In the cab, I wondered how much if any of the youngster remained in Nicholas, a man seemingly devoid of any innocent past or any wholesome future. Even if there was some feeble morsel left, was that enough to reconstruct a relationship between us? I sensed that he wasn’t the same avaricious scoundrel who took such a toll on Dad and Mom. That night he first reappeared—when we went for a drink and “exchanged words”—even through the wisecracking veneer, I sensed some genuine hurt from my rebuff. And I savored that on the ride home, enjoying the flavor of revenge for what I felt he’d done to our family. He actually listened to me, I affected him, and he seemed to care what I thought. It had been a long time.
And what about Angie? When she castigated him, he seemed to react to the family angle.
I thought about the red, puffy doll head on the seat next to me that was my brother. No longer the young hotshot. I heard him groan slightly from exhaustion and was reminded that I was tired too. Hell, I was flat-out beat, and the streetlights rippling across the cab roof were lulling me to sleep. At that moment I felt there might be a way into Nicholas through all this. Maybe.
Chapter 17
I awoke the next day on Nicholas’s couch. Through the open window came the thrum of cars on the Brooklyn Bridge and the faint smell of fish and briny piers. He lived on Water Street near the Fulton Fish Market, and an expansive brick wall at the intersection forms the anchorage to the bridge. I could tell by the slishy sound of tires on the cobblestone pavement below that it was raining. The sky was overcast, and I couldn’t judge the time of day. I lay there and recalled arriving at Nicholas’s digs. I was so beat that I called Angie and told her I was flopping at my brother’s, adding that she shouldn’t go anywhere without Otto, a brute of a man known during his wrestling career as the Moscow Mastiff. Kidding, of course. Otto looks like he was the runt of his litter, but I figured that as a gulag graduate, he might actually be able to put up quite a scrap. Ultimately, though, I felt the retros had done all the assaulting they were going to do in one evening. What sense would there be in coming after us again, after the recorded warning?
Nicholas’s apartment had a decor familiar to anyone whose mailbox is frequented by Pottery Shed catalogs, although his furnishings were real. That is to say, they were actual twenties to fifties American antiques. Like the genuine Bakelite table radio, the brass wall sconces, the low red armchair with matching ottoman, the green-shaded desk lamp, and the stainless-steel–edged Formica kitchen table. The exception was the couch on which I was sprawled. It was probably from Macy’s, and so were the drapes. They matched the dark large floral print. The apartment had a certain amount of style, but like most bachelor pads, it appeared to have been furnished in a hurry. He’d put some money into it, but to my eye, the mix of deco and fifties clashed a bit.
Footsteps were coming up the stairs, and I heard someone stop in front of the door. It opened and Nicholas stepped in, his hair soaked from the rain. His face was still red, but the swelling had gone down. Just not evenly. The baby-doll head had been replaced by the Elephant Man with black eyes. By the next day, he’d probably progress to the Uncle Fester look.
“Where were you?” I sat up.
“Went to my doctor. Brother, you should see your hair. Look like a mad scientist.”
“Have you looked in a mirror, Igor? What doctor?”
“I don’t want to name names, but he’s a Spanish guy over at the Pathmark drugstore. I mean, what do doctors do but size up your condition and give you pills? Or not, as is more often the case. I go to my amigo, cut out the middleman. I get the good drugs, the real stuff the doctors are too afraid to prescribe. You think there’s anything but powdered sugar in Tylenol?” Nicholas ripped open a bag, and several brown prescription bottles rolled around the table.
I figured out for myself that this pharmacist–patient arrangement was illegal and didn’t think he needed me to point that out. “Well, at least you’re not slurring anymore. So what’d he say?”
“That I look like crap, but in Spanish.” He started opening pill bottles.
“What about bleeding, in your brain?”
“Well, Dr. Welby, he concurs that I might want to get an MRI. Good news is I don’t need a doctor, I just need an appointment at one of these outfits that do MRIs. He’s got a friend named Rodriguez, an MRI technician, that he’ll fix me up with. Tech guy reads the scans better than a doctor, says my amigo. Meantime, I got all this great stuff.” He tossed back a palmful of pills and chased it with water from a tiki bar mug that had been sitting on the table. His neck was so stiff that he had to bend backward at the knees to accomplish this feat.
