This time when I rang the bell there was an immediate buzz, which unlocked the door. She must have thought it was Brown coming back.
I rapped the door with my knuckles once and it swung open before I could hit it again.
“Brownie, I knew you wouldn’t—” she started, but she stopped short when she saw me.
“Tell me what it is. I probably wouldn’t, either.”
“You!”
She had a fresh bruise alongside her left eye and I was amazed that her delicate bones were able to stand up so well to Brown’s fists. She was wearing tight jeans and a yellow sweatshirt.
“Me,” I said, stepping past her and inside before she could try to shut the door in my face.
“What do you want?”
I turned to face her and said, “Well, you could try shutting the door for starters.”
She glared at me for a moment, then defiantly slammed the door shut, as if showing me that she wasn’t afraid to.
“Brown is going to be here any minute. He’ll take you apart.”
“I doubt it. He just dropped you off, so I don’t think he’ll be coming back so soon. As for him taking me apart, that’s been tried before by professionals.”
“That’s right. You were a boxer once, weren’t you?”
Without giving me a chance to answer she threw a roundhouse kick at my head. It hit me high on the right side of the head, hard enough to knock me off balance. By the time I regained it she had removed her tight jeans and was bouncing around on the balls of her feet.
“Come on, fighter,” she said tauntingly. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Underneath the sweatshirt she was wearing nothing but a pair of powder blue panties. Her small, firm breasts bobbed up and down as she moved around, waiting for me to come to her.
“Honey, you’re out of your weight classification.”
“We’ll see.”
She had a cocky grin on her face, which looked odd against the backdrop of that bruise.
“Honey—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I’m not your honey.”
“Is that a fact . . . honey?”
She lost her temper, something you should never do when you’re in the ring.
She moved toward me and threw another kick, but I anticipated the move and ducked under it. Reaching up I grabbed hold of her ankle and yanked, pulling her other leg out from under her. She fell to the floor with her cute little butt making an audible thud, and I stepped back.
“Come on, honey,” I said, taunting her now, “let’s see what you’ve got.”
She got to her feet and started to rub her behind, but pulled her hands away when she realized what she was doing. Still angry, she charged me again. She threw a front kick instead of a roundhouse, and I blocked it the way Billy had taught me, crossing my forearms in front of me. When her ankle banged into my arms I reversed my right hand, grabbed her ankle again and dumped her back on her ass.
“Ooh,” she cried angrily, and leaped back to her feet. She charged at me, throwing two quick roundhouse kicks, both of which I ducked under, but then she surprised me. Kicking low, she knocked my legs out from under me. As I hit the floor on my back she leaped on top of me. Forgetting her karate training she tried to rake my face with her nails, but I succeeded in grabbing her wrists in time to save my skin.
“Damn you,” she said, bringing her knees up to crush my nuts, but I moved in time to avoid that, too.
Locked together now we rolled over on the floor a few times, knocking over a table and a lamp, and when we came to a stop she was on top again. There was a change in her, though. No longer was she trying to rip my face, now she was trying to rip my clothes.
The coupling was violent, just the way she obviously liked it. I had never experienced anything like it before, and it left me feeling exhausted, exhilarated, . . . and just a little bit dirty.
“Is that the only way you can get off?” I asked, when most of our clothes were back in order. She hadn’t put her jeans back on, so I kept alert for another attack—of either sort.
“I didn’t notice you complaining,” she said, picking up the table and lamp we’d knocked over. That done, she faced me with her hands on her hips and said, “Tell the truth, Jacoby, you never had it so good.”
“I’ve never had anything quite like it,” I said, “but I wouldn’t say I’ve never had it so good.”
“Bullshit!” she said, dropping her hands and adopting a belligerent pose.
“You start throwing kicks at me again and I’ll do more than dump you on your butt.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk about Alan Cross.”
“Cross? Not Miss Melanie Bitch?”
“She’s dead.”
“What?” she asked, and her shock appeared genuine.
“She was beaten to death, just like Alan Cross.”
All the fight seemed to go out of her and she sat down heavily on the couch.
“What do you want from me?”
“I want to know what was going on with Alan Cross, Fallon. What got him and Melanie Saberhagen killed?”
“Who says there’s a connection between the two deaths?”
“They knew each other, didn’t they? They were both students at the institute.”
“They met, sure, but that doesn’t mean they knew each other.”
“Then what was her name doing in his book?”
“What book?”
“The same book you, Ginger, and your friend Brown have your names in,” I said, producing the book.
She frowned at the book in my hand and then her eyes widened as if something had suddenly frightened her.
“What kind of book is this, Fallon? And what do these abbreviations after each name mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s an awful lot of letters after your name, Fallon.” I opened the book and started to read them off. “B, 3W—oh, here’s and interesting one: LOWG. What does that mean?”
“How do I know?”
“I think you do know,” I said, moving closer to the couch so that I was hovering over her. “Wouldn’t you like to find out who killed Cross and Melanie?”
