyed when I got to the office Monday morning. There were two envelopes waiting on my desk, and I opened them at once. The top one contained a photo of Andrew Shippman and the other of Ron Whitfield.
Attagirl, Felicia!

I sat down and was about to look over the pictures for a second time when Lou burst into my cubbyhole. I had never seen him so excited. “I’m glad you’re here, Shapiro. About two minutes ago I got a call from this snitch of mine—Mickey Mouth, we call him—and he claims to have information on who iced Vincent.” Almost absently he took a seat, leaning so far over in my direction that I was afraid he’d wind up on the floor. “I put the word out on the street quite a while back—I’m sure I told you that, didn’t I?” He hadn’t, but no matter. “Until now, though—nothing. But like I keep trying to get you to understand, you just never know.” His grin stretched practically to his earlobes.

“Did your snitch give you any hint on the identity of the perp?”

“He mumbled something about da Silva. Only I wasn’t clear about whether he meant that da Silva was personally involved or whether it was one of his boys who shot Vincent, either acting on his own or on the main man’s instructions. Mickey’s not one of your great communicators. Anyhow, when I tried to get more out of him, he dummied up. Said he couldn’t tell me any more on the phone. But he did throw in that I wouldn’t be disappointed with what he had for me. I’m meeting him at Louie’s Place at nine-thirty tonight.”

“
We’re
meeting him,” I corrected Lou. “And who is Louie?”

“Not who,
what.
Louie’s Place is a seedy little bar about a block from the railroad tracks. Not the kind of neighborhood I’d want to be in at night without a gun. Or, for that matter, not the kind of neighborhood I’m too eager to be in
with
a gun.”

“Sounds like real cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

“Mick always did have a flair for the dramatic. I tried to talk him into a meet someplace else, but he said that if I didn’t like the arrangement, I could forget the whole thing. Independent little bastard, isn’t he?” Lou’s smile was indulgent, almost fond.

“Well, don’t worry about the neighborhood, partner. I’ll protect you,” I joked. I didn’t bother to mention that my own trusty little .32-caliber security blanket rarely even gets an airing, spending most of its life—today included—tucked away in a dresser drawer.

“Listen,” Lou said, “I’m supposed to have dinner with an old friend later—we set it up over a week ago. The thing is, though, I don’t know what you’ll do with yourself tonight until we go to meet Mickey. Of course,” he suggested tentatively, “I could always cancel my plans, and you and I can grab something together.”

“Don’t even give it a thought. I’ll finish typing my notes, and with you out of my hair, it’ll be a good chance to go over them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very.”

“I’ll swing by at a little before nine, then, to pick you up. That should get us to Louie’s in plenty of time.”

“Oh, by the way,” I told him, “I received a couple of FedExes from my friend Felicia this morning. We now have a nice big photograph of Andrew Shippman—my favorite lech—and a pretty decent shot of Ron Whitfield. We can start canvassing the motels as soon as Sklaar’s picture comes in.”

“Unless, Desiree,” Lou informed me sternly, “what Mickey has to say makes that unnecessary.”

“Touché,” I responded with a salute.

Lou had no sooner left my office than I began ruminating on this latest development. I was a little stunned when I became aware that I was no longer that thrown by the notion that someone in my client’s organization might be the perpetrator. I suppose this was because I was finally convinced—and I mean
genuinely
convinced—that da Silva would accept the truth—whatever it turned out to be.

About to switch on the computer now, I arrested my hand in midair. Lou had said he was meeting an old friend for dinner.
What kind of an old friend?
I wondered anxiously.
A male old friend or a female one?

 

Lou called for me just before nine, and by nine-fifteen we were at Louie’s Place, a cruddy-looking hole-in-the-wall if I ever saw one. We headed for one of the booths. There were two of them, both directly across from the bar and both empty. As we sat down, a sharp edge of the tattered plastic upholstery tore my pantyhose, and I quickly got to my feet. I checked the back of my leg. When I straightened up, I realized uneasily that three of the four sleazy-looking characters at the bar had swiveled on their stools to do the same.

