Bleeding in Black and White

by Colin Cotterill

  “Is there any chance of seeing them tonight?” Bodge asked.

  “There’s a chance of anything in this world if you’re patient enough. I’m sure you could sit there behind me and welcome all the smiling faces of the night shift drivers as they clock in.”

  Denholm joined Bodge on the vinyl sofa behind Longhurst’s desk. He’d brought two cups of gray coffee and a pair of sorry looking hotdogs from the all night kiosk.

  “This is in lieu of food,” he said.

  “Thanks.” Bodge bit into the dog. As he’d expected it to taste like shit, it wasn’t at all a disappointment.

  “Detective Deets…”

  “Yes, Bodge. I know. It’s crap, but just think of it as fuel. Even Agent Palmer refused it and he has an iron clad constitution. We’ll get some real food later.”

  “No, I was about to say, well, we’ve been to two obvious locations to investigate what happened Friday night. In my statement I mentioned both the Black Cat and the yellow cab.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, neither Mister Lucoz nor the guy here said anything about anyone else nosing around asking dumb questions.”

  “You’re thinking of your security people?”

  “It seems to me they aren’t doing a great deal of detective work to find Lou. They didn’t even show up this morning to ask about the truck.”

  “I don’t know how they work but I’d suppose they’re more concerned about the breach of security at your office.”

  “You know about that?”

  “I’m privy to all the information relevant to this case.”

  “So who’s searching for Lou?”

  “We are. And I filed a missing person’s. The local police will eventually get around to hunting through the morgue files and the hospital records. They aren’t likely to extend to door-knocking and interviewing people on the street. So that leaves us. When are you due back in DC?”

  “The boss has decided we might have to spend the week on this. He’s rescheduled orientation for next Monday.”

  “Even that mightn’t be enough time. This is a big city crammed full of people who aren’t fond of giving up information for free.”

  They sat there for an hour with nothing to do but get to know one another. Like Bodge, Denholm had failed at marriage and produced no kids. He’d been with the New York police force since he was eighteen and gotten his detective badge when he was a mere twenty-eight. He lived alone and apparently had just the one love — his job. But Bodge got the feeling something had soured that love recently. It wasn’t something Denholm Deets felt like talking about.

  Drivers came and went, but not the Brooklynite with the nose. It was starting to look like all the men who’d intended to work that night had arrived already. There were only two empty squares on the work roster and Longhurst had long-since been replaced by the night shift supervisor. It was nine and Bodge was wondering whether their time could be better spent elsewhere. He’d availed himself of the office phone to call Lou’s till the number rang itself hoarse, and then to talk to Mooney. The only information he’d been able to offer was that a couple of security goons had been hanging around their building all day. That explained where Jansen and Tuck had gotten to. They’d interrogated everyone from the receptionist to the director himself and obviously weren’t there with the intention of making friends. They’d left one or two of the secretaries in tears. So Bodge and his team were it. The onus was on them to find Lou. They decided it was time to go ferret around his apartment in Little Italy. Maybe someone there would remember something.

  They were gathered in front of the supervisor’s booth planning the trip across town when the little cabby pushed between them. Bodge recognised the nose and was pretty certain about the face. He nodded to Denholm who stepped in front of the man.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  “I didn’t do nothing,” the cabby told him.

  “I’m sure you didn’t. We were looking for someone who took a fare on Friday night, Saturday morning.”

  “I take fares every night. What about it?”

  “Do you recognize this man?” Denholm gestured toward Bodge. The little cabby looked him up and down and stared up again into his broad face, then shook his head.

  “Nah, never seen him before.”

  “You might want to try a little harder,” Bodge pushed. “East Broadway? I know it was you.”

  “You do? Yeah, maybe,” the cabby said at last. He seemed terminally edgy. “You was one of them drunks. Don’t tell me. East Broadway, down by the river. Hudson Mansion. Am I right, or am I right?”

