Detective

by Hall, Parnell

  I knew where we were going, but I had to be sure. With each turn I got surer and surer. L.I.E., Grand Central, Van Wyck, Southern Boulevard, Sunrise Highway.

  The car headed south, twisted and turned, and finally pulled into the driveway of Millsap’s house. Bingo. Jackpot. I drove on by and headed home.

  I felt pretty good. I had it all now. I’d run down all my leads, tested all my theories, and they’d all checked out. I’d followed the trail, Dumbo to Bambi to Pluto (great double play combination). I had a line on Floridian #1 and #2, via Red. I knew why Gutierrez and Albrect had been killed, and while I didn’t know exactly who had pulled the trigger, I knew what men had ordered it done. Starting from scratch, with only Albrect’s story, so lacking in critical information, to go on, I had figured all this out.

  I knew the whole setup now. I had only one more problem. What the hell was I going to do about it?

  21.

  I RENTED THE COSTUME AT a theatrical supply house near my office. I rented a car from one of the cheaper rental agencies, a mid-size car, not too expensive, not too cheap, nothing to attract attention. I threw the cartons in the trunk and drove out to Woodmere, to Pluto’s house.

  It had been five days since I’d tracked Donaldson out there. During those five days I’d been busy. The first two, I was mainly busy sleeping, something I sorely needed to do. After that came a lot of thinking and planning, followed by a lot of research and practice. I spent a day with Fred Lazar, which was kind of tough, seeing as how I couldn’t let him know why I was interested in the things I was asking him about, but, although he was understandably curious, I managed to pull it off. I spent another day alone, practicing the things I had learned. I also spent a day working for Richard, which actually consisted of six cases spread out over the five days. So, as I said, I’d been busy.

  Now, all my preparations having been made, there was nothing left to do but do it.

  I pulled my car into the curb a half a block from Pluto’s house, got out, and looked around.

  I had been afraid in a ritzy neighborhood like this that all of the telephone wires would be underground, but I was in luck. There was a pole by his driveway from which the phone line ran straight to his house. The pole was unobtrusive, hidden by trees. It was perfect.

  I had my telephone repair outfit in the trunk. I was all set, except for one thing. Suddenly I knew how Superman must have felt looking for a phone booth. Where the hell was I going to change?

  I got back in the car and drove back to a less posh neighborhood. Still no place to change. I cruised around and finally found a McDonald’s on the strip. It was about ten in the morning and the place wasn’t too busy. I took the package out of the trunk, went in, and headed for the men’s room.

  I am well acquainted with fast-food bathrooms. They are a staple of my profession. When you drive around New York City and vicinity all day, one of the biggest problems you come up against is where to take a piss. There really are no public restrooms in New York City. You have to improvise. Regular restaurants are no good, because the minute you walk into one, a waitress with a menu will try to guide you to a table, and when they find you only want to use the bathroom, you become slightly less popular than pond scum.

  So fast-food restaurants are the ticket. No one gives a damn about you there, and no one’s even going to attempt to wait on you unless you shove your way up to the counter and shout over twenty or thirty other people trying to get served. In my six months on the job, I’ve probably visited over half the McDonald’s and Burger King restrooms in the city. Some of them are better than others, and it has nothing to do with what chain of restaurants they are; it simply has to do with their location and type of clientele. Some of them are spotless. Some turn the stomach. A swollen bladder has made me impervious to most filth. I only pass up a bathroom if, as is often the case, it is out of order and closed, or, as sometimes happens, I find hanging out in it a rather strung-out junkie who looks at me as if slowly realizing I might be his next fix.

  This McDonald’s restroom fell in the mid-range. It was open, a plus; unoccupied, a double plus; and filthy, a small minus. I went into the toilet stall and locked the door, another plus.