“You may not like this, Nicholas, but we had to tell the cops you were at our place when we found Marti.”
Nicholas plunked into his red armchair. His one open eye was unfazed. “What’d you tell them, exactly?”
“They asked whether anybody else was there when we found her.” I went to the kitchen sink for a glass of water. “We told the detective my brother was there, and he asked for your address. I handed him your card. He didn’t notice there was only a PO box on it.”
“That explains the message on my service. Tsilzer, wasn’t it? I worked with him once. Just so you know, I don’t give this address or phone number to anyone.” He put his head back and closed his eye. “Feel privileged.”
“What now, Nicholas?”
“What now? Well, the way I see it, you’ve got two choices. One, you join forces with me. Two, you don’t.”
“What about option three: going to the police and telling them everything?”
“Didn’t you tell me last night, before you nodded off, that the retros left you a message warning you not to go to the cops?”
“Seems to me there’ve been plenty of cases where kidnappers warned their ransomers not to go to the cops, they do anyway, the kidnappers are caught and the victim saved.” To be honest, I was back envisioning Steve McGarrett on the job.
Nicholas smirked. “They don’t exactly go out of their way to publicize cases where the victim is murdered because of stunts like that. Besides, you’re talking about federal cases. You trust this Detective Tsilzer like you would the FBI? I think you’re going to have a hard time selling them on the idea that this is all about a TV puppet.”
“And if you and I team up? Then what?”
Nicholas shrugged. “We get a message to these guys that we want to know what it will take to get Pipsqueak back. No questions, no hard feelings. A business deal.”
“You mean buy him back? What if they want a lot of money?”
“I’m authorized by my client to go as high as $100,000. Client doesn’t think they’ll bite, though.”
“Your client, huh? Look, Nicholas, if I’m going to throw in with you, you’ve got to tell me everything you know about this, including who your client is.”
He was shaking his head. “Not about the client. Some of the rest, maybe. Like what Marti was doing in town. But not the client.”
“Okay, what about Marti?”
“I can’t tell you about her without giving you some background on Bookerman. Lew Bookerman is General Buster’s real name.”
I didn’t let on that I already knew that. “Really. Okay, Nicholas, please tell your ignorant older brother more.”
A sparkle entered his eyes, and I could tell he was bursting at the seams to share the whole story with me.
“I’ll give you a teaser. Marti was staff on The General Buster Show. When the show was canceled, Bookerman’s puppets were deemed property of the station, and though he tried to get them back, his contract had language that was ironclad. The whole concept and all creative materials belonged to the station. The management was a bunch of hard-asses. I mean, they didn’t need the puppets, right? Anyway, Bookerman moved to Illinois. He was a hypochondriac with a budding passion for natural-healing techniques that got him into naturopathic medicine. So he opened a small shop selling assorted herbs, books, etc. Came out with a successful line of hea
lth snacks. Years pass, the station changes hands, and next thing you know they’re clearing out all manner of junk, including the puppets. This was only a few years ago. Marti grabbed Pipsqueak, and two others got Howlie and Possum. Bookerman got wind of this somehow—maybe through a third party, a friend at the station—and went after his old puppet pals. One of the parties gave him Howlie, and he bought Possum from the other. Marti, however, wouldn’t sell. Seems she and Bookerman once had a romance, and she still harbored malice for whatever transpired between them. That biker Tyler Loomis had been by her shop before, trying to convince her to sell the puppet to him, virtually begging her at all costs not to sell it to Bookerman.”
“How did you come by all this information?” I asked.
“Secret.” Nicholas waved a finger. “Let’s just say I have an informer in the Church of Jive.”
“You have an informer? Then why the hell did you try to recruit my help?”
“The problem with informers is you never know when they’ll be caught. And I have this feeling that Pipsqueak will surface and somehow you’ll be there when he does.”
