Night Life

by David C. Taylor

  Eddie Freed, the lawyer, lay naked on a gurney in the Bellevue morgue. His skin was pale and mottled. His jaw was slack, and his dead eyes were rolled up as if trying to see the dark-rimmed bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

  “Do you know who he is?” Skinner asked. “He wasn’t carrying a wallet.”

  “Yeah. Eddie Freed, a two-bit lawyer.”

  “Why’s he carrying your card?”

  “I went to ask him some questions the other day. It looks like he lied to me, the stupid bastard. Being half smart got him killed. How long was he in the water?”

  “Not long. A couple of days at the outside.”

  Cassidy leaned to look at the wound in Freed’s forehead. “What do you think, a twenty-two?”

  “Uh-uh. I’d say a thirty-two from the size of it.”

  “Do you mind?” Cassidy rolled Freed so he could see the back of his head. The man’s flesh was cold and clammy. “No exit wound. You’d think a thirty-two would go through and through.”

  “Not always. And who knows? Maybe the shooter used a low load. Maybe a hollow point.”

  The .32 in Dylan’s drawer?

  “Where’s his stuff?”

  Eddie Freed died without much in his pockets. He went into the river wearing the same suit he had worn when he met with Cassidy and Orso in his office. The suit had been hung on a hanger to dry, and the contents of his pockets had been spread out on old towels. There was a key ring with six keys, home and office, Cassidy guessed. A white cotton handkerchief, a sodden pack of cigarettes, a cheap knockoff of a Zippo, a small plastic case holding toothpicks, a black hard rubber comb, a Timex watch whose second hand still flicked around the dial like the ad promised, a Parker fountain pen, and one of the new ballpoint pens people were starting to use, a wallet. It held fourteen dollars and not much else, a few business cards, and a condom in a foil package.

  * * *

  The receptionist with the black, black hair looked up expectantly when Cassidy opened the office door. Her face fell when she recognized him. There was nobody else in the waiting room of Fitcher, Freed, and Alamek.

  “Mr. Freed’s not here.” She dismissed him with a look and went back to her typing. She did not approve of him. He wondered how much she had heard when they were bullying Freed.

  “No, I know that, Miss…?”

  “Gedge. Mrs. Gedge. Mrs. Arnold Gedge.”

  “Mrs. Gedge, actually I came to talk to one of the other partners, Mr. Alamek or Mr. Fitcher.”

  For a moment she looked confused.

  “There are no other partners. Fitcher and Alamek are just names on the door. Mr. Freed thought it made the firm seem more substantial. Gave it more class. There’s no point in waiting for him. He hasn’t been in for a couple of days. I don’t know when he’ll be back. Leave your card and I’ll have him call.”

  “Mrs. Gedge, Mr. Freed’s dead.” He had never found a good way to deliver that information. “Someone shot him. I’m sorry.”

  She slumped back in her chair and looked at Cassidy with wide eyes. “Shot him? Why would anyone shoot Mr. Freed?”

  “I don’t now. I’d like to find that out. I’m hoping you can help me. How well did you know him?”

  “I’ve worked for him ever since he opened the office six years ago. He was a wonderful boss, always doing something extra, flowers sometimes, or an extra five dollars in the pay envelope if there had been a lot of work. Always wanted to know how I was, how Arnold was. That’s Mr. Gedge.”

  “Any family?”

  “He has a brother out in California. In Hollywood where they make the movies. He’s an accountant with one of the studios. Oh, dear. I’m going to have to let him know, aren’t I? Poor Mr. Freed. Why would anyone want to shoot him?”

  “Was there a Mrs. Freed?”

  “Well, there was. But she took off when he had the troubles. Packed her bags, cleaned out the bank account, and took off.” Her voice was frosty.

  “What troubles were those?”

  Her face closed up, and her mouth set. “I really don’t know. It was before he opened the office. None of my business, I’m sure.” She crossed her arms over her chest as a barrier.

