Ice Blues ds-3

by Richard Stevenson

  Fay repeatedly cried, “Setup! Setup!” and demanded access to a telephone so that he could arrange for an attorney.

  Timmy, who had placed atop the mantel the sawed-off shotgun previously aimed at his gut, asked, “It’s not a toll call, is it?”

  Kevin Clert, drooling and trembling, said, “Hey, I didn’t off that faggot!

  Shoot, I wasn’t even there. I was at work that night.”

  Terry Clert, mum until now, found his voice. “I didn’t hit him. Mack hit him!”

  “Hit who?” said a narc.

  “Hey, man, let’s you and me go someplace and talk, huh? How about it, huh? We can deal, huh? How about it?”

  At that point somebody suggested that Ned Bowman be called, and I volunteered to wake him up. Out of habit, Bowman spewed forth a stream of sour invective, but then I got a word in and he became quietly alert.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Timmy said, “My bed. I am actually lying in my own bed again. Oh, this is sweet.”

  “You sound as if you doubted you ever would.”

  “There have been times in the past week when I wondered if I’d ever lie in any bed again.”

  “I’m sorry you got dragged into this. I probably should have sent you off to Poughkeepsie after I got the first call from Hankie-mouth-Fay.”

  “What do you mean, ‘sent me off’? What am I, your foster child?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Well, there wouldn’t have been any problem if I hadn’t stopped by here this morning. That was my own fault and I feel pretty dumb about it.”

  “Good.”

  “To tell you the truth, the whole time they had me in that motel with the shotgun aimed at me, I never really believed they were going to hurt me. I was outraged and my pride was offended, and I was nervous about the gun going off accidentally. But I kept telling myself it was the money they wanted and they wouldn’t shoot me as long as they didn’t have it and could still use me for making you lead them to the money. That’s why I didn’t tell them where it was hidden.”

  “Oh? I thought you were just being loyal to me.”

  He laughed. “You would think that, wouldn’t you? Hell, it was all enlightened self-interest. I didn’t give a crap about the two and a half million and your big plans for it. Not at that point. I was interested in staying alive, period. Anyway, the subject of the suitcases full of money is all academic now. When you went downtown with the feds, did you stop off at the hotel and hand the money over to them?”

  “No, I told them I didn’t know what had become of it. That Fay was mistaken in his assumption that I had it.”

  A little silence. We’d been lying belly-to-belly, but now he backed off and stared at me big-eyed. “No.”

  “Sure, why not? The governor says the state is running a surplus this year, so he won’t need it. And if the feds ended up with it, it’d just go for a lid on another MX silo. Hell, the money can be put to better uses than that.”

  “But it’s evidence. It turned out Fay and Clert were dope dealers.”

  “Yes, it’s true that they were in the narcotics business.” I looked away and would have lit a cigarette if I had not recklessly quit smoking six years and two months earlier. “But the point is, the two and a half million had nothing to do with that probably. You heard it all-the money was Pug Lenihan’s, illegally obtained in some manner.”

  “Sure, dope trafficking. It was a family operation. Pug, Jack, maybe even Dreadful Ed. Fay heard about it at Sing Sing from Jack’s former associates who were caught, and they got Mrs. Clert positioned as Pug’s nurse so that she could tip them off on large amounts of money moving through the house. They were going to steal it-probably to finance a big buy of their own-but Jack grabbed it for his civic-reform program. It’s all as plain as day. The feds will piece it together and they’ll start searching for that money methodically and relentlessly. And guess who they’ll come to first asking about it. You. Don, hand it over now, or-God, you could actually end up in prison. Really.

  Don’t you understand that?”

  “That’s the tenth or twelfth most ridiculous story I’ve ever heard. Pug Lenihan dealing drugs? To him, dope is a Commie conspiracy. You might as well accuse him of shipping spare parts for MIGs to the Sandinistas.”

