One Night Stands and Lost Weekends
Page 37

“One if by land,” she mumbled. “Two if by sea.”
I kissed her cheek. She smiled like a Cheshire cat, happy and contented. I dressed and left her apartment.
The first stop was my own apartment. I got on the phone, cursed myself once, quietly, and called the Continental Detective Agency in Cleveland. The voice that answered sounded two years out of an expensive college. I told him to run a brief check on a man named Jack Blake, supposed to be a homicide victim within the past couple of months, and to ring me back on it.
It was simple stuff and it only took him half an hour. Jack Blake, he revealed, was a card sharp who ran a magic shop on Euclid Avenue, got beaten to death in his own home, and had a daughter named Rhona. It was she who reported all this to the police. So far it was unsolved. Did I want to know more?
I didn’t. I told him to bill me and got off the phone. I’m sorry, Rhona, I said softly. This time I should have believed you. I’m sorry.
Then I got out of there and headed for the Senator, a cafeteria on Broadway at 96th, downstairs from Manny Hess’s pool hall and across the street from a Ping-Pong emporium. They serve good food and run a clean place, and every small-time operator on Upper Broadway drops in for coffee-and. I went inside and got a cup of coffee and carried it to the table where Herbie Wills was sitting.
Wills, a small, gray man of forty-five, was eating yogurt and buttered whole wheat toast. There was a glass of milk standing on the table.
“Ulcers,” he said. “I went to this doctor because of my stomach, he said I have ulcers. I have this very sensitive stomach, Mr. London. There are certain foods I can’t eat. They disagree with me, you know.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Now,” he said, spooning in a teaspoon of yogurt. “Can I help you, Mr. London?”
“I need some information.”
“Sure, Mr. London.”
Information was Herbie’s livelihood. He wasn’t exactly a stool pigeon, just a little man who kept his ears open and filed away everything into separate compartments of his mind. When the information market was weak he ran errands for bookies. He was a hanger-on, living in a clean but shabby room in a 98th Street hotel.
“Milton Klugsman,” I said.
Herbie pursed his bloodless lips, tapped three times on the table with his index finger. “So far,” he said, “nothing. More?”
I gave him a quick description. “I make him in Canarsie, Herbie. At least he’s familiar with the area out there. A Brooklyn or Queens boy, then. Any help?”
“Miltie,” he said. I looked at him. “Miltie Klugsman, Mr. London. This is what throws me for a moment; you said Milton Klugsman, I start thinking in terms of Milton or Milt. But I knew a Miltie Klugsman. This is all he gets called. Miltie.”
“Go on.”
Another spoon of yogurt, bite of toast, deliberate sip of milk. I watched him and hoped I would never get ulcers. He wiped his mouth again and shrugged.
“I do not know much,” he said carefully. “Miltie Klugsman. I think he works for himself, Mr. London. I think maybe selling things, like a fence. But this is just a guess because I hardly know him at all.”
“Who are his friends?”
Herbie shrugged. “This I don’t know. As a matter of fact, I hardly know Miltie Klugsman at all. You were right about Brooklyn. He lives somewhere in East New York near the Queens line.”
“Married?”
“He could be. I see him once with a dark-haired girl. She was wearing a mink stole. But this doesn’t mean she is his wife, Mr. London.”
That sounded logical enough. “I have to find Miltie,” I said. “Where does he hang out?”
He thought about it, through another spoon of yogurt, bites of toast, two sips of milk. “Now wait a minute,” he said. “Sure.”
“What?”
“A diner in Brooklyn!” he said. “On Livonia Avenue near Avenue K. I don’t know Brooklyn too well. The diner is one of those old trolley cars but like remodeled. I don’t know the name.”
“Probably something like ‘Diner’.”
“That might be it,” he said seriously. “Try there, ask around. You might even find Miltie himself.”
I doubted it. Miltie Klugsman wouldn’t be there unless they had plastered him under the basement floor. But I didn’t tell this to Herbie.
He was a stool pigeon with a conscience. He wouldn’t take the ten I gave him, insisting it was too much for the sort of information he had given me. I gave him a five finally and got out of there.
I went back to the Chevy. Some juvenile delinquent had relieved me of my radio aerial—in the morning he would go to shop class and make a zip gun out of it. Deprived of music, I headed dolefully for Brooklyn.
SIX
Livonia Avenue was filled with people. I parked two blocks from the diner—which was named Diner after all—and stopped in a drugstore to see if Miltie Klugsman had had a phone. He did, plus an address on Ashford Street. The pharmacist told me how to get to Ashford Street. I started in that direction, then decided to try the diner first.
It wasn’t much. A ferret-faced counterman was pressing a hamburger down on a greasy grill. He turned to look at me when I walked in. An antique whore sat at the counter near the door drinking coffee with cream.