“Nicholas, doesn’t any of this sound, you know, completely wacko?” I stood up, flapping my arms in frustration. “My brain is spinning in my skull. So tell me: Why did Loomis want a squirrel puppet?”
“I’ve got theories on that, but I’m not going to say what they are. Anyway, Loomis warns Marti that Bookerman will do anything to get Pipsqueak, but she laughs him off, remembering Bookerman as a wimpy hypochondriac. Well, Pipsqueak is stolen, but she never tells the cops about Bookerman.”
“Why?” I asked again.
“I’ve got theories about that too.”
“Like?” I persisted.
Nicholas thought about that a moment and then shrugged. “I think she intended to shake him down. That’s what she was doing in New York. Apparently, she sent a veiled threat to him through his health-food company.”
I blinked. “General Buster is in New York?”
“Maybe.”
I blinked some more. “Buster is with the retros?”
“Well, let’s put it this way: Scuppy Milner is his nephew and sole heir to Bookerman’s budding fortune.”
“Really? Then what are all these people really after? I mean, if Bookerman—or Scuppy—is psychotic, that’s one thing. But now there are gangs in plaid cummerbunds and mummy wrap beating people up, a whole religious movement, all to protect Pipsqueak. It’s nuts!”
One of Nicholas’s black eyes widened. “Seems to me you know more about all this than you let on, brother.”
I grinned. “Sure, and I’ll tell you all about it once you tell me what your client has to do with all this. From my vantage, you’re a joker in this deck.”
Nicholas’s eye closed. “Can’t.”
I started putting on my shoes. “I won’t trust you unless you trust me. Doesn’t sound like this is a good idea.”
“My client pays for anonymity. That’s a trust I have to keep. How could you trust me if I didn’t?”
“Yeah, but your client probably knows why these retro people want the puppet.” I put on my pinstripe jacket. “I mean, there’s something about Pipsqueak, something other than the fact that he was a local kid-show hero. Come on, Nicholas, he’s not worth $100,000.”
Nicholas didn’t say anything. He just peered at his knees, deep in thought. I headed for the door, but before I got out, Nicholas piped up.
“Is that the suit you wrestled away from the Salvation Army in the nude?”
“Yup.”
“Thought so.” He grabbed a notepad and jotted something down. “What are you going to do now, Garth?”
“I stand to gain nothing and lose everything by sticking my nose any further into this. It’s no longer about Pipsqueak, it’s about murder. These people play too rough. Angie and I are going to the cops, like any sane person would do, and let them sort it out.”
“And if they ask where they can reach me?”
“We’ve got to tell them everything.”
“Great.” He sighed. “Look, here’s my cell number.” He handed over a yellow square of paper and gestured to one of those tiny black phones that clip to your belt. “Give the number to the cops if you want, though I’m hoping you’ll call and tell me you’ve changed your mind. And do your little brother a favor? One little favor? Discuss this plan with your lawyer first.”
Chapter 18
And so it was that we called upon our lawyer, Roger Elk. We found him dressed pretty much as I’d seen him last: suede cowboy boots, bolo tie, white western-cut shirt, corduroy jacket. His office was on the eighth floor of a narrow, dingy, industrial building, three floors of which still housed an artificial Christmas-tree factory. The elevator was more along the lines of a dumbwaiter, the unautomated kind that requires the elevator operator to physically heave on a cable to set the counterweight in motion. On the eighth floor, however, we discovered a neatly painted hallway lined with pebbled-glass doors, and we located the one stenciled Roger Elk, Atty. His two-room office had dark paneling, ceiling fans, and dusky wood furniture. Everything was old and worn but very tidy. A law degree from Northwestern, various Chicago civic awards, and a testimonial of some kind from the Aurora Corporation adorned his stately walls.
Angie, Otto, and I sat in an array of cushioned straight-backed chairs, the kind upholstered in old red leather and decorative bronze nails. Roger Elk sat calmly in his oak four-caster desk chair, hands folded over his potbelly and concentration wrinkling his brow. As he had instructed, I related the story from top to bottom, ending with: “And so here we are.”