  “But look at the evidence. Tonight the narcs found fifty thousand dollars’ worth of cocaine in Mack Fay’s truck. Jack Lenihan dealt drugs in a big way and just barely escaped going to jail for it. Everywhere you turn in this thing, it’s drugs, drugs, drugs. From some of the things Mack Fay said tonight, it even sounds as if Joan Lenihan was in on it. I mean, think of Hollywood and what’s the first thing that comes to mind after movie-making? No wonder she was so wrought up and closemouthed about the whole thing. Joan is probably in it herself up to her teeth. Listen, lover, forget the money. Turn it over to the cops and extricate yourself from this mare’s nest before it’s too late. I know how badly you want to diddle the Albany machine, and, God knows, I sympathize, I understand. But using a dope ring’s boodle is not the way to go about it. It is dangerous, it is wrong, and it won’t work.”

  I said, “There is a certain logic to your conclusions, but they are the wrong conclusions. Of that I am certain.”

  “How do you know?”

  I figured if I told him I had planted the coke in Fay’s truck he would (a) have me arrested and testify against me, or (b) pack his bags and enter a monastery in the morning, or, at the very least (c), recite to me long passages from Cardinal Newman and then sleep on the couch.

  I said, “There are no Irish dope dealers. You should know that. Narcotics is not as satisfyingly depraved as prostitution, it’s not as socially useful as bootlegging, and it’s not as lucrative as owning city hall. The Irish don’t need it and they don’t want it. Dope is for the blacks, the Italians, the Jews, and the go-for-it WASPs. The Lenihan family wouldn’t be interested in it.”

  He let his head fall back on the pillow and gave me one of his full-body deep sighs. “So what are you going to do next? Have the Mafia launder the money so that you can turn it over to Sim Kempelman?”

  “I’ve considered that, but I’ve decided the risks are too great. Anyway, that would be immoral. I’m not sure yet how I’ll clean up the money for Kempelman. I’m determined to find a way, but first I have to take a trip.”

  “Another one? How come? Where to this time?”

  “LA again. Want to come along?”

  “I’d like to, but I’m still a public servant on the state payroll, as far as I know, so I’ll pass. Who are you going to see out there, Joan Lenihan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “To threaten her. I’m going to threaten her with a proposition she’s going to hate.”

  News reporters from eight radio stations, three television stations, and two newspapers phoned between six and eight in the morning. I told them Mr.

  Strachey was out and that I was the Bulgarian cleaning lady.

  Over his Wheatena, Timmy said, “Despite your clever disguise, I take it you’re going to be of little assistance in straightening this place up. I think I’ll just go ahead and call a cleaning service.”

  “Right, a cleaning service or a building contractor. Sure, go ahead. It’s a business expense and I can pay for it out of the suitcase money.”

  He shuddered. “Do what you’re going to do, but don’t tell me about it. Don’t mention the money to me again for a while, okay? Until I ask.”

  “Fair enough. Are you sure there isn’t anything you need though? A word processor, a new stereo, a snazzy little BMW?”

  “Don, come off it,” he said, but he had the Times Union spread out in front of him and a minute later I caught him studying an ad for a twelve-hundred-dollar compact disc player.

  Stevenson, Richard

  Stevenson, Richard ��� [Donald Strachey Mystery 03] ��� Ice Blues

  The phone rang.

  “Mr. Strachey?”

  “Diz da klinning led
dy, Miz Pronck.”

  “Ha, ha. I congratulate you, kid. I just heard on the news that you assisted in the apprehension of some bad apples last night. You are a resourceful fellow, and I want to be among the first to thank you for a job well done.

  Your presence in this benighted city of ours raises its moral tone, though don’t tell me the dirty deeds you performed in order to accomplish what you did.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t. I suppose, Sim, that you’re also calling about the cash donation for your organization’s good efforts in the upcoming mayoral campaign. Well, let me just say that I can write you a ten-dollar check and stick it in the mail today, but if you had a larger amount in mind, all I can say is, I’m still working on it.”