“I don’t care,” she said, sullenly, “Leave me alone.”
Things hadn’t gone quite the way I’d planned them. I was afraid that if I tried to pressure her further, or even knock it out of her, we’d end up rolling on the floor again. I didn’t think my back could take it.
“All right, Fallon,” I said, putting the book away. I took out my business card and almost wrote Bogie’s number on the back when I remembered that she had called me there once. That was another question I wanted the answer to, strictly to appease my own curiosity.
“Call me,” I said, handing it to her, “here or at that other number.”
“What other number?”
I stared at her and she said, “Oh, that number.”
“Would you like to tell me where you got that other number from?”
“I can’t,” she said, prodding her lower lip with the corner of my card. She looked frightened and said again, “I can’t.”
“Are you afraid of Brown?”
She didn’t respond.
“Did he do that to you?” I asked, pointing to the bruise.
Her hand flew up to touch it, and then she nodded.
“For fun? Or does being a punching bag turn you on, too?”
She closed her eyes and said, “Would you please leave?”
“Sure, Fallon, I’ll leave, but call me when you feel like talking. Whatever you’re into, you’re too smart to get into it any deeper.”
I walked to the door and opened it, then turned back to look at her.
“Tell your friend Brown I’ll be talking to him.”
She looked up at me and said, “He’ll kill you.”
It might have been ego, or it might have been that it was the only decent e
xit line I could think of.
“You mean, he’ll try,” I said, and left.
While I was hoping that Fallon would have second thoughts and call me, there was no way I could count on it. That left either Ginger or Brown, and that left tomorrow. It was late and I was still feeling . . . wrung out from my session with Fallon, and on top of that, the scratches on my back were itching the hell out of me. I could feel the shirt sticking to them.
I crossed the street to my rented car and drove it back to Bogie’s. It had been something of a wasted expense and it occurred to me then that I could have used it to follow Brown and brace him instead of Fallon.
Did I have the beatings he’d administered to me and Hank Po in the back of my mind when I decided to let him go and talk to Fallon? No, I told myself, that wasn’t it. My plan all along had been to talk to Fallon. The car had simply been a precaution. If she had driven off in a cab, I would have been able to follow her, but she had made it easy for me—or so I’d thought.
Business was light at Bogie’s that time of night, with only the diehard regulars still around. I unzipped my coat and walked to the bar, where Billy was. The jukebox was playing “Key Largo.”
“You look like you had a rough day,” he said.
“The day wasn’t bad, but the evening was a bitch.”
“You want a drink?”
I considered it for a moment and then said, “I guess I could take a bottle of beer into the back with me.”
He nodded and produced a bottle of St. Pauli Girl. As I reached for it my shirt gaped open, reminding me that I had lost most of the buttons.
“What happened to your shirt?” Billy asked.
The man on the next stool, a regular named Warren, looked at my shirt and asked, “What happened, couldn’t she wait?”
“Pal,” I said, taking my beer, “you don’t know the half of it.”
“Key Largo” was starting up again as I left.
The phone was ringing when I got into the back office, but I ignored it and sipped my beer as I undressed. A few moments later the intercom sounded.
“Yes?”
It was Billy.
“Jack, the call is for you. It’s a girl.”
Thanks, Billy.”
“You want anything from the kitchen before we shut it down?”
“No—oh, yes, okay. Maybe just a sandwich. Whatever’s easy.”
“You got it. I’ll send it back.”
Thanks.”
Was the girl on the phone Fallon? Had she come to her senses already?
“Hello?”
“Miles Jacoby?” It wasn’t Fallon, but whoever it was sounded very nervous.
“Yes?”
“This is Ginger. You know, Fallon’s friend?”
“Yes, Ginger, I know who you are. What’s wrong?”
“I have to talk to you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Not on the phone.”
“I’ll come there—”
“Not here, either,” she said quickly, “and I can’t come there. After what you told Fallon tonight—we have to meet somewhere.”
“Are you all right, Ginger?”
“I’m just scared, that’s all. Fallon is too, but she’s too scared to talk to you. I’m not.”
“Where should we meet?”
She thought a moment and then said, “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know where it’s safe.”
“Usually where there’s people,” I said. “Why don’t we meet at the institute?”
“The others will be there.”
“Are you afraid of them?”
“Of course not. They’re not—”
“They’re not what?”
“I—not on the phone.”
“All right, Ginger.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”
“Will you be all—” I started to ask, but she had already hung up.
So, the visit to Fallon hadn’t been wasted. It hadn’t loosened her tongue, but maybe Ginger would have enough to tell me for both of them.
There was a knock on the door and, thinking it was Billy, I wasn’t bothered about being in my underwear. I called out, “Come in.”
Alison came in carrying a sandwich and a cup of coffee on a tray. She stopped short when she saw me, but didn’t appear embarrassed.
“I’m starting to get sick of ‘Key Largo,’” she said, walking forward and putting the tray down on the desk.
