Salvatore looked flustered. He stared at the glove. 'Sure George,' he said. 'I'm real sorry. I'm going to try and fix something for you. I'll have to get it under the heading of expenses or maybe I can get something out of the welfare fund. After all, you are an ex-cop.'
'Thanks,' answered Zaharran heavily. The portion of French fries appeared in front of him and, cheered by their appearance, he handed the glove without further argument to Salvatore. The policeman examined it. 'Full of holes,' he said. 'Whoever made this thing kept dropping stitches.'
'It's meant to be like that,' sighed Zaharran through the French fries. 'It's goddamn crochet work. It's special work. It's like cheese. When it's full of holes it's special see? It's the same thing. That was made by an old lady. They don't make them like that anymore. It was found at the scene of one of your robberies.'
'You don't know that it belonged to one of the gang, though?'
140
"They wore gloves. Not many people wear gloves in Florida.'
'Fingerprints,' shrugged Salvatore. 'They didn't want to leave fingerprints.'
'Okay, detective. But that's a fancy glove for all that. Maybe they wore gloves to hide something else. Like they wore masks to hide their mugs.'
'Their hands? But why should they want to hide their hands?'
Zaharran poured coffee on top of the French fries in his mouth. 'Because they got veins and callouses and they're thin. Things like that maybe. Because they're old hands.'
'Old hands?' Salvatore's coffee cup was hinged to his lip.
'Right. And in more ways than one, Salvatore. My guess is that this is someone who has come out of retirement.'
'A dame too?' said Salvatore. He allowed the cup to tip over his lip. He wiped the coffee away from his chin with his hand. 'An old dame?'
'Guys and dolls,' said Zaharran. 'All over again. Remember the raid on the Van der Vatts' place during the benefit for old folks? And they had old folks there, right? Sort of demonstrating them. Showing people what old folks looked like and where their benefit money was going. And at the bus hold-up there was an old lady who had to make a phone call just before the bus left. My guess is she was tipping off the rest of the gang in ambush.'
'I'll get you expenses,' promised Salvatore eagerly, his eyes brighter than they had been for weeks. 'I'll also get a grant from the welfare fund.'
'Can I have some more French fries?' asked Zaharran.
'Sure, sure. And some more coffee?' said Salvatore eagerly. 'Waiter, more coffee and another portion of French fries for my friend.'
The waiter moved smoothly up the counter as if he were on wheels running along a rail. 'In general,' he said, 'we don't serve French fries on their own. They got to be with something. Like hamburger, hot dog, frankfurter. But not generally by themselves, you understand.'
'Frank, George?' asked Salvatore.
141
'Frank, Albert,' acknowledged Zaharran.
'Frank, Charlie,' said Salvatore to the waiter. 'And French fries.'
'Frank, Carlo,' called the waiter to the man who was doing the frying.
Zaharran said: "Will you get somebody to check out the details that old lady gave when she came into headquarters from the robbery. Her name and address and everything. I've seen her in the group photograph. I take it they were photographed in the office too?'
'Sure they were,' said Salvatore. 'We had each one photographed while they were making their statements of complaint. I'll get them to you so you can pick her out. Then we'll make a check. Anything else?
The waiter glided towards them with the coffee and frank and fries. Zaharran took a bite from the frank. 'This is living,' he said.
'Grants from welfare are limited,' said Salvatore, almost to himself. 'But I can get expenses for you, George. Jesus William Christ, we got men charging expenses for just breathing. I knew you would come up with something.'
Zaharran said heavily, 'I'd also like to take a look at the photographs taken at the benefit at Palm Beach. Not just the police photos, but all those taken by the society column crap-hounds. Can you fix that?'
'We've got the file in the office,' said Salvatore. His expression fell. 'But I think I'd better bring it around to your place. Having you around headquarters is not good for me. Nobody talks like a cop to a cop, you know that. They tell tales like old ladies.'
T know, I know,' mumbled Zaharran. 'Just get the file. Bring it over to me on Washington. The place is difficult to find. But you'll find it. You're a detective.'
