Bullet Proof

by Frank Kane

  “Good morning, Mr. Terry.” His voice was deep, funereal. “Always glad to meet with members of the press.” His eyes rolled sideways to the white-haired woman, “That will be all, Miss Denis,” he said coldly.

  Johnny Liddell pulled a wooden armchair close to the desk, dropped into it, found an old envelope in an inside pocket. “We're thinking of doing a series on famous doctors who got their start here at Gouverneur, Mr.' Morrisey. I hope you have no objection?”

  “Of course not. We'll be glad to co-operate. Did you have any particular person in mind to start with or did you wish suggestions?”

  Liddell shook his head. “We thought we'd do it alphabetically. Just to avoid ruffling any feelings, you understand.” He consulted the scribbled notes on the back of his envelope. “I thought we'd tee off with a sketch on Doctor Annsevillaro.”

  The long, sour face of the director seemed to lengthen as he sucked on his lower lip. “Annsevillaro, you say?”

  Liddell looked up. “He interned here, didn't he?”

  “Yes. Annsevillaro was with us for a few years. But, don't you think there are others, possibly more distinguished men among our alumni?” He started to tabulate on long, bony fingers. “There was Rybeck, the chest man, the Steckler brothers, Kove who did all the research on vitamins, and—”

  Liddell interrupted with a wave of his pencil. “Good men, but they have no oomph.”

  The heavy eyebrows of the director arched upward, corrugating his brow with ridges. “Oomph?”

  “Reader interest,” Liddell explained, “circulation appeal. Annsevillaro's a glamour boy. A society doctor. The stenos would eat up a story about him. Of course, if you say no—”

  Morrisey shrugged his shoulders, attempted a smile that only succeeded in making him look as though he tasted something sour, then laced his fingers on top of the desk. “Certainly not. We're only too glad to cooperate in any way you say. Exactly what can we do?”

  “You can sketch out the background for me and then, if possible, I'd like to talk to someone who has worked closely with him for the details and color.” He held his breath, mentally crossed his fingers. “There is somebody around that he worked with or who knew him as an intern?”

  Morrisey jabbed at a button. “I can tell you better when I've refreshed my memory of what services he was on.” The white head of the clerk appeared in the doorway. “Let me have the personnel file for 1938, Miss Denis.”

  The woman nodded, closed the door behind her, was back in a moment with a large looseleaf folder. She laid it on the desk, walked back to the outer office.

  The thin man flipped through the pages of the binder until he came to one headed Annsevillaro, Anthony J. His long, bony fingers ran through the short paragraph that followed the name. “I'm sorry I won't be able to be of much help with his background. Doctor Annsevillaro gave us very few facts concerning himself.”

  Liddell nodded. “I can get that material direct, if I need it. Just give me some of his educational background. His college?”

  “City College. Then Bellevue on a scholarship.”

  Liddell scribbled the information on the back of the envelope. “When did he finish his internship?”

  “In 1940.” The director closed the looseleaf book, leaned back. “Directly upon completion of his internship he left Gouverneur and we have no record of him since.” He replaced the pince-nez on the high bridge of his nose. “That accounts for my surprise at your selection of Doctor Annsevillaro as one of our outstanding alumni.” There was a faint gleam of suspicion in his cold, gray eyes.

  Johnny Liddell pulled his wallet from his breast pocket, extracted a clipping, passed it over to Morrisey. “Then you probably don't know that he's changed his name to Seville?”

  The director's eyebrows arched in surprise. He took the clip, studied it. “That's Doctor Annsevillaro, all right. You say he's doing well as Doctor Seville?”

  “Very well. For the past five years he's been society's number-one medicine man. You must have seen his name in the papers at some time or other?”

  Morrisey continued to stare at the picture. “Yes, of course. I guess I never associated the two, though I did hear something about him. It's nice to know he's doing so well.”

  Liddell took back the clipping, replaced it in his wallet. “Now, about someone who knew him while he was here?”

