Books by Robert J. Randisi
Nick Delvecchio Novels
The End of Brooklyn *
The Dead of Brooklyn
No Exit from Brooklyn
Miles Jacoby Novels
Eye in the Ring *
Beaten to a Pulp *
Full Contact *
Separate Cases *
Hard Look *
Stand-Up *
Other Novels
The Bottom of Every Bottle *
Hey There (You with the Gun in Your Hand)
Luck Be a Lady, Don’t Die
Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime
Alone With the Dead
Arch Angels
East of the Arch
Blood on the Arch
In the Shadow of the Arch
Short Stories
The Guilt Edge *
Anthologies (Editor)
The Shamus Winner Volume I (1982-1995) *
The Shamus Winners Volume II (1996-2009) *
*Published by Perfect Crime Books
HARD LOOK. Copyright © 2012, 1993 by Robert J. Randisi. Afterword Copyright © 2012 by Robert J. Randisi. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored by any means without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address [email protected].
Perfect Crime BooksTM is a registered Trademark.
Cover by Christopher Mills.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, entities and institutions are products of the Author’s imagination and do not refer to actual persons, entities, or institutions.
Perfect Crime Books Trade Paperback Edition
July 2012
Kindle Edition July 2012
To Marthayn,
with love, for reaching
down where it was tangled and dark
and pulling me into the light.
Prologue
I was in a place called Magadan’s Sports Cafe, in Tampa, Florida, and I wasn’t quite sure how or why I had come to be there.
The bar was owned by New York Mets player Dave Magadan and his brother Joe. While Dave was hitting baseballs for the Mets, his brother ran the place, an arrangement that seemed to work well. In the off-season, when he wasn’t doing promotional stuff, I guess Dave would be there, too. It was baseball season when I was there, so I couldn’t be sure about that, but it seemed a safe bet since the Magadans did live in Tampa.
There were always at least a half-dozen monitors going at one time. At the moment the Tampa Bay Bucs were on the huge projection monitor in the back and on the three normal-sized monitors behind the bar. There was a small, almost totally enclosed section where the New York Giants fans were sitting at tables watching the Giants game on the 30-inch screen, with a smaller TV set atop that one playing the last Mets game of an awful season. On the other two bar screens, they were showing the Tampa Bay game and the Miami Dolphins game.
I wasn’t really paying attention to any of them, except when a loud cheer went up. Three out of every four cheers were directed at the Tampa Bay game, usually whenever a significant amount of yardage was gained by the home team, or when the opposition’s drive was stalled. Stomping, jumping, and clapping usually followed a home touchdown.
For the most part, though, my attention was drawn to the postcard on the bar in front of me, next to my bottle of Mexican beer. It was a five-by-seven shot of a woman wearing a thong bathing suit, but it showed her from the back, from just below the shoulders to the tops of her thighs. It was obvious that she was in extraordinary shape. A line of type on the card read, “It’s HARD not to have a good time in Florida.” The operative word was “Hard,” since it described the shape the woman was in. She had truly incredible glutes.
“That’s a new one,” a voice said.
I looked up. It was Christine, the bartender. I had been in Tampa for almost a week and had been coming to Magadan’s for most of my meals. That was long enough to find out that Christine was originally from Long Island—or Long “Guy”land, as they say it there—had come to Tampa four years ago, and had gotten married a couple of months ago. She had long brown hair, dark skin—she was Italian, not tanned—a sexy face, a trim, obviously well-conditioned body, and killer legs. As a matter of fact, all of the waitresses at Magadan’s were pretty and had great legs. When I mentioned that fact to Christine—the first or second time I was there—she laughed and said, “I’ll take that as a compliment, but I don’t think we started out that way. I think it’s from all the running around we do here.”
She tapped the postcard with an elegant fingernail and said, “What lucky person is getting that one in the mail?”
“No one,” I said. “This one is mine.”
She gave me an odd look and said, “You bought yourself a postcard?”
“No,” I said, “this one was given to me.”
“Why?”
“Because of a case.”
She brightened and said, “The case you’re working on that brought you here?”
“That’s right.”
She knew I was a private investigator. I had told her that when I first started talking to her. I had never talked about the case I was working on, though. Now I turned the postcard around so she could see it better.
“Do you know this woman?”
“Huh?” She looked at me like I was nuts. “Baby, all I can see is her back and her ass.” She tapped the card again, in case I had missed something.
“Right,” I said, “but that’s what I’ve been hired to do. Find this woman.” It was my turn to tap.
“Why would anyone take a case like that?” Christine asked.
Why, indeed . . .
1
I was working the bar at Packy’s when the guy walked in.