  “Mrs. Gedge, he’s dead, and nothing you tell me can hurt him. But the more I know, the better my chance of finding who killed him. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “I can tell that you were a good friend to him as well as a good employee. Help me find who killed him. Tell me what you know. What were the troubles you mentioned?”

  She thought about it for a while. Cassidy lit a cigarette and waited. Finally she sighed and uncrossed her arms as if opening the gates. “Like I said, he was a good lawyer. He went to Harvard Law School. Top of the heap. Before he opened this office, he worked for one of those big white-shoe law firms up on Fifth Avenue. I can give you the name. He used to talk about it. Big offices with wood paneling and leather chairs. Lots of lawyers. Everything done first class. Coffee served in china. You know. Anyway, they fired him.”

  “What for?”

  “They said he was a Communist.”

  “Did he fight it?”

  “How could he fight it? He was a Communist.”

  “Did he belong to some organization that was on the attorney general’s list?”

  “You bet he did. He belonged to the American Communist Party. And he was proud of it. Never tried to hide it. But that big firm, they said they couldn’t keep him on with him being a Communist and all.” She stopped as if she had suddenly thought of something. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. I could get in trouble for working for a Red.”

  “Not from me.”

  “He said the Communist Party was the only hope of the little man, you know. He said the deck was stacked against the lower classes. The rich get richer and they do it on the backs of the poor. I don’t know much about history or politics, but that’s what Mr. Freed believed, and he was a good man. He did a lot of pro bono work for people who needed help.” She sniffled. “He was a good man.” She found a handkerchief in her top drawer and blew her nose.

  “Mrs. Gedge, did Mr. Freed call anyone or meet anyone after my partner and I left the other day?”

  She dabbed her eyes dry. “Yes. He called someone and then he went right out. He didn’t come back after that.”

  “Can you tell me who he called?” It had to be the man who was paying Ingram’s rent.

  “No. I didn’t place the call. He did it himself from his desk.”

  “Did he do that often, place his own calls?”

  “No. Almost never. I placed all his calls. He said it was more professional.”

  “I’d like to take a look through his office. I could get a warrant if you need me to do that.”

  “No, that’s all right. You go ahead. What’s the difference now, I guess?”

  Cassidy sat in Freed’s chair. He found Freed’s calendar book on the desktop. He leafed through a couple of months but found nothing of interest. He poked through the drawers and found two mismatched leather gloves, a file of old tax returns, a well-thumbed copy of Karl Marx’s Das Kapital, a pair of thin rubber overshoes, a box of #2 pencils with three pencils left, a bottle of black ink, a ream of typing paper, and a couple of yellow legal pads. In the top right-hand drawer he found Freed’s checkbook. Freed paid himself erratically and what it added up to was less per month than what he paid Mrs. Gedge, whose first name turned out to be Emily. When he shoved the checkbook back in the drawer, he found a crumpled strip of paper covered with clear tape. He flattened it on the desk. A phone number with an Algonquin exchange. Cassidy pulled the phone to him and dialed the number. A man answered after the third ring. “Yes?”

  There was something about the quality of the man’s voice that made Cassidy hesitate.

  “This is the Bell Telephone Company calling. We’re checking to see if you’ve had any problems on your line.”

  “No.”

  “Is this Algonquin 7-5897?”
r />   “Yes.”

  “To whom am I speaking, please?”

  There was a click as the man hung up. Cassidy sat holding the phone for a moment. Only three one-word answers, but there was something about the voice. Had he heard it before? Where?

  30

  The only noise in the squad room came from a detective at a desk near the window stabbing out a report with two fingers on an old Underwood. There was a note on Cassidy’s desk telling him to call Freddie Barron at a Trafalgar number. He did not recognize the name, but he dialed and lit a cigarette while the phone rang somewhere in the city.

  “Mr. Barron’s office.”

  “Mr. Barron, please.”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Detective Michael Cassidy. I’m with the police department.”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  The phone receiver clunked against a desk, and he could hear the click of heels on a hard floor. Another extension picked up.

  “Detective Cassidy?” The voice was soft and unfamiliar.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Freddie Barron?” The questioning tone indicated he did not know if Cassidy would recognize him. Cassidy didn’t.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Barron?”