  “Very good,” Bodge told him.

  “Got a photographic memory for addresses, me.”

  “What I’d really like to know is where you picked us up.”

  “Not sure I can remember that.”

  “I thought you had a photographic memory,” Denholm said.

  “It’s fuzzy. Maybe if I could get a couple of bucks for a coffee it might clear my mind.”

  “You don’t want to start shaking us down, pal. Especially as I’m carrying one of these.” The policeman finally flashed his badge. The driver paled.

  “Well, shit. You could of said. I’m always happy to help the cops. I guess I remember after all. I was cruisin’ Grand Central, Times Square, around 42nd. Some of the guys stay away from the joints late at night. There’s drunks I won’t pick up and drunks I will. But I got instincts. Yeah, instincts. I figured you two was so far gone you wouldn’t give me no grief. And your little buddy was straight.”

  “You mean he was sober?”

  “As a nun.”

  “And he gave you directions to our places?”

  “He had ‘em writ down in a book.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. And he give me twice as much as I asked for. I was well pleased. I didn’t even have to run the meter.”

  “Where exactly were we when you first saw us?

  “Some joint on 41st. and 8th. called Bouncers. You and your buddy was laid out on the sidewalk like the trash. Man, you was so out of it. Me and the kid almost broke our balls gettin’ you in the back seat. What you weigh? 250? 280?”

  “230,” Bodge said, recalling his last weighing two years earlier.

  “Yeah? Felt like 280. But I was in the money so I didn’t give a shit.”

  “Did the boy say anything to you, apart from the addresses?”

  “Just said you two was celebratin’ somethin’ and got a little over enthusiastic.”

  “And he just walked off?”

  “Vanished, just like that. No idea where he went. I looked in the mirror and the street was deserted.”

  “So you dropped me off and took my friend to his place?”

  “That’s right. He didn’t have no idea where he was. ‘You’re home, buddy’ I told him, and he gets out of the cab and stands there swayin’ left and right. He was going through his pockets like he was looking for somethin’. I asked him what he’d lost but he didn’t say nothin’. I looked in the back of the cab in case it was a wallet I’d get accused of thievin’ but there weren’t nothin’ there. When I looked up he was at the door ringin’ the doorbell. So I figures he’s lost his key. Nothing I could do about that so I drove off and left him there.”

  “And you’re sure you left him at the right address?” Palmer asked.

  “Hey, I know this town like my own wife’s you-know-what. Don’t you even suggest I don’t know where I left him.”

  Despite its name, Bouncers wasn’t a basketball store. It was a clip joint that called itself a “Revue Bar”. There were gaudy colored photographs of voluptuous women out front. They wore elegant clothes that looked like they might just fall off if you breathed on them. Sitting beside the main door was a skinny old lady in the type of booth you’d see in front of a movie theatre. Bodge, Palmer and Denholm ignored her and went straight for the door.

  “Hey. You guys think I’m sitting here for my health?” she growled.

  “We
aren’t here for the show,” Bodge told her.

  “If you don’t pay, you ain’t getting through that door.” She looked at the big fella’s hands in the pockets of his slacks. “And if that’s a piece you got there, I got a bigger one down here under my knitting. So don’t you go getting any ideas.”

  Denholm was about to step forward but Palmer put up his hand. He strode to the booth, gave her his smarmiest of smiles and leaned on the counter.

  “I’m sorry, miss. How are you doing today? You have nothing to fear from us. We’re government agents.” He flashed her his badge too quickly for her to get a look at it and she flashed him her two remaining teeth.

  “That supposed to impress me?”

  “I hoped it might, yes.”

  “Well it don’t. Y’ain’t getting a free show, badge or no.”

  “Miss, we just want to ask one or two questions. That’s all.”

  “Ten bucks.”

  “I assure you we have no interest in seeing the show.”

  “You said that. Ten bucks is the going rate for questions.”