  “Yes, well-” He hesitated now, the cheery demeanor all gone. “Maybe we’ll just have to let the larger amount go by the boards this time around. I hate to say it, kid, but if you’ve got hold of that two and a half million, I think you might be stuck with it. There’s no way I can possibly imagine our accepting money gotten in the illicit trafficking of narcotics. No matter what kind of shenanigans we went through to clean it up, that money still has been where it’s been and it is what it is. I’m sorry. You’ll never know how sorry I am.”

  I said, “What makes you think that’s where the money came from?” My palms were beginning to sweat.

  “I didn’t have to go to law school to put two and two together and come up with four-minus-ten-percent-overhead, Mr. Strachey. Last night three men were arrested in your house for possession of a large amount of cocaine.

  One of them additionally has been charged with the murder of Jack Lenihan, who previously was arrested though not convicted on narcotics charges. Mr. Strachey, I can see what I can see, and I wouldn’t touch that money if it was presented to me by the national chairlady of Hadassah. It is irredeemably tainted, though it breaks my heart to speak the words.”

  Now I was sweating all over. I said, “I think I’ve made a mistake.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “I can’t tell you. Hell. I’ll be in touch. Give me a few days.”

  “No, there would be no point to it. But let’s have a teriyaki again one day at that charming but rather loud young people’s establishment off Madison Avenue. Maybe in a year or so, when you are no longer a name in the news.

  And again, my sincere congratulations on your accomplishment as a crime fighter. Would that there were a few like you in the Albany police department.”

  “Yeah, would.”

  “Good day, then.”

  “So long, Sim.”

  I picked at my stale muffin. Timmy said, “What was your mistake?”

  “What?”

  “You told him you thought you’d made a mistake. Which one was that?”

  “None of your business. Crap. I’m going out.” I got up and flung my muffin in the trash. After I left Timmy would retrieve the muffin, wrap it in a bread bag, and place it in the refrigerator until garbage-pickup day so that it wouldn’t draw ants or mice.

  “When will you be back?” he said, making a mental note of the improperly discarded baked good.

  “In a day or two. If anybody calls, just say-anything, any damn thing at all.”

  “I’ll just say that you’ve got a hair up your ass and you’ve gone to the Mayo Clinic to have it removed. In that saying, do you think it’s h-a-i-r or h-a-r-e?

  H-a-r-e sounds more uncomfortable, which is probably your situation right now. You’re the expert, which is it?”

  I realized, of course, that Timmy was not to blame for my shortsighted clumsiness and there was no reason for my taking out my anger and frustration on him. In fact, he had been through an ugly experience that I had caused to happen, and, if anything, he deserved sympathy, gratitude and sensitive forbearance on my part that day and for many days and weeks to come. I said, “You’ll have to call the library on that one, sweetheart,” and left.

  From the Hilton I phoned Ned Bowman and asked him several questions that had been nagging at me, and he answered them. He said he had a lot of questions for me too, but I said later. I got out the money in the hotel-room closet, skimmed off another thousand, paid for two more nights of storage, and drove out to the airport. I was in LA by 12:15, California time, rented a car, and drove over to Joan Lenihan’s apartment building, where I waited.

  TWENTY-THREE

  At ten till five in the afternoon the two of them drove into the parking lot beside the building. Joan was at the wheel, Gail seated beside her. I thought they might enter a side door and get away from me, so I trotted through the spray of the lawn sprinklers and met them as they stepped out of the car in their shiny whites. To Joan Lenihan I said, “We need to talk.”

  “Do we? I don’t think so.”

  “We thought you went back east,” Gail said, looking powerfully ambivalent about my presence. “Why are you-didn’t you go back to Albany?”

  “The men who killed Jack are in jail on both murder and narcotics charges.

  I thought you would want to know that, Joan. Or has Corrine called?”

  Her face froze in fright and confusion, and she said, “Who is it?”

