As one specific name came to mind, I felt that I had finally gotten a break in the case of the man in the fifth row.
Chapter Forty-Five
Willy Wells, that was the name I came up with, and I pretty much knew where to find him. Willy hardly ever left the gym on Forty-second Street until after six o’clock.
Willy was well over sixty, although he was a feisty old guy who would probably bury a good number of the young fighters he was training and go on to find even younger ones. He was a Ray Arcel type who would probably still be training fighters when he was ninety.
If Corky Purcell or his friend, the now infamous “Man in the Fifth Row,” were trainers of any renown at all, Willy had to have known them when they were in the business, and probably knew them now.
Willy knew my home number, he knew my office number, and he knew Julie’s number, because that day I had worked out with his fighter and agreed to let him work my corner in the Ricardi fight, the last thing I had done before leaving the gym was give him those three phone numbers.
He in turn had to have passed them on to the mystery man from row five.
Now all I had to do was get Willy to talk, to tell me the man’s name and where I could find him before the killer found him again.
When I got to the gym it was uncommonly quiet. Willy usually had one or two of his fighters stay and work out overtime. For the place to be this quiet at five-thirty was uncommon . . . and suspicious.
When I walked in and found it so quiet I quelled my first instinct, which was to call out Willy’s name. Instead, I pulled the little 9mm from the holster and started working my way toward the main light switch. If the killer was there I had the edge because I knew the layout and he didn’t. Once I had doused all of the lights my edge would grow a little bigger, and I needed as much of one as I could get.
Before reaching the main switch I passed a pay phone and decided to call Hocus and get him the hell over here; only when I picked up the receiver I found that the cord had been cut cleanly, as if with something very sharp. I knew then that there were two possibilities: the killer had either been there and gone, or he was still there.
Walking as softly as I could, and listening intently, I made my way to the master switch, and just as I reached it I heard a sound that plucked at my nerves as if they were guitar strings.
I heard a man’s moan as it stretched out and rose to a high whine, and then a scream.
I knew it was Willy Wells screaming, and that’s when I hit the switch, plunging the whole works into darkness.
Willy’s scream was cut short suddenly, and I knew that the killer realized that somebody else was in the gym with them.
I decided that my best play was not to move. The killer knew of only one way out, and that was the way he had come in, which would have been the front door. There was one other exit, a fire exit, but you couldn’t find it with the lights on unless you knew where it was, and in the dark it was impossible, especially if you were unfamiliar with the layout.
My best play was just to sit and wait for him to try and make the door.
I crouched down, which didn’t help my stitches any, but I wanted to make myself as small a target as I could. I had the feeling that although Max was a blade man, his last encounter with me might have prompted him to start carrying a gun, just in case we met again.
Gradually my eyes began to get used to the darkness, and I assumed he would also wait for his to adjust. He was, after all, a pro, and he wasn’t about to make any rash moves.
Willy’s screams had to have come from the locker room, and there was only one exit from the locker room to the main gym area. He was going to have to come from that doorway.
I had a general idea of where that doorway was, but it was too dark for me to make it out. The front door, on the other hand, had a certain amount of light filtering in from outside and was easy to spot in the darkness. I had made up my mind to fire at any shadow or silhouette that passed in front of the door and ask questions later.
After ten minutes—or maybe it was twenty or thirty—I began to realize that we were both playing the same waiting game. He was waiting for me to come in, and I was waiting for him to come out. I thought I had the edge because I was out, but he had the edge because he’d probably been through this before. What I’m trying to say is that after waiting all that time my nerves were starting to go, which was probably what he was counting on.
Suddenly I realized what a prize dope I had been. Since the man was a pro one of the first things he had probably done was locate the main light switch. He knew I had turned out the lights, and I was crouched right under the master switch, which meant that he probably knew exactly where I was!
I started to sweat freely and made a monumental effort not to panic. I had to move away from there to a spot he’d never expect me to be. I had to move away from the wall entirely, and I thought I knew of a good spot.
Ring center.
I started to crawl on all fours toward the ring, trying not to scrape the gun or my feet on the floor. When I reached the ring apron I paused to listen, but if he was moving he was doing so with the ease of a cat, because I couldn’t hear anything but my own breathing, which sounded tremendously loud in my ears.
I tried not to grunt from the pain as I hoisted myself up onto the ring apron, causing my stitches to pull. Once on the apron I crawled under the ropes and out to the center of the ring, where I stayed on my belly.
I had made it to where I wanted to be, and now I suddenly felt like a perfect target. What if he had second-guessed me? What if I had done exactly what he wanted me to do?
What if he was gone?
What if I had been making a complete asshole of myself, waiting in the dark for a man who was already gone, crawling around on my hands and knees for no reason.
Sure, the fire exit was hard to find, but the killer was in the locker room with Willy, wasn’t he? All he had to do was ask Willy if there was another way out. I was sure that Willy would have been only too happy to show the man the way out.
