Concourse, p.20
Concourse, page 20
part #2 of Bill Smith & Lydia Chin Series
“Liszt?” I asked, fairly sure I was wrong.
But Ida said, “That’s right. The Second Mephisto Waltz. Everyone plays the First. No one plays this. Do you know why?”
“No.”
“It’s about old age. Schubert wrote about dying young. Everyone can understand that, it’s a great tragedy. Liszt wrote about old age. It’s only nasty. Do you play this?”
“No,” I said.
“Can you sight-read?”
“I …” I didn’t know how to answer her, wasn’t sure what she wanted. “No.”
“Yes you can. The way you follow the music, the way you listen. I can tell. But you don’t want to play for me.”
Something in her eyes when she said that needed an answer. “I don’t play for anyone, Ida. I don’t ever do that.”
“Why not?” she challenged.
A mumbled sound came from Eddie Shawn’s spot in the sun. His bony fingers played the controls of his wheelchair and he headed determinedly toward us.
Ida looked at him. “He thinks I’m being a busybody. He thinks it’s none of my business.”
I said nothing.
In my silence Ida found another question. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t coming back?”
“I’m back,” I said.
“You were fired. You didn’t say good-bye.”
“I’ve come back,” I said again. “To see you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m serious. I want to talk to you. You and Eddie.”
The old man arrived at her side smiling, as though he’d known all along that this would work out.
She closed the cover on the keyboard, turned around on the bench. “I can’t play that piece anymore,” she said. “You have to be young and strong to play it. Young and strong to play a piece about being old and feeble. What do you think about that?”
“Not much.”
“I’ll bet you’re strong. I’ll bet you can play Liszt, and Beethoven. Do you play the Symphonic Etudes of … of …”
“Schumann?” I said. “Yes. I do.”
“Damn,” she whispered, low and fierce. Eddie Shawn reached out a skeletal arm, patted Ida’s hand.
“Oh, never mind,” she said, looked at me crossly. “Do you really have anything to talk about?”
“Yes.” I picked up a side chair, moved it near the piano bench. Eddie leaned forward as I sat. We made a tight circle, Eddie and Ida and I.
I searched for words, not to make it too hard, but also not to patronize. “There’s more bad news,” I said. “Do you know about Dr. Reynolds?”
Ida frowned, gave Eddie a glance. “They didn’t tell us, but we know because I listened. Someone murdered him.”
I let out a breath, realized how much I hadn’t wanted to be the one to tell her. “That’s right. And that’s why I’m here. To investigate the killings. To find out what’s really going on, and to stop it.”
She said sarcastically, “You mean there’s something going on?”
Eddie slapped his hand on the arm of his chair. Ida gave him a resentful look. “Oh, lay off,” she said. To me: “What do you mean, investigate? Who made you Sherlock Holmes?”
I told her who I was, what I did.
She thawed just a little. “Well, what do you know? A real private eye?” She chortled, leaned forward conspiratorially. “Do you carry a gat?”
“The slang word now is ‘piece’.” I told her.
“Piece, schmiece. Let me see it.”
I opened my jacket partway, let Ida and Eddie get a view of my .38 resting in its rig. I felt like a flasher in the park.
“Okay,” Ida groused, but by now it was an act. Eddie’s eyes were shining. “All right, Sam Spade. Whaddaya wanna know?”
“Dr. Reynolds,” I said. “Why would anybody kill him?”
“The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, and he starts right off with it!” Ida Goldstein peered at me. “Aren’t you supposed to build up to that?”
“It was worth a try.”
“Maybe Eddie killed him,” she suggested. “To stay out of the hospital.”
Through his thick glasses the old man focused his eyes on the ceiling, a thoughtful expression on his cadaverous face: the very picture of a man trying to remember. Then he shook his head apologetically.
“Thanks, you guys,” I said.
“Try another,” Ida offered.
“What about the argument the night Mike Downey was killed? Is there anything else you can remember about that that might help?”
