Chief Beddell was not on the telephone to Rizzo, but before Harry had been in the Chief’s office five minutes, Rizzo knew about it. His informant wasn’t able to tell Rizzo what had passed between Harry Caster and the Chief, but he could guess. Thanking his friend at the police station, Rizzo put down the telephone with a frown of concentration. He took up a golf club and practiced a few putts on the living-room carpet. But Rizzo’s thoughts were miles away from the little white ball.
4
No more than an hour later, Harry was on the Hudson Expressway in a rented car headed for Manhattan. It was like going back nearly thirty years to be running to his brother for help. He felt like a sixteen-year-old high schoolboy again going to see his brother at Columbia University. Not Milton, the Hebrew scholar, but by then Mickey Caster, fraternity man, athlete, seducer—or so he said—of incredibly beautiful gentile girls. Rich gentile girls.
And then when the war came, Harry enlisted in the Army Air Corps to be a pilot and ended up painting signs at Fort Carson, Colorado. Mickey—you didn’t dare call him Milton any more—waited until he got drafted into the infantry. And this came only after an unsuccessful appeal to a higher court—Ruth Fineman, a congressman’s homely daughter who couldn’t quite believe Mickey’s sudden love for her.
But once the Army was inevitable, of course Mickey had to become a hero. Harry came back from the Army a paint-stained technical corporal, but Mickey emerged a twenty-five-year-old captain with a Distinguished Service Cross, two Purple Hearts, and a general’s daughter for a wife.
Harry had drifted into a series of small businesses and semi-successful bars which had led him to the Lamplighter. For Mickey, law school hadn’t exactly worked out. But some of the best companies in New York opened their doors gladly for Mickey Caster, and Mickey started a climb which had some twists that Harry still didn’t fully understand.
Harry didn’t see his brother more than three times a year. But there were always birthday presents from Uncle Mickey, and at odd intervals and even odder hours, Harry got used to receiving long telephone calls. Mickey seldom bothered to say hello.
“There are only two possibilities,” Harry heard one morning at three o’clock when he answered the telephone: “either I buy Kurtzman out or he buys us out. And I’m a son of a bitch if I’ll be bought out by that mealy-mouthed…” Finally, Mickey would wind down. “Good to talk to you, kid,” he’d say. Then he’d hang up.
Sometimes he’d ask Harry’s advice and listen carefully to it, then hang up without comment. Several times over the years, Harry was surprised to see in the newspapers that his advice had been taken. He realized that he could have made a considerable amount of money by acting on the information he gleaned from these late-night calls, but he never did. And, without making a conscious resolution, Harry had never gone to his successful brother for financial help.
But it wasn’t money Harry was seeking now; nor was it something he felt safe talking about on the telephone. On Manhattan’s East Side, Harry pulled the rented car into an expensive-looking parking garage and surrendered the car to an attendant who looked like a bank manager. I can’t wait to see his reaction to a quarter tip, Harry thought as he left the garage.
Mickey’s building was a large, old house with no external signs that it was anything but an expensive private residence. The building had no external numbers, and until Harry saw the 66s sewn on the doorman’s Confederate-gray collar, he thought he’d passed it.
As Harry set foot on the thick, plum-colored carpet of the foyer, a woman in her late thirties with gray-rinsed hair challenged him. “May I help you?”
Harry told her who he was and she led him to a narrow door which was nearly invisible in the elaborate molding of the walls. She opened the door and ushered Harry into a tiny elevator lined with silvered glass. Pushing an unnumbered black button, she closed the door again, and the elevator began to rise.
When the elevator door opened again, Harry found his brother facing him.
“Kid,” said Mickey Caster, “it’s good to see you. Come on in. You’ve never been to this office before, have you?”
A stranger seeing Harry and Mickey together would probably realize that they were related, but he’d be hard pressed to say how he knew. The similarities were many, but they added up to two distinctly different men.
Both were just below average height, but Mickey was fine-boned whereas Harry was round-headed and slightly pudgy. Mickey, too, had begun to lose some hair, but instead of Harry’s growing bald spot, his thinning hair, artfully molded by a cunning barber, only enhanced the translucent fineness of his features. Face to face, the brothers were like prince and peasant, related by some quirk of ancestry.
