I was still scratching Buster’s ears when the pictures stopped. I’ve been getting far too many pictures from the past of late. A man who lives too much in the past has already said goodbye.
I patted Buster on the head, told him to go lay down, and called Jack’s Place. Bobby Micelli seemed pleased to hear my voice.
“Hey, Mr. Doyle,” he boomed, music playing in the background. “Good to hear from you. Gotta be a coupla years. How ya doin’?” He had that high nasal quality to his voice so common to guys who are expected to be relentlessly cheerful.
I could hear the hum and clatter of lunchtime in a busy bar, so I said, “I won’t take much of your time, Bobby. I’m looking for a hooker named Maureen. Jimmy Pompo says he picked her up at your place last Thursday evening. Do you know her?”
“You’re the second guy asked me that, Mr. Doyle. Guy was in here day before yesterday, Saturday afternoon, asking the same question, and I’ll give you the same answer I gave him. No, I don’t know no hooker named Maureen.”
This was certainly interesting. “Who was the first guy?”
“Some lawyer. You want his name? I got it right here somewhere.”
I heard the phone being put down, heard conversations in the background, and then Bobby was back.
“I knew I had it right here somewhere. Guy named Richard Maltby. Business card says Weese, Cherumpka and Schmidt. I know Sammy, I don’t know them other two.”
So it wasn’t all that interesting. Maltby was one of Sammy’s boys. “Who was on duty last Thursday evening, say between six and eleven?”
“I was,” Bobby said, his voice hollow, like he had turned away from the phone. “Me and Ralph. That would be Ralph Toledo.” The voice came back, his attention mine once more. “I don’t think you know him, Mr. Doyle. He’s only been here about six months. Ralph works the service bar, we get a pretty good dinner crowd.”
“Is Ralph there now?”
“No, ain’t nobody behind the bar but me, Mr. Doyle. Lunch is about clearing out now. Come over in a half hour or so. I’ll have time to talk to you.”
“Thanks, Bobby.”
“Take care of yourself, Mr. Doyle,” he said, and hung up.
The phone rang almost immediately.
“Hello, dear,” Kelley said. “Just checking in to see if you were back. How’d it go with Marcus Hopgood?”
“Hiya, Kell,” I said happily. “Found him right off. A neighbor said she saw him and one thing led to another. Busy morning, babe. Valerie wants us to find a guy named Arthur Donaldson, plus we got two private jobs, murder cases, Louise Driscoll and Tommy DeMarco. Cathy Cerullo and Sammy Weese. And on top of that, Louise Driscoll’s mother apparently wants to talk to us.” I didn’t tell her I’d already gone into the warrens looking for Donaldson. She’d have only said I shouldn’t do things like that.
“That’s wonderful!” she exclaimed. “But how are we involved with the Driscoll case? I thought that was wrapped up. Didn’t they arrest a boy they found driving her car?”
“They did, a kid named Tomas Medalore. Cathy wants us to find his buddy, a kid named Youssef Paul. I said you’d handle it. Sammy wants us to find a hooker named Maureen he says was with Jimmy Pompo the night of the DeMarco murder.”
I heard traffic noise in the background. I pictured her sitting on a bench, cell phone to her ear, enjoying the weather. “I remember reading about the DeMarco killing,” she said. “Is your old friend Jimmy Pompo involved?”
“He must be, babe, they’ve arrested him. And just for the record, Jimmy was never an old friend. Jimmy was the sort of acquaintance every Homicide dick acquires along the way.”
“I remember him,” she said, barely audible under a blast of horns. “You introduced me to him once, when you were still with the Strike Force. He didn’t seem at all like a killer.”
“They never do, babe. Jimmy put his share of people in the ground, but we could never get anything on him. Sammy says he didn’t have anything to do with this one, and I’m half inclined to believe him. We’re just looking for a witness who can place him elsewhere at the time. I’m heading over to see Bobby Micelli. Come on in. You can stop in and see Cathy and then we’ll grab some lunch.”
I called Eddie Westphal and told him I would probably need him on the Pompo case. Ed alerted, Bobby Micelli expecting us, and Kelley on her way to Cathy’s, I called Sam’s office and asked for Maltby.
