No. No, hold it. That conversation wasn't on Fifty-eighth Street. It was up at the Claremont Inn where he'd moved her once her belly began to swell, and gave her a new name, and waited for the house to be ready. A new name. Yes.
“I think I will choose the name Charlotte. It is a name I have always admired. There is a certain gaiety to it, do you not think so, Tilden?”
“‘Then may I suggest Whitney for a surname. It smacks of wealth and substance. I will be Harry Whitney while we stay at the Claremont. Men named Harry are always good fellows. I will be a salesman. Of baseball equipment. That will explain why I am not there most nights and, selfishly I confess, it will give us an excuse to spend more time at the Polo Grounds. ” `
Charlotte Whitney. Corbin nodded, his fingers rubbing his eyes. Grandmother Corbin's name. Charlotte Whitney Corbin. He'd accepted last night, in Sturdevant's den, that Margaret Barrie and Charlotte Corbin were probably the same woman. But accepting it was not the same as knowing it.
“Come on, Jonathan.” Gwen took his elbow. “Let's get some air.”
“No.” He leaned against the microfilm cabinet. “Just let me stand here for a minute.”
A few pieces were still floating down. Like leaves. Or more like snowflakes because some seemed to melt in the air. And there remained a great open space between the time Tilden left for the Hoffman House and the time he and Margaret sat around deciding what names they'd put on the Claremont Inn register. But he knew most of it, he supposed. He certainly knew what he'd done to Ansel Carling, and he remembered Carling's threat to ruin him and to cut up Margaret's face. Was that why he hid her at the Claremont? To keep her safe from Carling?
Fights. More fights. Not with Carling this time. But with whom? There were two thugs, maybe hired by Carling, and he was fighting them on a dark street at night, and losing, going down, and then he's fighting one of them again and it's daylight but indoors with many other men watching. In a prize ring? Some back room? Corbin couldn't tell. He would try to see it and then there would be still another brawl, involving different men, sort of superimposed on top of it, and during this new fight broken glass was falling all around him.
Corbin shook his head. He almost whistled. That was at least three major fights, all with fists. He found himself hoping that Tilden had one hell of a cut man or at least was smart enough to carry something inside his hands.
Corbin shut his eyes, the better to see and sort out all these different people Tilden was hammering, and being hammered by. But when he did, another part of his brain threw still more fight scenes on the screen. Here's one where they're all in business suits. And Tilden’s older, much older, but still popping away. Didn't they ever leave him alone?
Then, on top of all the others, Corbin saw himself. He was younger, about twenty, and he was in another dark place and there were two other men. Tough men, although they could have been his father's age. He didn't know them, but he hated them and was enjoying what he was doing to them. He was hurt and bleeding, but not as badly as he was hurting them.
Corbin knew this dream. He'd had it before. And he also knew it wasn't real. It was a revenge fantasy he'd created years before to help him deal with a beating he took from two men who attacked him for no reason in the parking garage under Chicago's Drake Hotel when he was home on Christmas break. It wasn't even a mugging. They took nothing.
Corbin shook that vision away. It embarrassed him. That vision had him winning, methodically shattering the knees and elbows and finally the heads of those two men, but he knew it hadn't happened that way. He'd barely had a glimpse of them before it was he himself who was helpless on the cold concrete floor.
Think about Margaret. Why the name change? And why the move to the Claremont? Corbin knew he'd gone to her, maybe right from the Hoffman House, because he was afraid for her after Carling said what he'd do, and because Williams seemed to know about her, too—Williams. Oh, Christ! Now who the hell is Williams? Someone connected with Jay Gould. Right. Anyway, Tilden went to Margaret and either that same night or soon after he asked her if she'd have his child. Let's see. Christmas. Grandfather Jonathan was born on Christmas Day of 1888. That means conception was the end of March. Yes. It fits. Margaret must have agreed. She must have stopped using those little vinegar sponges of hers right away. It's funny that old Tilden lets me see some things and not others.
Corbin glanced at Sturdevant. Good fellow. All men named Harry are good fellows. Sturdevant was saying something to Gwen about wanting to look at some more microfilms but you and Jonathan go ahead. He'll walk to Maple Avenue. Corbin wondered whether he should say anything to Harry about the way Tilden picks and chooses what he'll let him see. Better not. Sturdevant would only start looking at him as though he was a laboratory slide again, because he would have just taken one hell of a leap from Sturdevant’ s benign concept of genetic memory into a whole new ball game in which Tilden is real, a real person who thinks and makes decisions and even smacks ancestors across the face when they make wisecracks about whorehouse season tickets.
Get back to Margaret. She was working. Tilden had set her up in a place in the East Sixties, but she'd found a job. Something to do with a newspaper. Women were starting to make a stir as journalists. Nelly Bly. Around the world in eighty days. But Margaret did want Tilden's child. And she couldn't stay at any newspaper or even in her rooms if she was unmarried and beginning to show. So, the Claremont Inn. As Charlotte and Harry. A long, peaceful autumn of sitting on the Claremont's porch, watching the Hudson River drift by, going to baseball games with picnic hampers, and taking the train up to Greenwich to see how the carpenters and the electrical linesmen were progressing.