“No, I haven’t,” said Harry, taking in the outer room of the office. It had the unworn look of a parlor which through no fault of its own is largely unused. Harry didn’t know furniture, but he sensed that the few pieces in the room were worth more than his houseful.
“Come inside,” said Mickey. He led his brother into a large, rectangular room with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides opening onto a narrow terrace. A small Regency desk littered with papers stood at the far end of the room.
A slim, blonde girl rose from a smooth-fabric sofa as they entered the office. She seemed to be in her mid-twenties, mature yet youthfully resilient. She looked, to Harry, as expensive as the room.
“Harry,” Mickey said, “this is Alison, my secretary.” He put an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Ally, this is my kid brother.”
“How do you do, Mr. Caster,” she said in an accent as English as the best finishing school in New York could make it.
“Alison,” Mickey said, “we’ve got some important things to discuss, and I won’t need you for a while. Will you pour us a couple of drinks—Scotch okay with you, Harry?—and take my calls in your place?”
Alison put two cut-glass tumblers of Scotch and ice on a low tubular steel-and-glass table in front of the sofa and with a soft smile at Harry went through a door in the side wall.
“Alison lives here,” Mickey explained, seating himself on the couch and picking up a glass. “It’s convenient. Now, sit down, kid, take a swig of this ten-year-old poison and tell me what this is all about.”
On the telephone, Harry had said only that he was in trouble and had to talk to Mickey right away. Mickey had immediately said come right in and had canceled the rest of his schedule for the day. Now, Harry told him in full detail what had happened from the moment Rizzo had spoken to him to the time he’d left Beddell’s office.
“And,” Harry finished, “that bastard Beddell says if anything else happens—if I get my head blown off, I suppose—I’m to let him know right away. And he’ll give Rizzo a good talking to.”
Harry was disappointed that Mickey showed so little emotion at the story he’d told him. There was no question that Mickey believed him, but he just poured them each another drink from the decanter.
“Harry,” he said after a long swallow, “how much do you know about this Rizzo character?”
“Not very much. Only what the cop told me. And Marco. Rizzo’s been living in Parker’s Landing for some time, he wants the Lamplighter handed to him on a platter and isn’t too particular what he has to do to get it. Marco, he says Rizzo’s very likely a member of the local Mafia family, but not much of a big shot.”
“Look, kid,” Mickey said, “don’t jump all over me because I ask this, but could you make a go of it if you gave Rizzo half of the action?”
“Give him half?” Harry shouted. “What are you talking about? This is advice from a brother? Thanks very much. I think I came to the wrong place.” Harry started to get up.
“Harry, Harry,” Mickey said gently, putting a wiry hand on his brother’s arm. “I asked you not to jump in my face. That was a theoretical question, not advice. Of course, you’re not going to give him half of the joint. But—now think a minute—could you, theoretically, that is, and still make a go of it?”
&
nbsp; Harry settled back, but he didn’t have to think. “Give him half of what? My debts? I went into hock up to my eyeballs to get that place, and every cent that comes in over bare expenses is going against the debt.”
“I thought so,” said Mickey, “but I wanted to make sure. In business, Harry, you’ve got to consider all of the possibilities, no matter how insane they seem. And from a strictly hypothetical point of view, letting him have half is one solution if it’s financially possible. That’s quite aside from the moral side of the question.”
“You may be able to get aside from the moral side of the question,” Harry said, “but I can’t. Do you suppose I could stand to stay in business knowing that I was handing half of the profits over to a gangster?”
“Plenty of people have, Harry boy,” Mickey said softly, “but that’s beside the point. On to the next possibility. Could you sell out of the Lamplighter and go into something else?” He quickly held up a small, well-kept hand. “I’m not saying you should. I want to know if you could.”
“No. A year from now, maybe. But I haven’t yet proved I can make a success of it. I couldn’t get enough from the Lamplighter to open up a hot dog stand.”
“Harry,” Mickey said cautiously, “you know I’d be happy to—”
“No,” said Harry sharply. “Dammit no, Milty”—the old nickname popped out—”you know how I feel about that.”
“Okay, okay,” said his brother with regret, “that’s out. Do you think you could buy this Rizzo off with a lump sum—say a grand?”
