Hard Look

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Unless you’ve got a phone number where I can reach him,” I said, kidding.

  “As a matter of fact,” Ray said, “I do.”

  “Really?”

  “Hey, when I come through, I come through, right?”

  “Where’d you get his number?”

  “I ain’t sayin’ that,” Ray said. “Then when he asks you where you got it, you can tell the truth.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, digging a pen out of my pocket, “give it to me.”

  He called off the number, and told me it was private.

  “So don’t give it out to anybody, okay?”

  “Oh, sure,” I said. “I got people lining up for Carl Junior’s phone number.”

  “I don’t need to tell you not to mention my name, right?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll come and see you when I get back,” I said. “Have a bill ready.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, “I’m gettin’ them printed up along with my stationery. I’m goin’ to lavender this time. It brings out my eyes.”

  “I appreciate the quick work, Ray.”

  “I had to call a few markers,” he said. “It went easier than I thought. Jeez, it was that foot shakin’, though. It’s like a habit he don’t even notice, they say.”

  “They’re right,” I said, “but right now I’m glad he doesn’t. Again, Ray, thanks.”

  “Sure,” he said, “just stay alive long enough to pay me.”

  “If I don’t make it,” I said, “go and see Geneva and tell her I owe you money.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” Ray said. “That broad scares me, Jack. She’s got bigger muscles than me.”

  “Bye, Ray,” I said, and hung up.

  I went back to my table and sat down to finish my last St. Pauli Girl.

  “Was that your call?” my waitress asked. She was a cute blonde who didn’t look old enough to drink there, let alone work there.

  “That was it.”

  “Did that help you solve your case?”

  “Almost,” I said. “Not quite, but almost.”

  “Want another beer?”

  “No,” I said, “I’ll finish this one and then get some sleep.”

  “Big day tomorrow, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said to her swinging ponytail as she walked away, “big day.”

  I had to call Carl Caggiano, Jr.—son of one of the biggest Mafia dons in New York—and convince him to call off his dog.

  57

  Okay, my original plan was to phone Captain Enrico DeLeon and set up a meeting. After all, the man was going to be waiting for me to call after talking with Lieutenant Desoto. However, the visit from “Vito” the night before had changed all that. Before I could go to the police now, I had to get Vito off my back. I didn’t need him “whackin’ me out” as he put it, because I went to see DeLeon.

  When I returned to my room the night before, there had been a message for me from Cathy, and it was too late to return it. However that made me remember that just before my new friend “Vito”—aka Tony Allegretto—put my lights out the day before, the message light on my phone had been blinking. When I came to, it wasn’t. I hoped it was nothing urgent.

  So I started with the number Ray had given me for Carl Caggiano. Since I was calling Carl, I didn’t care who was listening in. It was 10:00 a.m. I just hoped Carl wasn’t a late sleeper Waking him up wouldn’t exactly put me on his good side.

  I waited while the phone rang three, four, five times before it was finally answered.

  “Hello?” A gruff voice, making an effort not to sound put out. Not Carl Junior, though.

  “Let me talk to Carl,” I said. I had already decided the tack I would take, and the word “please” had no place in it.

  There was a pause, and then the voice said carefully, “Who’s callin’?”

  “Tell him it’s Miles Jacoby.”

  “Who?”

  “He’ll know,” I said. “Just tell him.”

  “Hold on.”

  There was a click, and I was put in that black hole they call “hold.” I was glad Carl hadn’t gone to putting Muzak on his phone.

  It took a few minutes, but I was finally brought back and Carl’s voice said, “Who is this?”

  “Come on, Carl,” I said, “don’t tell me you forgot your old buddy Jacoby. It’s only been a few years, hasn’t it?”

  “Not long enough,” he said. “What do you want?”

  “Right to the point, eh, Carl? You know, somebody recently told me that you’d grown up a little. That’s why I thought I could talk to you.”

  “So talk.”

  “I want you to call your man off.”

  “What?” he said. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “I’m talking about Tony Allegretto. Remember him? You sent him down here to Florida to scare me.”

  “Tony . . .”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Wiggles his foot a lot. Nervous habit, I guess.”

  “I know who Tony is, Jacoby.”

  “Carl, let’s not play games. I’m down here in Tampa, there’s been two murders, and all I was trying to do was find a runaway wife—only now it turns out that’s not all she is.”

  “Jacoby, am I supposed to know what you’re talkin’ about?”

  “Yeah, Carl, you are,” I said, “and do you know how I know that?”

  “How?”

  “If you didn’t know what I was talking about,” I said, “you would have hung up by now.”

  There was a long silence during which I could hear him breathing, but he still didn’t hang up.

  “Let me give you my take on it, Carl,” I said. “I think you were approached—oh, say, eight or nine months ago—by a yuppie stockbroker name Jerry Meyer. Mr. Meyer said he had a big deal set to go through, but he needed some up-front money—hell, maybe he even needed the purchase price. He laid it out for you, and you saw a way to turn a profit by backing him, so you gave him the money. Then his wife takes off, and takes the deal with her, and you and Meyer are left holding the bag. How am I doing, Carl?”