  “Those are expensive questions. I trust that would get us answers as well?”

  “If the questions ain’t too hard.”

  “Then perhaps we could speak to someone in authority.”

  “Perhaps you could. How about the owner and the manager?”

  “That would be just charming. Are they free?”

  “No, they cost ten bucks, and they’re sitting right here in front of you.”

  “You’re the owner?” Bodge asked.

  “Put them eyebrows down, boy. You got anything against senior citizens?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Palmer removed two fives from a well-endowed billfold. He slid one of them under the glass. “Five for the questions. Five for the answers,” he said. She took up the note and sniffed at it.

  “Shoot.”

  “Were you here on Friday night?”

  “No. You wanna slide me that other five now?”

  “Do you suppose we could talk to someone who was here on Friday night?”

  “No.”

  “I get a feeling you aren’t trying very hard to earn the other five.”

  “It’s you that’s asking questions with ‘no’ answers.”

  “What question do you suggest might help us with our inquiries?”

  “Ask me why nobody can tell you what happened on Friday.”

  “Consider it asked.”

  “Cause, Mr. Clark Gable smile, there wasn’t nobody here on Friday night on account of us not being open. If you’d taken the trouble to read that big friggin sign up there behind you, you’d know that we open Sunday to Thursday. Some cops you are.”

  “Exactly what kind of clip joint closes at weekends?” Denholm asked.

  She glared at him as if she could smell his occupation. “One that can’t afford to pay the weekend donations the cops charge around here, that’s what kind. One that can’t compete with the bread the girls can make at other joints on Fridays and Saturdays. And this is a Revue, not a clip joint, thank you.” She turned to Palmer, “Now, Sweetie, what other services do I have to perform for you to earn that other five?”

  The three of them sat opposite Bouncers in the black Buick.

  “So, you weren’t in Bouncers,” Palmer said. “That means you walked or got dragged here from somewhere else. Does any of this look familiar to you, Bodge?”

  Bodge shook his head as he scanned the street opposite. He focused on the lights and posters in front of the clip joint, imagining himself arriving in a cab, finding it was shut, driving on. But nothing came. Only the neon coffee cup in the window of the quaint little café four doors down stirred any recognition in him. But it was a promotion display for the new Nescafé Coffee brand and the money-grabbing Europeans had saturated the city with their expensive advertising. They were everywhere. Who was likely to refuse a free neon sign?

  “No, sorry.”

  “I don’t know,” said Palmer looking across at the dowdy little revue bar. “Why would anyone come twenty blocks to sleazy holes like this?”

  “There are those who get off on seedy bars when they’re ten sheets to the wind,” Bodge thought out loud and put another nail in his reputation.

  “I’m sure. But it was young Eddie’s suggestion. Lou and yourself were beyond rational thought. Why would a good-looking young boy with money want to come and hang out in clip joints off 42nd.?”

  “Slumming,” Denholm offered. “Little Lord Fauntleroy mixing with dirty whores. I see it all the time.”

  Palmer grimaced. “Something here doesn’t make sense.”

  14.

  On the drive to Little Italy, Bodge was still mad that the cabby had just dumped his friend on the sidewalk. It wasn’t one of the worst neighborhoods but you never could tell in this city. With the old families moving out to the suburbs and all kinds of reprobates moving in, there wasn’t that old village atmosphere any more where everyone looked after their neighbors. In this modern Manhattan where money was doing most of the talking, people were content to look after themselves.

  It was after ten but they figured that wasn’t too late for one last call before they turned in for the night. Bodge had known Lou’s building supervisor for five years and she had a crush on him. Twenty years earlier before the bourbon had vandalized her, she’d been a looker. She had old black and white photographs of her beautiful self all around the walls of her apartment. Whatever it was that set her off in this tailspin must have been drastic, because she carried an extra hundred pounds and looked like she’d run face first into a lot of brick walls.

  “Bodge, honey. Come in. And who are your friends, babe?”