Salvatore went at his customary worried slouch along Washington Avenue sidewalk, dodging slowly in and out of the crowded life of that section of South Miami Beach. He had left his car three blocks away and now he was sorry. All over the pavement people were talking. Hot smells and voices
142
came from the cooking shops along the route and there was a line fifteen yards long at a diner that sold half-price lunches after three-thirty. They also served early dinners before five-thirty. The two hours were the busiest of their day. Some people stayed and ate both meals. The afternoon sun was cutting directly down the avenue. Ladies blinked under antiquated straw bonnets, to which many had added a flower or two, and men sweated as they carried bags of groceries. Salvatore, carrying a folio under his arm, searched the shop fronts for the name of George Zaharran.
'Hi, honey,' called a fat lady with big lips from a bench in front of one of the peeling hotels. 'Want to swing?'
He stared at her, scarcely crediting what he thought he had heard. 'I'm looking for George Zaharran,' he said. 'He's above a salt beef bar. Know him?'
'No baby,' she replied as if she had learned the lines especially for the moment. 'But if you find him, bring him too. I got a nice friend.'
He smiled, still uncertain that he had got the right sense of it, and continued his passage. Some Cubans were discussing the world in a corner. There were a few coloured people in the street. But the faces all about him were the faces of retired white Americans. Some of them had dogs, and one man, much admired, had a parrot in a cage. A group of elderly folk were bent close to the bars because the man had mentioned that the parrot could sing. Salvatore paused in interest, because he liked parrots and sometimes went alone to the Parrot Jungle where they rode bicycles and roller skates. The man said he would only tell the parrot to sing if everyone donated a quarter to its upkeep. Within ten seconds he was alone in the street.
Eventually Salvatore saw the sign in the window of the salt beef bar, a cardboard square with the announcement: 'George Zaharran. Criminalistic Inquirer and Investigator. Formerly of the Police'.
At the door of the salt beef bar he was confronted with a steaming mass of customers besieging the counter for end-of-the range bargain sandwiches; those who had obtained their bargains were eating them violently and talking at the same
143
time. It seemed to Salvatore that there had just been some emergency. But he was wrong. It was just the normal daily conversation in the establishment.
He elbowed his way through the crowd to a small steamy door at the extreme end. On this the title 'George Zaharran. Criminalistic Inquirer and Investigator', also appeared. It had been defaced in various ways by the customers of the salt beef bar, one of whom had written the unkind words 'He don't know nothing' under the name. At the deepest end of the place it seemed the customers were even thicker on the ground and even more vociferous. It was like forcing his way through a creek of Jewish crocodiles; all around him were gnashing jaws and feverish arguments. He had to diswedge several voluble men from behind the door before he could open it towards him and see that he had to climb a flight of hidden wooden stairs to the office of the old policeman. I
At the top of the stairs was another door on which appeared several name plates. 'Zaharran Mailed Astrology', and 'Zaharran Real Estate'. 'Zaharran Paper Novelties', said another. 'George Zaharran, Criminalistic Inquirer and Investigator' was a more sober plate half way down the door. Salvatore knocked.
'Come on in for Chrissake,' croaked Zaharran's voice.
Salvatore pushed the door. It opened to reveal the enormous man lying flat on his back on a short length of carpet placed in front of a similarly large and untidy desk. He was aiming a pistol at the ceiling. As Salvatore entered he fired a sucker dart against the plaster. 'Got him,' he grunted with satisfaction.
'Who was it, Batman?' asked Salvatore without humour.
'A fly,' Zaharran told him. 'Flies make great target practice. They're real difficult to hit. You should get your boys trying if
'I can see the commissioner walking in on a dozen cops firing sucker darts at the headquarters ceiling,' said Salvatore sourly. 'I can just see if
'Cheaper than range practice,' said Zaharran, still making no attempt to get up from the floor. 'Save the taxpayers' money on bullets.'
144
'And then you have to spend the taxpayers' money on ceiling repairs,' argued Salvatore, who could always find a reason. 'Forget it. If we need any flies killed we'll call you. I've got those pictures you wanted to see. I had to smuggle them out.'
'Great. Did you check on the old lady's address? Mrs Molly Manders, remember?'