I took a stool halfway between the old girl and a trio of young punks in snap-brim hats, all of them trying to look like latter-day Kid Twists. I was in Reles country, Murder Inc.’s old stamping grounds not far from the heart of Brownsville.
The counterman decided that the hamburger was cooked enough to kill the taste. He surrounded it with a stale roll, slapped it onto a chipped saucer, slid it down the counter to the snap-brim set. He came over to me and leaned on the counter. His face didn’t change expression when he saw the bulge the .38 made in my jacket. He looked at me, deadpan, and waited.
“Black coffee,” I said.
“No trouble. Not in here.”
He talked without moving his lips. It’s a trick they teach you in Dannemora and other institutions of higher learning. I asked him if I looked like a troublemaker. He shrugged.
“I just want coffee,” I said.
The counterman nodded. He gave me the coffee and I handed him a dime for it. He walked away to trade a story or two with the old hooker. I waited for the coffee to cool. The snap-brim triplets were looking me over.
The coffee tasted like lukewarm dishwater that some fool had rinsed a coffee cup in. I left it alone. The counterman came back, leaned over me like the Tower of Pisa.
“You want anything else besides coffee?”
“A plain doughnut.”
He gave me one. “That all?”
“Maybe not.”
“What else?”
I sat for a moment or two trying to look like a hood trying to think. My eyes were as wary as I could make them.
“I’m looking for a guy,” I said. “I was told I could find him here.”
“Who is he?”
“A guy named Klugsman,” I said. “Miltie Klugsman. You know him?”
Not a flicker of expression. Just a nod.
“You know where I can find him?”
“He ain’t around much. What do you want with him?”
“It’s private.”
“Yeah?”
I pretended to do some more thinking. “I hear he buys things. I got a thing or two for sale.”
“Like what?”
I shook my head. “No,” I said.
“You might get a better price from somebody else,” the counterman said. “Depending on what you got to sell. Miltie, now he can be cheap. You got something for sale, you want all you can get.”
“I was given orders to see Miltie,” I said. The hell with it—let him think I was only a hired hand. I didn’t care that much about the prestige value of the bit.
“Miltie,” he said. “Miltie Klugsman.”
“Yeah.”
“You hang on a minute,” he said. “I think that guy there wants more coffee. You just hang on.”
He filled a cup with coffee and took it over to the young punks. The one he gave it to had his hat halfway over his eyes. The counterman said something unintelligible without moving his lips. The kid answered.
The counterman came back. He asked me my name. I told him it didn’t matter. He asked me who I worked for and I said that didn’t matter either.
“I’ll tell it to Klugsman,” I said.
“He could be hard to find.”
“So maybe I came to the wrong place.” I started to slide off the stool, got one foot on the floor before his hand settled on my shoulder. I stood up and turned to face him again.
“Don’t be in a hurry,” he said.
“I got things to do.”
“Miltie used to come in a lot. He ain’t been around much. I was talking to a guy”—he nodded toward the triplets—“over there.”
“I figured.”
“One of ’em hangs with Miltie now and then. He says maybe he can help. If you want.”
“Sure.”
“Danny,” he said, “c’mere.”
Danny c’mered. He was almost my height but his posture concealed the fact neatly. His fingers were yellow from too many cigarettes and not enough soap. His suit must have been fairly expensive and his shoes had a high shine on them, but nothing he wore could take the slob look away from him. It came shining through.
“You want Miltie,” he said.
“That’s the idea.”
“He’s a little hot right now,” Danny said. “He’s holed up a few blocks from here. I could show you.”
We left the diner. Danny lit a cigarette in the doorway. He didn’t offer me one. We turned right and walked to the corner, turned right again and left Livonia for a side street. The block was darker, more residential than commercial. We walked the length of the block in silence and took another right turn.
“You ever meet Miltie?”
“No,” I said.
“You from New York?”
“The Bronx. Throg’s Neck.”
“Long way from home,” he said.
I didn’t answer him. We kept walking. At the corner we made another right turn.
“This is a hell of a way to go,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“We just go around the block,” I said. “There must be a shorter way to do it.”
“This is easier.”
“Yeah?”
“It gives ’em time,” he said.
It took a minute. Time? Time to make a phone call, time to take the short route and come around the block to meet us. I went for my gun. I was too slow. Danny was on my left, a foot or so behind me. His gun dug into my rib cage and the muzzle felt colder than death.
“Easy,” he said.
My hand was three or four inches from the .38. It stopped in midair and stayed there.
“Take out the piece,” he said. “Do it slow. Very slow. Don’t point it at me. I’d just as soon shoot you now and find out later who the hell you are.”
I took out the gun and I did it slowly. There was a warehouse across the street, dark and silent. On our side was a row of brownstones filled with people who didn’t report gunshots to the police. I let the gun point at the ground.