Sometimes the wrong things happen at the right time. Some months ago my good friend Packy was killed and in his will he left me his bar. Then Bogie’s, the place I used to frequent, closed down. Billy and Karen Palmer, the owners, had simply been unable to keep it going after six years of trying, in spite of having built up a small but loyal clientele. So they were out of business, and I was in business. Now I worked out of Packy’s, as I used to work out of Bogie’s, only I owned the place as well.
And after only three months I was starting to understand what Billy and Karen had gone through. I didn’t serve food the way they did, just some sandwiches to go with the beer, so I didn’t have to hire waitresses and waiters. I had two bartenders, and one barmaid. Ed, the day bartender, couldn’t come in, so I was behind the bar myself. Geneva, the barmaid, had told me that she would handle the store herself, but I didn’t like to leave her in the place alone. Not that she couldn’t have handled anything that came her way. Geneva was a bodybuilder. She wasn’t in yet, because she always hit the gym before coming to work.
Anyway, I was trying to keep awake because business was slow when the guy came in off the street. It was one o’clock in the afternoon and I had opened at eleven. During that time three guys had come through the door. I pegged this one as Jerry Meyer, the guy who had called me at home too early that morning.
“Mr. Jacoby?” the voice on the phone had asked.
“That’s right.”
“My name is Meyer, Jerry Meyer. I would like to hire you.”
Nice, I thought, right to the point.
“What seems to be the problem, Mr. Meyer?”
“I can’t talk about it on the phone, Mr. Jacoby,” he said. “I just got to work, and I don’t have the time.”
“Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I need to talk to you in person, though. I—I have something to show you.”
“All right.”
“Can I come to your office this afternoon? At lunchtime?”
“Do you know a place called Packy’s, on Christopher Street?” I asked.
“Isn’t that the Village? A—a—gay area?”
“It’s a bar, Mr. Meyer.”
“Is it—is it a gay bar?”
“No, it’s not a gay bar, Mr. Meyer,” I said. “It just happens to be on Christopher Street.” I gave him the address and the cross streets. “Do you think you can find it?”
“I think so.”
“What time is good for you?”
“One?” he said. “I’m coming from Wall Street.”
I was glad to hear that. It meant there was a good chance he had money.
“That’s fine, Mr. Meyer,” I said. “I’ll see you at one.”
He didn’t hang up right away, and just when I thought he might say something else, he broke the connection.
It was five after one when he walked through the doorway. He stopped just inside and looked around. There were two other men in the place, sitting in separate booths, nursing beers. Packy’s was a straightforward shot-and-beer place when Packy was alive, and I had decided to keep it that way. I hadn’t even replaced the torn leather seats in the booths, although I was still considering it.
“Mr. Meyer?”
He turned his head quickly and looked at me. Jerry Meyer was about five foot four, in his late thirties or early forties. He wore a gray three-piece suit and a maroon silk tie. He had a carefully trimmed beard and wore wire-framed glasses. He looked like somebody’s well-dressed rabbi. All that was missing was the yarmulke.
“Mr. Jacoby?” he asked tentatively.
“That’s right,” I said. “Can I get you a drink? Or a sandwich?”
He approached the bar, staring at me strangely. His eyes behind the glasses were disconcerting. They looked liquid and slightly out of focus, but in looking at him I was sure that he was neither high nor drunk.
“You’re—the bartender? But I thought—”
“I own the place, Mr. Meyer,” I said. “My bartender couldn’t make it in today, so here I am.”
“Oh,” he said, “I see.” The explanation didn’t seem to make him feel any better.
“Can I get you a beer? On the house?”
“Uh, yes, sure . . . why not?”
“Rolling Rock okay?”
“Uh . . . fine.”
I got him a bottle and put it on the bar. I was going to ask him if he wanted a glass, but he looked like the glass type, so I simply poured it out for him without asking.
“Thank you,” he said. He hadn’t settled onto a bar stool, and he didn’t touch the glass.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Meyer?” I asked. “I think you said something about having something to show me?”
“Yes, of course,” he said. He put his hand into his inside breast pocket and brought out a postcard. He laid it carefully on the bar, facing me.
It was a fine-looking postcard. The photo on it was of a woman, her back to the camera. Maybe that was what Geneva would look like from the back if she were wearing what I supposed was a thong bathing suit, a few strings covering what seemed like acres of tanned, firm flesh. Split above and below her were the words: “It’s HARD not to have a good time in Florida.”
I picked up the postcard and looked on the back, expecting to see a “wish you were here” type message, but it was blank. There wasn’t even an address or a stamp.
“I don’t get it,” I said, laying the card back down on the bar.
“I bought that in Florida,” he said. “St. Petersburg, to be exact. I mean, I was staying in Tampa, but I bought the postcard in St. Petersburg.”
“Uh-huh.” I was hoping that things would become clearer before long.