  The thin man took off his pince-nez, tapped them thoughtfully against the palm of his hand. “Almost twelve years ago, eh?” he mused. “Of course there would be many changes in that time. Not among the charge nurses, perhaps.” He considered the possibility for a moment, shook his head. “I doubt if they'd remember him. A retiring young man, I think I mentioned?”

  Liddell nodded. “Anybody else?”

  The thin man sucked on his lower lip. “The lab man or the X-ray technician might possibly remember him. Most of the interns spend a lot of time in the lab doing their own work-ups.” Suddenly his face cleared. “Of course! Why didn't I think of him before? Vinny. He'd be sure to remember Annsevillaro if anyone did.”

  “Vinny?”

  “He drives the bus. Ambulance, you know. He's been here for about twenty years and is the unofficial fatherconfessor to most of the interns.” He jabbed at the desk button again. The white head of the clerk popped in the open doorway. “Miss Denis, will you call the garage and tell Vinny that I'm sending over Mr.—” He fumbled for the name, turned to Liddell for help.

  “Terry. Tom Terry,” Liddell filled in.

  “I'm sending Mr. Terry of the Advance over to talk to him. Ask him to give Mr. Terry any assistance he can.” The white head in the doorway nodded, was withdrawn. “I'm certain Vinny would have the kind of information you want, Mr. Terry.”

  Liddell nodded, pulled himself out of his chair. “Thanks for the lift, Mr. Morrisey. I'll keep in touch.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The ambulance garage for the hospital was in the back of the building, facing on East Side Drive and the river, reached by a long, inclined ramp. A short, fat man, his bay window resting comfortably on his belt, a blue uniform hat on the back of a bald head, stood leaning against a shiny, sleek new ambulance. He watched Liddell approach with no visible change of expression, continued to execute a delicate operation on a molar with the ragged end of a toothpick.

  “I'm looking for a driver named Vinny,” Liddell told him.

  The short man nodded. “That's me.” His bright-blue eyes flicked over Liddell, seemed to hesitate a moment at the left lapel where an almost imperceptible bulge was there to be seen by an experienced eye. “You the one the office called about?”

  “Yeah,” Liddell told him.

  “What's on your mind?” The short man was fat, but it wasn't a soft, doughy fat. It was muscle that had been allowed to run to fat, but it was still muscle. He could have been fifty, looked forty.

  Liddell dug his wallet from his pocket, held the press card out. “I'm digging some stuff for a feature article,” Liddell told him. “Morrisey thought you could help.”

  The blue eyes flicked over the press card, seemed unimpressed. “Like, for instance?”

  “Little incidents, touches of color. Anything that will dress up an article and bring Annsevillaro to life for our readers.”

  “Tony Annsevillaro, eh?” The short man pulled the toothpick from between his teeth, took a last look at the frayed end, flipped it to the concrete floor. “What's the beef against the kid?”

  “No beef. I just want to do a story on him.”

  The driver nodded toward Liddell's left lapel. “Since when do reporters go around carrying iron?”

  Liddell grinned. “You're pretty sharp, Vinny. I didn't know it showed.” He sized the little man up, decided to play it straight. “I always carry one. Sometimes in my racket you have to. You step on toes and you've got to carry some authority or you get pushed around.”

  “It figures,” the fat man conceded. “What about Tony?”

  Liddell shrugged. “He's been doing a
ll right for himself. Office on Park, private hospital up in Westchester.”

  “How's that set him up for a write-up? There's hundreds of docs got the same setup.”

  “Maybe. But he's the only one who's scheduled to marry the only child of one of the richest men in the country. That makes him news.”

  Vinny pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, fitted it to the corner of his mouth. “So he played his cards right, eh? Just like he said he would.”

  Liddell held a lighter to the other man's cigarette, watched him suck it into life. “Ambitious, eh?”

  “He knew what he wanted.”

  “What was that?”

  “Money. Plenty of money.”

  Liddell nodded. “Most poor kids do. He came from a poor family, didn't he?”

