CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

Saturday - 12:45 p.m.

 

Clancy dropped from his cab at the corner of 39th Street and Tenth Avenue, paid the driver, and entered a bar on the corner. He walked quickly through to the telephone in the rear. He hated to waste the time to come this far from the precinct, especially when there was so much to do, but there just wasn't any other way. He couldn't afford to pass up any possibility. He crowded himself into the narrow booth and dialed a number.

The voice that answered was a harsh counterpoint to the obbligato of pool-ball clicks. 'Yeah?'

'Porky,' Clancy said.

'Hang on.' There was no attempt to cover the mouthpiece at the other end; a shout almost shattered Clancy's eardrums. 'Hey, Porky! Somebody wants to talk to yah!'

The voice in the receiver changed, a quieter main theme to the same pool-ball melody. 'Yes?'

'Porky, I'd like to place a quick bet on Bar-Fly.' There was the briefest of hesitations. 'How much?' 'One and a quarter.' 'That's all?' 'That's all.'

‘It's pretty late - for a bet that small.'

Clancy's voice hardened. He gripped the receiver tighter and stared at it, as if his piercing eyes could fix the other through the wire, it's never too late for an old friend.'

His threatening tone made no dent in the other's insouciance. 'Well, O.K. then, old friend. You're covered.'

'Thanks,' Clancy said dryly. He clicked down the phone, glanced at his watch, and walked deeper into the shadows of the narrow bar. He selected an empty booth with empty booths on either side; he slid into it, pulled his hat from his head and wiped his forehead. I suppose I ought to eat something, he thought; there's time enough. But the thought of food was oddly unappetizing. An aproned figure appeared from the front of the bar, leaning on the table casually.

'Buttermilk,' Clancy said. 'A big glass.'

'Right.' The aproned figure straightened up and padded back towards the front. Clancy rubbed his face wearily, and then closed his eyes, preparing to wait.

 

 

Saturday -1:15 p.m.

 

The popular idea that stool-pigeons are slight, scrawny, cringing, dirty little men is, of course, ridiculous. Stool-pigeons, like professionals in other walks of life, come in all sizes, shapes, and forms, but the successful ones are usually quite extroverted, popular, and friendly. Slight, scrawny, cringing, dirty little men would have trouble getting the right time from people, let alone important information. And important information is what stool-pigeons collect and sell.

A perfect example was Porky Frank, a heavy-set, well-dressed, handsome, happy fellow who ran a book for a livelihood. His book was small, but good - which is to say, honest. The success of his book did not in any way make Porky want to give up stool-pigeoning; he enjoyed the contacts it afforded him, and it gave him a profitable outlet for the information that came to his attention, often unbid, which otherwise would have been wasted. And wastefulness, as Porky had been properly taught by a rather strict mother, was a vice.

He came into the bar walking easily, almost jauntily, strode through the gloom to the rear with a pleasant smile and nod for the waiter, and slid into the booth across from Clancy with a pleased glance at his expensive wrist-watch.

'Not bad. One-fifteen on the button. Considering that you don't give a man too much notice, Mr. C. Fortunately I was free.' He looked up and then stared in amazement at the glass before the slumped Lieutenant. 'What on earth is that?'

'Buttermilk.'

Porky drew back. 'You mean you people really go for that jazz about not drinking on duty?'

Clancy grinned. 'Do you want to know the truth?'

'Certainly,' Porky said, it's the only information worth handling.'

'Well, the truth is that I've had about five hours sleep in the past forty-eight, and I'm so bushed that one beer would probably put me flat on my face.'

'Oh. Well, thank God I had my regular eight-hours last night. That's the nice part about my racket - you can keep decent hours. So if you'll pardon me . ..' He waved his hand at the waiter, gave his order, and settled back. Clancy sipped his buttermilk until the waiter had set a glass before his companion.

Porky drank deeply, set his glass down, and glanced at Clancy.

'Well, Mr. C., what's on your mind?'

'Rossi. Johnny Rossi.'

The heavy, handsome face across from him tightened perceptibly. It was obviously not a subject Porky had expected. He stared at the Lieutenant reflectively a moment and then dropped his gaze to his glass. When he looked up again he had forced his face into an expressionless mask. His fingers played with his glass.