I wasted no time in sliding back into the booth, more cautiously this time. “I’ll get us some drinks,” Lou said. “Wine?”

“I think I’d prefer a Coke.”

“Then a Coke it is.

“You’ve got yourself some admirers, I notice,” he commented wryly when he returned with the soda and a bottle of Coors for himself. “They keep turning around and eyeballing you.”

“Hey, maybe there are no Prince Charmings over there, but at least those boys have taste.”

To be honest, though, Louie’s Place and everyone in it was giving me the willies. The room was dark and dreary and, I had no doubt, dirty. Only it was too dark and dreary to be sure. Plus every one of our fellow patrons gave me the impression that he’d slit your throat for a buck and enjoy the task immensely. The bartender didn’t inspire much more confidence than the rest of the crew. He was a short man, and beefy, with long, oily hair and a distended gut that caused his shirt to pull apart in the vicinity of his navel, revealing what, from here, appeared to be an overabundance of body hair. Either that, or he was wearing a black undershirt. He walked over to the cash register now, which was directly under a light, and I couldn’t miss the fact that he was staring at us with a decidedly unfriendly expression.

“Party’s getting pretty lively,” Lou said, bringing my observations to an end. Two of the gentlemen at the bar were cursing each other loudly, while a third—the only one who hadn’t gawked at me—had begun talking just as loudly to himself. “If you think those characters don’t
look
too appealing,” my partner saw fit to share with me, “you should get a whiff of them.”

After this, we sat in comparative silence for a while. Then Lou put down his Coors and glanced at his watch. “A quarter of ten. It’s not like Mickey to be late.”

A half hour and another Coke and Coors later, there was still no Mickey.

“I don’t like this,” Lou muttered, frowning. “Let me go talk to the bartender. Maybe he called, and Mr. Charm over there didn’t take the trouble to mention it.”

In a few moments he was back. “No call. Listen, do you want to leave? It doesn’t seem as if Mick’s going to show.”

“Why don’t we give it another fifteen minutes? He might have been detained for some reason.”

“Maybe you’re right.” But he didn’t sound optimistic.

We finished our drinks, and I went to the restroom, where I had to share the filth-encrusted sink with an out-sized cockroach who acted as though he had dibs on it.

I didn’t sit down when I returned to the booth. “Let’s get out of here. Louie’s establishment is making my skin crawl.”

“I hope Mickey’s all right,” Lou murmured, standing up. “He’s never done anything like this before.” His face reflected his concern. “I’m worried about the little guy, Dez. What could have happened to him?”

A message from Al was waiting on my machine when I got home.

“I hope you weren’t worried when you didn’t hear from me yesterday, Dez.” (As if I didn’t feel guilty enough, he had to say
that.
) “My flight was delayed, and I didn’t come in to JFK until two a.m. Anyhow, it’s around four o’clock now—I spent most of the day sleeping—and I wanted to know if we could have dinner tonight. Give me a call, all right? And if you get in too late to make dinner, call just to say hi. Any time’s okay. I won’t be going to bed until one, at the earliest.”

I checked my watch. It was only twenty-five after twelve, but I wasn’t up to facing a conversation with Al. Any kind of a conversation. Listen, it was even painful to hear his voice.

So, readily acknowledging the depths of my cowardice, I shut off the answering machine and put plenty of space between me and the telephone. I’d tell Al I was in Riverton until well past one, that’s all.

 

I went to work on Tuesday feeling pretty rested. The reason being that once in bed last night, I hadn’t given a single thought to Al or to Lou’s mysterious (from my point of view) dinner companion or even to Mickey Mouth. The instant I hit that pillow—VAROOM—I was off to dreamland.

Anyhow, when I stuck my head in Lou’s office to let him know I’d arrived, he motioned for me to come in. I could tell from his expression that something had happened. Something not very pleasant. Besides, he was chewing gum, which I’d never seen him do before.

“What’s wrong?”

“Sit down,” he said in a strained voice. And then when I obliged: “Want a stick?” He held out a package of Big Red.

I shook my head. “I didn’t know you chewed.”

“I don’t—normally. But, I don’t know, it’s something to do when I’m feeling the way I feel now. Somebody took out Mickey last night.”