'I've got somebody checking it out,' said Salvatore sitting down. He stared at Zaharran bleakly. 'It's real difficult discussing things with you like this, George,' he complained. 'In that position, 1 mean. Can't you get up and sit behind the desk or somewhere.'
'Not even somewhere, pal. It's my back. It keeps going. It just goes. The only way 1 can get it into shape again is to lie on the floor like this. For an hour. And I've only been down here' - he looked at his watch - 'twenty-one minutes. If you want a normal discussion you'll have to wait or. come back another time. I'm sorry, but that's the way the pisspot spills.'
Salvatore grimaced and argued no further. 'I'll call the bureau,' he said, reaching for the phone. 'Maybe they've got the information on the old lady by now.' He put the receiver to his long narrow ear, and began to dial. A look of querulous puzzlement took over his face. He shook the instrument. 'What's wrong with this thing?' he said.
'It ain't connected,' admitted Zaharran from the floor. 'I didn't pay. Things have been bad, captain, I told you that. It's just there as an ornament, a decoration, in case I get somebody come to call. It looks better if a private eye has got a phone.'
'You've got it right there,' sighed Salvatore. He put down the receiver. 'Okay, where do I phone?'
'Downstairs. If you can get through that rabble down there, you'll find a phone on the hook on the back wall. Next to the Jewish Racing Calendar.'
'Shit,' said Salvatore, with studied impatience. He looked down at the spreadeagled body and the prostrate face. 'If you crack this case and get the reward will you pay the bill and get the phone reconnected? You will won't you?'
145
'I promise,' nodded Zaharran eagerly. 'Right after I get the electricity and the water put back. Just now I have to read by candlelight after seven o'clock and I have to walk two blocks and cross the street to wash my hands. It's no pleasure for me, I can tell you, no pleasure at all. Maybe if I get the reward I'll be able to afford all sorts of goodies, like underwear and hot drinks.'
Salvatore was at the door. He went ill-temperedly down the uncovered wooden stairs into the crowd of the salt beef bar. As soon as he had gone Zaharran eased his body up as if it were on a strong hinge and reached for Salvatore's folio. He slipped the photographs out of the cover and quickly, his large thumbs and fingers moving like a shuttle, he went through them.
They were the photographs taken by the society photographer at Mrs Van der Vatt's party. There were duplicate prints of each. Swiftly his veined eyes went across the faces. He stopped suddenly and brought one photograph close up to his eye. His ragged smile appeared. He slid the photograph clear of the others and pushed it under the piece of carpet upon which he was sitting. Then he replaced the folio and lay tiredly back on the floor again.
Eventually Salvatore's stamping steps could be heard. He came in looking as though he had been brawling. 'That's my idea of Hebrew Hell,' he said nodding back fiercely down the stairs. 'I'm glad I ain't going where that lot are going. Jesus Jacob Christ, I didn't think you could get so many people into one lousy room. And they're all pushing and shoving and talking at the same time. Some bastard had his beard in my face the whole time I was on the phone.' He sat down and looked steadily at Zaharran. 'Okay,' he said. 'You were right. They've checked the address Molly Manders gave. It don't exist. There's no such street. I guess we should have checked them all out before, but it would have been a long job and there just didn't seem any heed.'
'Fine, fine,' Zaharran nodded at him. 'That's not bad to go on. Now, how about these pictures?'
Salvatore took the folio and took out the prints. He handed
146
captain, give me a break too. Let it lie will you for a few days? Well, a couple of weeks. I need to work without a lot of hassle going on. 1 think I can find her.'
Salvatore stared at him. 'You mean that?'
'Right now I mean it,' Zaharran assured him. 'As true as I'm sitting on this floor.'
Salvatore looked doubtful. 'Okay. You turned her up. You can keep her. Just temporarily. But if there's any more raids or anything. I'm putting a warrant out for her. Got that?'
'Got that,' agreed Zaharran. 'And I also got a backache.'
Salvatore got to the door and with a silent nod went out.
Zaharran eased himself to the horizontal and waited until the footfalls had gone down the stairs. He heard the hubbub as the lower door opened. Nobody could come back up those stairs without his hearing. He rolled over like a walrus on to his side and withdrew the photograph he had taken from beneath the carpet. He held it above his eyes and grinned. 'Ari the Greek, he muttered to himself. 'All these years and he's still got that same goddamn nose.'