  “An ex-con, a car thief, by the name of Mack Fay. He had two accomplices, Terry and Kevin Clert. The Clerts are the sons of the nurse who looks after your father-in-law. They were after the two and a half million, but Jack got to it first and they killed him. One of the remaining unanswered questions is, where did that money come from? Apparently it was kept in Pug Lenihan’s house and he considered it his, but where did it come from originally? You know, don’t you, Joan?”

  ‘Where is it? Where is the money now?” She was trembling with rage. Gail Tesney stood stricken, looking at Joan, then at me, then at Joan again.

  “The money is safe. I have it.”

  “With you?”

  “In Albany.”

  “It’s not yours. You have no right.”

  “Whose it is then?”

  “Give it to me.”

  “Is it yours?”

  “Just give it to me. It doesn’t belong to you. You have to give it to me.”

  “You’re going to turn it over to Pug Lenihan, aren’t you? That’s what you would do if you had it. Are you going to tell me why, or am I going to tell you?”

  She paled and began to blink, panic rising. “Gail, why don’t you go on up.

  I’ll be up in a little while.”

  “Joan, what is wrong? What is he talking about?”

  “She’ll be all right,” I said. “Go ahead. We’ll come up to the apartment in a few minutes.”

  Joan waved her away. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay. Go ahead. You go ahead.”

  Gail stared at us both for a long moment, looking hurt and abandoned, then turned and walked quickly into the building. Joan and I found a dry patch of grass under some eucalyptus trees and sat on it. I said, “I’m offering you a proposition. Either you tell Gail or I’ll tell her.”

  She fumbled in her big leather bag, found a pack of cigarettes, and lit one.

  “Tell her what? What is it that I’m supposed to tell Gail? You go around telling people how to run their lives. Tell me what I’m supposed to tell her.”

  “That you killed your husband, Dan Lenihan, eighteen years ago this month.”

  She didn’t flinch. Drawing on the cigarette, she leaned back against the tree trunk, then exhaled mightily. She looked at me and said, “Yes, I killed Danny. Did Pug tell you?’

  “No.”

  “Who did?”

  “You did-with your irrational fear of Pug Lenihan, who’s nothing but a vicious, cracked old blowhard. He’s been holding this over you for eighteen years, making your life miserable every time the subject of Albany came up, threatening you, extorting cash to pay for his nursing care, using you as a lever against Jack after Jack made off with the famous two and a half million last October. You’re so scared of Pug you can’t even let him find out you’re gay, for fear of the bigoted browbeating y
ou think you’ll have to take from him. The truth is, for eighteen years Pug Lenihan has been blackmailing you with his knowledge of your husband’s death. Except, I don’t quite believe it. What happened?”

  “What happened? Danny died, that’s what happened. I killed him.” She dragged on the cigarette and gazed toward the setting sun, which was huge and lovely in the smog above the horizon.

  “How did you go about that? I’m told Dan Lenihan was drunk and passed out in the street, where he froze to death in the middle of the January night.”

  A slight shake of the head. “No. Not on the street.”

  “Where?”

  “On the front porch.”

  “That’s not murder. That is horrible bad luck.”

  “No.”

  “He had gone out drinking, to Mike Shea’s on Broadway. As he did-every night?”

  “Every night. Yes, every single solitary night of the nineteen years of our marriage. Before Corrine was born, I went with him. Every night.”

  “And he left Shea’s-when?”

  “At three. He always left at three because Mike knew when to shut him off and Danny would still have enough strength left to make it home on his own steam. Mike would call me at three-wake me up-every night at three in the morning for nineteen years. And I would go down and unlock the door so Danny could get in. Danny never carried his own key because he’d lose it. So I’d go down and let him in-open the door. Every night.”

  “And Mike called that last night, as usual?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I went back to sleep.”

  “You mean you were exhausted and you dozed off.”

  “No. I mean I went back to sleep. I said to myself, maybe if I go back to sleep Dan will pass out on the front porch and freeze to death. It was the deepest, most restful sleep I’d had in years.”

  “Had he beaten you?”

  “Every night.”