“I talked to both Micelli and Toledo, Mr. Doyle,” Maltby said, his youthful voice sounding pleased with himself. “Neither one of them knows a hooker named Maureen.”
“Too bad,” I said. “Did either of them remember seeing Jimmy Pompo in the bar Thursday night?”
“Neither could say one way or the other which night he was there. He was a regular, and he was there last week several times, but neither could say with certainty that Mr. Pompo was there last Thursday.”
“It would help if I had a description of Maureen.”
“Yes, it would,” he agreed. “I asked Mr. Pompo for a description and the best he could do was she’s thin, thirtyish, about five six, and has purple hair.”
“Purple hair?
“Purple hair is all the rage, Mr. Doyle. Purple, green, whatever. Mostly the younger set.”
“All right. How did she wear it?”
“Mr. Pompo says she wore it all frizzy. Those are Mr. Pompo’s very words.”
“Did you ask him if she had any distinguishing facial characteristics?”
“No, sorry, never thought of it.”
“Did you ask if she was left handed? What about eye color? What did her teeth look like, and so forth?”
“Never got that deeply into it, Mr. Doyle,” he said, without a trace of embarrassment. “What we did was we made an artist’s sketch of as much as Mr. Pompo could remember, and then we had some color glossies run off. I’ve just sent some over to you with a messenger.”
“Did you show this artist’s sketch to Micelli?”
“No, they’ve just come in. I’ll show it to him this afternoon.”
“If your messenger gets here in thirty minutes I’ll show him myself.”
“Thanks, that’ll save me a trip. She’s already on her way. Should be there in a few minutes.”
“I understand Jimmy and Maureen spent some time at her place both before and after hitting the casino. Does Mr. Pompo remember the address?”
“Unfortunately not. Center City someplace. An apartment in a row house on a little street.”
Some things never change. “That’s a pretty big haystack,” I said.
“Indeed it is. I should tell you, Mr. Doyle, that Mr. Weese has engaged several investigators besides yourself to find Maureen.”
“We’ll try not to trip over anybody.”
We said goodbye and I leaned back in my chair. I closed my eyes out of habit and swung the chair around to face the windows, feeling the sun warm my face. It was good to have a murder case again, even if it was only to find a couple of alibi witnesses, and even if I was on the wrong side.
I called Frank Kopf again, and someone I didn’t know answered the phone. I left a message and hung up.
The door opened and a cheerful female voice said, “Hi, Mr. Doyle, here are the pictures from Mr. Maltby. I’ll put them on the desk.”
I said, “Thanks,” and she wished me a nice day. The door closed and I made a note of the time. My talking clock told me it was one seventeen. Terrific invention, talking clocks. You push a button and a sultry voiced female tells you the time.
A few minutes later Kelley came in. “Just talked to Cathy,” she said. “Youssef Paul lives in the same general area as Tamika Johnson, so I’ll look for him while I’m looking for Tamika. The proverbial two birds under one bush. Anything else of a startling nature happen?”
“Not a thing,” I said, grabbing my jacket. “Let’s get some lunch and talk to Bobby.”
I took one of the glossies out of the envelope and put it in my inside jacket pocket. I made sure my col
lapsible blind man’s cane was in my pocket, because even though I had Buster, you never know when you might need it. I put my cell phone in my other pocket. That’s why I wear a jacket, even on hot days like this. I’m loaded down with equipment.
I put Buster’s harness back on and he seemed pleased to be going to work. On the street, the crowds were thinner but the temperature and humidity were higher. Coming out of an air conditioned building and into the heat was like getting hit with a swinging sandbag.
Jack’s Place was just a couple of blocks, over on Locust, and so we were walking. The sidewalk might not have been as crowded as it was earlier, but it was still full of people. I could hear them hurrying through the heat, heading for someplace cooler. Buster and I got together on how fast we wanted to walk, and Buster guided us safely to the corner. People knotted up at the corner, waiting for the light to change, and we stopped with them. Whispered comments floated by. People are always impressed when they see a guide dog, and occasionally someone asks if they can pet him. I always say sure, Buster likes to be petted. I’m almost used to it, almost used to standing on corners listening for the traffic, almost used to having Buster alongside me, almost used to the constant darkness, though I still find myself straining my eyes from time to time, trying to see, willing the blackness to lift. The blackness doesn’t lift, of course, and never will, but I keep trying, because you never know.