Zaharran took a disintegrating suitcase with him and wandered with studied aimlessness along Ocean Drive going south. It was mid-afternoon and the sun filled the air with heat. Even the grass seemed to sag and the sea-grape trees hung their heads. The ocean was banded blue and green and frilled white. It was almost unattended, vacant as the sky. Three thousand old folks congregated on the humid grass bordering the beach for their unending convention. It never became too hot. The sun gave life and life was worth having.
The ex-policeman's normal appearance was such as to merge almost faultlessly with the background. He was wearing a large pair of multi-creased azure trousers and a Honolulu shirt he acquired long before Hawaii became the forty-ninth state. He sported a pair of moderately clean white shoes although his socks were of differing colours. His other clothes bulged like blisters from his split suites* Only one item had he added to his normal appearance. He now wore a dun-coloured wig, not as a disguise since even the most disinterested, distant and distorted eye could have immediately seen
148
the whole batch to Zaharran who examined each one with the nape of his neck flat on the floor and the photographs held, each one at a time, over his head like a canopy.
'Swell occasion,' said Zaharran, staring up as if the picture was miles above him. 'Just look at all the rich ladies and gentlemen. They're the sort that get robbed. Just look at all of them. Ain't no good robbing poor people. And that's Mrs Van der Vatt, I recognize her. I always read the society columns when I pick up an old newspaper in the park. Ah, and these are the old folks they led around the ring by the noses, eh?'
'It was for them,' said Salvatore defensively. 'For old people's charity.'
'We need it,' agreed Zaharran. 'Gee, I wish I could have been there. Maybe there's a kind of list for these functions. Maybe there's some place where you can put your name down. Like a bureau. I should get down there and tell them I'm available.'
Salvatore looked uncomfortable. 'I'm sure to get you expenses,' he said doubtfully. 'If I have to go without myself I'll get something. Okay? Now do you see anything in the photographs.'
'Nothing,' l
ied Zaharran, 'except a lot of people having a good time.' He passed them up to Salvatore. 'I guess you'd better just leave me to get on with it, captain,' he said. 'Don't pull your detectives off the case or anything, I may fail.'
'There's no way I'm going to do that, so don't worry,' said Salvatore getting up from the chair. 'Not that they've turned up anything so far. If you get something big or even not-so-big, you'll put us on to it I guess.'
'Oh sure. Then you can have the reward for the police Christmas party,' said Zaharran.
'Okay, okay. But don't double-cross me, just don't double-cross me. I'll get a description circulated of this Molly Manders woman.'
Zaharran eased himself up on his hinge. An anxiety had taken over his vast face. He grinned pleadingly towards Salvatore, his teeth like the broken railings of a park. 'No, please
147
it for what it was, but because he had been given it by a dying well-wisher and until now had not had the opportunity to display it. The wig was not a particularly good fit and the perspiration on his head caused it to slip forward like a pancake on his forehead, but a mere faulty adornment like that was unlikely to cause comment in that region. Many people had wigs that did not fit.
Zaharran was looking for Ari the Greek. The Prohibition days when he had known him were now far distant, and the detective hoped that Ari's memory was not so active as his own. However, even with the beacon of his unique nose, Ari was no easy quarry amid the elderly thousands along Ocean Drive. Zaharran walked the length of the lawns and gardens first, keeping to the sidewalk, apparently meandering aimlessly, his suitcase banging from a pendulous arm which it seemed to stretch to twice the length of the other one. But from beneath the fringe of the slipping wig he watched as carefully as an Indian in the grass. The insistent heat of the Florida day began to broil him and he had to squat on a bench for a while. On the grass before him was a man playing a sorrowful cello while another attempted harmony on the musical spoons. It was a difficult combination but they had managed over months of experiment and rehearsal, so Zaharran imagined, to make a melody and form a descant and they applied themselves to this with deep concern. Outsized seagulls stood on the grass listening, heads cocked, and being soulful creatures, finding the rhythm to their liking.
That Old Gang Of Mine Page 16