Eye in the Ring

by Robert J. Randisi

  She regarded me for a moment, then set the wineglass down while it was still half full and threw a disgusted glance at it.

  “Do you have anything at all?” she asked.

  “The only thing I’ve got that stands out is that there’s a hit man in town. Who he is, exactly who he’s after, I don’t know yet.”

  “I never saw a hit man who worked with his hands, Jack,” she told me. She’d gone back to calling me Jack, instead of Miles, which I considered a good sign. “It’s usually a knife, or a gun, or some other weapon, but never his bare hands.”

  “There’s always a first time,” I told her.

  “Remember what Eddie used to say, Jack?” she asked me. “Consider every possibility, but don’t reach, don’t stretch for it. You’re reaching, Jack.”

  “Maybe I am,” I conceded, reaching for my wineglass.

  She reached out and covered my hand with hers. I looked at her face and she smiled.

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Jack. It’s just that—with the funeral tomorrow, I’m—”

  “It’s all right,” I assured her. “We’re friends, Missy. If you can’t snap at me, who can you snap at?”

  She squeezed my hand and said, “Thanks.”

  After dinner I asked her if she wanted coffee, and she said no, she just wanted to go home.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” I asked.

  “Is that a proposition?” she asked.

  “Hardly,” I told her. “Another time maybe, but I’ve got enough problems right now as it is.”

  “Lady problems?” she asked.

  “A lot of problems,” I replied very deliberately.

  “Okay, none of my business,” she said.

  We stood up and she wobbled a bit.

  “Why don’t you take a cab instead of the train?” I suggested.

  “Maybe I will,” she agreed.

  Outside I whistled and shouted myself hoarse and finally was able to flag down a cab.

  “Queens,” she told the driver when she got in. “I’ll give you the address when we get over the bridge.”

  “You got it, pretty lady,” the driver said. He was fat and sixty, so the remark seemed innocent enough.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Missy,” I told her.

  “I left the location on your desk, Jack. I’ll see you there,” she replied. “Good night.”

  It wasn’t until the taillights of the cab had faded from view that I realized what she had said.

  She had left the location on “my” desk.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I walked back to “my” office and sat down at “my” desk.

  I was trying the “my” on for size, and I was finding that I liked the fit.

  Sitting behind the desk, I felt that Eddie would want me to keep the business going. If I decided to do that, my other problem would be whether or not to keep on fighting.

  Save it, I told myself; save any major decisions until your mind is clearer. Find Eddie’s killer first, or at least prove that Benny couldn’t have done it.

  Where was the higher priority, I then asked myself. What did I want to do, find Eddie’s killer or get Benny out of jail? I guess I’m a glutton, but I wanted both. One wouldn’t satisfy me.

  Eddie was my best friend, and to leave his killer walking around thinking he’d gotten away with it would just grate on me for the rest of my life. Benny, on the other hand, was my brother. He was a drunk, he was a pain in the ass, and he was married to Julie—which was probably the biggest thing I had against him— but he was my brother, my only living blood relative, and I couldn’t just let him rot in the slammer without trying to do something about it. If it turned out that he was guilty . . .

  Well, that was different.

  Missy had laid it right on the line, whether it was influenced by the wine or not: Had I found anything to prove that Benny hadn’t killed Eddie?

  No! Not a blessed thing!

  The only thread I had to grasp at was the hit man that one of Wood’s girls had seen in town. Why was be here? Who was he after? Had he made his move already by killing Eddie, or was he here for a totally different reason?

  I should have mentioned that to Hocus, damnit, to see if he knew anything about it.

  I picked up the phone and dialed his number.

  “Detective Wright, Homicide,” his partner answered.

  “Wright, this is Jacoby.”

  “Oh yeah, the champ. What’s up?”

  “Is Hocus around?”

  “No—wait a minute, yeah, there he is. Hold on.”

  I held on for a few seconds, listening to the squad-room sounds until Hocus came on the line.

  “What’s up, Jacoby? You find out something already?” he asked.

  “No, it’s something I already knew but forgot to mention.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you know anything about a hit guy being in town?”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “From where?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “That’s not much to go on,” he told me.

  I explained that I had a source who said that they had seen someone in town whom they knew was a hit man, but they couldn’t remember the guy’s name, or where they had seen him.

  “Your informant seems to have a very selective memory,” he observed.

  That stopped me because he was so right, and I had never thought of it that way.

  “Yeah, it sure sounds that way,” I told him.

  “Look, check it out a little further and then call me back. It could be something we should look into.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” I told him, and hung up. I picked up the phone and dialed again, this time calling Wood.

  Tiger Lee answered.

  “Is he in, Lee?”

  “How come you never want to talk to me?” she asked, flirting.

  “When your phone number is different from his phone number, I’ll call to talk to you,” I promised.

  “Coward. Hold on.”

  In a few seconds, Knock Wood Lee came on the wire.

  “I can’t tell you anything I didn’t tell you last night, Jack,” he said. “Let’s don’t get impatient.”

