A Dance at the Slaughter House (Matthew Scudder #9)

A Dance at the Slaughter House (Matthew Scudder #9) Page 32

"I think I can get him to come in," I said. "I think that's what he wants to do."

"That'd be nice," he said. "But if not at least he'll talk to you, and you'll be wearing a wire. You're meeting him at four? I wish it was earlier."

"He's got appointments until then."

"And business is business, right? I'll see you here at three." He stood up. "Meantime I got appointments myself."

I walked across town to Elaine's, stopping en route for flowers and a bag of Jaffa oranges. She put the flowers in water and the oranges in a large blue glass bowl and told me she was feeling a lot better. "Weak," she said, "but definitely on the mend. What about you? Are you all right?"

"Why?"

"You look drawn. Were you up again last night?"

"No, but I didn't sleep very well. The case is breaking. It ought to wrap up in a couple more hours."

"How did all that happen? It's Wednesday, isn't it? Or did I get delirious and miss a couple of days?"

"Thurman needed a confidant and I managed to be it. He was feeling pressured, partly by me, I suppose, but mostly by Stettner."

"Who's Stettner?"

"Rubber Man," I said. I gave her an abridged version of our conversation last night at Grogan's. "I was in the right place at the right time," I said. "I was lucky."

"Unlike Amanda Thurman."

"And a whole lot of other people, from the sound of it. But Amanda's the one they'll all go away for. Between Thurman's testimony and whatever physical evidence they can put together, they ought to be able to build a nice solid case."

"Then why so glum, chum? Shouldn't you be strutting around like a bantam rooster? Whatever happened to enjoying the moment of triumph?"

"I guess I'm tired."

"And what else?"

I shrugged. "I don't know," I said. "I spent a couple of hours with Thurman last night. It didn't make me like the little prick but it didn't leave me ready to rejoice in his downfall, either. A week ago he looked to be some kind of cold criminal genius, and now it turns out he's just a dimwit. A couple of manipulative perverts led him around by his cock."

"You feel sorry for him."

"I don't feel sorry for him. I think he's a manipulative bastard himself, he just ran into a better one in Stettner. And I'm not buying everything he told me last night. I don't think he fed me any outright lies, but I think he made himself look better than he had any right to. For one thing, I'll bet anything Amanda wasn't the first person he killed."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because Stettner's not stupid. He knew the cops would grill Thurman up one side and down the other if his wife was murdered under that sort of circumstances. Even if they didn't suspect he was involved, they'd question him repeatedly in order to get a line on the killers and not overlook any possible clue. So Stettner would have tempered him first by getting him accustomed to killing. He was there when Leveque was killed, he was an accessory, and I think there must have been times when he and one or both of the Stettners did a number on a woman and she wound up dead. That's what I would have done if I were Stettner."

"I'm glad you're not."

"And I'm not sure how much I buy of his attack of conscience," I said. "I think he's scared, I think that part's true enough. Once Stettner gets the last hundred grand from him he's got no reason to keep him alive. Unless he wants to try for the rest of the money, which is always a possibility. Maybe that's Thurman's real fear. He doesn't want to give up the rest of the money."

"He can't keep it anyway, can he? If he confesses?"

"He doesn't intend to confess."

"But I thought you said you were going to bring him in."

"I'm going to try. I'm hoping I can manipulate him the way Stettner did."

"You want me to come along and blow him?"

"I don't think that'll be necessary."

"Good."

"See," I said, "I think he's trying to manipulate me. Maybe he wants me to kill Stettner for him. That seems farfetched, but it's not out of the question. He may want my help in arranging some sort of Mexican standoff, whereby he leaves evidence and testimony that will nail Stettner in the event of his own death. If he sets that up right and Stettner knows it, then he's home free."

"But any evidence he gives you-"

"Goes straight to Joe Durkin. Damn it."

"What's the matter?"

"It's eleven-thirty and I'm not seeing him until four. I should have kept pressing him last night instead of giving him time to think it over. The problem was that he was exhausted and so was I. I thought we'd do it this morning but he went into this song and dance about his business appointments. I wanted to tell him he could afford to cancel, that he was out of business, but I couldn't do that. You know, he called me a few times yesterday afternoon and wouldn't talk."

"You told me."

"If I could have got together with him then it might be wrapped up by now. Of course I wouldn't have talked to Danny Boy and I wouldn't have gone in knowing about Stettner." I sighed. "I guess it'll all work out."

"It always does, baby. Why don't you lie down for an hour or two? Take the bed, or I'll make up the couch for you."

"I don't think so."

"It won't hurt you. And I'll wake you in plenty of time to go see Joe and get wired."

"I'm already wired. In a manner of speaking."

"That's my point."

I caught a noon meeting and walked back to my hotel, stopping for a stand-up lunch at a pizza parlor. I had pepperoni on it to make sure I covered the four basic food groups.