  “I’m Stanley Fisher’s boss? At Lord & Taylor? Detective Orso, I believe was his name, asked me to call this number when Stanley returned from Chicago?”

  Cassidy groped. “Oh, wait. Stanley Fisher. The window decorator.”

  “Window designer. Yes.”

  “Is he back?”

  “Yes. That’s why I called.” There was an edge to Barron’s voice, impatience at Cassidy’s dimness.

  “Is he in the store now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t tell him I’m coming.”

  “Are we to worry about this? Has Stanley done something awful?”

  “No, no. I just want to talk to him about something he might have seen. How will I find you?”

  “Ask anyone on the main floor. They all know me.”

  Cassidy followed a tall, elegantly dressed saleswoman with upswept blond hair and a haughty manner. Her high heels clicked on the parquet, and her girdled butt under her calf-length silk skirt was as solid and unyielding as a sack of sand. Women crowded the store. They had money in their pockets these days and were still excited about spending it after the wartime austerity. They quested through the aisles, shopping with a peculiar avidity and focus, like bird dogs quartering a field in search of game. Faceless plastic mannequins posed on platforms dressed in the spring fashions of long, bright cotton skirts and blouses in jewel tones, wide-brimmed hats against the coming summer sun, and cotton gloves.

  “You’ll find him just over there by window four.” She flicked a dark red fingernail to show him the direction and turned away as he said, “Thank you.”

  “Not at all,” she said without interest and without looking back, and then she stilted away on long legs.

  Freddie Barron had the square, solid build of a middle linebacker and a soft, round face. His voice was low and breathy. “He was here a moment ago. Judith, where did Stanley go?”

  A woman in blue jeans and a man’s white dress shirt was carefully placing a large papier-mâché swan on a mirror lake in a window that looked out on Fifth Avenue. A small crowd of people stood outside watching her work. She adjusted the swan, glanced over at Cassidy, and then spoke to Freddie. “He said he had to make a phone call.” Her voice was annoyed.

  “I’m sure he’ll be right back.”

  “Not if there’s work to be done.”

  Freddie raised his eyebrows at Cassidy and shrugged.

  “Where’s the phone he’d use? I’ll go find him,” Cassidy said.

  “You go through that door over there marked Employees Only. There’s a long corridor and a pay phone at the end just before the exit.”

  “Tell me what he looks like.”

  “Tall, slender, dark hair, about twenty-five or -six. He’s wearing chocolate-colored light gabardine slacks and a divine lime green sports coat.”

  “He’s going to be hard to miss.”

  “That’s the point, I believe. Stanley doesn’t want anyone to miss him.”

  Cassidy pushed through the door and went down the corridor. There was no one at the pay phone. He opened the exit door and looked out into a brick alley that led to 38th Street. Twenty yards away a man in chocolate trousers and a lime green jacket stood with his back turned at the alley mouth talking to someone Cassidy could not see. Cassidy stepped out, and the heavy metal fire door slammed shut behind him. Stanley Fisher turned at the sound, saw Cassidy, and then turned back to say something to the other person. He chopped one hand down in emphasis, and while Cassidy could not hear the words, the tone was angry.

  The shots were loud, flat cracks, like two boards banging together. Fisher stumbled back and went down, and his head bounced on the pavement. Cassidy dug his gun from under his arm. The man at the end of the alley raised his gun. Cassidy snapped a shot at him but knew it went wide. The man fired. Cassidy crashed down behind a stack of garbage cans. Shots blew brick chips from the wall above him. His breath came hard and his heart jumped in his chest. He gathered himself, took a deep breath, and lunged out from cover, gun up and ready, but the alley mouth was empty except for the body on the ground. He snuck a quick look around the corner of the building. The sidewalk was deserted. He ran to the corner. Foot traffic was heavy along Fifth Avenue and he could see no one who might have been the gunman. People broke around him like water around a rock. Many of them stared at him curiously, and a few shied from him, and he realized he still carried his pistol in his hand. He holstered it and ran back to the alley.