How am I doing, Tilden?
Batting about .500, right? Because that's when most of those fights were happening, wasn't it. Someone was leaning on you. Carling, Gould, somebody. And there was a new guy, I don't know his name but I can see him, Colonel something-or-other, sounds like Colonel Dan, and he had a newspaper, not Margaret's newspaper, and he was trying to hit you for a payoff to keep your name and Margaret's out of it, and you told him to buzz off, and then he tried to sell you something else, something about Carling.
“Dr. Sturdevant,” Corbin asked, with a firmness of voice that surprised Gwen's uncle, “have you ever heard of a newspaper publisher with a name like Colonel Dan?’'
“From the late nineteenth century?”
“Yes.”
“Could you possibly mean Colonel Mann? He published a scandal sheet called Town Topics. Full name was William D'Alton Mann.”
“Looked like Santa Claus?”
“Now that you mention it”—Sturdevant nodded—“he always carried sugar cubes for horses and rock candy for children. But he was a notorious blackmailer. Why do you ask?”
“It's nothing.” Jonathan shook his head.
It's none of your business.
Eleven
Not a soul down on the corner... it's a very certain sign ... Those wedding bells are breaking up that old gang of mine.”
Raymond Lesko turned on his shower hot and full, then sat fully clothed on the edge of his toilet, facing out toward his apartment door. His service revolver hung from his right hand. With his left hand he held a washcloth in front of his lips to lightly muffle the sound of his singing voice. He turned the wrist of that hand to look.at his watch. Ten after eight. No call from Dancer.
He had to assume that Dancer had decided against negotiating. If that was correct, he'd have to further assume that Dancer would be sending shooters. Or Beckwith security people. Whatever. And if the shooters happened to be already waiting outside the door, and they heard the shower going and his voice lifted in carefree song, that would seem like a very good time to kick in the door and start blasting away through the shower curtain. So, just in case, Lesko had decided, he'd give about ten minutes of sound effects for the benefit of anyone who might be hanging around out in the hall. You can't be too careful. If nobody comes, at least the steam is getting rid of some
of the wrinkles in his suit so it shouldn't be a total loss.
Lesko chose “The Marines' Hymn” as his final selection, then waited another minute. Nothing. No sounds from the hall. No slowly turning doorknob like in the movies. It's safe enough, he guessed, to take a real shower. Just
make it quick. He jammed a chair under his front doorknob and adjusted his bathroom door so that he could watch through the dressing mirror that hung on its outside.
Lesko was dried and dressed fifteen minutes later. He poured a second cup of coffee. Eight twenty-five. A little while now and he'd hear the Tomasi family upstairs heading out for the nine o'clock Mass at Saint Agnes down the street, and the McCaffreys in 3C would be doing the same. Lesko would fall in with them at least as far as the sidewalk. Lesko had made up his mind that if he happened to see a strange male face anyplace in between, he would take the guy out real fast and apologize for any mistakes afterward.
Another fifteen minutes. What the hell, he thought, reaching for the phone. Let's see if I can ruin the little bastard's breakfast. He dialed the Beckwith Regency and asked to speak to Mr. Ballanchine.
“May I tell him who's calling, sir?” Lesko remembered the guy at the front desk who snapped to attention every time a Beckwith walked through the lobby.
“Sam Babcock. Field agent, Internal Revenue.”
“One moment, sir.”
Lesko wondered, come to think of it, what kind of breakfast Dancer would eat. Ham and eggs? No. Dancer would be a three-minute-egg type. Out of a porcelain egg cup. With one of those little tools that slices off the top of the shell. And either orange juice or prune juice, probably prune juice, and probably laced with Metamucil.
“He doesn't seem to be answering, Mr. Babcock.”
“Mr. Ballanchine wouldn't be ducking Uncle Sam, would he?”
“Oh, I'm sure not, sir. Hold on and I'll inquire.”
Lesko waited.
The voice came back on. “Mr. Babcock, it seems Mr. Ballanchine and Mr. Beckwith have gone up to Connecticut for the day. They left just before I came on at eight. Did Mr. Ballanchine have an appointment with you, sir?”
“He was trying to reach me last night. We keep missing each other. Give me a number and I'll try him up there.”
The desk man hesitated.
“And in case I still miss him, I want to leave him a message.”
“Go ahead, sir.”
“Tell him Uncle Sam hopes he won't have to rap his knuckles. He'll know what it means.”
“Perhaps you'd better tell him that yourself, sir. I imagine you can reach him at the Beckwith residence on Round Hill Road in Greenwich. It's in the book.”
Lesko knew that the desk man would have a phone number. He also knew that he was trying to involve himself as little as possible. Fine. “Which Beckwith lives in Greenwich, by the way?”
”I believe that would be Tilden Beckwith’s sister, sir. Miss Ella Beckwith.”
Lesko wished him a nice day.
The old guy's sister! Lesko wondered whether she was as big a turkey as he was. He suspected not. Not if it was her Dancer was talking to when he made that second call Friday night from Grand Central. The one to Connecticut. But for now, he decided, let's see if we know where the rest of the players are.
