Every Little Crook and Nanny

by Ed McBain

  Nanny looked out over the river to where a coal barge was sending up great puffs of smoke against the sky. She thought fleetingly of the Thames and of how simple and uncomplicated life had been in London, where she’d had a good position in Mayfair, not as pleasant perhaps as the one at Many Maples, but where a person certainly did not have to deal with types like Snitch.

  “What I want to know about,” she said at last, “is a crime.”

  “Which crime?” Snitch asked.

  “Well, which crimes have you heard about?”

  “Which crimes would you like to know about?”

  “Whichever ones you’ve heard about.”

  “I’ve heard about a lot of them.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Which ones would particularly interest you?”

  “Any that you’ve heard about.”

  “Well, there are many crimes being perpetrated in this city,” Snitch said, “and I’m privileged to know about almost each and every one of them. So if you have any specific crime in mind about which you are seeking information, all you need do is mention which crime it is, and I’ll leaf through the catalogue of my mind and stop at the right card. Which crime is it that interests you?”

  “Why don’t you leaf through your catalogue aloud?” Nanny said. “When you come to the proper card, I’ll ask you to stop.”

  “Nanny, you’re a very nice lady,” Snitch said, “but you’re wasting my time. Unless we can come to some under . . .”

  “Have you any information, for example, about a crime that may have been committed within the past few days?”

  “Yesterday, do you mean?”

  “Well, yesterday or the day before.”

  “By the day before yesterday, do you mean Tuesday?”

  “Precisely.”

  “You’re seeking information about a crime that was committed Tuesday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Day or night?”

  “Tuesday night.”

  “Very well,” Snitch said, “now let’s try to narrow that down, okay? Was this crime a big crime or a small crime?”

  “A big crime.”

  “Was it bigger than a common misdemeanor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bigger than a Class-A misdemeanor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I to take it that this crime was a felony?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well,” Snitch said. “Now, as I’m sure you realize, there are felonies and there are felonies. Would this have been a big felony or a small felony?”

  “A big one.”

  “By a big felony, do you mean a felony punishable by more than twenty years or by less than twenty years?”

  “More. I think.”

  “In other words, we can be safe in eliminating felonies such as Assault, Forgery, and Grand Larceny, all of which by your definition would be considered small felonies.”

  “Yes.”

  “We are talking then about felonies such as Armed Robbery or Arson or Homicide or the like.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would the felony in question happen to be one of those I just mentioned?”

  “No, it would not.”

  “May I intersperse a question at this point?” Snitch asked.

  “Certainly.”

  “You have been with Mr. Ganucci for several years now. Why don’t you seek his assistance in getting the information you need about this here crime in question?”

  “Mr. Ganucci is in Italy.”

  “Cable him,” Snitch said.

  “I don’t wish to interrupt his holiday.”

  “I’m sure he would be concerned in helping you get to the bottom of whatever . . .”

  “I’m sure he would not be at all concerned,” Nanny said flatly.

  Snitch turned to study her face. His eyes narrowed. “Or is this something,” he said slowly and evenly, “that might best not be brought to Mr. Ganucci’s attention?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a very large felony committed by one of his fellows, to which Mr. Ganucci is rightfully entitled to a certain share of the profits, and which was committed without neither his sanction nor his knowledge and which might piss him off considerably should he discover about it.”

  “No,” Nanny said.

  “Nothing like that?” Snitch said, clearly disappointed.

  “No.”

  Snitch took off his hat and scratched his head. “You’ve got me stumped,” he said.

  “You’ve heard nothing?”

  “Not about the kind of crime you have in question, if it’s the kind of crime I think it is.”

  “I think you’re thinking of the right kind of crime,” Nanny said.

  “I’ll have to listen around some more,” Snitch said.

  “Then I take it we have nothing further to discuss,” Nanny said.

  “Not until I go on the earie again.”