“Oh, no! How was he killed?”

“He was run down in an alley off Eldridge Street. That’s only a couple of blocks from Louie’s Place. This young couple was taking a shortcut to some pizza joint, and they’re the ones who discovered the body.”

“I don’t suppose they saw anything.”

“Since when are we that lucky?”

“What time was it when they found him?”

“A little after nine.”

“Maybe he was on his way to Louie’s,” I speculated.

“Could be. We should have a better idea about the time of death when I talk to the medical examiner this afternoon.”

“Any chance it might have been an accident?” I have no idea why I posed the question. The answer was already obvious to me.

“What do
you
think?” Lou challenged. Then a poignant smile flittered across his face. “Do you know what Mickey Mouth’s real name was? Polansky. Michael Polansky.” He shook his head sadly. “Jeez, I didn’t even remember that.”

 

It was as though I were on a seesaw. I had abandoned the widow once again—more or less, anyway—and was now leaning heavily toward Lou’s theory that Frank Vincent had been murdered by someone in my client’s immediate circle. After all, Mickey’s death had occurred on the very day he’d telephoned Lou to tell him that he had information on the shooting—information that implicated either da Silva or somebody with close ties to him. I mean, it would be pushing coincidence pretty damn far (and I’m not big on coincidence anyway) to attribute the snitch’s untimely end to anything but a desire to ensure his silence.

Lou immediately got on the phone to set up meetings with some of da Silva’s intimates. He was able to reach two of them, and they both said we could come by that afternoon.

A few hours later, after a quick bite at the coffee shop around the corner (where I managed to consume a BLT—an
entire
BLT), Lou and I paid the first of today’s visits.

Iggy—I forget his last name—was in the scrap-metal business. The sole proprietor of a junkyard that could boast everything
including
the kitchen sink, Iggy was short and bald and slightly buck toothed. And if you permitted him to breathe on you, you’d die. What I’m saying is that this guy had halitosis with a capital “H.”

Naturally, Iggy didn’t know a Michael Polansky
or
a Mickey Mouth. Ditto a Frank Vincent, although he acknowledged that he may have heard of the man. As to whether he’d been privy to any talk about who in da Silva’s organization might have wanted Vincent dead, he was quick to ask what organization we were referring to. And who the hell was this da Silva, anyway?

Our next stop was the hardware store owned by Davey No-nose, so tagged because he was sorely lacking in the nose department, his nostrils lying almost flat against his face. But not to worry. While he may have been short-changed when it came to a sniffer, what this man had been given in the way of ears more than compensated.

Now, Mr. No-nose was an extremely friendly individual, eager to be of assistance. He was very sorry, but neither Michael Polansky nor Mickey Mouth sounded familiar to him. He was positive he’d never had the pleasure of meeting either of them. Frank Vincent, however, was a different story. He’d been in his company twice—maybe even three times. Davey attended these political fund raisers every once in a while, he explained. Not that he had ever had a real conversation with Mr. Vincent, you understand—just shook his hand and wished him luck, that’s all. But the important thing, we were told quite passionately, was to support the candidate of your choice, which Davey considered a genuine privilege, the American thing to do. Still, although he wasn’t what you could actually call
acquainted
with Vincent, Davey had felt awful bad when he heard what happened to him. He was such a good-looking young fella, too.

Of course, Davey insisted that he was most definitely not a member of Vito da Silva’s organization. Following which he put in hurriedly—and with a wrinkled brow to add to his credibility—“Uh, da Silva. He
is
that gangster guy, isn’t he?” When we answered that, yes, da Silva was occasionally spoken of in this manner, we were admonished with an expression that said quite plainly,
Then how could you even suggest such a thing?

 

“Think those two beauts were telling the truth—about not knowing either of the victims?” Lou asked as soon as we left the hardware store.

I shrugged. “I suppose it
is
possible.”

“Well, I wouldn’t make book on it.” And now Lou’s voice changed character to produce what was certainly one of his more acceptable attempts at mimicry. “ ‘Da Silva. He’s that gangster guy, isn’t he?’ ”