  “Listen, Wood, I want to talk to the girl who spotted this hit guy.”

  He hesitated a moment, then said, “I don’t know, Jack—”

  “Look, last night you asked me if you could send me a lady. Well, now the answer’s yes, and she’s the one I want.”

  “You’ll have to pay for her time, Jack,” he cautioned me.

  “Don’t worry about that, Wood, I’ll pay her. I’m on my way home now. Have her come to my place at nine, okay?”

  “Okay, pal, you got yourself a lady of the evening,” he agreed. “You want me to give her any special instructions?”

  “Just tell her to make sure the customer is satisfied,” I told him.

  “Hey, pal, my ladies always satisfy their customers,” he told me.

  “Yeah, well, this is one customer who’s going to let you know if he got his money’s worth,” I informed him, and hung up.

  I was upset with myself for not having talked to the girl myself earlier when Wood had first given me the information. Eddie always told me that there was no information like firsthand information, and I had forgotten that.

  I still have a lot to learn about this business, I told myself.

  My eyes fell on the bottom drawer of “my” desk, and I reached down and opened it. What was inside was still Eddie’s, because I wasn’t ready to accept it yet. Eddie had wanted me to qualify with a gun right from the beginning, but after a few trips to the range I decided I didn’t like it and I didn’t want to continue. If I had to put a hurting on someone, I was confident that I could do it with my hands.

  I stared at the .38 in the shoulder holster for a few more minutes, then closed the drawer again.

  At least I knew it was there if things got bad enough—o
nly I hoped they’d never get that bad.

  Then again, I was investigating a murder, so how much worse could things get?

  Chapter Thirty

  On the way home from the office I stopped off at the Kentucky Fried Chicken at Times Square for a box of nine pieces, original recipe, with double mashed potatoes, com on the cob, and a side order of the Colonel’s Kentucky fries.

  I was finished eating and tucking the remaining four pieces into the refrigerator so I could eat them for breakfast or lunch when there was a knock on my door. I was halfway to the door before I considered that it didn’t necessarily have to be Knock Wood Lee’s girl who was doing the knocking.

  Instead of standing directly in front of the door, I stood off to the side and called out, “Who is it?”

  “C’mon, lover, open up,” a girl’s voice called out. “You’ve got an eager and anxious lady caller.”

  It was Tracy Dean.

  I opened the door and said, “Hi, Tracy.”

  “Hi, shamus, want some company?” she asked brightly.

  “Uh, I’m expecting—”

  “Something smells good,” she said, bounding past me. “Smells like the Colonel was here. Do you mind? I’m starved.”

  I closed the door and told her where she could find the chicken that was left. She took it out, along with a bottle of Miller Lite.

  “Want one?” she asked, hoisting the bottle high over her head.

  “I’ve got one started,” I told her. Chicken was one of the few things I drank beer with. They just seemed to go together.

  “What’s up, Tracy?” I asked as she seated herself at the table in my kitchenette.

  “Can’t I come by for a friendly visit without something being up?” she asked, biting into a chicken leg.

  Something was wrong. I could count on one hand the times Tracy had been to my place during the year since we’d met. Her coming to me didn’t fit the pattern of our relationship.

  I sat down opposite her and said, “Don’t try to kid me, kid. What’s the matter?”

  She stared at me over that chicken leg, then lowered it and licked grease from around her lovely mouth.

  “I’m depressed,” she said finally.

  “About what?”

  “About my life, where it’s going and where it’s been.”

  This could take longer than I had.

  “Tracy, I’d like to help, but at the moment I’m expecting someone.”

  “Oh, who?” she asked.

  “Uh, someone who, uh, can help me with a case I’m working on,” I stammered. Tracy wasn’t a jealous girl, and in fact she had no cause to be. Our relationship didn’t warrant it, but I didn’t know how she’d feel if she knew I was trying to get her to leave because I was expecting a hooker.

  “Confidential, huh?” she asked.

  “It’s not all that confidential, no, but it is—”

  There was a knock at the door just then, and I approached the door the same way I had the first time.

  “Jack, what the hell—” Tracy began.

  “Just don’t move out of that chair for a few minutes, Tracy,” I told her. I stood to the side of the door and called out, “Who is it?”

  “Knock Wood Lee’s friend,” a woman’s voice called out.

  I unlocked the door and let her in.

  “Hi, love,” she greeted as she walked in. She was a tall black girl, pretty in a slutty sort of way. She had almond-shaped eyes, flaring nostrils and full lips. When she smiled, her teeth were very white. Her body, which was stuffed into a tight blue dress, had taken a lot of stuffing. It was full and firm, full of promise. She wasn’t your average Forty-second Street hooker; she was one of Wood’s best ladies.

  Still, Tracy knew a hooker when she saw one.

  I looked at her and found her smiling at me over a piece of chicken.

  “I can explain—” I started to tell her.

  “A threesome?” the girl asked, removing her short jacket. She dropped it on a chair and walked over to where Tracy was sitting. “I like threesomes,” she said, “and your girlfriend’s not half bad.” She turned to face me and licked her thick lips seductively, saying, “And neither are you.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked her.