So what do you do now, stupid? I asked myself. Lie here on your belly the whole night, or make a move?
And what if I was wrong? What if he was just waiting for me to make a move so he could shove a shiv into me, or pump a few slugs into me?
I’d never know until I made up my mind.
Very slowly I made my way back to the master switch. Maybe the last thing he would expect me to do would be to put the lights back on. Maybe I’d catch him in the middle of the floor, like a cockroach crawling across the kitchen floor in the middle of the night when he thinks everyone is asleep.
What if . . .
I put my sweaty hand on the switch, holding the gun out in front of me with my other hand, and pulled.
The place was bathed in light, and I had a moment of sheer panic as I realized that I was totally blinded by the light. I dropped my hand from the switch and attempted to shade my eyes and regain some degree of sight, all the while waiting for the impact of a knife or a bullet to drive the life out of me.
Nothing like that happened, and, as my sight gradually returned, I could see that no one was there.
I was alone.
And feeling stupid.
I got up and walked around the ring to the entrance to the locker room. Very slowly, with the gun held ready, I eased through the door until I could see inside.
Willy Wells was lying on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest like a fetus. I controlled the urge to rush to him and made a complete survey of the room. When I was satisfied that no one but Willy and myself were in there, I went to him, hoping that all of my care and time-consuming caution had not caused him to die.
“Willy?” I called, rolling him over.
The tough little man’s wrinkled face was pale and clouded with pain.
“Shit, man, I hurt, I hurt all over,” he said from between clenched teeth.
“Stay still, Willy, I’ll get an ambulance.”
“I didn’t tell him nothing, Jack.
I swear, I didn’t tell him nothing,” he told me urgently.
“I know you didn’t, Willy. Keep quiet now.”
“Nothing, I told him nothing,” he said again, and one hand reached out like a small claw and grabbed ahold of my sleeve. “But you gotta know,” he told me, “you gotta know what he knows, Jack.”
“What’s that, Willy? What do I have to know?”
“The name, the name . . .” he said, his voice fading out so that I couldn’t hear him.
“What name, Willy?” I asked, leaning closer. “What’s the name?”
“—layne,” I heard him say, catching only the last half of the name.
“Again, Willy, again,” I urged him.
“—layne,” I heard again and then, just before he passed out on me, he mustered up what strength he had left and said out loud, “Trelayne!”
Trelayne! I had a name now, something to go on.
He was out cold, but he was still alive. If he was going to stay that way I had to get him an ambulance. I walked over to the pay phone that was by the fire exit, hoping that the killer hadn’t also cut the cord on that one. I was in luck; the cord was still attached. Apparently he hadn’t been able to find the phone any more than he’d been able to find the fire exit. The metal bar that locked the door on the inside was still in place, and—
Jesus! The implication of that hit me like a wet towel. The fire door was locked on the inside!
I turned around so fast I felt the stitches in my side go. As I felt the blood seeping out and soaking into my shirt, I saw that one of the lockers was now open where all of them had been closed when I entered.
He had been in one of the lockers, and now he was gone!
Chapter Forty-Six
“Well, at least this one’s still alive,” Hocus told me as we watched the ambulance attendants carry Willy Wells out on the stretcher. We were outside the locker room, where there was a lot of activity, and another attendant was putting a fresh bandage on my side. I hadn’t ripped the stitches, but I’d stretched them enough to need a new dressing.
“Yeah, maybe just barely,” I pointed out.
He looked at me and said, “You can’t take the blame for that, son.”
“Yeah, well, maybe if I hadn’t been playing hide and seek in the dark and had gotten to a phone sooner—”
“That’s second-guessing yourself Personally, I think you played it wrong, but it’s done and you can’t go back and do it again,” he told me.
I glanced at him and said, “What did I do wrong?”
“You really want to know?”
“I asked, didn’t I?” I said as the attendant finished me up. I put my shirt back on and buttoned it. “Thanks,” I told the guy.
Hocus and I went over and leaned on the ring apron, and he lit up a cigar before speaking.
“Okay, aside from the fact that you should have turned right around, left and called me the minute you smelled trouble, shutting the house lights was dumb.”
“Why?”
“Think about it, Jacoby,” he told me, prodding me on the head with a thick forefinger. “The man had no idea you were here. You shut the lights and tipped him right off.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, refusing to admit that he was right and I was wrong. “I knew that he was here, and since I knew the layout, shutting the lights should have given me an edge on him. Besides, the lights could have gone out for any number of reasons.”
“Okay, so you’re not so dumb, but assuming that the man was armed with a gun was an error in judgment. He’s a blade man and he wouldn’t be caught dead with a gun!” he explained.
“So that’s why I didn’t get shot in the back while he was inside the locker.”
“Right. Apparently, rather than try to sneak up on you while you were on the phone and slit your gizzard, he decided to run and fight another day.”
“Which was probably lucky for one of us,” I said.
“Uh, yeah, for one of you,” he said, leaving no doubt that he thought I was the lucky one. He got up and walked away, back to the locker room, and I followed, tucking in my shirt.