  It suddenly occurred to Bodge he didn’t know Palmer’s Christian name, or indeed whether he had one. The A on his name card could have been an article.

  “This is Marion,” said Bodge. Without missing a beat, the older man stepped forward to take the woman’s hand.

  “Delighted, miss.”

  “Likewise,” she replied with a little curtsy. Although her cheeks provided ample camouflage Bodge thought he noticed a blush. “You won’t believe this but in England, Marion’s a woman’s name,” she said.

  Palmer smiled. “So I’ve heard.”

  “And this,” Bodge continued, “is Denholm.”

  “Howdy.”

  “Hi there, Denholm. And you can all call me Michelle. Let’s go sit on the lounge suite, shall we?” They got the impression this was a rare occurrence of gentlemen callers in the life of Mrs. Harris. She jogged around from sofa to easy chair to footstool removing magazines and paper bags and fluffing up cushions. The apartment smelled of bug spray and vomit.

  “There,” she said. “Asseyez-vous.”

  There followed an embarrassing few minutes when they refused, but were painstakingly brow-beaten into agreeing to tea. During the exchange Mrs. Harris slipped in and out of her fake English accent. She finally retired to the kitchen where she clattered around for some fifteen minutes before re-emerging with a new layer of makeup, a fresh scent of alcohol on her breath, and a huge tray. The latter contained a slightly chipped bone china teapot, four non-matching cups, and a plate piled high with chunky shortbread biscuits. She took on the role of mother and poured for her guests with all the formality of afternoon tea at Buckingham Palace.

  “I know you must all feel terribly concerned about Mr. Vistarini. Sugar, Marion?”

  “Not for me, thank you. Yes, there doesn’t seem to be any trace of him. We’re all very worried.”

  “Denholm?”

  “Three, thanks.”

  “Someone’s got a sweet tooth. Bodge?”

  “One will be fine. Mrs. Ha… Michelle, when was the last time you actually saw Lou?”

  “Well, I suppose it must have been Thursday. Yes, Thursday evening. He came home to change and I was watering the plants out front. In fact he said he was off for dinner with you, Bodge.”

  “That’s right. H
e was. So, you’re saying you didn’t see him at all on Friday?”

  “Friday? No.”

  “Do you recall…?” She handed Palmer his cup. “Very kind of you. Do you recall being woken early on Saturday morning? Around 1 or 2AM?”

  “Saturday, you say?”

  “Yes. Perhaps somebody ringing your doorbell?”

  “No, darling. Not at all. I really would remember something like that. I’m a heavy sleeper, but once I’m roused it’s the devil of a job for me to get back to sleep.”

  “Are there any other residents on the ground floor?”

  “No, Marion. They all live upstairs. There’s only me down here.”

  “So if there were a ring at the door…?”

  “I’d be the one to answer it.”

  Bodge made the mistake of tasting his tea. It was remarkable that with so much loving care invested in its manufacture, it could still taste like cat’s pee. He leaned forward on the couch.

  “Michelle, to tell the truth, we don’t have a lot of faith in the police finding him.” Denholm remained dead pan.

  “Goodness. Are they involved?” she asked.

  “The authorities have been notified, but I’m sure you understand the force is badly undermanned these days, and in truth, there’s no evidence of any crime. They wouldn’t do anything unless they were presented with proof of a wrongdoing. We were wondering — would you mind terribly if we took a look upstairs? There might be some clue as to where Lou could have gone.”

  “Well, I was up there myself on Monday, just briefly, after Mr. Mooney called. I didn’t do any poking around, mind.”

  “We’re sure you didn’t,” Palmer reassured her. “But we do think it’s vital we take a look.”

  “You’re right, of course. In fact it’s strictly forbidden to let strangers into resident’s apartments, but this is a special case, and I’m sure you’ll vouch for the good character of Marion and Denholm, won’t you, Bodge?”

  “Absolutely.”