  “Thank you,” Nanny said, and rose from the bench. She smoothed her skirt, said, “Good day, Mr. Delatore,” and walked off toward First Avenue.

  Watching her as she departed, Snitch wondered what the hell they’d been talking about.

  7: Garbugli

  By eleven-thirty that morning, Snitch had all but forgotten his meeting with Nanny. There were more important matters on his mind. The more important matters were, in order: his former wife Roxanne (the little bitch); a man from Amarillo, Texas (who was now a Broadway Pokerino barker); and the alimony payments Roxanne kept demanding (even though she was currently living with the man from Texas, who rolled his own goddamn cigarettes).

  “Is that fair?” Snitch wanted to know. “Mr. Garbugli? That I should have to keep paying her when she’s sharing another man’s bed and board?”

  “It’s not fair, but it’s the law,” Vito Garbugli said. He was a very busy man and would not have given Snitch the right time of day (no one did) had it not been for a call from a police lieutenant named Alexander Bozzaris, who had done a favor in the past and who now wanted a favor done (as he put it) “for one of the squad’s trusted advisers.” Garbugli had gone next door to his partner Azzecca’s office and asked if he knew of anyone named Frank Delatore, and Azzecca had said, “That’s probably Snitch Delatore. Why?” Garbugli had then told him about the phone call from Bozzaris, and Azzecca had said, “Delatore’s a rat. You should have said no.” Whereupon Garbugli reminded his partner that a policy banker named Joe Dirigere had once donated seven thousand four hundred dollars to Bozzaris’ favorite charity, for which the lieutenant had been willing to return to the fellows a full day’s ribbons impounded in a raid, which work amounted to a lot of cold hard cash. Azzecca maintained that nobody had done anybody no favors, the transaction having been a simple act of commerce. But he allowed as how Snitch, though a rat, was not a particularly dangerous rat, so long as Garbugli told him nothing that could in any way be useful to the police. Garbugli shrugged and said, “He’s only coming here to talk about his wife, Counselor.”

  Which Snitch had been doing for perhaps ten minutes now, complaining bitterly about her flagrant carryings-on with the Pokerino barker and continually asking, “Is it fair? Mr. Garbugli?”

  “As long as she remains unmarried,” Garbugli said, “she’s entitled to the alimony payments awarded to her.”

  “But she’s living with this big Texan,” Snitch protested.

  “It wouldn’t matter if she was living with the Seven Dwarfs,” Garbugli said. “You’d still have to pay her.”

  “I won’t pay,” Snitch said.

  “In which case you’ll go to jail. And while you’re in jail, she’ll continue her arrangement with this here Pokerino barker. You want my advice? Pay.”

  “It’s not fair,” Snitch said.

  “My good friend,” Garbugli said
, “there is much on this road of life that is unfair, but we must all carry our share of the goddamn burden.”

  “Mr. Garbugli?” Snitch said.

  “Yes?”

  The telephone buzzed. “Excuse me,” Garbugli said, and lifted the receiver. “Vito Garbugli speaking,” he said. “What? Oh, certainly, I’ll be right in, Mario.” He rose swiftly and walked around his desk. “My partner. I’ll just be a moment,” he said, and went to the door separating his office from Azzecca’s. The door closed behind him. Snitch sat in the leather armchair thinking about how unfair it was. He sat that way for perhaps five minutes. He was beginning to think Garbugli would not return; that wasn’t fair either. The door to the outer office opened, and a long-legged, pretty redhead wearing a short beige skirt and a green blouse entered, walked quickly to Garbugli’s desk, put a yellow sheet of paper on it, swiveled, smiled at Snitch, walked to the door again, and went out. The office was silent. Snitch got up and walked to the windows. On the street below, decent men like himself were going their merry way without having to worry about paying alimony to a bitch who was living with a big Texan who rolled his own cigarettes. Seven Dwarfs, some sense of humor the counselor had. Snitch glanced at the yellow sheet of paper the girl had put on Garbugli’s desk. It looked very much like a telegram or something. Merely out of curiosity, Snitch began to read it:

  Sure, Snitch thought, Ganooch sends telegrams all the way from Italy, and guys in the street go their merry way, while I have to pay alimony to somebody I hardly even met—I was only married to her, for Christ’s sake, for sixteen lousy months! He sat in the leather chair again. At the window, the air conditioner hummed serenely. In a little while, he fell asleep.