  Some more silence, then a grudging “Keep talkin’.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I don’t know how Meyer picked up on it, but he decides his wife is down here in Florida. He also decides he needed a professional investigator to find her.”

  I thought I detected a snort at the other end when I said “professional,” but it might have been a bad connection.

  “You put a tail on him, and found out that he hired me,” I said. “Then you put the tail on me, only I spooked him in New York. Still, you had the same guy follow me down here and he ends up dead in my room. You either decided to give me some leeway, to see if I’d find Sandy Meyer, or you’ve had somebody else watching me that I don’t know about. Anyway, you got tired of waiting and you sent Tony boy down here to scare me and ensure that I’d turn the wife over if I found her. Come on, Carl, give me a hint. How close am I?”

  Silence.

  “You don’t want Carl Senior finding out about this, do you, Carl?”

  “You can’t get to my father, asshole!” he said, but he didn’t sound so sure.

  “You’re supposed to be running the big show now, Carl, and you not only got involved with some yuppie hood, but his wife takes you both off. Papa wouldn’t like that, would he, Carl?”

  “Did you find the bitch, Jacoby?”

  “Not yet, Carl,” I said, “but if and when I do, I sure as hell ain’t turning her over to your boy Tony—or to you, for that matter.”

  “You’re not making healthy decisions, Jacoby,” he growled.

  “Sure I am, Carl,” I said. “Hey, listen, I ain’t about to turn her over to her old man either. He can go eat shit for all I care. I’m off his payroll, only he don’t know it yet. I don’t like being used as somebody’s bird dog.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not going to find her just to have somebody come in and take her away from me,”
I said. “I’m also not going to find her and have her turn up dead on me. There’s been too many bodies popping up down here already.”

  “You ain’t lookin’ for her anymore?”

  “I’d like to stop,” I said, “but I’m involved in two murders down here. I don’t think the cops would take it too kindly if I left right now. I may snoop around for her a little bit more, but for myself, not for you and not for her husband. You know what I think you ought to do, Carl?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Cut your losses,” I said. “You’ve already given that asshole Meyer too much time and too much rope. Take what he owes you out of his hide—or better yet, garnishee his pay, why don’t you? He can afford it over the long haul, don’t you think?”

  “You know,” he said, “I should have Tony break your legs, just for the hell of it.”

  “Carl,” I said, “I’ll ship Tony back to you in a body bag, and then I’ll go and talk to Papa. There are some things I want you to do for me.”

  “Like what?”

  “First of all, call Tony boy home,” I said. “Second, there’s a woman down here named Angie Worth. She was married to some hood in Jersey for a while, name of Ed Riccio.”

  “I knew Riccio,” he said. “He was an asshole, like you.”

  Maybe that was why his widow liked me.

  “She’s trying to play Godmother down here, leaning on her Jersey contacts to help her out,” I said. “I need her Jersey people to get her off my back.”

  “Can’t handle a woman, Jacoby?”

  “Oh, and you could, Carl?” I asked. “I remember your wife in that Steinway thing—”

  “That bitch!” he said. “She ain’t my wife anymore, Jacoby. I got rid of her a long time ago.”

  I had the feeling it was the other way around, but I didn’t say anything.

  “What do you say, Carl?”

  There was a moment of silence, and then he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I also need to know if you had either one of these people down here killed,” I said.

  “Are you crazy?” he asked. “Why would I do that, when one of them was my own man?”

  “What was his name, Carl?”

  “Go fuck yourself,” he said. “Let the Florida cops try and find out. He was never printed anywhere, so he ain’t gonna show up in any computer.”

  “I just thought I’d ask, Carl,” I said. “Okay, so you didn’t kill the photographer either, right?”

  “What photographer?” he asked, and I believed him.

  “Okay, Carl,” I said, “do we have a deal?”

  “What do I get out of it, asshole?” he asked. “And don’t give me that shit about talkin’ to my old man. You might get to him, but then it would be your word against mine. Who do you think he’ll believe?”

  “I don’t know, Carl,” I said, “but I think I’ve got a fifty-fifty chance. What do you think?”

  There was a pause, and then he said—almost, but not quite, whining—“Come on, Jacoby, give in on this a little. You’re tryin’ to make me eat shit here, and I don’t like it.”

  He was right. I was pushing him too hard, and knowing Carl he might just snap and send a crew of Tonys after me. I had to give him something in return.

  “All right, Carl,” I said, “I’ll tell you what. If I find the woman, I won’t give her to you, but I’ll give you her stash. With that you might be able to recoup some of your initial investment. How’s that?”

  “I don’t know why I’m doin’ this, Jacoby,” he said unhappily.

  “Sure you do, Carl,” I said. “For old times’ sake, remember?”

  He hung up.

  58

  When I hung up, I did it with an uneasy feeling. Carl had been just a little too easy to handle. He didn’t like me, I knew that, and for that reason alone he should have given me a harder time, especially when I started using his old man against him.

  On the other hand, Carl Junior had never been able to handle his father, and he hadn’t sounded to me like he’d changed all that much over the past few years.

