Buy Back

by Wiprud, Brian M

  “I guess from your experience that someone who looks like me and says he’s looking for a friend has been trouble in the past. OK, I can understand why you’re anxious. I’m not a bounty hunter or private detective or some ball buster. I’m not trouble, Hector, so you can relax. So can your customers.” I held my coat open and turned all the way around so he could see I had no gun or other weapon. “I was hoping to run into Freddy.”

  The front door opened.

  “Fucking aye…” It was Freddy registering that something in the bar was wrong. It took a few seconds for him to see me as the center of attention and realize who I was. “Tommy?”

  The whole room seemed to exhale.

  Hector put out a hand, and I shook it. “Sorry. I have to be careful.”

  “No sweat, Hector.”

  “Coffee is on me. I just made a pot.”

  “Nice of you, thanks.”

  Freddy’s arms were waving uncertainly at me as he approached. “Tommy, what’re you doing here? I still say you look like Kirk Douglas with the cliff chin.”

  “You told me you were working the night shift. I was in the neighborhood with a little time to kill, figured I might find you here, buy you a drink.”

  He slid in front of the beer and knocked the coaster off the top. “That’s white of you, Tommy, thanks. But even a drunk like me knows you want information. Am I right?”

  “I wouldn’t try to snow you, Freddy. Of course that’s why I’m here, but you’re your own man. You can tell me nothing. We can talk about the Giants.” I almost mentioned the Mets, but in October that can be a sore subject; better to not mention it at all. “I’ll still buy you the drinks, because I like you and consider you a friend.”

  Freddy looked surprised, and touched. His denture glowed in the neon light. “Jeese, Tommy, that’s nice of you to say. I don’t got a lot of friends. Other booze hounds don’t count.”

  Hector put the coffee down in front of me along with a container of sugar packets. “Cream?”

  I shook my head. “Thanks anyway. Get Freddy whatever he’s having.”

  Freddy ordered another beer and a shot of B&B, then turned to me. “I feel funny drinking booze when you drink coffee.”

  “Sorry, Freddy, but I’m just starting my day. When you’re on day shift I’d be happy to drink brandy, but if I get in the bag right now I won’t be able to do my job.”

  Freddy elbowed me. “Lightweight.”

  “What can I say. Some people can do it and others can’t. I don’t have the constitution to drink except after hours.”

  “C’mon, you’re a big guy! You can handle it.” He was elbowing me again.

  “No can do. It’s coffee for me.”

  He looked a little miffed that I couldn’t be convinced.

  “Freddy, you’re the only one that mentioned the Kirk Douglas thing.” I pointed at my chin.

  He brightened. “No!”

  “I kid you not.”

  “That surprises me.” He finished his beer as the new round arrived. A trembling hand made the B&B shot vanish. “So did you really wanna talk about the Giants?”

  “We can if you want, but I want to ask you about Sunday night.”

  “I was working then.” He slurped down half his beer and began looking for Hector for another shot. Poor Freddy really was a rummy, and I felt a little guilty for enabling him. Then again, I had no doubt he’d drink just as much with me there as without, except he’d have more pocket money for food this way. Well, it was nice to think he’d spend it on food, something like a salad, and not Tic Tacs.

  “What do you know about the gig Sunday night?”

  I could see Freddy’s eyes begin to glaze over. He was approaching a tipping point, or perhaps I should say the tipsy point. I was probably a little too late to have him talk to me sensibly. Home and bed were in his near future. That’s the problem using booze to get people to talk, especially with drunks. They have surprisingly little staying power and tend to get smashed.

  “I thought we were going to talk about the Giants?”

  “We can if you want.”

  “I’m a Jets fan, anyway.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Freddy, you have my sympathies. I used to be a Browns fan. My Dad was from Cleveland.”

  “Tommy, do you really like me or are you just saying that?”

  See what I mean? When they start to get smashed they start to get maudlin.

  “Don’t we always have a chat when we see each other at the museum?”