  “Family never had a dime. Lived down here on the East Side. Mulberry Street. Tony hated everything connected with poverty and the East Side.” The short man took a deep drag on his cigarette, blew the smoke in twin streams through his nostrils. “He even hated the poor slobs that came here to the clinic. Hated them because they were poor. He used to say you could smell their poverty and the smell made him sick.”

  “Was he popular with the staff?”

  Vinny shook his head. “Kept to himself pretty much. Only one he spent any time with was a little redhead on male surgery.” The bright-blue eyes squinted. “Laura Mellison, I think her name was. She left just before Tony did. Always had it figured she went with him.”

  “Did he spend much time on the ambulance?”

  “Same's the others. No more, no less. All interns rotate. One month they ride bus, the next maybe in admissions, then the whole swing-male medicine, accident, male surgery. All of them. He stood his trick on them all.”

  “You got to know him pretty well while he was riding bus with you?”

  The fat man shrugged. “He used to like to ride with me. We got two busses and two interns on call. Like I said, if I was in, Tony would always jump mine.”

  Liddell nodded. “Pretty exciting riding the bus down this part of town, I guess. Plenty of stabbings and shootings.” He looked up from the envelope where he had been jotting notes.

  “Plenty of everything. People getting born and dying all the time.”

  “How about some famous people that you picked up with Annsevillaro? Anyone interesting?”

  “Depends on what you call famous. Down here the biggest excitement we get is gang stuff. Used to get a lot more of it years ago. It's sort of tapering off now. They got it too well organized.”

  “Wasn't that garage massacre pulled in this district?”

  “Pete Velie, you mean?” Vinny took a last drag of his cigarette, dropped it to the floor, crushed it out. “Yeah, we picked him up. Tony did a good job on him. Saved his life. Kid really knew his stuff, you know.”

  “So I understand.” Liddell put his envelope and pencil into his pocket. “Guess Pete was pretty grateful to the doc, eh?”

  Vinny shrugged. “I don't know if he ever saw him again.”

  “I thought you said Annsevillaro saved his life?”

  “He did. Stopped him from bleeding to death in the street. But the man on the bus doesn't take care of the cases he brings in. They go right into the services.”

  Liddell frowned over it. “Seen Annsevillaro since he left or heard from him, Vinny?”

  “Once.” The short man nodded. “About three, four months after he left. Wanted me to drive for him.” He pushed the uniform cap back on his head, scratched the bald pate. “I had to turn him down. I couldn't see giving up a civil service job to work for a kid fresh out of internship. Maybe I didn't play it as smart as I thought.”

  “You can never tell,” Liddell agreed. He pulled the envelope out of his pocket, consulted his notes. “You say the nurse's name was Mellison? Laura Mellison?”

  The fat man nodded. “I got a funny idea that if you want to find her, all you got to do is ask Tony. I still think she left to go with him.”

  * * *

  The redhead in his outer office was still pecking haphazardly at the keys of her typewriter when Liddell walked in. She had substituted a loose-fitting white silk peasant blouse for her customary sweater, but it did nothing to disguise her assets. She looked up, followed him with her eyes as he slammed through to his private office.

  He tossed his hat at the coat tree, dropped into the swivel chair behind the desk, gave the mail a fast shuffle.

  “We haven't heard from Jean Merritt, by any chance, Pinky?” he called out to the girl.

  “Not a peep. Her check cleared though. I checked the bank this morning.” She appeared in the doorway, her notebook in hand, walked over to the desk with a disconcerting motion of her hips. “There've been some other calls. Want to hear about them?”

  Liddell nodded, leaned back.

  “The Mastersons out in Great Neck want a man for five days to keep an eye on wedding presents for their daughter. Next Wednesday through Sunday. I told them we'd have a man there.”

  Liddell groaned. “As long as it isn't me.”

  Pinky nodded. “I already arranged to borrow an op from Lou Blake. He'll cost us ten a day. We're getting thirty-five. Okay?”

  Liddell nodded. “After what I've been through on this Merritt job, I'm beginning to think that playing nursemaid to a raft of tin coffeepots is a nice, clean way to make a living.”

  Pinky nodded. “Miss Kiely called twice. Wants you to call her as soon as you get in. That's about all. Anything new on your end?”