He flipped open his notebook and dialed the number of Gwen Leamas's apartment. No answer. He expected that. Next he punched information and asked for a Harry or Harold Sturdevant. How about H. E. Sturdevant at 12 East Sixty-ninth? That's him. Lesko tried the number.
“Sturdevant residence.” A woman's voice, the housekeeper.
“Yeah, I'm looking for Jonathan Corbin.”
“May I say who's calling, please?”
Lesko nodded. Corbin was there. He started to hang up without answering.
“Will you tell me who this is, please?” The woman's voice was strong, almost angry, more so than a rude silence should have made her. Lesko brought the phone back to his ear. He was tempted to ask Sturdevant’s housekeeper what had her in such a testy mood so early in the morning. Was it possible, for example, that this was not today's first phone call from someone who asked for Corbin and then hung up. Not that she'd tell him, the way she sounded. Lesko broke the connection.
He made one more phone call, to Mr. Makowski, who said yes, he could borrow the car, which is open except you have to kick the door, and the spare key is in the back seat ashtray under a gum wrapper, which reminds me, please don't smoke those cheap cigars because the smell was there for a month last time. Lesko promised. Upstairs, Mr. Tomasi yelled, “Let's go. I'm not waiting all day,” as he did every Sunday. Lesko threw on his coat and eased the chair from under his doorknob. Gun in hand, he waited until the Tomasi family had almost reached his landing, then poked his head into the hall.
Empty. Lesko tucked the gun out of sight and closed the door.
Below him the McCaffreys were already on the stairs, taking them slowly as they had since Mrs. McCaffrey hurt her hip. Lesko started down. He realized it was not altogether neighborly to use other churchgoing tenants as shields, but he was betting the Beckwith security people were not psychos like the Bolivians and would not make any bigger mess than they had to.
Lesko reached the sidewalk without incident and followed the McCaffreys as far as Mr. Makowski’s Chevrolet. Mrs. Tomasi, following close behind, scowled at Lesko as he swept the snow from the windshield and opened the car door. She'd allowed herself to hope that he was actually going to Mass. Once inside, Lesko's gun was back in his hand as he fished for the hidden key, that being a good time for anyone so inclined to make a move. But there was nothing, not even the sound of another engine starting. As much surprised as relieved, Lesko rocked the car free of the curb and crunched out toward Queens Boulevard, then climbed on the expressway entrance leading to the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. The sparse Sunday morning traffic had him in the city in just over ten minutes. It took less than another ten to reach East Sixty-ninth Street. Sturdevant`s address, number 12, would be on the south side, about halfway between Madison and Fifth. Lesko decided he'd better circle the block. It was hardly necessary.
He spotted the other car so easily that at first Lesko wondered if he was wrong. It was a blue BMW, parked in an ideal position for watching Sturdevant's front door a hundred feet farther down and across the street. But the driver was doing almost nothing else right. He was sitting low in his seat, too obviously low, his window was open all the way, and he'd left his engine running to keep warm. Lesko had seen the exhaust as soon as he turned off Madison. Worse, Lesko saw as he passed, the BMW was parked at a curb cut between two No Parking signs. Someone wants to take a car out, he has to move. Or a passing cop tells him to move. If he'd just double-parked he might have been more visible, but the same passing cop would have assumed he was waiting to pick someone up and not bothered him. And double-parked, the guy also would have been harder to block in.
Lesko continued around the block. There was no backup car, no crash car, nothing. He considered pulling up behind the BMW and waiting, but if the other driver looked back through his side mirror, they could end up sitting there all morning staring at each other. What the hell, he decided. Let's get something going here. He pulled up close against the BMW's door, immobilizing the BMW and its driver, then reached across and rolled down his passenger-side window.
“Good morning.” He showed his teeth. “I'm Raymond Lesko.”
The face looking back at him reminded Lesko of Marine top sergeants he'd known. It was square-jawed, deeply weathered, and topped with a stiff brush of hair gone mostly gray, The eyes were blue and rock-steady except for a brief light of recognition that the man was not quite able to control.
”I beg your pardon?” Lesko saw a movement of the man's shoulder as he spoke.
“And your name is Tom Burke, I betcha. A guy named Ed Garvey works for you, but I think he's on sick leave now.”
“Move your car, buddy,” the man said quietly.
Lesko leaned closer, dropping his voi
ce to a confidential tone. ”I don't want to embarrass you or anything, but a guy who's head of Security shouldn't get blocked in when he's doing a tail. You are just doing a tail, aren't you, Tom?”
“Move it now”—the shoulder did something else—“or I'll get out and move it for you.”
.Lesko held up one finger and slid back behind the wheel. He made a show of putting Mr. Makowski's car in park, then shutting off the engine. He held up the ignition key for the other man to see, stuck out his tongue, and placed the key on its center. Tom Burke blinked at him.
“Here's another thing,” Lesko slurred wetly, gesturing toward the windshield of the BMW, “doing a job like this, I'm a little surprised you'd drive around with a Beckwith Hotels parking sticker on your car. How about your gun? Can I see it? Do you at least have the right kind of weapon?”
Time Out of Mind Page 29