  The toilet was full and unflushed. I would have liked to flush it, but that seemed just as likely to flood the floor as to empty the toilet, so I decided to let well enough alone. I unwrapped the package and changed as quickly as possible, trying to keep the various articles of clothing from going on the floor, or worse, dipping into the toilet. It was hard without a hook to hang anything on and considering how cramped it was in there, but I managed. In less than five minutes my suit was packed in the box, and I was dressed as a telephone repairman, complete with hard-hat and tool belt. I put the box under my arm and left the bathroom.

  If the sight of a telephone repairman emerging from a bathroom that had been entered by a businessman in a suit startled anyone, nobody showed it; no one looked at me. I walked out of the place, got in my car and drove off. I felt pretty good about the whole thing until I realized that, in my haste to change, I’d forgotten to take a piss.

  I drove back to Pluto’s. I parked the car about a block away. It would have been much better if I could have gotten a telephone repair truck, but that was beyond my resources and, even if it hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have known how to go about getting one. Besides, the suit was just protective coloration. I hoped no one would notice me this time.

  I walked up to Pluto’s driveway and right to the telephone pole. I put the climbing belt around the pole, snapped it onto the hooks on my belt, and started up the pole.

  I’d practiced climbing a pole on Riverside Drive with the belt the day before, but I hadn’t had the added weight of the tools, and I hadn’t gone much above six or eight feet, not wanting to attract attention and get myself busted for nothing.

  I should have practiced more.

  Pain. Agony. Oh God, I don’t know how to do this. I’m forty years old and out of shape and I never climbed like this in my life anyway. Oh, let’s splurge on the telephone repair truck. I don’t care what it costs. Give me a cherrypicker, I can’t do this. I don’t care if a murderer gets away. Fuck it. Shit. Get me down.

  I reached the top. Settled into what I hoped was a secure position. There were two wires running into the house. One would be the phone, one would be electric. I sure wanted to choose the right one. I could see the headline: “PRIVATE DETECTIVE FRIED ON PHONE POLE. The body of Stanley Hastings, inexplicably dressed as a telephone repairman, was found. . .” Stop it! Asshole. You did lights for that summer stock theater, didn’t you? What’s so damn hard? That’s the electric, that’s the phone. Get on with it.

  I took out of my belt the gadget I’d made. It consisted of two clamps connected by about twelve inches of wire. I clamped them to the phone wire about a foot apart. I didn’t light up like a Christmas tree, which was encouraging. Now I could cut the wire without it falling to the ground. I took out my wire cutters, chose a point half-way between the clamps, and cut. It was harder than I’d expected, but I managed to claw my way through. The wire snapped. The clamps held. The two pieces of severed wire dangled about 6 inches from each other. I put the cutters back in my belt and started down the pole.

  Going down was a lot easier than coming up, but it was still tricky. I reached the bottom, heaved a sigh of relief, and unhooked the belt. I took a step back and looked up at the wire. It wasn’t bad. The clamps were visible, but if you weren’t looking for them, you’d never notice they were there.

  I hurried back to my car and drove to the McDonald’s. Again the bathroom was empty, I changed quickly, became a civilian. I got back in my car and drove back to Pluto’s. I pulled off the road and parked in a place a little way down the street from which I could see his driveway. I sat in the car and waited.

  I waited over two hours. Jesus Christ, what was the matter with these guys? Didn’t they ever use the phone?

  Then I started getting worried. What if they did use the
phone? What if they used it a lot? What if Pluto had tried to use the phone right after I cut the wire. Worse, what if Pluto was on the phone when I cut the wire? What if he’d already run out and called the repair service while I was changing my clothes at McDonald’s?

  Christ, had I blown it again? Probably. It would be just like me. So afraid they’d spot me in my telephone repair outfit that I run out and change my clothes while the whole thing slips away. They must have already called. Any minute now, a telephone repair truck will pull into the driveway and the game will be over.

  If they’re even home. Hell, I hadn’t even thought of that. What if Pluto isn’t even home. What if I’m watching an empty house, and—

  A car emerged from the driveway and drove past me, headed back the way I’d come. As soon as he was out of sight, I pulled a U-turn and followed. I caught up within three blocks and stayed a safe distance behind. The car hit the main drag, drove two blocks, and stopped at a pay phone on the corner.