“A thousand bucks!” exclaimed Harry. “Why—”
“No, I suppose not,” said Mickey. “Since when could you scare off a shark by giving him a leg to nibble on?”
Both brothers were silent for a while.
“So, Harry,” Mickey broke the silence, “what are you going to do?”
“That’s what I came here to find out,” said Harry hopelessly.
“Har, there’s one possibility we haven’t considered. I don’t even know if it’s a possibility.”
“What’s that?”
“Fighting back. Not letting this guinea get away with it.”
“Fight back?” asked Harry. “How? What am I supposed to do— go over and let the air out of his tires? I wouldn’t know how to blow up his car. How could I fight a thug like Rizzo?”
“You wouldn’t have to,” Mickey said. “If you’re really serious, I think I know where you could get some help. There are people who know about such things.”
“But how could they help me?”
“By scaring Rizzo off. Convincing him that he’d be better off if he left you and the Lamplighter alone. He could be made to see reason.”
“There wouldn’t have to be any violence, would there?”
“Kid, I just don’t know. Look, apparently you’ve got two choices. Either give in to Rizzo and go on the breadline or fight him. Which is it going to be?”
Harry thought for a long moment. “I won’t,” he said, “I can’t— give in to him. I’ve got too much tied up in that place. I guess I’ll have to fight. But what about Hildy and the girls? You know how the Mafia is supposed to operate. What about them?”
“I don’t know,” said Mickey, “but the important decision has been made. You want to fight Rizzo. Now, I’ve got a lot of telephoning to do and I need some privacy.” He got up and knocked loudly on the door at the side of the sofa. “Ally, I’ve got a new gin rummy pigeon for you. He’ll be in in just a moment, so make sure you’ve got something on.” To Harry he said: “Beat it. Go take some of Alison’s money. I’ll come and get you when I’ve got some things sorted out. Then we’ll go and have a good dinner if you’ve won enough money.”
Harry shrugged and walked through the doorway into the secretary’s apartment.
5
Alec Hoerner sat on a stool in a dark corner of Finlay’s Knockout Bar on Eighth Avenue, watching the front door. At not quite nine in the evening, only a thin scattering of tourists and regulars clung to the long, curved bar, drinking and gawking at a hundred years of boxing history stuck on the big back mirror or hanging from the high, dirty ceiling on ancient cords.
At first glance, one might think Hoerner had once been a boxer himself—a lean, thick-shouldered light-heavyweight more noted for cunning than brute force. Or sitting there in an anonymous suit with an equally forgettable hat pushed back to reveal dark hair and a narrow forehead, he might have been a plainclothes cop. The eyes—translucent buttons of pale jade in the neon-reflected light—were impersonal enough.
And so he was—in a way. Alec Hoerner was a private detective. The detective part came from spending six and a half years in Vietnam with the Army Counter-Intelligence Corps, followed by nearly two years with the New York Police Department. Hoerner had spent the last six months as a freelance, calling himself Hoerner Associates, and he’d been on the receiving end of one of Mickey Caster’s many telephone calls that afternoon.
At the time, Hoerner had been in Central Park enjoying the mild autumn sunshine and keeping an eye on a very foolish bank vice-president for his suspicious wife. The banker’s foolishness came in the form of a childlike blonde stewardess, and Hoerner was carefully noting just how justified the wife’s suspicions were when his pocket receiver buzzed.
From the corner telephone booth, Hoerner could still see the romantic couple when a strong voice came on the line: “Mr. Hoerner.”
“Mrs. Meltzer,” said Hoerner, watching the banker light two cigarettes in his best Charles Boyer style.
“A call for you,” said the manageress of Hoerner’s answering service. “Just a few moments ago. I would have waited until you called in if it hadn’t sounded important.” He could hear dollar signs in her voice.
“And if I didn’t owe you so much money, eh, Mrs. M?”
“Mr. Hoerner,” she said sternly yet lovingly, as if he’d just come into her living room with muddy shoes but carrying a bunch of roses, “you know that I don’t care about your outstanding account, but Mr. Blavatsky…”
She made the firm’s accountant sound like Attila the Hun out of Simon Legree. But Hoerner knew he was a twenty-seven-year-old business-college graduate with a hollow chest and a bad wheeze from too much early-morning bird-watching in Greenpoint Park.