Trying to be cool, I picked up my pants from the bed, but she said, “Oh, don’t on my account, I’m just leaving.”
She turned and started for the door, but she couldn’t hold it in any longer and started laughing just before she left.
What a nice girl.
While eating my sandwich I took out Cross’s book and looked at both Fallon’s and Ginger’s entries. I found myself comparing the letters that accompanied each of their names. Fallon’s entry read: “Fallon, C, B, SM, 3W, LOWG.” Ginger’s read: “C, LOWF.” Why were there so many next to Fallon’s name, and so few next to Ginger’s? And why were the final entries similar, except for the last letter?
I finished the sandwich, beer, and coffee without figuring it out, and tried to go to sleep.
Twenty-Eight
I had a restless night. I kept dreaming that I went to meet Ginger and that she and Fallon beat the shit out of me and left me lying helpless on the floor. At that point in the dream Brown always came walking in. It was one of those half asleep/half awake twilight type dreams that keeps repeating itself, and finally I staggered out of bed and took a cold shower to wake myself up.
Over breakfast in a coffee shop I realized that the dream meant that I was subconsciously aware that Ginger might have been setting me up. Still, if that were the case, she wouldn’t have let me name the meeting place, right?
I got to my office early, but there was already a message on my answer machine.
It was from Leo Piper.
“You’re doing it again,” his voice said, “and I don’t like it. Call me at this number,” and then he rattled off a number and hung up.
I picked up the phone and dialed the number right away. When a man answered I said, “Piper.”
“Who wants—”
“Let me talk to Piperneski!”
The phone went dead, and then Piper came on the line, madder than hell.
“Stop using that name!”
“You don’t like that name, huh?”
“I don’t like the name, and I don’t like you.”
“Well, you can change your name, pal, but you can’t change me. You tried that once, but your muscle failed. You should teach them to watch out for ice spots.”
“I see,” he said. “I think we should talk.”
“Going to have another limo take me to a mystery bookstore?”
“No,” Piper said. He had taken control of himself again and now he said, “We’ll have lunch.”
“How civilized.”
“Do you know a restaurant called Goings On?”
“Yes.” I certainly did know the place. It was owned by Carl Caggiano, Jr. I’d had lunch with him there once, and the food was very good.
“Meet me there today at one.”
At one o’clock the place would be mobbed with the lunch crowd and there wasn’t much chance that he’d try something. I wondered if he knew who owned the place, and then decided that he must.
“All right. I’ll meet you there.”
He hung up.
That made two meetings set for that day, and I hoped that they would both make things much clearer to me.
I took out Cross’s book again, which was fast becoming the bane of my existence, and leafed through it for the millionth time. I turned to the “B’s” and examined the letters next to Brown’s name: S, B, SM, 3W. It looked familiar, and when I checked Fallon’s and Ginger’s entries I found out why. It was almost identical to Fallon’s, except for the last group of hers, the “LOWG.” And how did that differ from the “LOWF” next to
Ginger’s name?
I looked at some of the other female entries, and although there were many with “L” next to their names, none had any with “LOW” in them. The only thing that I could think of was that the “G” in “LOWG” stood for “Ginger” and the “F” in “LOWF” for Fallon, but that didn’t help me figure out the rest.
I put the book away in frustration and starting sorting through my mail. Bills weren’t all that much easier to figure out, but at least I knew what to do with them.
I left my office at twelve-thirty, but I called Hocus first, to find out if he’d found anything on Leo Piperneski from Brooklyn.
“I’ve got an old rap sheet, but it’s petty stuff, the kind of thing you’d expect from a street kid. The biggest thing they ever got him for was running some girls.”
“Anything on the girls he might have been working with?” I was worried that Lee’s name might turn up.
“No, nothing. I’ve got a friend who remembers Piperneski as a tough kid with brains. He said he thought the kid might be able to drag himself off the streets.”
“Well, I guess he did.”
“There’s nothing here you can use, Jack. Sorry.”
“Thanks for the shot. I’ve got to ask you one more thing, though.”
He sighed and said, “What now?”
“You still keeping tabs on Caggiano?”
“Which one?”
“Both of them.”
“They’re not in my department.”
“I know that.”
Hocus had a relationship with Caggiano Sr. years ago, while working undercover. He had gained the old man’s affection and respect, and still held the latter. Also, he didn’t get along with Caggiano Jr. very well. Carl Jr. had been jealous of the affection the old man had once had for the detective. Jr. and Sr. had never been on the best of terms.
“Yes, I’m still . . . aware of their business.”
“Has Cagey Carl had any dealings with Piper that you know of?”
“Piper eats at Goings On occasionally, but I’m not aware of any business dealings between them. Why? What do you know?”
If I had anything on the Caggianos, Hocus would expect me to give it to him, and I didn’t disappoint him.
“I’m meeting Piper at Cagey Carl’s restaurant for lunch.”
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