“Interesting story, and it’s good you came to me first.” There was something utterly reassuring in his manner, the propounder of conservative advice.
“My advice”—he loosed a broad, wise smile—“is not to go to the police.”
I was confused. “But I don’t get it, what about—”
“If they come to you, call me and we’ll arrange to talk to them together.”
“But—”
“What would you tell them, Garth? What you know? In point of fact, you don’t know anything. You suspect many things. But the police have no interest in what you suspect. You don’t know firsthand that the dead woman on your stoop was Marti Folsom, and even if you did, that doesn’t have any direct connection to these retrophiles. You’ve not seen the ‘Cola Woman’ in their company and you have nothing to indicate that the retrophiles have anything to do with that puppet. You don’t even know whether the puppet was the impetus for the Tiny Timeless Treasures murder. The anonymous threat on your phone machine will hardly impress them.”
“What should we do?” Angie threw up her hands.
“My advice, Angie, is to steer clear of both the retrophiles and the police. Go near the jive crowd again and they may harm you. Go to the police with your suspicions about a puppet? Preposterous, and if the police discover that you are, however obliquely, attached to two murders, they will become suspicious. Forget about this whole episode, stop looking for the puppet, and go back to your normal lives. If you were being threatened, I can’t see why those responsible would object and bring any physical harm on you.”
“You think we can just do that and it’ll be all over?” I laughed, slightly giddy at the prospect.
Roger Elk crossed his weathered brown hands on his blotter and leaned forward. “I believe so. Let’s just hope the police don’t approach you again. Now, I wouldn’t want to be one to meddle in your family affairs, but your brother’s involvement in this isn’t helping you any. It seems to me that he’s demonstrated poor judgment in dealing with some pretty rough characters. My advice to you would be to avoid him, at least until he’s off this case.”
“Exactly.” I nodded enthusiastically, glancing Angie’s way. “He’s always been trouble.”
We all shook his hand (Otto hugged him) and departed with spirits raised.
“Eetz good? No KGB? Eh?”
“That’s right, Otto
.” I looked at Angie, and for the moment, anyway, she seemed resigned to let this puzzle remain unsolved.
“Maybe the police will figure it all out.” Angie chuckled. “I mean, these retros are bound to step out of line again and get caught, right?”
“Sure.” I shrugged. “It was a bit of an adventure, what with infiltrating the Church of Jive, huh?”
“Ah! Garv, Yan-gie, we must to go lunch, eh? Cey-ley-bration, yes?”
“Not a bad idea, Otto.” I slapped him on the shoulder. We went over to a place on 22nd Street for haystack onion rings and beer.
Chapter 19
Two days later and all was well. My Brooklyn film rental was a wrap, and subsequent to that I’d sold the bison head (from the bedroom) and steer longhorns to a new bar opening where the Barbed Wire used to be. The former joint had been closed down for serving to underage kids, and the new place seemed intent on following the western theme of the former, probably to wrangle the same element to soil my doorstep once more. Bull’s Balls, the new sign read.
Stuart Sharp had called again, and I had yet to visit New Hope to look at his giant weevil. I had been busy working with the Nassau County Science Museum to supply it with snakes for dioramas, which had me putting in calls to contacts in the Southwest. Diamondback rattlers and pit vipers are a cinch, but coming up with a scarlet king snake and either a western or eastern coral snake was proving to be a problem. They particularly wanted those two because they look very much alike, yet only the coral snakes are poisonous. It’s one of those wacky natural-selection manifestations, like the monarch and viceroy butterflies, that make good visual aids. The two snakes are usually about the same sub-thirty-inch length, and both are variably striped with yellow, red, and black. But they aren’t difficult to tell apart. Some prefer all manner of memory aids, like “Red touch yellow, kill a fellow.” Or “Two-color tail, run like hell.” However, I’ve never had any trouble identifying the one with the black nose as a coral snake. “Black = death.” (By the way, a scarlet snake has a red nose. “Rudolph that wriggles, gives me the giggles.”)
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