The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer (38 page)

Joe shook his head, lighting a cigarette and looking
out the window. He didn't want to look at Slinky, didn't wish to
acknowledge his presence more than he had to.

"So I figured what the hey? Let him be a doctor,
then he can pay me, you know? Basically, I knew he was a good kid,
and not trying to pull any shit. Well, five, maybe six weeks ago, I
get a call from him. He says he's going up to Eastham over the
weekend with his friend Jack. Says they'll be staying at Jack's
parents' cottage on the beach, right? He asks me could I come up
there and meet him for a few minutes. Says he's got something for me
that could be worth a lot of money."

Joe was leaning forward now, elbows on the table,
looking hard at Falcone.

"Do you remember what day it was, exactly?"
he asked.

"When he called? Sure. It was Friday. The day of
the big storm."

"Andy was murdered that same night."

"Uh-huh. I found that out later. So I'm taking a
chance telling you this. But believe me, I didn't kill him."

"Why should we believe you, Slinky?" asked
Joe. "And why are you coming here to tell us this?"

Falcone stirred uneasily and ran his fingers through
his hair. I asked him if he'd like a drink. He brightened at the
offer, and asked for a vodka and tonic.

"Why am I here? Because, as you know,
Lieutenant, I'm in a little bit of trouble. What I'm thinking is, I
help you on this other business, you'll help me cut a deal later on.
Okay?"

"Maybe," said Joe sleepily, "can't
promise anything, but there's a chance."

"
Well, what the hey. I mean, it can't hurt. That
pile of shit he gave me isn't worth anything that I can tell. just a
notebook and bunch of papers. But maybe it'll help you guys find his
killer, you know?"

"
Stuff he gave you?"

"Yeah. Said I could hold onto it for him, for
collateral, he said. And when he was ready, then we could sell it for
a bundle."

"And this stuff he gave you was a bunch of
papers? It wasn't rocks and graphs?" asked Mary.

"Rocks? Hell no, Mrs. Adams. There wasn't any
rocks. just a notebook and whole bunch of papers in one of those
cardboard cases that tie up with a shoelace. Bunch of writing and
numbers was all it was. I didn't even look at it hardly. You know?"

"And he gave you these? For you to keep? asked
Joe, leaning over the table again.

"Yeah. I just said that."

"And you've still got this stuff?"

"
Maybe."

Joe let out a long, soft sigh.

"Look," said Falcone, clasping his fingers
together as if about to pray, "I know I got some time coming. I
just don't wanta go to Atlanta on a federal rap. I get my ticket
punched for Atlanta, I kill myself first. You get it?"

"Gee, I can't imagine why you feel that way,
Eddie. just because a young, cute guy like you, with all those
delicate manners of yours, is gonna be in the slammer with all those
scuzzbags who haven't seen a broad in half a lifetime. So you're
gonna have to play drop the soap for all those—

"Stop it, Joey!" snapped Mary. She was
boiling mad, and I knew why. She was thinking about what could happen
to her own son. Then she collected herself. "Go ahead, Eddie.
Tell us everything."

"
Thanks, Mrs. Adams. Hey, where's your family
from?"

"Schenectady."

"No, I mean, where're you from?"

"San Mango, in Calabria."

"Ahhh, calabrese! Even Sicilians fear the
Calabrians."

"For good reason," Mary answered.

Eddie Falcone laughed. Little did he know . . .

"
So c'mon, Eddie. What happened that night?"
asked Mary.

"Well, let's see. He called me earlier that day,
Friday. I think it was late in the morning, or maybe early afternoon.
Wait. Yeah, it was afternoon, because he called me at a place I go to
in Pawtucket. I remember sitting at the bar there when they brought
the phone to me, and I remember looking at the clock. Well, I wasn't
real anxious to drive up to the Cape then, you know? So I says, what
is it? He says I can't explain it now, but you'll hafta trust me, and
if you'll keep it for me safe and hidden, then at the end of the
summer or whatever, I'll help you sell it for a lot more scratch than
I owe you. That's what he told me. In a nutshell. And so then what I
realize is, I realize I gotta go up there because you know why?
Because him not paying me back, well, it looks bad, you know? Guy
like me's got a rep to keep up. I mean, it gets around guys aren't
paying Slinky back, it gets worse, you know?"

