“Oh, good plan. Midnight. Eight bells. Right when they’re changing the watch. People coming and going. Midnight it is, Skipper.”
He glowered at her. “All right, one o’clock. Meet me in the parking garage here at twelve-thirty. And make sure you have transport to the Sofia waiting for us.”
“It’s going to cost.”
“Draw some cash from Accounting. I’ll phone.”
That was the one bright spot Callie could see. She liked the idea of sticking Sam Bass with the bill for this ill-considered, doomed-to-failure, totally imbecilic outing.
The dive called itself The Crow’s Nest, even though it was a cellar bar. Callie walked down the six steps from the sidewalk and pushed open the door. It was only five o’clock, but the place was dark. It was always dark at the Crow’s Nest. Callie waited until her eyes adjusted and took a cautious look around. Not a tourist in sight, but quite a few seamen. The Crow’s Nest was for serious drinking... and for making deals.
It was one place that hadn’t changed during Callie’s time away. The two street-level windows were still painted black. Still no TV, no jukebox. Solitary drinkers staring into their glasses; huddles of two or three men talking in low voices. Not many women. Two college boys who’d wandered in by accident.
Callie was wrong: One thing was different. New bartender. Young, muscular, stolid-looking; must double as a bouncer.
Over at her usual table in the corner was Bette Wylie, the owner. Bette was a bulletproof old gal whose appearance had never changed in the more than twenty years Callie had known her. Always just a little overweight, but never quite fat. Black hair pulled straight back into a bun — was it dyed now? She was wearing an old lightweight gray sweater that Callie was sure she remembered. Bette ran a lucrative sideline out of her bar, the buying and selling of information; that was one reason Callie had come to see her. The other was that Bette cohabited with a tugboat captain.
Bette was writing checks, paying bills. Callie slid into the chair opposite her and waited. “Heard you were back,” Bette said without looking up.
“How are you, Bette?”
Bette raised her head and twitched one corner of her mouth, her idea of smiling. “Same as ever. But you look different.”
“Yeah, well, being locked up ages you real fast.” Callie tipped her head toward the bar. “Who’s the new boy?”
Bette looked over at the young man leaning both elbows on the bar, listening to some story a shaky old man was telling. “Calls himself Howard Running-Horse,” Bette said. “Light-heavy, training at Max’s. The Battling Brave when he can get a bout.” Mouth-twitch. “Guy’s got maybe one drop of Iroquois blood in his veins.”
Callie grinned. “Does he win?”
“Now and then. Good punch, but he’s slow-footed.”
Enough amenities. “Two things. One big, one little.”
“Big first,” Bette said.
“Captain Jack’s tug,” Callie explained. “To take two people out to a freighter moored in the bay without being seen. And back again.”
“When?”
“Tonight. One o’clock.”
“Price has gone up. Three thousand, half now.”
Callie counted out thirty hundred-dollar bills. “Here’s the whole thing. And tell Captain Jack to ask the taller of the two he’ll be taking aboard for the other thousand that’s owed him.”
Bette raised an eyebrow.
“Not my money,” Callie said. “I’m the go-between.”
“I figured that.” Bette slid one of the hundreds back to Callie. “What’s the ship?”
“The Sofia. She’s standing off Pier Seventeen.”
“Jack will wait twenty minutes, no more. Don’t be late. What’s the other thing?”
“A name and address. Chinese couple. They sell jade in China Alley. Nice booth, with locked glass cases.”
“Window dressing, most likely. Where in China Alley?”
“Between Marquette and Fowler. Across and down a bit from a noodles seller.” The China Alley vendors were very proprietary about their space; the jade sellers would be in the same spot. “I think Jimmy Kwan knows them.” The fence had nodded to the jade sellers as he passed their booth.
Bette tilted her head. “Why not ask Jimmy yourself?”
Callie smiled. “I need to avoid Jimmy for the next two weeks.”
The other woman asked no more questions. And she could be counted on not to reveal who wanted the information. “Check back later tonight.”
Callie said she would. She could have found out the Chinese couple’s names herself easily enough; but if they were arrested right after she’d been asking about them, there went her cover.
Callie glanced over at the new barman. “This Howard Running-Horse. Does he ever do odd jobs?”
“You need some muscle?”
“Don’t know yet. I may.”
“Then go over and introduce yourself,” Bette said. “He won’t work for people he don’t know. And Callie,” she added, “don’t call him Howie. He gets violent when you call him Howie.”
Callie nodded her thanks and moved over to the bar. Howard Running-Horse left the shaky old man and came up to her. “Hello, Howard,” she said. “My name’s Callie.”
“Helloooooo, Callie,” he replied, frankly sizing up her bedworthiness. “And what can I do for you?”
“You can memorize my name. I hear you’re not averse to picking up a spare buck or two.” Since he’d just seen her in hush-hush with Bette Wylie, he’d make the right connection.
“Depends,” he said. “What you got in mind?”
“Nothing at the moment. I’d just like to know whether I can call you if I need to.”
He leaned forward on the bar. “Honey, you can call me any time you like.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” she said cheerfully, and ordered a beer.
But it was all for naught; Kevin Craig wouldn’t hear of taking hired protection along on their illicit night excursion. Some waterfront thug you found? I don’t know this guy! No, this was Kevin’s private tea party, and Howard Running-Horse was not invited. It occurred to Callie that she should have just told Howard to show up; Kevin wouldn’t have been so inclined to argue with the light-heavyweight looming over him. Well, next time she’d know better.
When they met in the parking garage of the Atlantic Building at 12:30, Callie had collapsed across the hood of Kevin’s car in helpless laughter. Kevin was dressed all in black — black watch cap, black turtleneck, black gloves, black trousers, black crepe-soled shoes (which looked new). He’d even painted black smudges under his eyes. In the office, Kevin Craig worked hard at projecting the very image of the dapper, high-tech, new-wave style of detective who wouldn’t be caught dead in a trench coat and who openly scorned old-timey melodramatics and physical derring-do. And here all the time he really wanted to be Bruce Willis.
Not too surprisingly, Kevin was a bit testy following her reaction to his ship-boarding outfit and tended to snap as he drove them to the waterfront. “Yes, yes, I’ve got the thousand for the tugboat captain. I said I’d bring it!”
“His name’s Captain Jack,” Callie said, “but I’m not going to introduce you. He doesn’t want to know your name. He’ll deny ever having seen you, if someone asks. You’re buying silence as well as transportation.”
“For four thousand dollars, I should hope so.”
“I mean it, Kevin. Don’t try to chat with him. Say nothing at all if you can manage it.”
“All right, all right, I’ve got it!”
Captain Jack McNulty was the most taciturn man Callie knew. And he was even better at avoiding eye contact than she was. The man kept to himself, and he never spoke about his night errands. He wouldn’t even tell his housemate Bette Wylie that Callie was one of the two he’d picked up this night.