  He stared at the beer that had just arrived. “I sometimes wonder about things, about how people see me.”

  “How do you want them to see you, Freddy?”

  “I’m a pretty good guy, you know. I have a daughter, I ever tell you that?”

  “You showed me her picture once.”

  He was fumbling with his wallet and almost dropped it, twice. “See?”

  The wallet and the faded image of a little brunette girl on the lap of a department store Santa swayed in front of me. “She’s in Colorado. Works in the hospitality thing. She has a degree and everything from an institute.”

  “You must be proud of her.”

  “She spends Christmas with her mother in Reno.” Now he didn’t seem proud or fond but a little angry. I exchanged a glance with Hector down the bar. His eyes were telling me I should be thinking about getting Freddy home. Just as well. Both Freddy and I knew I was humoring him. Saddest part was he didn’t seem to mind.

  “Freddy, you look a little sleepy. Been a long night. Let me drive you home.”

  “I got a car.”

  That was a scary thought.

  He added, “It’s at home, though, Tommy.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “I take the bus home.”

  Hector stepped over and handed me a slip of paper with an address in Kensington on it in ballpoint pen. “Car is on the way.” His eyes told me he kept slips of paper like this around for when he needed to pour Freddy into a car service.

  “Thanks, Hector. Freddy and I will go together.”

  “Funny, though.” Freddy pointed a trembling finger at me. “The kitchen staff was the only ones.”

  “Only ones?”

  “That’s the ticket.”

  Freddy began to stir the dollar bills he had on the bar, trying to figure the tip.

  “So you say the kitchen staff were the only ones. The museum kitchen staff?”

  He was counting on his fingers, working on the tip.

  “Freddy, let me get the tip.” I threw a ten on the bar. Hector nodded his appreciation from across the room. I stood. “Your ride home is coming. Let’s get some fresh air.”

  He steadied himself on the bar and turned toward the exit. My hand was an inch from his shoulder to make sure he didn’t fall. On the steps up to the street, I had my hand an inch from his back.

  On Vanderbilt, we waited for the car to arrive as a new sunny Friday was under way in Brooklyn, bustling citizens looking at their watches, iPods, and phones as they headed for Grand Army Plaza and the subway. They probably had one foot in the weekend, thinking about Halloween parties or maybe a drive to Westchester to look at the fall foliage.

  Freddy groaned boozily as he sat himself on a car hood.

  Friday. I had the weekend to come up with that missing cash or default on my payment to the pink monkey. At that moment, standing there with a drunk at eight in the morning, up to my eyeballs in debt and a killer trying to tweak me, going back into Comanche and putting both feet in the bag seemed like a possible option. Then I would go home to my own bed and put my head under the pillow and hope that when I woke up this would all be some kind of stress dream, that I was actually someone with a normal job and a normal life full of pumpkin carving, candy corn, and football games.

  “So what was that you were saying about the kitchen staff at the museum? Was this Sunday night you were talking about?”

  “That’s the ticket. Only ones.”

  “Only ones?
What does that mean?”

  “They’re the only ones who saw the robbers. They just got in and got out. In and out.” Freddy chuckled to himself. “And this all happened with Snoopy right there.”

  “Snoopy.”

  “Ol’ Snoopy was there that night.”

  I knew the answer but wanted to hear it anyway. “Atkins?”

  “Snoopy. We call him that because of the way he walks, with little steps.”

  The town car rolled up to the curb. “Freddy, is it unusual for Atkins to be there at three in the morning?”

  Freddy stood and reached unsteadily for the car door. “He does these spot inspections. Comes snooping around. That’s why we call him Snoopy.”

  “So where were all the guards when the paintings were stolen?”

  “Snoopy had a roll call to make sure everybody was there.” He climbed into the backseat. “In the locker room.”

  I stuck my head in after him and handed the driver twenty dollars and the address. “Make sure he gets to the door.”

  The Arab driver rolled his eyes. It wasn’t a Blue Diamond car, so I didn’t quiz the driver about Sunday.