Jack’s Place was cool, and smelled faintly of beer, food and cigarette smoke. A lot of places in town are smoke free, but Jack’s isn’t one of them. I heard the air handling equipment chugging away, heard voices in idle conversation, heard glasses clinking. The effect was rather subdued, as if hardly anyone were here, as if everyone and everything had shut down, running on idle, waiting quietly for the after work crowd.
I had a picture of Jack’s in my mind’s eye, an imperfect picture, no doubt, because I hadn’t spent a lot of time there when I could see. I find myself wishing I’d paid more attention to the places I’d been and the people I’d seen, but I’m probably not alone in that regard. We all pretty much take things for granted until the time comes we wish we hadn’t.
A young woman’s voice said, “Come this way, please,” and we started off. We followed the hostess to a table and ordered club sandwiches and drinks, a vodka tonic for Kelley and a beer for me. Buster curled up under the table, and Kelley and I engaged in the sort of small talk married couples have engaged in from time immemorial. I like club sandwiches because they’re always cut in quarters, making them manageable.
Footsteps approached and I heard the voice of Bobby Micelli. “Did you want to see me, Mr. Doyle?”
I stood up and stuck out my hand. Bobby grabbed it and I said, “I sure did, Bobby. Pull up a chair.”
I heard him pull out a chair and I sat down again.
“How are you, Mrs. Doyle?” Bobby said politely.
“Just fine, Bobby,” she said.
“That’s good. I been trying to think of who Jimmy might of picked up the other night, Mr. Doyle, but I come up empty.”
“I spoke to Maltby,” I said. “He sent some glossies of a sketch of Maureen. I brought one over for you.” I took it out of my pocket and handed it to him. “Ring any bells?”
“No it don’t,” he said, after a pause.
“May I see it?” Kelley said.
“Sure, Mrs. Doyle.”
“Apart from the way she does her hair she’s reasonably attractive,” Kelley said.
“Is the hair light purple or dark purple?” I asked.
“Light purple,” Kelley said. “More like lavender, or lilac. If the artist got the shade right, it’s quite attractive. I might try it myself.”
“You’d look good in purple hair, Mrs. Doyle,” Bobby said. “One thing, it stands out. If she’s been coming in the place, somebody will know who she is. We’ll have a name for you pretty quick. The thing is, with hair like that, you’d think I’d of noticed her.”
“How much did Maltby say the name was worth to him?” I said.
“I was told it was worth five hundred to Mr. Weese if I came up with a name.”
“Is it fair to say you’ve never seen the woman in that picture before?”
“Hard to say, Mr. Doyle. You know how pictures are, you look at one long enough you think you seen her before. The only thing I can say is, I think I woulda remembered the hair.”
“Look at the face, not the hair. Does the name Maureen mean anything?”
“No it don’t. There just ain’t no hooker named Maureen comes in, and that’s the god’s honest truth. There was a hooker named Maureen used to come in once in a while, but that was a while ago, and she had blond hair and was kind of heavy. Mr. Maltby said Jimmy’s Maureen was skinny, and she has purple hair in the picture.”
“People lose weight, people dye their hair,” Kelley said softly.
“That’s right, Mrs. Doyle, they do. You want me to find out about this other Maureen if I can, Mr. Doyle?”
“Do that, Bobby,” I said. “She might lead you to five hundred bucks.”
“I’ll work on it. If I come up with anything, do I call you or Maltby?”
“If you come up with the lilac Maureen, you call Maltby. You come up with the blond, heavy set Maureen, you call me.”
“Right. Can I have this picture?”
“It’s yours. Show it around, maybe someone will recognize her. If you need more, call Maltby.”
“I’ll do that. Good to see you again, Mrs. Doyle, Mr. Doyle.”
Our drinks and sandwiches came, and we busied ourselves with lunch.