'What makes you ask about him? He's pretty far out of your territory, isn't he?'

Clancy frowned. This was a very odd question from a stoolie. Particularly a stoolie he knew as well as Porky Frank. 'Since when do you worry about things like that?'

'Me?' Porky shrugged. His fingers continued to twist his glass idly. 'I never worry about anything, except maybe long-shots. And welchers, of course. It's just odd that you should be asking about him.'

'Why?'

Porky lifted his glass to drink and then set it down. When he spoke it was almost as if he were changing the subject. 'There are a lot of funny rumors floating around.'

Clancy maintained his patience. 'Such as?'

Porky raised his eyes to meet Clancy's significantly. 'Well, such as that the Syndicate are a bit unhappy with Mr. Johnny Rossi. Displeased. Maybe with the whole family.'

'Over anything in particular?'

'Finances, is the story I hear. And I hear they might have good reason. They think Johnny Rossi should have studied harder when he went to school. Principally arithmetic .. .'

'A fast shuffle?'

'The way I hear it,' Porky said softly, 'you could hardly call it a shuffle at all; not in the accepted sense of the word. If the rumors are true, he cut the deck and simply forgot to put about twenty-six cards back on the table.'

Clancy nodded. The story made sense, combined with what he already knew. It might explain a lot of things. He looked up. 'How can a man get away with anything like that in the organization? Don't they usually have checks and balances?'

'The bookkeeping is out in Chicago,' Porky said, it takes time.' He shrugged. 'How does a man embezzle dough from a bank and get away with it?'

'They usually don't,' Clancy said.

'Well,' Porky said. 'The way I hear, Johnny Rossi may or may not.'

Clancy frowned at this cryptic statement. 'And just how good do you hear?'

Porky looked at him and shrugged. 'You know how it is. In this business you hear a lot, but none of it comes with signed affidavits. Personally, I wouldn't take book against it, though.'

Clancy thought a moment. 'You say the Syndicate may be unhappy with the entire family. Is his brother Pete in with Johnny on this?'

'I don't know.' Porky Frank seemed a bit unhappy at having to admit this hiatus in his knowledge. 'I hear there's nothing to indicate he is, but you know the Rossie boys. Those two have been closer than a photo-finish since they were kids. My guess is that the Syndicate accountants are checking pretty hard right now, trying to find out.'

'I see. And where's Johnny Rossi now?'

This was one question that took Porky by surprise. He looked over at Clancy queerly. And then took a long pull of his drink and set his glass down on the table again.

'You wouldn't bull an old bull-artist, would you, Mr. C?'

Clancy froze. 'What do you mean?'

Porky stared at him without expression. 'That's why I thought it odd you wanted to discuss the Rossies. I thought that Johnny Rossi's new address was one of the things you might be able to tell me.'

Clancy's eyes bored into the other's. His jaw was rigid, is that the story going around?'

Porky lifted a hand. 'Not you, Mr. C. Just fuzz, that's all.

Empire State buttons.' He looked at Clancy curiously. 'You have secrets where you work, too?'

'Yeah.' Clancy was thinking.

Porky raised his thick eyebrows comically. 'Any statement for the boys of the press?'

Clancy stood up, his face a hard mask. He didn't bother to answer the question. He put his hat squarely on his head and edged from the booth. 'I'll see you around.'

'Oh, Mr. C.' Porky Frank looked truly apologetic. 'That Bar-Fly - he was a real dog. He ran out.'

'Oh.' Clancy dug into a pocket, unfolded and counted some money, and placed it on the table.

'Thank you.'

Porky tucked the money carelessly into his pocket and remained staring thoughtfully into his glass. Clancy pushed his way through the semi-darkness of the bar, walked to the curb, and flagged a cab.

Damn that Chalmers and his big mouth! So the word was out that the police had Rossi tucked away somewhere. Great! As he climbed into the cab that drew up for him, he pushed aside the thought and tried to assess the value of what he had learned. Not much more than he had already guessed, but at least it was partially confirmed. Actually very little. Just one more loose end, he thought bitterly. And the trouble with loose ends is the more you unravel them, the looser they get. He sighed and leaned back against the cushions, closing his eyes.