“What have we got?” he asked his partner.
“I think our man made a mistake,” Wright replied. He had something in his hand, and he handed it to Hocus.
“What is it?” I asked over his shoulder.
He gave me a long, slow look and said, “Well, let me look at it and then I’ll show it to you.”
“Let’s look at it together,” I proposed.
He threw me a look of pure exasperation and then turned around and opened his hand so we could both see what was in it.
It was a Howard Johnson’s matchbook.
“That must be where he’s staying now!” I said, grabbing it out of his hand in my excitement.
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Hocus told me. He turned to Wright and asked, “Where’d you find it?”
“In the locker Jacoby says he was hiding in,” Wright told him. “Our man must have dropped it by accident.”
“Right!” I said enthusiastically.
“Yeah, he dropped it, all right,” Hocus said, “but whether or not it was an accident remains to be seen.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“This may have been meant for you to find,” he said, taking the book of matches back and shaking it under my nose, “and not us.”
“You mean, he wants me to go there looking for him?”
“Maybe,” he said again, “but what he wants and what he gets are going to be two very different things.” He turned back to his partner and asked, “Where’s the nearest Howard Johnson’s motel?”
“Eighth Avenue,” I answered first, “and Fifty-third.”
Hocus looked at me as if he was surprised I was still there and said, “Well, we’ll check it out.”
“We’ll all check it out,” I told him.
“Jacoby—”
“Either I go with you, or I’ll try and get there ahead of you, Hocus,” I told him.
“Jesus . . .” he said, and looked at his partner, who shrugged helplessly.
“All right, let’s go,” he said. As I started to walk out of the locker room he backhanded me on the shoulder to get my attention.
“Hey!”
“What?”
“You got a permit for that gun?” he asked, indicating the 9mm under my arm. He couldn’t see it, but it had been a part of my story that I’d told him when he arrived.
I hesitated a moment, then said, “Uh, well, no, not really.”
“Well, Jesus Christ, just don’t shoot anybody, huh?” he said. Then as he was brushing by me he added, “If you don’t have to.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
We drove to the Howard Johnson’s in Hocus and Wright’s unmarked car, with Wright driving.
“Jesus Christ,” I told Hocus, who was in the front seat next to Wright, “he drives like an old lady. Hey, Wright, why don’t you use the siren?”
He moved his shoulders like he was shivering at the thought and told me, “It’s too embarrassing. All those people looking at you,” he said, and then snorted.
“You’re uptight, Jacoby,” Hocus told me. “Using the siren would let the Ax know that somebody other than you got his message. Just relax and do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Don’t touch that gun, okay?”
We walked into the Howard Johnson’s with me trailing behind the two detectives. They were official, and I was just along for the ride.
Hocus flashed his shield and told the clerk to produce the registration cards for the past few days. We went through them and all decided on one signed “Matt Cannon.”
“Second floor,” Hocus said, and handed the cards back.
“Stay away from that phone,” Wright told the clerk as we started for the elevator.
“Why didn’t you ask the clerk if he was in?” I asked.
“It don’t matter,” Wright said. “If he isn’t, we’ll just wait for him, and if he is,
we’ll know soon enough.”
It sounded like pisspoor police procedure to me, but they were the pros.
I stood back as they drew their guns and positioned themselves, one on each side of the door.
“Hit it,” Hocus told Wright.
“Aren’t you supposed to identify yourselves or something?” I asked.
Wright threw me a pitying look just seconds before he hit the door with his foot. It flew open and they leaped into the room and out of sight. I didn’t hear any shooting, so I went in after them.
They were both standing in the middle of the room. Hocus scratching his head and Wright standing with his hands on his hips.
“Cleared out,” Wright said.
I looked around and saw what they meant. All the chest drawers were open and empty, and the same was true for the closet.
“He must have seen us coming,” Wright said.
“Or he might have hung around outside the gym to see if we’d show up there,” Hocus suggested. “Then he hotfooted it over here and cleared out.”
“That’s two hotel bills he’s skipped on,” I told them. They both looked at me and I asked, “Doesn’t he know that’s against the law? The man could get himself in serious trouble.”
Hocus pointedly ignored me and asked Wright, “What now?”
“Trelayne,” I said.
They both looked at me and Hocus said, “What?”
“Trelayne,” I repeated. “The name Willy Wells gave me before he passed out on me.”
“You said you didn’t know the name,” Hocus pointed out.
“No, but I know somebody who might.”
“Who?”
I took them to Packy’s and explained that Packy was an old pug, and as such he might remember the name and maybe better than that, the man.
When we got to Packy’s he was behind the bar. I took Hocus and Wright to the bar and said, “Packy, meet a couple of friends of mine. Detectives Hocus and Wright.” As he shook hands with each of them in turn I said, “That one’s Hocus, and that one’s Wright.”
“Three beers?” Packy asked.
Eye in the Ring Page 17