  When Garbugli came back into the office, he found his client snoring. He also found the cable from Carmine Ganucci. He quickly stuffed it into his pocket, shook Snitch by the shoulder, and asked him if there was anything else he wished to discuss. Snitch had difficulty coming awake and for one terrifying moment relived a time in Chicago when he had been shaken from sleep in the middle of a February night and asked why he had such a big mouth. He had answered, “Who has a big mouth?” and someone in the dark had said, “You have a big mouth,” and Snitch had said, “Aw, come on, I do not.” He established his surroundings now, assured Garbugli he had nothing more to ask (but that he wasn’t ready to pay any alimony to no whore, neither), thanked the lawyer for his time, and left. At the desk outside, he bummed a cigarette from the redhead who had brought the cable in, and then went down to the street.

  It was going to be a hot day.

  He wondered if it was this hot in Italy. Probably not. He also wondered why it was ESSENTIAL AND URGENT that Carmine Ganucci RAISE FIFTY. Fifty what? Not measly dollars, that was for sure. Ganooch probably carried around ten times that amount just in case he had to tip a cabbie. Could it be fifty thousand? Was it essential and urgent that Ganooch raise fifty thousand by Saturday? That was a lot of money. People did not trip across fifty thousand dollars in the gutter every day. Nor did Ganooch’s trusted governess come around every day asking about various and sundry felonies perpetrated on a Tuesday night.

  Something was in the wind.

  Snitch sensed this with the same rising excitement he had known in Chicago on February 14, 1929. He could barely refrain from dancing a little buck and wing right there on Forty-fifth Street. Something was in the wind, all right, something really big. And Snitch knew just the party who would love to hear all about it.

  If he hadn’t been temporarily broke, he’d have taken a taxi uptown.

  In the office upstairs, Mario Azzecca and Vito Garbugli were conducting an intense examination. Or rather, Azzecca was conducting the examination; Garbugli mostly listened. Azzecca’s witness was Marie Pupattola, the long-legged, redheaded secretary who had brought the cable into his partner’s office and put it on his desk. Marie was a bit frightened by the intensity of Azzecca’s questions. Also, she had just got her period yesterday.

  “Was he asleep when you came in here?” Azzecca asked.

  “Gee, I don’t remember,” Marie said.

  “Try to remember!” he said. “Was he asleep in that chair when you brought the cable in?”

  “Now, now, Counselor,” Garbugli said.

  “I don’t remember,” Marie said, knowing full well that Snitch had not been asleep because she had very definitely smiled at him, and she was not in the habit of smiling at people who were asleep.

  “Were his eyes closed?”

  “They could have been.”

  “Were they closed, or were they open?”

  “Sometimes,” Marie said, “when a person’s eyes are closed, they could also look open.”

  “Did his look open or closed?”

  “They looked closed,” she said, which was a lie because they had looked very open, especially when she’d smiled at him.

  “Then do you think he was asleep?”

  “He could have been asleep,” she said, “but gee, I don’t remember.”

  “Do you think he saw this cable, Marie?”

  “Gee, I don’t know,” Marie said. “Why would he have seen it?”

  “Because you put it on the desk there, and he was right here in this room alone with it for Christ knows how many minutes.”

  “Now, now, Counselor,” Garbugli said.

  “Would he have looked at it?” Marie said. “I mean, if he was asleep?”

  “Was he asleep?”

  “He was very definitely asleep,” she said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I know a man when he’s asleep or not, don’t I?” she asked.

  “Thank you, Marie,” Garbugli said.