“I told you all about that. There isn’t anything else.”
“Did you hear it?” I asked Eddie.
Eddie shook his head.
“He lives on the other side,” said Ida. “The west side.”
“The parking-lot side?”
“That’s right.”
“Two nights ago, when the other guard was killed,” I said to Eddie. “Did you hear anything then?”
Eddie’s face changed, lost its playfulness. He didn’t respond, gave me a look so long I wasn’t sure he’d understood. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“You did?” I said.
“You did?” Ida said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you tell the police?” I asked. “What did you hear?”
Sunlight streamed silently into the room. Eddie turned angry eyes to Ida in a way that excluded me completely. “The police didn’t ask him,” Ida said. “They know he can’t talk or write or see very well anymore, so I guess they thought he can’t think, either. And how would he have told them? They’re not very patient men.”
I felt awkward and very stupid. “I’m sorry.”
Eddie blew a short exasperated breath.
“But,” I said to him, “I’d like you to try to tell me now.”
The old man looked away, didn’t respond. I thought his eyes were still angry, but I wasn’t sure. I started to speak again. A quick, small movement of Ida’s hand shushed me.
“He’s thinking about it,” she said. “Be quiet.”
Nothing happened for few moments. Then Eddie raised his bony left hand, pointed at me.
“Me?” I said. “You heard me?”
He shook his head angrily.
“Someone like you,” Ida said. “The other guard?”
Eddie nodded.
“Howe?” I asked. “The one who was killed?”
He shrugged.
“I don’t think he knew Mr. Howe,” Ida said. “Eddie doesn’t come down here at night. You didn’t know him, did you?”
Eddie shook his head.
“Then what makes you think it was him?” I asked.
“He,” corrected Ida.
Eddie, eyes wide, made a demanding movement with his good hand, palm up.
“ ‘What are you doing?’ ” Ida said, still watching Eddie. “He does that when he wants to know what I’m doing.”
The old man pointed a thin finger at the ground.
“Here?” I said. “What are you doing here?”
Eddie’s look held a certain amount of satisfaction, as though he was gratified that I might not be as stupid as he’d feared.
“You heard someone ask ‘What are you doing here?’ The way a guard would if he found someone unauthorized in his area. That’s why you think it was the guard. Howe.”
Eddie nodded. I was about to ask another question but he held up his hand, then gestured impatiently, as though inviting me closer. I wasn’t sure what he wanted, but I took a stab, repeated the sentence again: “What are you—” Eddie stopped me. He jabbed a finger emphatically.
“You,” I said. “‘What are you doing here?’ He recognized someone? He knew the person he was talking to?”
This time Eddie almost grinned.
“Did he sound frightened?” I asked. “A man confronting a street gang?”
Eddie shook his head.
“Was there an answer? Did you hear the other voice?”
He nodded.
“Did you recognize it?”
Shake, no.
“Man or woman?”
His hand moved from me to himself.
“A man. What did he say?”
Eddie jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“You’re out?”
He rolled his eyes, looked to Ida.
“What is this, the World Series?” she said. “Not you’re out. You’re through, done, finished, over, kaput. Right?”
Eddie nodded, gave me the look the teacher gives the dumb pupil when the smart one’s through reciting.
“All right,” I said. “I’m trying. Did he say anything else?”
Eddie pointed to his own ear, lifted his hand apologetically.
“There was more, but he didn’t hear it very well,” Ida said.
“Then that’s it?”
Eddie lifted a finger: one more thing. His fist came down with a clump on the arm of his chair.
“A blow? You heard the sound of that?”
His hand rocked side to side.
“Maybe,” Ida said. “He’s not sure.”
I looked from one of them to the other.
“Well?” said Ida. “What about it, flatfoot? Did we help?”
“I think so. I’ll let you know.” I stood.
“Where are you going?”
“There are some more people I want to talk to, downstairs. Can you do me a favor?”
“Name it, shamus.”