  I walked to the window and looked out at the parking lot behind the hotel. I’d just successfully pulled some strings, so why was I now cutting them to pieces? I had to act now as if Carl would keep his word and pull Tony off my back, or else I’d still be looking over my shoulder, and I couldn’t operate that way.

  With Tony out of the picture the first thing I had to do was keep my appointment with Desoto’s contact. I picked up the phone and dialed the number he’d given me. When it was answered, I asked for Captain DeLeon.

  “What’s it in reference to?” I was asked.

  “Just tell him it’s Jacoby,” I said. “He’s ejecting my call.”

  I waited a minute or two, then another voice came on. Captain DeLeon had a little heavier Latin accent than his friend Desoto did.

  “Mr. Jacoby?” he asked. Even with the accent, though, he pronounced my name correctly.

  “That’s right, Captain.”

  “I spoke to Lieutenant Desoto of the Orlando PD,” DeLeon said. “He seems to think you might have an interesting story to tell me.”

  “Oh, it’s interesting, all right.”

  “Well . . . when would you like to come?”

  “At your convenience, Captain. I know how busy you must be—”

  “Not at all,” he said. “How about—oh, two hours from now. Or is that too soon?”

  “No, no,” I said, “that’s fine.”

  “Do you know where I am?” he asked. “We’re in downtown Tampa, near the municipal building.” He gave me the address.

  “I’ll find it, Captain,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Don’t thank me for it,” he said, “until we find out if you’re wasting it or not. In two hours, Mr. Jacoby.”

  He hung up, and the edge in his voice had not escaped me. If Captain DeLeon thought I was wasting his time, he’d waste no time in letting me know.

  I went downstairs to Denny’s for some coffee and to take some time to think.

  If Carl was telling the truth, he had nothing to do with either of the murders. To me Angela Worth—formerly Angela Riccio—didn’t seem right for it. Jerry Meyer? Why would he kill anybody? All he was doing was trying to find his wife. And what about Sandy Meyer? She might have had a motive to kill Ray Cortez, but not the man who had followed me from New York.

  That was the murder that really puzzled me. It seemed motiveless. Cortez was a photographer, a good-looking guy who worked with a lot of good-looking women. Anybody could have had a motive to kill him. The way he was killed certainly made it look like somebody had it in for him. His murder might not even have been connected with Sandy Meyer’s disappearance.

  The police had undoubtedly canvased his neighborhood looking for witnesses, and they had probably talked to the girl who worked with him already, but since I had some time to kill, I decided to go over to his office and see if she was there.

  Maybe I’d be able to ask a question or two the police had not.

  59

  I drove to Ray Cortez’s studio on Busch Boulevard, not at all confident that I would even find it open. There were a few cars in the parking lot, none of them anywhere near the place. I took a spot marked Photo Studio and walked up to the front door. It was unlocked, and I walked in.

  Through the window in the wall I could see the girl I had spoken to last time. She was obviously frantically searching for something and not being at all careful about making a mess. What was her name again? Oh, yeah . . .

  “Hello, Carol.”

  She slammed a drawer and straightened up at the sound of my voice, turning toward me. There was a surprised look on her face. She was breathing heavily from the exertion of her search.

  “Oh,” she said, “you startled me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you remember me?”

  “No . . . yes, you were here the other day, looking for Ray. You, uh, chased him, right?”


  Rather than explain again that I didn’t chase him, he ran on me, I said, “That’s right. I didn’t think anyone was here. There’s no car out front.”

  “Oh, I usually park out back.” She ran her hand over her short brown hair and then rubbed it vigorously, looking around as she did.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “What am I not looking for?” she said, shaking her head. “Ray’s dead and I don’t know what to do. Am I supposed to keep this place going? Close it up?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I thought you only worked for him. Were you his partner?”

  “Hardly,” she said, “but he was training me to be a photographer. I can do a lot of this. I mean, I could keep the business going, but I don’t know if it’s, you know, legal.”

  I leaned in a bit so I could get a better look inside. The floor was littered with papers, almost as if there had been a parade through there.

  “You’re going to have a hell of a cleanup,” I said. “What were you, burglarized?”

  She looked around and then back at me, that harried look I had seen the first time still in her eyes.

  “No, no,” she said, shaking her head, “I did all of this. I’m, uh, just looking . . .”

  “For what?” I asked. “I mean, specifically?”

  She looked at me nervously, her hands flat against her hips, almost on the tops of her buttocks. She licked her lips and her eyes darted about. This girl had something to hide, that much I was sure of.

  “Tell me, Carol,” I said, “you wouldn’t by any chance be looking for—oh, an address?”

  “What address?”

  “Like maybe Sandy Meyer’s address?”

  “I think—you know,” she said, “I think I know what I’m looking for.”

  She turned slowly, then suddenly darted for a file cabinet. I was too slow, probably because I’m getting old. I made it through the window opening, banging the window with my heel in the process and breaking it, but by the time I was inside she had the gun out of the top drawer and was pointing it at me. It was a small-caliber gun, a .25 at most, but I wasn’t quite willing to take a bullet to prove how small and ineffective it was. One shot could still have killed me.