 

 

Saturday - 2:05 p.m.

 

The Desk Sergeant looked up as Clancy tramped wearily through the door of the precinct. One look at the lined, fatigued face and he knew it would be pointless to mention the continuing telephone calls from Mr. Chalmers. Pointless and possibly dangerous. I only hope the Lieutenant knows what he's doing, the Sergeant prayed.

Clancy caught the look in the other's eyes and correctly interpreted it. He smiled, is Chalmers still calling?'

The Sergeant looked relieved, but also slightly guilty, as if he were somehow partially at fault for the endless calls from the Assistant District Attorney. 'Yes, sir.'

Clancy shrugged it away. 'Anyone else?'

'Stanton called about ten, fifteen minutes after you left,' the Sergeant said, happy to get off the subject of Chalmers. 'I sent Mary Kelly out to meet him. He was at the New Yorker Hotel when he called. I guess Mary Kelly must have made it on time, because I haven't heard from either one of them since then.'

Clancy nodded, satisfied. 'How about Kaproski?'

'He hasn't called in yet.'

'All right,' Clancy said. He turned toward his office and then paused. Like it or not, he had to eat if he wanted to keep going. 'And, Sergeant, do me a favor, will you? Send somebody down to the restaurant at the corner and get me a ham on rye, with pickles and mustard. And coffee - black, with sugar.'

‘I thought you just went out for lunch,' the Sergeant said, surprised.

‘I forgot dessert,' Clancy said shortly, and went down the corridor to his office. He scaled his battered hat expertly onto a file cabinet and dropped into his chair, staring out of the window at the clothesline hung across the air-shaft. In his absence the overalls had been replaced by a dangling file of limp socks; he studied them morosely. Maybe it was Yom Kippur when those clotheslines were empty, he thought wearily. Where was I on Yom Kippur?

The phone rang and he reached over to pick it up, aware of how tired he was and how stuffed with cotton his brain felt. My advice to me is either wake up or go to sleep at one time, he thought. The way I am right now, nothing makes any sense.

'Yes?'

'Lieutenant,' the Sergeant said apologetically, 'I forgot. When Stanton called before, he said to tell you he left the personal effects of that man at the Farnsworth Hotel in the top center drawer of your desk this morning. He left a note with it, too. He said he didn't have a chance to tell you when he saw you on 86th Street.'

'Thanks,' Clancy said. 'I'll take a look at the stuff.'

He hung up, pushed his swivel chair back from the desk and opened the center drawer. A small manila envelope lay on top of the usual junk that cluttered the drawer; he lifted it out, surprised by its lightness. He pushed the drawer closed, hunched closer to the desk, and up-ended the envelope. A billfold slipped out, and nothing more. Clancy frowned and puckered the envelope, peering within. No loose change? No keys? No handkerchief? He shrugged, thinking of the stuff he carried in his own pockets, and picked up the billfold.

It was new, cheap; a standard plastic imitation-leather wallet sold by the thousands in every five-and-dime in the country, and completely unidentifiable. He slipped his fingers into the little pockets, encountering nothing. Not a card, or a photograph, or a slip of paper, or even the usual cardboard identification card that normally came with all billfolds.

He opened the lips of the wallet; there were bills inside and a piece of paper. He drew out the money, counting it. Two one-hundreds, four fifties, four twenties, three tens, and two ones. Five hundred and twelve dollars. He wrote the amount on the manila envelope automatically, and then turned to the slip of paper, opening it. A brief smile crossed his lips as he read the opening words scrawled in pencil in Stanton's large hand:

 

This is just as I found it. I didn't touch it, but sixty bucks of this is mine, or would be if there was any justice. Which there isn't. Anyway, there wasn't any identification of any kind. Nowhere in the room. Pockets completely empty except for this. No labels, no marks, no nothing. One small airplane-type bag, the kind you carry aboard, with no ID and marked SAS. He probably used it to carry his dressing gown and pajamas. Outside of that, nothing. Not even a clean shirt in the room. No extra shoes; not even a clean pair of socks. Nothing; but nothing. I left everything as was, in case you want to recheck. Stan.