“Is he picking on you again, Mrs. M?” Hoerner asked with mock solicitude. “You just say the word and me and my pals will…”
Mrs. Meltzer sighed deeply and expressively. She was about to say something when Hoerner noticed that the banker was helping his ladylove from the park bench.
“Sorry,” he said, “it looks like my rabbits are making a run for it. What was that call, Mrs. M?”
“A Mr. Mickey Caster,” she said, all business again. “He called himself, and he said he wanted to talk to you most urgently.”
Hoerner knew the name immediately. And he knew what it could mean. “Give me the number quickly, Mother M,” he said, totally unconcerned that the banker’s pin-striped back was disappearing into the taxi into which he’d just lifted Miss TWA. “Thanks,” he said, hanging up and beginning to dial the number at the same time.
Hoerner’s telephone conversation with Mickey Caster was not a long one. He played it cool and distant until Caster explained what he wanted. Those hot-shot businessmen could smell eagerness like they could smell money. He listened without comment until Caster mentioned the name Rizzo.
“Which Rizzo is that?”
“Carlo Rizzo,” Caster said. “He calls himself Charlie Rice. He lives up in Parker’s Landing near my kid brother and has some small rackets.”
“I know the one,” Hoerner said. Once he’d made the connection, data about Carlo Rizzo assembled around the name—the Speranza family, Abe Montara, the Lower Hudson Alliance. And his voice told Mickey Caster that Hoerner had lost interest in the proposition before hearing very much about it.
But before Hoerner could kiss Caster off with a “Thanks very much for calling, but…” Mickey mentioned a figure and
a name. The figure wasn’t high enough to scare Hoerner off, but it was enough to make him stop and think. The name was only a name, but to Hoerner it offered vistas of opening doors that had been shut tight before.
“Just talk to my brother, Hoerner,” Mickey Caster said. “He’ll give you all the dope, and then you can decide. From what I’ve heard about you, I think you can handle the situation, and I won’t forget it.”
“I’ll have a talk with him,” Hoerner said, and a date was made for him to meet Harry that evening. Hoerner stepped out of the booth and twenty minutes later was sitting back in his rickety desk chair staring at a two-year-old Playboy calendar without seeing it. Hoerner’s “office” was a cubicle with a half-translucent door at the back of an unsuccessful certified public accountant’s suite of offices. Little by little, the CPA had rented off more and more space until he no longer had a room there himself. The only time the subtenants saw him was on the first of the month when he lurked in the outer hall trying to collect rents.
Frowning, Hoerner unlocked the cylindrical metal lock on the telephone dial and spent the afternoon making calls. At first what he heard confirmed what he already knew, and it was all bad. The situation sounded even tougher than it had seemed at first. Hoerner was tempted to call Caster and tell him the meeting with his brother was off. But something—mostly the knowledge that if he didn’t come up with some real money soon, he’d be in trouble—made Hoerner keep telephoning contacts.
In turn he called friends, street contacts, a couple of guys he still kept in touch with at police headquarters. Hoerner collected a few unpaid debts in the form of bits of information, put himself in debt here and there for a bit more; working the slow but fruitful circuit that was the lifeline of anybody—on either side of the law—who had to know what was happening.
Finally, as things looked progressively less hopeful, a contact casually let it drop that Rizzo was in the shit with Abe Montara. He had been for weeks, and it didn’t look like Abe was going to kiss and make up very soon. With this bit of information in his pocket, Hoerner found the rest easy. Within an hour, just as it was beginning to grow dark, he had most of the story. He knew where Rizzo stood with the family—or at least with Montara, and that was what counted—and now Hoerner had to make up his own mind. He sat working out the possibilities in his mind, not even bothering to turn on the light or respond when the last office tenant, a small-time music publisher, shouted his usual goodbye. Hoerner sat silently until the luminous dial on his watch told him it was time to get something to eat and meet Harry Caster.
The Triple Shot Box (Goodey's Last Stand, Not Sleeping Just Dead & Fighting Back): Three Gritty Crime Novels Page 43