“Mr. Jacoby,” he said, tapping the card with his index finger, “I want you to find that woman.”
I tapped it, too, and asked, “That girl?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, Mr. Meyer,” I said, “that’s a real nice-looking back, but I don’t think it’s such a good idea to hire a private detective to go looking for a girl you saw on a postcard.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” he said, quickly. There were five nos. I counted them. “You don’t understand.”
“Obviously I don’t understand, Mr. Meyer,” I said. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”
“That’s Sandra,” he said.
I stared at him.
“Sandra,” he said again. “My wife.”
I pointed to the card again and said, “That’s your wife?”
2
At that moment I noticed a man in a brown leather bomber jacket stop out front and peer in the window. I probably wouldn’t have noticed, except that mine is not the kind of place where people stop on the street to look in the window and check the menu. In fact, I don’t even have a menu other than the chalkboard that hangs on the wall behind the bar. The man remained there about a minute or two, cupping his hands to his face so he could see better, then moved on.
I looked back at Jerry Meyer and asked, “You want me to find her?”
“That’s correct.”
“Uh . . . did she leave you?”
“She is missing.”
They could have been one and the same, but I let it slide for the moment.
“How long?”
“Six months.”
“I see. Did you make a missing persons report to the police?”
“Of course. They said that there was no evidence of foul play, and that a grown woman had the right to go missing if she wanted to.”
“They’re right.”
In the state of New York, if an adult wanted to go missing, and there was no evidence that any force or foul play was involved, the police would not look for them. It was their assumption, at that point, that the person wanted to be missing and had every right to be.
“What did you do then?”
“I hired a private detective.”
“Who?”
“A man named Able.”
“And was he?”
“Excuse me?”
“What did he do?” Sometimes it’s hard to have a conversation with people who have no sense of humor.
“He worked for a month, but reported that he couldn’t find her.”
“And what did you do then?”
“I terminated his services.”
“Did you hire another private detective?”
“Several,” he said, “but none of them found anything. I terminated them all.”
This man looked like anything but the Terminator to me. He seemed to like the word.
“Did you hire New York investigators or Florida investigators?”
“New York,” he said, frowning. “At that time I had no idea she would be in Florida.”
“When did you stop hiring detectives?”
“About three months ago. I thought it was hopeless—that is, until I saw this postcard.” He tapped it again and insisted, “This is a picture of my wife, Sandra Meyer.”
“Uh-huh.”
I picked up the card and looked at the reverse side again. Sometimes they have the name of the model. This one didn’t. It did have the name of the photographer, but there was no address, just some numbers—probably some kind of manufacturer’s code. There was nothing to indicate where the card had been made, or distributed from. Tracking it down would mean a lot of legwork.
“Mr. Meyer,” I said, carefully placing the card back on the bartop, this time facing him, “what makes you so sure that this woman is your wife? I mean, I can’t even see what color this woman’s hair is.”
“I know that’s Sandra, Mr. Jacoby. Look.”
He turned the card around so I could see it clearly, and he pointed. He was pointing at the woman’s round, very firm left buttock.
“See that?”
I peered closer and realized what he was talking about. There might have been a birthmark there, on the underside of her butt. If sh
e had been wearing a bathing suit of any substance at all, it wouldn’t have shown. Of course, it also might have been an imperfection in the photo.
“That’s a birthmark,” he said, “a strawberry birthmark.”
I peered closer.
“Mr. Meyer, it could be a birthmark, but to base an investigation on that—”
“Mr. Jacoby,” he said, interrupting me, “I’ll pay your way to Florida, all your expenses, and your fee. I want you to go to Florida to find Sandra.”
“Mr. Meyer, this photo may not have even been taken in Florida—”
“But Florida is the logical place to start, isn’t it?” he asked. “That’s where I got the postcard.”
“Yes,” I said, looking at the picture of the woman again. She had a tan that made her look positively bronze. Florida was probably filled with women who looked like that. “Yes, it would be the logical place to start.”
Unless it turned out that there was an identical postcard in California, or Jamaica, with the same woman on it, extolling the virtues of those sunny getaways. Still, since he had bought the postcard in Florida, it made some kind of sense.
“Then you’ll do it?”
It was October and there was a touch of coolness in the air. The Mets were not going to be in the play-offs this year, so there was no point in staying home to watch the play-off games. With cable TV, I’d be able to watch them from Florida anyway, no matter who made it in. I didn’t really have anything else that would keep me from going to Florida—all expenses paid—and if I didn’t go, Meyer would probably hire someone else who would.
“All right, Mr. Meyer,” I said, “I’ll look into it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jacoby,” he said, looking not particularly relieved. In fact, in spite of his insistence, he had been remarkably calm throughout the entire conversation. “When can you leave? Tomorrow?”
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