  Stanley Fisher groaned. Cassidy went down on one knee next to him. The green jacket and the white shirt under it were dark with blood. Fisher groaned again and opened his eyes. “What happened?” His voice was as thin and pale as water.

  “Who shot you, Stanley?”

  “Shot me?”

  “Who shot you?”

  “No. No.”

  In the war Cassidy had seen men stitched by bullets who survived, and others with flesh wounds who died, as if the minor puncture of their flesh made them so acutely aware of their mortal vulnerability that it sucked away their will to live. Stanley Fisher was slipping out. “Stanley, I’m a cop. Tell me who shot you. Alex Ingram’s dead. So is Victor Amado. Who did it? Why is someone killing you guys? What happened? Tell me what happened.”

  Fisher tried to speak, coughed blood, and tried again.

  “Say it again, Stanley. I didn’t get it. Say it again.” Cassidy leaned down close to the dying man’s mouth and heard a whisper that came like smoke with his last breath.

  * * *

  Hours of filling out forms, writing reports, answering questions, the inevitable aftermath of a shooting involving an officer of the New York Police Department. Everything in triplicate banged out with four fingers on the old Smith Corona typewriter with the ancient ribbon. The first copy was dim. The last was a ghost of the report, and it would all disappear into filing cabinets, forgotten within days, lost forever, another dead man in an alley, another poor sap’s story finished long before the ending he had written for himself.

  “You fired one shot?” The Internal Affairs man looked at him with mild interest.

  “Yes. One.”

  “Broke a side window in a forty-nine Buick Skylark. That’s going to cost the city a couple of bucks.”

  Cassidy said nothing.

  “Did you fire first, or did he?”

  “I told you. He put two into Fisher’s chest. He brought the gun up to shoot me. I fired a shot. He fired two.”

  “Right. So you fired first.”

  “No. He shot Fisher twice before I fired.”

  “Sure. Right. I’ve got it.” He made a note on the form on his clipboard, turned his head away and failed to suppress a belch. “Sorry. Chili for lunch. I should k
now better.”

  “Are we done?”

  “Yeah. Read this through and sign it.” He offered Cassidy the clipboard.

  Susdorf appeared next to the desk and took the clipboard before Cassidy could. “We’ll take it from here, Lieutenant.”

  Cherry showed the I.A. lieutenant his badge. The lieutenant looked at the two FBI agents and at Cassidy. He looked at his clipboard in Susdorf’s hand as if thinking about asking for it back. Then he nodded, stood up, and walked away.

  Susdorf leafed through the report. Cherry shoved the gooseneck lamp out of the way and put a haunch on the corner of Cassidy’s desk and grinned at him. Cassidy lit a cigarette and waited.

  “Was he alive when you got to him?” Susdorf asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Did you ask him who shot him?”

  “I asked.”

  Susdorf waited for more. “Well, what did he say?”

  “Nothing. He was gone. A couple of breaths and that was it.”

  “It says here”—he waved the report—“you were there to talk to this, uh, Fisher, about the Ingram case. You’re off the Ingram case. Bonner and Newly are on the Ingram case. You want to explain?”

  “Fisher’s boss called me. He had my number from when Orso and I were working the case. Bonner and Newly weren’t in the house when he called. I figured I might as well go down and talk to him. If he had a lead, I’d pass it on to Bonner and Newly.”

  “Yeah? And?”

  “Somebody shot him. The lead’s dead.”

  “You know, Cassidy, I get the feeling you’re trying to play us. If I find out you’re keeping stuff back on this case, I’m going to jam you up. This is a matter of national security. You do not fuck with it. Your father’s already in the shit, but I’ll turn your whole family inside out, your sister, her husband, your brother, his wife if I have to. Do you know what happens when the FBI begins asking questions about people, asking about their loyalty, how they conduct business, who their friends are? Do you know what happens? Suddenly they don’t have the life they think they had. Their friends tend to disappear. Business opportunities evaporate. Your brother works for a TV network. A TV license is a federal license. Do you get my drift?”