“Good sandwich,” Kelley said. “Part of yours is going to fall off the plate.”
She does that, but only when needed. Most of the time she just lets me poke around on the plate, finding my own way. At home, she’s always careful to let me know where she is. If I’m standing by a window, letting the sun wash my face, she’ll always tell me when she’s coming up behind me. Usually I can navigate the house without incident, knowing the geography of everything, every piece of furniture, every doorway, every twist and turning, but once in a while I’ll get turned around somehow, and she will quietly tell me to stop, I’m about to walk into a table. But I never have the sense I’m being looked after, never have the sense that someone is always watching to see I don’t trip over the refrigerator.
The best thing about having lunch out with Kelley is I can see her in my mind’s eye, young and beautiful, laughing, sitting across from me in some neighborhood joint, enjoying herself as much as if we were in a fancy downtown restaurant. She was my girl, and she knew it, and I knew it. Two kids and eighteen years later she was still my girl, and she still knows it.
“My goodness!” Kelly suddenly exclaimed. “Look at the time!” She told me how much the bill was and I dug out my wallet. It would be a lot easier just to let her whip out her credit card, but most of the time she lets me pay the bill, though I’m sure she keeps an eye on the transaction. The thing about paper money is, when you can’t see you don’t know the denomination. Coins you can figure out, but paper money’s a lot more difficult. I do what most blind people do, fold the bills differently. Ones I don’t fold at all, fives fold lengthwise in half, tens fold in half the other way, and twenties fold in thirds. Even so, most of the time you’re dependent on the honesty of others. I have found most people are honest, but occasionally even the blind get taken. It only happened to me once; I was given change of a twenty, was told the bill was a ten, folded it in half and put it in its proper place in my wallet, only to find out later it was a one. Not that anything like that would happen at Jack’s Place. I solved that problem by whipping out my own credit card. Kelley told me when the pen was on the proper line, I signed and left an overly generous tip for the waitress and we left.
Back in the office, I had just taken off my jacket when the phone rang.
“Got your message, Doyle,” Frank said. “What’s up? You got something for me on the Driscoll matter?”
�
�Nothing like that, Frank. I’m working on the DeMarco case. In case you hadn’t heard, Tommy DeMarco wound up dead sitting in his car in South Philly.”
“I heard about it,” Frank said. “Nothing unusual there.”
“No there isn’t. Jimmy Pompo got arrested for it, and I’m looking for an alibi witness for Sammy Weese.”
“Sammy the Weasel, huh? Well, it’s better than starving to death. All the same, Doyle, you know I can’t say anything about a case, even if I knew anything, which I don’t. I told you about Driscoll because we both worked them cases long ago. If you wanta know something about the DeMarco case you gotta talk to Dan Acker.”
“Now, Frank, you know I wouldn’t ask anything like that. I’m just looking for an alibi witness. Jimmy Pompo says he was with a hooker named Maureen at the time Tommy DeMarco died.”
“That don’t narrow it down a lot. I don’t know any of them ladies myself, being taken care of sufficiently at home, but I know who to ask.”
“That’s what I was hoping for, Frank. I don’t know anybody in Vice. Jimmy says he picked her up in Jack’s Place, but Bobby Micelli says he doesn’t know any hooker named Maureen.”
“Well, like I said, it don’t narrow it down much. You got a description?”
“Thin, five six, thirty, light purple hair, more like lilac. She lives in center city.”
“Purple hair, huh? I’ll call a couple guys I know over in Vice, see what I come up with.”
“Thanks, Frank. I have an artist’s sketch, color glossies. Maybe somebody in Vice will recognize her.”
“Maybe they will. If you don’t mind, I’ll just pass this here request along, clear it with Acker. You remember Danny, don’t you?”
I said, “Remember him well.”
“I’ll give him your regards. Well, get that picture over and we’ll see what we can do.”
4
The phone rang again and Kelley got it this time. I heard her say, “Yes, ma’am, he’s here.”
I picked up the other phone and said, “Matt Doyle.”
“Well,” an older woman’s voice laughed, “you sound just like I expected a private detective to sound. Clipped and tough.”
AND A TIME TO DIE Page 4