"Yeah. Or, you could always go to the
authorities and complain, couldn't you, Eddie?"

"Hey yeah, right. Funny. So funny I should write
it down. So we're talking and he tells me how to get here. You know,
to this place, here. I says no, too obvious. I says name a place I
can't miss, I'll meet you there. He says the windmill. Meet me at the
Eastham windmill. I says where the hell is that? He says it's right
off the highway, on your left. Can't miss it. So I says okay but it
better be good. Can I have another, Mrs. Adams?"

Mary got him some more Destroyer and Slinky rattled
right along, not missing a beat.

"So I leave the bar after dinner. First thing I
realize when I go outside—Holy Christ! It's raining and blowing
like crazy. I almost don't go. But then I figure what the hey; I'll
have Vinnie drive while I watch movies in the back. So we're riding
up here in the thunder and rain and I'm having a drink or two in the
back, you know, watching some skin flicks. So finally Vinnie—"

"You were watching skin flicks all by yourself?"
said Mary. "Poor baby."

"Lay off, Mare," said Joe.

"Anyway, so Vinnie, he spots the windmill. We
stop the car and wait. Finally, here comes the kid, soaked through
and lugging this case with him, which he's holding under his
raincoat. He gets in the car with me; I offer him a drink. He says
no; he feels like shit. Says he's feeling so bad he wants to go right
back and crash. So I say okay, let's see. Well, like I said before,
it was nothing I could dig. I says you better not be yanking my
chain, kid. 'Cause if you are, it's bye-bye time—"

He paused suddenly in his narrative and looked up at
Joe. "Not that I woulda done anything. You know. just an
expression. So it winds up like this: I say let's meet in a coupla
months and go over this together when we got more time. Meanwhile,
don't get the idea you're off the hook because personally, I mean,
speaking for myself, this don't look like shit."

"
And?” said Joe.

"And . . . and so I drop the kid off at the
bottom of this little road here, watch him walking back up to this
house, and that's the last I ever saw of him."

"So where's the stuff he gave you?"

"You'll gimme a break?"

"I'll do all I can," said Joe. "That's
my promise, and you've got two family witnesses."

Eddie Falcone slapped his two hands down on the
table.

"
That's good enough for me,” he said. "But
mind if I get my own witness?"

"Not him," I said. "Does it have to be
him?"

"Who the hell else I got?"

"Okay," growled Joe, "but tell
Tinkerbell to leave all his toys in the car, okay? And also, remind
him not to eat the door on his way in."

So Falcone left and returned shortly with Godzilla,
who stood near the table and nodded evenly at all that was said,
sipping sullenly on a glass of red Mary had poured for him. How he
was supposed to remember everything was beyond me, but then Falcone
stood up, telling us to come along. We approached Slinky's mob-mobile
as Vinnie raised the trunk and withdrew a brown cardboard file case
and handed it to Joe. I looked over his shoulder as he opened it. He
took the notebook out first, then bundle after bundle of papers. Some
were typed, most were written in longhand. We saw crude diagrams,
chemical and mathematical formulas, and miscellaneous scribblings and
jottings. But no matter how apparently sloppy and haphazard the file
appeared, there was no doubt as to what it was.

"Son of a bitch," said Joe. "The
research notes of Lionel Hartzell."

"
Good God. The kid was ripping off everything he
could lay his hands on."

"Is it what we thought?" Mary asked.

"Yeah, it's what we thought. jeeez, Mare, who'd
ever think that a kid as charming and smart as Andy Cunningham would
be trying to hold up everybody in his path. Maybe it's just as well
he's dead. I know, I know, it's a shitty thing to say. But what kind
of
doctor would he have made?"

We said goodbye to Slinky. Joe told him not to get
any bright ideas and take off. Mary gave him a hug, saying the dinner
offer still held. Then she held up the paper bag he'd given her and
thanked him.