I grinned. “You’re really getting into this, aren’t you?”
“How about you call me Dollface?”
“Okay, Dollface. Run interference for me. Check the hallway to see if Mrs. Wyckoff is there. I don’t want to risk being thrown out of here before I’m ready to go.”
“I can do better than that,” Ida said, with a hint of smugness. “Eddie, you wait here. Follow me, gumshoe.”
“Wait. Eddie, thanks a lot. Can you do me another favor too?”
He nodded.
“I’m supposed to meet someone here. A Chinese woman. She’s small and she’ll probably be wearing black.”
“She was here yesterday,” Ida interrupted.
“That’s right.” I was impressed. “She was undercover.”
“Undercover!” Ida snorted. “If people weren’t getting killed around here this thing would be a riot.”
“Anyway,” I said to Eddie, “if you see her, head her off, okay? Get her to wait for me in some out-of-the-way corner. I don’t want her to get thrown out of here either.”
Eddie nodded, smiling. Ida said, “Aren’t you going to give him your signet ring or something so she knows it’s really you?”
I looked at my hands. Maybe I’d sprouted a signet ring.
I took a business card out of my pocket, gave Eddie that. “Good idea, Dollface. Okay, let’s go.”
We left Eddie driving his wheelchair into the hallway, presumably to find a sunny spot to lie in wait for Lydia.
Ida and I crossed the carpeted room to a door discreetly hidden in the paneling of the south wall. Ida pointed to the knob. “I can open it, but it takes a while.”
“Stand back, ma’am.” The door wasn’t locked, but it was heavy, and it stuck in its painted frame. I’d thought it was a closet, but when I yanked it open a narrow passage was revealed behind it.
Ida put her finger to her lips, led me along the dim passage. It was lined with doors, and it jogged twice and seemed to branch once before it reached a set of narrow stairs.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Shhh!” she scolded. She went on in a whisper, “The Helping Hands offices are along there.”
I lowered my voice. “What’s this passage for?”
“In the old days,” Ida hissed pointedly, “when this was a retirement home for ladies and gentlemen and not a warehouse for the feeble, it was considered only decent for the maids and cleaners to be able to get around without crossing the paths of the retired ladies and gentlemen. Those—” pointing at the stairs—“go to the basement. It’s three landings down. Don’t go any farther, because there’s nothing down there but storage.”
“There’s storage below the basement?”
“Of course. In the old carriage house. Piles of useless old rusted-up junk.” She grinned wickedly. “Just like in the bedrooms upstairs.”
“Don’t talk like that, Dollface. Listen, thanks a lot. I’ll be back up soon. Why don’t you go on back and help Eddie ambush Lydia?”
“My pleasure, hawkshaw.” She turned and shuffled off.
I started down the stairs, circled down three landings. At the third there was a door. It would open at a point more or less opposite the staff room, if my internal compass was right. I stood for a moment, my hand on the knob, listening. No sound came from beyond it, no footsteps on the concrete floor; probably I could step out into the corridor, and none the wiser.
Right then, though, I did hear sounds: quiet scraping sounds, and footsteps. Not from beyond the door, but from below, the dimness where the stairs continued down and disappeared.
I strained to hear. On the stairs? No; the footsteps got fainter, faded away.
Well, I told myself, it’s their old rusted-up junk. Still, it interested me, to know who might be walking around in it.
I continued noiselessly down the stairs. Three more landings; these servants’ stairs were steeper, twisted more than the main flights, above. At the bottom there was no door. I flattened myself cautiously against the wall, inched forward into a cavernous space lit only by a row of dim bulbs hanging in wire cages from the ceiling.
I looked around, saw no one, heard nothing. The air smelled musty and damp; the floor was hard-packed dirt. About fifty feet away I could make out the outline of wide double doors, stable doors. These must be the ones that I’d seen my first day here, the doors that opened onto Chester Avenue behind the Home. As my eyes adjusted to the faintness of the light I saw the junk, in piles down the center and against the walls of the room. Well-organized junk, with rows to walk between it, the way a warehouse is set up.