  “Louise,” she answered without hesitation.

  That was a refreshing change. Hookers had a habit of picking up nicknames, like “Sweetmeat” or “Polly Pussy” or some such nonsense. Wood didn’t go in for that.

  “Okay, Louise,” I told her, “let’s drop the bullshit and get down to business.”

  She smiled broadly, saying, “Anxious devil, aren’t you?” Her hands went behind her to undo her dress, and if Tracy hadn’t been there I might have let her get a little farther, just for a quick peek at the merchandise.

  “Don’t bother undressing,” I instructed.

  “Oh?” she asked, surprised. “A quickie, with her watching, is that your game?”

  I reached into my pocket and came out with five twenties, which I’d tucked in there when I got home. I spread them out like a fan and showed them to her.

  “What do I have to do for that?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Talk.”

  Her painted eyebrows went up and she Said, “That’s all?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s it. I want the name and location of a certain man you spotted a few days ago.”

  “What man?” she asked, frowning.

  “You know what man, Louise. He’s the kind of man who kills people for a living. You spotted him the other day and passed on the information. That information found its way to me, but I need more. I need to know who the guy is, where he came from, and where he’s staying in New York. For that,” I finished, shaking my hundred-dollar fan, “you get this.”

  “Shit,” she said, dropping her hooker act and accent. She grabbed up her jacket again and said, “For that I gets killed, sucker.”

  I took the jacket from her hand and dropped it back on a chair.

  “I can double this, Louise, and guarantee that the man will never know where I got the information,” I told her.

  She frowned, then asked, “You a cop?”

  “No, I’m a fighter.”

  “Shit, man, I don’t go in for no rough stuff,” she snapped.

  “I don’t fight with women, Louise. Look,” I explained, “my brother is in jail and my best friend’s been murdered. There’s a hit man in town, and he may have had something to do with it. I want him, lady. Now, I may not be the cops, but the cops can be brought into it pretty damned quick, and I’d save a couple of hundred bucks. What do you say?”

  She kept eyeing the money, but it was the mention of the police that finally made up her mind for her.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, then licked her lips and said, “the money first.”

  I gave her the five twenties and said, “Half now and half after you talk.”

  She took the bills and stuffed them down the front of her dress.

  “Okay, I used to work a gig in Detroit, and that’s where I recognized this dude from. I never saw him pull a hit, but the circle I traveled in, he was pretty well known for being a mean dude. They called him ‘Max the Ax.’”

  “What’s his M.O.?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “What’s he use? An ax or what?”

  “Shit, no, he don’t use no ax. That was all they could think of to rhyme with his first name.”

  “What’s his full name?”

  “Collins, I think. Max Collins. He don’t look like a mean dude, but he is. I seen him work a broad over once, and, man, I wanna forget that day.”

  “Okay, Louise, this is the second hundred-dollar question. Where is he now?”

  “Beats the shit outta me, man—and even if you triple that hundred, I couldn’t tell you.”

  I believed her.

  “All right then, where did you see him?”

  “Fourteenth Street, between First and Second. There’s a hotel there; he wa
s in the lobby. I don’t know if he’s staying there or not, but he was there that day. I was . . . meeting someone.”

  “And you don’t know what kind of a weapon he uses, or if he even uses one?” I asked.

  She shook her head. She didn’t know, but that didn’t matter. Once I gave Hocus the guy’s name, he could check with the Detroit P.D. and get a make on him.

  “Okay, Louise, you’ve earned that extra hundred,” I told her. I walked over to my wallet and leafed through the bills in it. I was forty bucks short.

  “Um, listen—” I started to say to Louise, but Tracy interrupted. She’d been so quiet the whole time I’d almost forgotten she was there.

  “How short are you?” she asked me.

  “Forty.”

  She dug into her little bag and came up with two twenties. I took them, combined them with the mixture of bills I had, and handed them to Louise.

  “Thanks, but this ain’t gonna do me much good if I gets killed, pal.”

  “You won’t, don’t worry.”

  She picked up her jacket, looking dubious, and then started for the door.

  “I’ll call Wood and tell him that I’m more than satisfied.” I told her.

  “Thanks, friend, but next time you need a girl, don’t ask for me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She started to leave, then turned back and said, “I hope you find your friend’s killer, and help your brother, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  When she was gone I went over everything she had told me and decided that it had been worth two hundred—uh, one hundred and sixty dollars.

  “Thanks for the loan, Tracy,” I said, sitting opposite her. “I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

  “No rush,” she told me, cleaning her fingers with a napkin and finishing her bottle of beer.

  “Now, you want to tell me why you’re so depressed?” I asked.

  “Somehow, it doesn’t seem so important now,” she told me. “I always thought that the fact that you’re a private eye was exciting, Jack. Now I see that it can also be scary. Hit men from Detroit? I thought that was only on television.”

  “They have to come from somewhere, Tracy,” I told her.

  She shook her head, not at what I said but at what she was thinking.