  The driver got out. He was a tall, dark, hulking man, with one of the ugliest faces I’d ever seen. He went to the pay phone and made a call.

  This wouldn’t be Pluto himself, I figured, just one of his henchmen. It didn’t matter. This was the call I wanted.

  Tall, Dark, and Ugly got back in his car and drove off. I didn’t follow. Instead, I pulled up next to the phone booth, got out, and called Emergency Repair.

  “Emergency service,” a gruff male voice answered.

  “This is Victor Millsap in Woodmere,” I told him. “I just had one of my men call in that my phone was out of order.”

  “Yeah. I got it. Just came in. Don’t worry. We’ll be right out.”

  “You don’t have to,” I told him. “The phone’s working again.”

  “What’s that you say?”

  “Cancel the order. The phone’s working.”

  “That’s not what your man said.”

  “I sent him to a pay phone. In the meantime, the phone’s working again. I’m calling from it now.”

  “Then what the hell’s with the repair call?”

  “The phone was dead. Now it’s working. Cancel the order.”

  “Oh, hey, that’s gonna be a bitch. I wrote it up. You better let the guys come out there and check it out.”

  “And then you’re gonna charge me for it. No way.”

  “We don’t charge for repair service.”

  “I don’t care. Listen, I’ve got important people over for a business conference. I don’t want phone repairmen crawling all over the place. Just cancel the order, will you.”

  “O.K., O.K., I’ll cancel it,” he said.

  The way he said it, I wasn’t convinced. I had to be sure.

  “What’s your name?” I asked him.

  “What?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Frank Parker. Why?”

  “Because if your boys show up and interrupt my conference, I want to know who to blame when I call your boss.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he said. “Listen. I got it in my hand. I’m tearing it up now. You satisfied?”

  I was. This time I believed him. I hung up the phone, got in the car, and drove to McDonald’s. They ought to be getting to know me by now, I thought as I walked in. Nobody seemed to, though. I went in the men’s room and changed my clothes again. This time I even remembered to take a piss.

  22.

  TALL, DARK, AND UGLY OPENED the front door.

  “Telephone repair,” I said, and pushed by him into the house.

  He looked at me as if I were an ill-mannered clod, but he closed the front door, which was all I cared about. I didn’t want him to notice there was no truck parked in the driveway.

  “How many phones you got?” I asked him. I was using my ill-mannered slob voice, in keeping with the image, all my years in the acting profession not being entirely wasted.

  “Three,” he told me.

  “They all out?”

  “Yeah. They’re all out.”

  “O.K. Let’s take a look at ’em.”

  The first one was in the kitchen. I didn’t want that one. I took it apart, inspected it, put it back together again. He watched me the whole time. I hoped his constant scrutiny wasn’t going to cramp my style.

  “Nothing wrong here,” I said. “Let’s see the others.”

  He led me into the living room, which was the size of a small basketball court. A better bet, but the decor, rich but starkly modern and impersonal, told me probably not prime ground. Still, it was worth doing. When I got the phone apart, my buddy was still watching me. I turned to him in my best poor slob manner and said, “Hey, buddy, you got a soda or something? I been dying out there.”

  He gave me a look that could have fried eggs, then turned and headed for the kitchen. His attitude said it all: repairmen may be schmucks, but everyone needs phones.

  The moment he was out of the room, I unscrewed the receiver of the phone and inserted the bug. Fred Lazar had given me a crash course in illegal wiretaps and I’d practiced on my office phone, so I was pretty good at it, and I had the phone all neatly back together by the time my friend returned with a glass of Coke.

  “Thanks, buddy,” I told him, and took a huge swallow. I followed with what I imagined to be an artistic belch. “No problem here. Where’s the other one?”

  “Through here,” he said.

  He led me through an arched hallway into a large den. Bingo! Television. Pool table. Walk-in bar. Casual clutter. Comfortable couches and chairs. Yup. This was where I’d make my dope deals.