"Aw, it's nothing," he said. "Hope you
enjoy them."

"By the way, Eddie," I said, "how come
everybody calls you Slinky?”

"Oh, well I'm not real proud of it. About six
years ago, I got real drunk at my cousin's wedding? Well, the
reception was up on the second floor of this big hotel in Providence?
Anyways, I got so bombed I passed out as I was getting ready to go
down the stairs? So what happened, I fell over and rolled, bump,
bump, bump, bump, you know, all the way down this wicked high
staircase. Shit! Lucky it was carpeted thick. So anyways, afterwards
they said I looked like a Slinky. You know, a Slinky is a kinda toy.
It's a spring that goes—"

"Yeah yeah yeah," said Joe. "Take off,
Falcone. And stick around for your hearing. As for Twinkletoes over
there, get him to watch Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. Maybe it'll
help."

The big white caddy rolled away from the Breakers,
and we went inside. The first thing Joe did was to call Paul Keegan's
office in Hyannis to tell him to reopen Lionel Hartzell's file.

"
So you were right all along, Paul. It was the
old guy. He looks better for it now than anybody. Our mistake was in
assuming the burglaries and the murder were connected. Andy
Cunningham was playing all sides against the middle, and lots of
people had reason to kill him. What? Yeah. That's what I'd do; I'd
start right now."

He hung up, and Mary went to the phone.

"I'm going to call Jackie and tell him,"
she said.

"Well, while you're at it, tell him to steer
clear of old man Hartzell until Paul Keegan gets there," I said.
'Joe, what'll he do tonight? Take him in?"

"Well where is he then?" said Mary into the
phone. "Can you ask his brother? Is Tony there?"

"I doubt if he can arrest him. But maybe. Maybe
he's having the paperwork started on a warrant right now. Who knows?"

"Tony, where's Jackie?"

"But I was just thinking. Is this folder of his
papers enough evidence? Does it provide enough motive for a warrant?
I mean hell, they cleared him once. Why—"

"Charlie! Joey!"

We turned to see Mary dancing in front of the wall
phone, which was dangling on its cord, scraping the floor.

"He's gone with him! With him!" screamed
Mary, collapsing on the floor. I reached for the receiver and grabbed
it.

"Who's this?"

"Dad?”

"Tony, where's Jack?"

"That's just what I was trying to tell Mom. He
went out to dinner with that Professor Hartzell. Hartzell called and
said he wanted to take Jack out to dinner before he left to show
there were no hard feelings. He picked Jack up about half an hour
ago. Why? What's going on?"
 

THIRTY-ONE

Joe HAD HIS CRUISER'S dash beacon on, and we flew
along the Cape Highway for Woods Hole. Mary was in the back seat,
crying and carrying on. We had the radio going, and Joe was trying to
raise Paul Keegan or his office on it. No luck. I sat there next to
Joe with clenched teeth, closing and unclosing my fists. All I could
think of was taking Hartzell's neck in my hands and squeezing.

The speedometer said a hundred and twelve on the
straights, but it seemed to me that the road, lit up by the stabbing
beams of our headlights, was moving underneath us as slow as
molasses.

Joe's face was wet with sweat. One hand was on top of
the wheel, the other clutched the microphone, punching down the call
button, saying the same thing over and over: 'Jack Adams, white male,
age twenty-three, six foot two, hundred ninety pounds, blond hair,
blue eyes with Lionel Hartzell, white male, age sixty, five foot
seven, weight, one seventy, thin white hair, glasses . . . request
all local units in Falmouth and Woods Hole check eating
establishments in area, including Coonamessett Inn. Do you read? Over
. . ."

"Hurry, for Chrissakes!" I shouted,
pounding the dashboard. Joe punched the pedal down further. Hundred
Fifteen, hundred twenty, hundred twenty-five . . .

We shot past cars in the right lane. The exits
whizzed by: Brewster, Harwich, South Dennis, Yarmouth Port, Hyannis,
Barnstable, Marstons Mills . . .