  “Not at all,” Marie said, and smiled at him the same way she had smiled at Snitch, and then went out to her desk.

  “What do you think?” Garbugli said.

  “I think she’s a lying little twat, and that Snitch was awake with both eyes open, and that he read every word of that cable,” Azzecca said.

  “So do I,” Garbugli said. “I think we had maybe better call Nonaka and ask him to look up our friend Snitch Delatore.”

  “Nonaka gives me the shivers,” Azzecca said. “Besides, first things first. What do we do about this money Ganooch wants?”

  “Send it,” Garbugli said.

  “Why do you suppose he needs that kind of money by Saturday?”

  “I don’t know,” Garbugli said. “But if he cabled all the way from Capri, then it must be pretty . . .”

  “If it was him who sent the cable,” Azzecca said shrewdly.

  “It’s signed Carmine Ganucci, Counselor.”

  “That’s not a signature,” Azzecca said. “That’s just a cable with the words ‘Carmine Ganucci’ on it. It could have been twelve different people who sent that cable. It could even be the police who sent that cable.”

  “The Naples police, do you mean?”

  “Why not?”

  “The Naples police can hardly write Italian, no less English.”

  “What I’m trying to say, Vito, is that perhaps this is a trap.”

  “What kind of trap?”

  “I don’t know. If I knew what kind of trap, I’d positively avoid it.”

  Garbugli shrugged. “Maybe Ganooch merely wishes to buy a little bauble for Stella.”

  “For Stella?” Azzecca said.

  “Don’t underestimate Stella,” Garbugli said. “She has very lovely boobs.”

  “They’re nice boobs, true,” Azzecca said, “but they’re not worth twenty-five thousand dollars apiece.”

  “I think we’re safe in any respect,” Garbugli said. “Let’s say we send the cash, we’re covered by his cable. We have the cable right here, requesting the money.”

  “But suppose he didn’t send the cable?”

  “We’re still in the clear, Counsel
or.”

  “I think we should check it out first.”

  “We haven’t got time. This is Thursday, and he wants the money by Saturday. If we send him a return cable, he first has to receive it. Then he has to cable back his okay. Then we have to raise the money . . .”

  “There’s more than that in petty cash alone. In the safety deposit box downtown.”

  “We’d have to clear it first with Paulie Secondo.”

  “We’d have to do that in any case.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I suggest we cable Ganooch at the Quisisana to get his nod. If he really sent this cable, he’ll tell us so. If he didn’t send it, he’ll want to know what the hell we’re talking about.”

  “Let’s compose the message, Counselor,” Garbugli said.

  Crosstown and uptown, Luther Patterson was about to compose a message of his own.

  On the telephone yesterday, he had told the Ganucci governess (who had sounded like a very pleasant though bewildered lady indeed) that he would contact her at five o’clock this afternoon with instructions about the ransom money. Now, seated behind his typewriter at his desk in one corner of the book-lined living room, he inserted a blank sheet into the machine and began thinking. If there was one person he could count on at times like this, it was John Simon. If there was another person, it was Martin Levin. Between those two persons, a person didn’t need any other persons. Luther Patterson believed this with all his heart. When he found himself in a prosodic jam, either or both of them was (were, John?) ready to stand up and be counted.

  Luther looked at the digital clock on his desk. He was delighted that the Japanese had begun manufacturing digital clocks in such astonishing volume because, to tell the truth, he had never been very good at telling time. He attributed this to the fact that his sister had been such a whiz at it. When they were both kids together, he would sometimes deliberately confuse the hour with the minute hand out of pure spite, reporting the time as a quarter to five, for example, when it was really twenty-five past nine (ha!) hoping to mix up his smart-ass little brat of a sister, who never did get mixed up and who would announce the correct time each time from the face of her Mickey Mouse watch. He no longer hated his sister. Neither could he tell time too well. Which was why he was grateful for the digital clock, and the clear bold numbers that read . . .