  “Take care, Freddy.”

  “That’s the ticket.”

  The car zoomed off toward the plaza. I was glad that was over.

  It was still too early to find Snoopy at the museum, but not too early for Ariel’s Patisserie Bistro. It had been three days since Huey had been shot. Maybe Ariel had reopened. I at least had to go see, no matter how much I didn’t want to. I didn’t know if Ariel might somehow have the impression I had something to do with Huey getting tweaked. According to Jocko, that did seem to be the word on the street. After getting an alcoholic drunk, I might as well top that off by upsetting a pending widow.

  I flagged down a town car with a twenty. No way was I walking around Carroll Gardens exposed for any length of time, not with the punk sniper out there.

  The bistro was open even though it was before nine, and the French African girl at the counter purred that I could find Ariel at Viscotti’s.

  During the night, Huey had finally died.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-THREE

  I STOPPED TO VISIT JOCKO before heading to Viscotti’s. I had run out of Bridget’s so fast that morning I hadn’t shaved. Besides, I wanted to procrastinate before visiting the widow. Either that or maybe he would slit my throat so I wouldn’t have to visit Ariel at all.

  He seemed happy to see me, like maybe he was worried Flat Face and his crew had taken me out of the game.

  “Sit! Sit! Sit!” He waved the sheet, tempting the bull to charge.

  I sat. “What’s what, Jocko?”

  The crinkly paper was tucked around my neck, and I swore I could smell a White Owl cigar.

  “Good,” he said. “It was a beautiful funeral.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d ever been to a beautiful funeral. They were all pretty grim as far as I was concerned. So I said something polite. “I’m sure the family’s stress over his death was depersonalized. A lot of flowers.”

  Jocko looked confused a moment, then flashed the straight razor. “Jocko give you a shave, yes?”

  I tensed, wondering what I was thinking, coming back to his chair. I tried to relax—he had no reason to kill me. Flat Face had no reason to kill me. Yet. “Just be careful around my jugular vein, OK?”

  “I never cut anybody that didn’t move. Almost.” He laughed to himself while he lathered my chin with hot shave cream, the smell of his Juicy Fruit fighting with the smell of the soap. “So you talk to the big boss?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A nice talk?”

  “Businessman to businessman.”

  “Good, good. ”

  I was staring at the ceiling, listening to the long scrape of the razor on my neck.

  “Let me ask you, Jocko. That guy with the flat face—was he Jimmy Robay?”

  “Of course.”

  “He seems reasonable.”

  “I know him since he was a little boy. Used to sit in this chair when his family would come to Dominic’s on Sundays.”

  I heard the front doorbell tinkle, and Jocko said, “I’ll be right with you, sir, please have a seat.”

  Jocko spun my seat toward the mirror and cleared his throat. My eyes slid down from the ceiling to Jocko’s reflection in the mirror. His eyes were dark and seemed to have drifted way back into his skull. You know Death, who wears the hood and carries the giant garden tool or whatever? It was like that, only Jocko was holding up the straight razor. Death with a straight razor and Juicy Fruit.

  Like an idiot, I thought, He really is going to kill me.

  Like I said, though, I didn’t have time to die that week if I could help it.

  I launched forward out of the chair.

  There was that chopping sound, the one I’d come to know as the sound of a silencer. The wall mirror shattered as I stumbled and fell to the floor.

  Jocko and the person who just came in were in a struggle. I was on the checked floor wrapped in the sheet, and the barber chair blocked my view. I yanked my arms, and the sheet snapped in two.

  There were two more shouts behind me—one Jocko, who said “Malocchio! ” and the other something I couldn’t make out. I scrambled to my feet.

  A mirror behind me shattered, and I saw Jocko staggering backward, knocking all the combs and the jar of blue liquid crashing to the floor. His white tunic was splashed red with blood.