And, as in a warehouse, a forklift sat in one of the aisles, off to my left.
I examined the pile closest to me. Then, moving into the room, I inspected the next.
Ida was wrong. It wasn’t useless, it wasn’t junk; in most cases, it wasn’t particularly old. A commercial-size air-conditioning compressor, some hot-water heaters, a group of mushroom roof fans. Some equipment I couldn’t identify. Something that looked like the burner for a large boiler. Lengths of copper tubing, neatly bundled; copper leaders also, green with age but in good shape, stacked in a long, low pile. And, in a row on the floor, architectural ornaments: stone balusters; pieces of an elaborate copper cornice; colored terracotta tile gleaming dully in the half-light. A leering gargoyle half as tall as I was.
They steal the faces right off the buildins, Fuentes had said, grinning. They steal the faces right from under you nose.
THIRTY-ONE
I stood in the shadows, watched the gargoyle sneer at me. He was right. Talk about dim bulbs, Smith. Right under you nose, also you feet. A warehouse. Hot building parts, half-price equipment. Landlords’ specials. No manufacturers’ warranties, but never you mind: at these prices, if what you bought gives out, you can always come back for another. And our little sideline, a no-questions-asked source of supply for those trendy Soho shops specializing in architectural detail and ornament. Real Pieces from Real Buildings. The perfect gargoyle for that hard-to-fill corner of the loft. Or this cast-stone cornice, just one piece of glass and voila! a coffee table.
Well. So someone was cleaning up. Who?
I was asking myself that when the lights went out.
I pushed my back against the nearest pile of boxes. My hand wormed into my jacket, came out with my .38. I listened, heard nothing; then, faintly, footsteps, and from above, the closing of a door. Not from the staircase I’d come down, but from farther north, the other end of the room.
A second stair. That made sense.
I forced myself to stay still, listen longer, until nothing had sounded in my ears except my own heartbeat for a long time. My eyes strained through the darkness. The only light came from a sharp line that forced itself in around the stable doors; but once inside it faltered in the vastness and age of the space, lost its purpose, dissipated and disappeared.
Finally, feeling my slow way along the aisle, I began to move in the direction of the sounds. When I found the opening to the second staircase it was by that skin-sense that tells you things have suddenly changed. Positive becomes negative, solid becomes void; you can’t see it, but you know.
I went as silently up this stair as I’d come down the other. Three twisting flights, a mirror image. I tried to picture where I was in the building, and by the top I’d just about figured it out. I stood at the door a minute, listening to rumbles and hisses. Then I opened it. I was right. This was one end of the equipment-jammed, oil-smelling boiler room.
And facing me across it, with confusion and anger all over his unshaven face, was Pete Portelli.
I stepped into the room. Portelli and I stared at each other in silence for a few long moments. I pushed the door shut behind me, not turning around.
“Where the fuck did you come from?” Portelli growled, but he knew the answer.
“I’ve been downstairs.” My words were almost lost in the roar of the boiler. “Examining your operation. Very nice. Neat, clean. I’m surprised.”
Portelli licked his lips, glanced warily at the door behind me. “I thought you don’t work here anymore.”
It was hot where I was standing, near the boiler. Hot and noisy. I moved closer to him. “I’m moonlighting, Pete. Sort of like you. Portelli’s Moonlight Supply. You need it, we steal it. I bet every crooked contractor in the Bronx knows your number, right?”
My approach brought me out of the shadows. Portelli caught sight of my right hand, where my gun dangled. One side of his mouth twitched; I saw fear begin to spread itself across his face.
It pleased me, to see that.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” His voice was shakier than his words.
I stopped with six feet still between us. “Your storeroom, Pete. Pretty building parts all in a row.”
“Gotta keep parts around. Old fucking building like this, things break down all the time.” He licked his lips.