 

Clancy fingered the billfold, his smile fading, his forehead wrinkling. If Stanton said there was no identification, then there wasn't any. But such complete anonymity was hard to understand, particularly in a man who carried his identification on his face. Not even a spare pair of shoes, or even a clean shirt - or even a pair of socks for a change. Sockless Johnny Rossi, Clancy thought; first-baseman on the San Quentin Nine.

He studied the billfold once again, and then tucked the money back into place, slid the wallet into the envelope and the envelope into the center drawer. Later it would have to go into the safe, but that was later. No help there in any event. No help anywhere, he thought bitterly; maybe if I weren't so bushed I could see something that's probably right in front of my nose. A good night's sleep would probably do more toward solving this case than a hundred clues.

The phone rang again, breaking into his thoughts. He reached over, picking up the receiver, stifling a yawn. 'Yes?'

'Lieutenant; there's a man here says he wants to see you.' The Sergeant hesitated, his voice dropping, it's Pete Rossi . ..'

Clancy sat up, his eyes narrowing in thought, his weariness falling from him. 'Send him in.'

'Your sandwich is here, too.' The Sergeant sounded stymied. 'Should I hold it until you're free?'

'Send that in, too. He's seen a man eat before.' He hung up and scratched his jaw thoughtfully. He suddenly realized he needed a shave. A shave, and a new suit, and about two days sleep, he thought. And the answers to a lot of questions if I'm ever going to clean this up in twenty-four hours. Or a month of Sundays.

A policeman appeared at the door, entered, and laid a paper-wrapped sandwich and a cardboard container on the desk. As he left, his place was taken in the doorway by a man in his late forties, impeccably dressed, but with the tough uncompromising face of a professional hood that no amount of prosperity could disguise. A three-hundred-dollar suit draped neatly over the wide hulking shoulders, and a fifteen-dollar Sulka tie managed to encase the bullneck. An older and tougher edition of the man at the Farnsworth, Clancy thought; the family resemblance was strong. The stocky man stood in the doorway, looking over the small room. His tiny eyes skimmed the battered desk and the scratched file cabinets; took in the dismal view from the window. His lip curled.

Clancy reached over, pulling the sandwich closer, beginning to unwrap it. He looked up at the other, his eyes expressionless.

'Come on in,' he said. 'Sit down.'

Rossi pulled a chair from the wall, drew it up to the desk, and lowered himself into it. He looked about for a place to set his pearl-gray fedora and then apparently decided that his knee was probably the cleanest place. Clancy suppressed a smile at the obvious gesture, and tugged at the top of the cardboard coffee-container. The tiny eyes across from him stared at him, reptilian and hard.

‘Well,' Clancy said, picking up the sandwich and bringing it halfway to his mouth, 'What can I do for you?'

'Where's my brother?' The voice was grating, harsh; it sounded as if something had happened to the vocal chords, and that speech might even be painful.

Clancy munched awhile and then sipped coffee. He grimaced; the coffee was cold and, as usual, tasted like oily cardboard. His eyes came up, studying his visitor calmly.

'You've got the wrong department,' he said evenly. 'The Lost-and-Found is down the hall.'

The jaw across from him tightened ominously.

'Don't get cute with me, Lieutenant! Not with me. I'm not one of your local bums; I'm Pete Rossi, Where's my brother?'

'What makes you think I know?'

A manicured hand, hairy and hard as marbles, waved in the air. Light winked from an outsized ring on the little finger. 'Don't give me any crap, Lieutenant. I just got through talking with Chalmers in the D.A.'s office. Where is he?'

'And what did Chalmers tell you?'

'You know what Chalmers told me. Where's Johnny?'

Clancy took another bite of the sandwich and chewed it slowly. It tasted terrible. He swallowed and set the sandwich to one side with a frown, looking up.

'Did Chalmers also happen to tell you that somebody took a shot at your brother with a shotgun? And didn't miss?'

'Yeah, he told me. But he also told me it wasn't anything serious.' The heavy hand on the desk clenched into a fist. 'He also told me you took him out of the hospital and stashed him away somewhere, Lieutenant. I want to know where. And why.'