  The punk stood across the room, a red razor gash from his left ear in an S-curve down over his chin. Below the gash was a curtain of blood. Next to this curtain of blood was the punk’s bloody hand, and he was looking at it with surprise. He was still pointing his pistol at Jocko, smoke curling from the silencer. It wasn’t just any pistol. Exotic like the gun before.

  The punk’s blue eyes raised to mine.

  My hand was on the counter behind me. I grabbed an electric razor and threw it at the punk, the cord trailing behind, but it missed his head.

  There was so much blood on his hand, his fingers were slipping as he tried to cock the gun. I should have charged him when I had the chance.

  I ducked behind the chair in front of me and heard the gun ratchet.

  Like a sumo wrestler, I put my two hundred and seventy pounds behind the chair and shoved for all I was worth.

  I’m happy to report the chair wasn’t bolted to the floor. If it had been I would have probably thrown my back out or ripped my arms out of my sockets, and while I lay there in agony, the punk would have put me out of my misery. I would have joined Jo-Ball and Huey in the Exploding Head Club.

  That chair didn’t slide across the floor; it jumped in the air and hit the punk in the chest. The chair fell on its side on the floor. The punk was an object in motion, and his back slammed the wall of mirrors, cracks splintering out around him.

  I had fallen to all fours when I shoved the chair and was looking up at him. He still had the gun, but his eyes were crossed, and it was like he was stuck to the wall. He looked like a bug in a spiderweb, what with the glass shattered behind him.

  Like I said, the gun was still in his hands. I’ve got a rule about running toward someone holding a gun, even if he was injured and had a sheet of red down one side from a straight-razor cut.

  I glanced over to see where Jocko was. He wasn’t, so I guessed he’d gone out the back or into the back room. Well, whatever, he was on his own.

  I hesitated. The punk’s eyes uncrossed and tried to focus on me, the gun hand beginning to move.

  I lit out the front door, making tracks on Smith. I rounded the first corner to get out of sight of the barbershop.

  I made it to Bond Street and hailed a town car.

  “Where to?”

  “Downtown, Joralemon Street and Court or Henry, I don’t care.”

  “You OK?”

  “Yeah, I just went for a little jog. I guess I’m out of shape.”

  “You should be careful.”

  I closed my eyes and liste
ned to my heart boxing with my lungs. “Yeah.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIS TIME, CAROL AND I went to the police instead of them coming to us.

  Doh saw us standing on the other side of the police tape at the Neapolitan Barber Shop. It was maybe an hour after it all went down. He seemed surprised, but relieved, too. Crispi wasn’t with him for a change.

  “I hope your client can give us some serious cooperation, Doonan. Otherwise I’m going to arrest his ass for obstruction of justice.”

  “We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t want to give our full cooperation.”

  “Full?”

  “Full. He was here when it went down, and barely escaped getting killed. He came straight to me.”

  “Why not the police?”

  “I think a grand jury would find it reasonable that my client would run from a killer and return after a safe interval with his counsel, especially if he had been the target of two previous attempts on his life from which the police were unable to protect him. You want Mr. Davin’s help or don’t you?”

  “That would be divine.” Doh lifted the yellow tape, and we walked with him into the barbershop. There was blood all over the floor where the punk had been, and leading away into the back room where Jocko had gone to die.

  We went through what happened, and where, trying to stay out of the way of photographers. Doh listened but took no notes. When we were done he led us to the back room. There was a hot plate and a small refrigerator next to a small table with a radio. You could see Jocko would have a quiet moment to himself back there. Eat his lunch and listen to the news or a ball game. Doh pointed to a large pool of blood next to the back door. He didn’t say anything, he just pointed. Then he waved us to follow him back through the front of the barbershop and around the corner. Carol and I sat in the back of his unmarked car; he sat in front, arm over the seat.

  “I got a lot of questions, Davin, but my first is, how do you sleep at night?”

  Carol cleared her throat. “Detective—”

  “I don’t think he told you all he knows, Doonan.” He was pointing at me but looking at her.

  She and I exchanged a glance.

  I said, “I have told Ms. Doonan everything I know.”