  I started taking the phone apart. My buddy was watching. I wondered how I was going to get rid of him now. Chug down the Coke and ask for another? Not great. Shit. I should have passed on the living room and saved it for here. What was I going to do now?

  I was saved by the front doorbell. Tall, Dark, and Ugly reacted to the chime like a trained dog. His head went up and he looked toward the sound, although, of course, there was nothing to see. He turned back, gave me a look, then turned and walked out of the room.

  I had the receiver off and the bug in in seconds. I left the phone itself apart in case my buddy came back quick. Then I ducked down under the desk, and looked for a place to plant another bug. I had one on the phone, but I wanted one on the room.

  I had just managed to affix it to the underside of the desk, when I heard footsteps. I straightened up and turned my attention to the phone as he entered the room.

  I peeked up from my work to see him. It wasn’t my friend who had let me in and given me a Coke. It wasn’t his boss, Pluto, either. My heart stopped dead. It was Bambi, big as life. Tony Arroyo, the only one in the whole operation I’d ever met face-to-face, the only one who only had to take one look at me and the jig would be up. Holy shit. Thank god I remembered to take that piss at McDonald’s.

  My first thought was that I should have worn a disguise, that any private detective in his right mind would have figured Tony Arroyo might show up and would have worn a disguise. My second thought was that that was a dumb thought. Disguises work great in the movies, where the actors playing the crooks are directed not to recognize the hero, but in real life? A false mustache or a hairpiece and your eye goes right to it. You couldn’t think of a better way of attracting attention. My third thought was stop thinking so much and get your fucking head down.

  I kept my head down, thankful I was wearing a hardhat. Tony gave me a casual glance, then walked over to the couch, sat down, picked up a Penthouse magazine, and began looking at girls’ crotches. Better than my face, I thought. As quickly as I could, I started putting the phone back together again.

  I had nearly finished when a kid came into the room. He was tall and gawky, with a kind of goony-looking face. He couldn’t have been more than 22 or 23, and he had that eager puppy-like quality of youth. I was surprised. It had never occurred to me that Pluto would have children, but then why couldn’t dope dealers have kids just like anybody else.

  “Tony,” the kid said
as Tony rose from the couch. “Good to see you. How you doing?”

  “Great, Victor. Couldn’t be better,” Tony said.

  Holy shit. There was no mistaking the tone in Tony’s voice. Subservience. This kid wasn’t named Victor after his father. This was Victor. This wasn’t Pluto’s kid. The kid was Pluto.

  “Look, Tony,” the kid said. “I got a problem with the phones today. The guy’s here now. Why don’t we go somewhere else?”

  That was my cue and I didn’t want to blow it. I didn’t want them to go somewhere else. I wanted them to talk right here, into the microphone, if you please.

  I’d gotten the phone back together. Now I snapped my tool kit shut, stood up, and moved between the two men, keeping my back to Tony.

  “Problem’s not here,” I said. It was hard keeping my accent and keeping my voice from cracking, but I managed. “I gotta check outside.”

  I pushed by him and out of the door. I could feel their eyes on my back, but I’m sure it was just my imagination. No one notices a repairman. At any rate, no one stopped me.

  I met my buddy in the front hall.

  “Gotta check outside,” I told him. “I’ll ring you if I gotta get in again.”

  He seemed thrilled by the prospect. I went out the front door and closed it behind me.

  I hurried down the driveway to the telephone pole. I put my toolbox on the ground, got out the climbing belt, and fastened it on. It should have been easier climbing the pole the second time, but fear made me fumble. Somehow, I finally reached the top. I got out my wire cutters, and as quickly as I could with trembling hands, stripped the wires and made the splice.

  I slid down the pole, went back to the front door, and rang the bell. Tall, Dark, and Ugly answered the door.

  “Found a loose connection,” I said. “Should be all right now. Let’s check it out.”

  He followed me to the phone in the kitchen. I picked up the phone and got a dial tone. I held the buzzing receiver up to him triumphantly.

  “There you go,” I said. “Back in service.”