Clancy dropped the remains of the sandwich into the waste- paper basket and pushed the coffee-container away distastefully. He should have ordered buttermilk - cardboard couldn't ruin that. And you would think that after being in business ten years a restaurant would learn how to make a simple ham on rye. He reached into a pocket, brought out a cigarette and lit it, staring at his visitor curiously through a cloud of smoke.

'How long have you been here in New York, Rossi?'

'Look, Lieutenant. I came here to ask questions, not to answer them.'

'Answer this one.'

There was something in the Lieutenant's hard eyes that brought to the other man a sudden awareness that he was in a police station. 'Couple of days. Why?'

'And what are you doing in New York? Things too dull for you out on the west coast?'

'I come up to take in some shows.' The gravel voice was expressionless. 'I like to look at tall buildings. Come on, Lieutenant. Quit stalling. Where's my brother Johnny?'

'What made you get hold of Chalmers?' Clancy asked. Despite the look in his eyes, his voice seemed to contain nothing but innocent curiosity. 'Do you always look for your brother at the D.A.'s office when he gets lost?' His voice suddenly hardened. 'Or was it the other way around? Did Chalmers get hold of you?'

The small eyes set in their puffy pouches crinkled contemptuously. 'Lots of rumors floating around this town, Lieutenant. I got ears.' The faint smile disappeared as suddenly as it had come, replaced by a black frown. 'Well? Where is he?'

'Tell me something,' Clancy said idly, relaxing, his eyes fixed on the lazy spiral of smoke rising from his cigarette. 'This blasting; this gunning down of your brother. What's your idea about that?'

The face across from him might have been carved from marble. 'A mistake,' Rossi said, his voice rasping. 'I figure it was a mistake.'

'What do you mean, a mistake? Do you mean mistaken identity? Or do you think somebody figured they were in a shooting-gallery and mistook Johnny for a pin-wheel? Or a duck?' Clancy smiled gently at the other. 'Or maybe a pigeon?'

No muscle moved in the gross face. 'A mistake,' Rossi repeated.

'I agree with you,' Clancy said equably. 'But on whose part?'

Rossi leaned over the desk. 'Look, don't bother your head about that, Lieutenant,' he said intensely in his grating voice. 'We'll find the guy that did it and we won't need any fly-cops to help us, either. We settle our own beefs in the Rossi family. We handle our own grief.'

Clancy lifted his eyebrows.

'You overlook the fact that somebody shot him, and shooting a man is against the law,' he said easily. 'That naturally means the police are bound to get involved. But there's one more point ...' His eyes held the other's. 'I hear that the Rossi family may not be so big anymore. I hear that maybe they can't handle all the grief they've got.'

The small eyes tightened into pinpoints. There was a moment's silence.

'You hear wrong, Lieutenant. Let's cut out all this chatter. Where's my brother Johnny?'

'I told you,' Clancy said patiently. 'You're in the wrong department. Try the Lost-and-Found.'

Pete Rossi eyed the lined, tired face across from him a moment, and then heaved himself to his feet. His huge hands held the gray fedora across his stomach.

'Speaking of mistakes, you're making one right now, Lieutenant.' He spoke as softly as his harsh throat would allow. 'A big mistake. I've got friends.’

‘I'm sure you have,' Clancy said, looking up at the heavy face. 'And I'm sure they have shotguns ...'

Pete Rossi opened his mouth and then closed it. He returned Clancy's stare evenly, his face expressionless. 'A cop. A chinzy low-pay fly-cop. In my book you don't even rate a beat out on Staten Island.' He turned toward the door.

'Don't be bitter .. .' Clancy began, but he was talking to an empty room.

He swung about, staring out of the window, his mind busy trying to analyze the possible implications of Pete Rossi's visit. The line of socks drying on the clothesline waved gently in the afternoon breeze, as if offering friendly consolation on the obscurity of his problem. Sockless Johnny Rossi, Clancy thought, grinding out his cigarette in the ashtray. Sockless Johnny Rossi, bat-boy on the Purgatory Nine…