Maybe the meeting relaxed me, or maybe it was the result of good nutrition, but when I got back to my room I felt tired enough to lie down for an hour. I set my alarm for two-thirty and left a call at the desk for that time as a backup. I kicked my shoes off and stretched out in my clothes, and I must have been out before my eyes were completely shut.

The next thing I knew the phone was ringing. I sat up and looked at my clock and it was only two, and I picked up the phone prepared to snarl at the desk clerk. TJ said, "Man, why is it you ain't never home? How I gone tell you what I find if I can't even find where you at?"

"What did you find out?"

"The boy's name. The young one. I met this kid who knows him, says his name be Bobby."

"Did you learn his last name?"

"There ain't a lot of last names on the Deuce, Matt. Ain't too many first names, either. Mostly it's street names, you know? Cool Fool and Hats and Dagwood. Bobby, he too new on the block to have hisself a street name. Kid I talked to say he just got here around Christmastime."

He hadn't lasted long. I wanted to tell TJ that it didn't matter, that the man who'd been with Bobby was about to go away for something else, something that would keep him away from kids for a long time.

"Don't know where he came from," TJ was saying. "Got off a bus one day is all. Musta come from some place where they had men who liked young boys, 'cause that what he was lookin' for from the jump. 'Fore he knew it one of the pimps scooped him up an' started sellin' his white ass."

"What pimp?"

"You want for me to find out? I most likely could, but the meter already run to the twenty-dollar mark."

Was there any point? The easy case against Stettner was the murder of Amanda Thurman. There was a body and a witness and, in all likelihood, some kind of physical evidence, all of them lacking in the disappearance and probably murder of the boy called Bobby. Why bother to chase some pimp?

"See what you can find out," I heard myself say. "I'll cover the meter."

AT three I presented myself at Midtown North and took off my jacket and shirt. A police officer named Westerberg wired me for sound. "You've worn one of these before," Durkin said. "With that landlady, one the papers called the Angel of Death."

"That's right."

"So you know how it works. You shouldn't have any trouble with Thurman. If he wants you to go to bed with him just make sure you keep your shirt on."

"He won't want me to. He doesn't like homosexuals."

"Right, nothing queer about Richard. You want a vest? I think you ought to wear one."

"On top of the wire?"

"It's Kevlar, it shouldn't interfere with the pickup. The only thing it's supposed to stop is a bullet."

"There won't be any bullets, Joe. Nobody's used a gun in this so far. The vest won't stop a blade."

"Sometimes it will."

"Or a pair of panty hose around the neck."

"I guess," he said. "I just don't like the idea of sending you in without backup."

"You're not sending me in. I'm not under your command. I'm a private citizen wearing a wire out of a sense of civic responsibility. I'm cooperating with you, but you're not responsible for my safety."

"I'll remember to tell them that at the hearing after you wind up in a body bag."

"That's not going to happen," I said.

"Say Thurman woke up this morning and realized he talked too much, and now you're the loose end he has to get rid of."

I shook my head. "I'm his ace in the hole," I said. "I'm his backup, I'm the man who can make sure Stettner won't take a chance on killing him. Hell, he hired me, Joe. He's not going to kill me."

"He hired you?"

"Last night. He gave me a retainer, insisted I take it."

"What did he give you?"

"A hundred dollars. A nice crisp hundred-dollar bill."

"Hey, every little bit helps."

"I didn't keep it."

"What do you mean, you didn't keep it? You gave it back to him, how's he gonna trust you?"

"I didn't give it back to him. I got rid of it."

"Why? Money's money. It doesn't know where it came from."

"Maybe not."

"Money knows no owner. Basic principle of law. How'd you get rid of it?"

"Walking home," I said. "We walked as far as Ninth Avenue and Fifty-second Street and then he went one way and I went the other. The first guy who staggered out of a doorway looking for a handout, I wadded up Thurman's money and stuck it in his cup. They all have cups now, Styrofoam coffee cups that they hold out at you."

"That's so people won't have to touch them. You gave some bum on the street a hundred-dollar bill? How's he gonna spend it? Who's gonna change it for him?"

"Well," I said, "that's not my problem, is it?"

Chapter 17

I walked over to where Richard Thurman lived and stood in a doorway across from his building. I got there ten minutes early for our four o'clock appointment and I spent the time watching the sidewalk traffic. I couldn't tell whether or not there was a light on in his apartment. His building was on the uptown side of the block and the windows on the upper floors caught the sunlight and reflected it back at me.

I waited until four, and then I waited another two minutes or so before I crossed the street and entered the vestibule next door to Radicchio's entrance. I pressed the button for Thurman and waited to be buzzed in. Nothing happened. I rang again and waited and again nothing happened. I went next door and checked the restaurant bar. He wasn't there. I went back to my station across the street, and after ten more minutes I walked to the corner and found a working pay phone. I called his apartment and the machine answered, and at the tone I said, "Richard, are you there? Pick up the phone if you are." He didn't pick up.