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I called my hotel to see if there had been any calls. There hadnt. I got Five Boroughs number from Information and got a secretary who would tell me only that he was not in the office. She didnt know where he was or when he was expected back.
I went back to Thurmans building and rang the bell of the travel agent on the second floor. The buzzer sounded immediately and I walked up a flight, waiting for someone to come out on the landing and challenge me. No one did. I went on up the stairs. The Gottschalks door had been secured since the break-in, with the doorframe reinforced and the locks replaced. I climbed another flight to the fifth floor and listened at Thurmans door. I couldnt hear anything. I rang the bell and heard it sound within the apartment. I knocked on the door anyway. There was no response.
I tried the door and it didnt budge. There were three locks, although there was no way to tell how many of them were engaged. Two had pickproof Medeco cylinders, and all were secured by escutcheon plates. An angle iron installed at the juncture of door and frame rendered the door secure against jimmying.
I stopped at the two second-floor offices, the travel agent and the ticket broker, and asked if theyd seen Richard Thurman that day, if by any chance hed left any sort of message with them. They hadnt and he hadnt. I asked the same question in Radicchios and got the same answer. I went back to my post across the street, and at five oclock I called the Northwestern again and learned that I hadnt had any calls, from Thurman or from anyone else. I hung up and spent another quarter to call Durkin.
"He never showed," I said.
"Shit. What is he, an hour late?"
"He hasnt tried to call me, either. "
"The cocksuckers probably on his way to Brazil. "
"No, that doesnt figure," I said. "Hes probably stuck in traffic or hung up with some client or sports promoter or sponsor. "
"Or giving Mrs. Stettner a farewell hump. "
"An hours nothing. Remember, he hired me. Im working for him, so I suppose he can stand me up or run late without worrying that Im going to throw a fit. I know where hes going to be this evening. I was supposed to go out to Maspeth with him for the boxing telecast. Ill give him another hour or so and if he still doesnt show Ill look for him at the arena. "
"Youll keep on wearing the wire. "
"Sure. It wont start recording until I turn it on and I havent done that yet. "
He thought it over. "I guess thats okay," he said.
"Except theres one thing. "
"Whats that?"
"I was wondering if you could send somebody over to open his apartment. "
"Now?"
"Why not? I dont think hes going to show in the next hour. If he does Ill cut him off downstairs, drag him someplace for a drink. "
"What do you expect to find?"
"I dont know. "
After a short silence he said, "No, I couldnt get a court order. What am I gonna tell a judge? He had an appointment with a guy and he didnt show so I wanta kick his door in? Besides, time it took to get a court order youd be out in Maspeth. "
"Suppose you forget to get a court order. "
"No way. Worst thing in the world. Say we find something, its fruit of the poisoned tree. Could be a signed confession plus an eight-by-ten glossy of him strangling her and we couldnt do shit with it. Its not admissible because we got it through an unauthorized search and seizure. " He sighed. "Now if you were to go in on your own and I didnt know about it-"
"I havent got the skills. Hes got pickproof cylinders. I could spend a week and not get in the door. "
"Then forget it. Its his confessions gonna hang the bunch of them, not any evidence sitting in his apartment. "
I said what Id been thinking about. "Suppose hes in there. "
"Dead, you mean. Well, deads dead, you know? If hes dead now hell be just as dead tomorrow, and if you still havent heard from him by then Ill have enough grounds to hunt up a judge and get in legally. Matt, if hes already dead he cant say anything to you that he cant say tomorrow. " When I was silent he said, "Tell me straight out. You were standing in front of his door. Did you get the sense that he was dead on the other side of it?"
"Come on," I said. "Im not a psychic. "
"No, but you got cop instincts. How would you call it? Was he in there?"
"No," I said. "No, the place felt empty to me. "
BY six he still hadnt shown and I was tired of lurking in doorways. I called my hotel again, and while I was at it I wasted two more quarters on calls to Paris Green and Grogans. Not surprisingly, he wasnt at either of those places.
Three cabdrivers in a row made it clear that they werent going to Maspeth. I went into the subway station at Fiftieth and Eighth and studied the map. The M would get me to Maspeth, but it seemed enormously complicated to get to it and I wouldnt know which way to walk when I got off it. Instead I took the E train two stops into Queens, getting off at Queens Plaza where I figured there would be taxis waiting. I got a driver who not only knew how to get to Maspeth but was able to find the arena. He pulled up in front of the entrance and I could see the FBCS vans parked where Id seen them a week ago.
The sight was reassuring. I paid my cabby and walked over to the vans but didnt see Thurman. I bought a ticket and went through the turnstile and found a seat in the same spot where Mick and I had sat a week earlier. The first prelims were under way and a couple of listless middleweights were swinging at each other in the middle of the ring. I scanned the ringside seats of the center section, where Id seen Bergen Stettner. I didnt see him now, or the boy either.