  Liddell shook his head. “There'll probably be a call from Albany. If I'm not here, take the message. It's about a registered nurse named Laura Mellison. I want to know where she is now.”

  “Check. Anything else?”

  “Not right now. If Muggsy calls again, tell her—” The ringing of the phone cut him off. He scooped the receiver off the hook, held it to his ear. The operator informed him that she had a call for him.

  After a moment: “Mr. Liddell? This is the state board of registration at Albany. You placed a call here this afternoon to request some information?”

  “That's right.” Liddell nodded. “About a registered nurse named Laura Mellison. Have you got it for me?”

  “I'm very sorry,” the receiver told him. “The last year of registration of Miss Mellison's nurse's license was 1942. We have no record of her since that time.”

  Liddell cursed under his breath. “Could she be nursing in another state?”

  The receiver hesitated. “It's possible. But in cases of reciprocal granting of licenses by other states; there is usually some notice given to the state of original license. We have no such notation on Miss Mellison, nor do we have any indication that she served with the Armed Forces during the last war.”

  Liddell nodded. “Thanks very much.”

  “I'm sorry we couldn't be of more help.” The line went dead. Liddell dropped his receiver back on its hook, glared at the instrument.

  “Bad news?”

  “I'm getting used to it. Wasn't too important anyhow. I was just trying to check something I'm pretty sure of anyway.” He laced his fingers behind his head, stared up at the ceiling. “This damn case—it's almost like somebody is looking over my shoulder, figuring my next move and beating me to it.”

  Pinky clucked sympathetically, smoothed her skirt over her thighs with a practiced motion.

  Liddell continued to stare at the ceiling. “I wonder why she'd let her registration lapse? Most nurses don't, even if they don't figure on going back to nursing.” He dropped his eyes to the redhead, scowled. “I've got an idea, but he wouldn't be that careless.” He chewed on his lower lip, nodded. “Just the same I'm about ripe for a break in this case.”

  He reached over, lifted the receiver off its hook, dialed a number. After a moment, a pert voice informed him, “The Advance. Good afternoon.”

  “Jim Kiely on the desk,” he told her.

  “One moment please,” she chirped, then a heavy voice growled, “Desk.�
�

  “Let me talk to Jim Kiely, will you? This is Johnny Liddell.”

  “This is Jim, Johnny. What's up?”

  “I need a fast check on vital statistics, Jim. Would your City Hall man give me a lift?”

  The receiver hesitated. “I guess so, Johnny. Nothing much breaking down there right now. What's the check?”

  “A marriage license in the name of Anthony Seville and Laura Mellison. Or maybe the groom's name is listed as Annsevillaro. Should be in 1939 or 1940. Preferably '40.”

  “Where are you now, Johnny?”

  “My office. I'll wait here for your call. Likely to be long?”

  “Depends. I'll get back to you as soon as we get anything. By the way, what's in it for us?”

  “A good yarn, I think. Muggs knows the score to date and if it breaks she'll have the works all wrapped up for you.”

  “Sounds good. Drop by and let's see you one of these days, Johnny. It's been a long time.”

  Liddell nodded, dropped the receiver back on the hook, sighed. He reached down to the bottom drawer, brought up a bottle and two glasses. “Well, while we're waiting there's no reason we can't be comfortable. Sit down, Pinky, and relax.”

  The redhead looked doubtful, shrugged, walked over, dropped into the client's chair. “This is no way to run a business office, you know.”

  “It can be a lot of fun, though.” He poured a stiff drink into each glass, handed one to the redhead.

  Pinky took the glass, grinned, made a halfhearted effort at pulling her skirt down over her knees, gave it up as a bad job. “In business school they told me there'd be days like this.”

  “What's wrong with a little relaxation?”

  “Nothing, I guess. It's just that I'm still an employee and you're my employer.”

  Liddell nodded, held his glass up in a toast. “Here's to more and better employer-employee relations.”

  The redhead lifted her glass, sipped at the contents, studied him over the rim. “You're kind of crazy, you know.”