The four-rounder went to a decision. While the official was collecting the scorecards from the judges I went over to ringside and got the cameramans attention. I asked him where Richard Thurman was.
"I dont know where the hell he is," he said. "He supposed to be here tonight? Maybe hes in the truck. "
I went outside and nobody knew where Thurman was. One man watching the telecast on a monitor said he heard the producer was going to show up late, and another man said he had the impression Thurman wasnt coming in at all. Nobody seemed greatly concerned over his absence.
I showed my stub and went through the turnstile again and returned to my seat. The next bout matched two local featherweights, a pair of scrappy young Hispanics. One was from nearby Woodside, and he got a big hand. They both threw a lot of punches but neither of them seemed capable of doing much damage, and the fight went six rounds to a decision. It went to the kid from Brooklyn, which seemed fair to me, but the crowd didnt like it.
There were two eight-rounders scheduled before the ten-round main event. The first one didnt go any distance at all; the fighters were heavyweights, both carrying far too much flab, both given to telegraphing their punches. About a minute into the first round one of them missed with a roundhouse right, spun around full circle, and caught a left hook right on the button. He went down like a felled ox and they had to throw water on him to revive him. The crowd loved it.
The fighters on the top of the undercard were in the ring waiting for the introduction when I glanced up the aisle toward the entrance. And there was Bergen Stettner.
He wasnt wearing the Gestapo coat a few people had described, or the blazer Id seen him in last week. His jacket was suede, light brown in color, and beneath it he wore a dark brown shirt and a paisley ascot.
He didnt have the boy with him.
I watched as he chatted with another man a few yards from the turnstile. They finished the introductions, rang the opening bell. I went on watching Stettner. After another minute or two he clapped the other man on the shoulder and left the arena.
I walked out after him, but when I got outside I didnt see him anywhere. I drifted over to where the FBCS vans were parked and looked around for Richard Thurman, but he wasnt there to be seen and I didnt really think he was coming. I stood in the shadows and saw Bergen Stettner come around the side of the building and approach the vans. He talked with someone inside the van fo
r a minute, then returned in the direction hed come from.
I waited a few minutes before approaching the van. I stuck my head in the back and said, "Where the hell is Stettner? I cant find him anywhere. "
"He was just here," the man said without turning around. "You just missed him, he was here not five minutes ago. "
"Shit," I said. "Say, did he happen to say where Thurman went to?"
Now he turned. "Oh, right," he said. "You were looking for him earlier. No, Stettner wanted to know where he was, too. Looks like Thurmans gonna catch hell. "
"You dont know the half of it," I said.
I showed my stub and went through the turnstile again. They were in the fourth round now. I didnt know anything about the fighters, Id missed the introductions, and I didnt bother to reclaim my seat. I went over to the refreshment stand and got a Coke in a paper cup and stood in back drinking it. I looked around for Stettner but couldnt find him. I turned toward the entrance again and saw a woman, and for a second or two I thought she was Chelsea, the placard girl. I looked again and realized I was looking at Olga Stettner.
She had her long hair pulled back off her face and done up in a sort of bun on the back of her head. I think its called a chignon. The style accented her prominent cheekbones and gave her a severe look, but she probably would have looked fairly stern anyway. She was wearing a short jacket of some dark fur and a pair of suede boots that reached to the tops of her calves. I watched as she scanned the room. I didnt know who she was looking for, her husband or Thurman. She wasnt looking for me; her eyes passed right over me with no flicker of recognition.
I wonder how Id have reacted to her if I hadnt known who she was. She was an attractive woman, certainly, but there was something about her, some magnetism, that may have owed a lot to what I already knew about her. And I knew too goddamned much about her. What I knew made it impossible to look at her, and impossible not to.
BY the end of the fight they were both standing there, Bergen and Olga, looking out over the big room as if they owned it. The ring announcer gave the decision and each fighter in turn, along with a three- or four-man retinue, made his way from the ring to the stairwell off to the left of the entrance doors. After theyd dropped from sight two other fighters emerged via the same set of basement stairs, fresh where the outgoing fighters had been spent, making their way in turn down the main aisle to the ring. They were middleweights and they had both had a good number of fights in the area. I knew them from the Garden. They were both black, both had won almost all of their bouts, and the shorter and darker of the two had knockout power in either hand. The other kid wasnt as strong a puncher but he was very quick and had a reach advantage. It figured to be a very good matchup.
Like the previous week, they introduced a handful of boxing figures, including both scheduled participants in next weeks main bout. A politician, the deputy borough president of Queens, got introduced and received a chorus of boos, which in turn sparked some laughter. Then they cleared the ring and introduced the fighters, and I glanced over at the Stettners and saw them making their way toward the stairs.
A Dance at the Slaughter House Page 33