And then broke into a run, because he had just seen Madeline Westfield getting into a car which had pulled up in front of her place. A goddam ride instead of a bus! And by the time he’d gotten the Cutlass turned around, he’d lost the other car in traffic.
So. Hell. Couldn’t tail her to work. Which meant back to’ the landlady of her apartment house. He hoped Bart was doing better than he was.
Bart Heslip, to tell the truth, was getting damned sick of living out of that rented Pinto with all his clothes and shaving gear in the suitcase in back. Thirty-six hours all together, the last fifteen here in the 400-block of Madison Street. Pretty soon they’d carve his initials in the urinal of the gas station men’s room down on the corner.
It was starting to warm up a little now, with the sun getting high enough to reach down to him between the buildings. As at brother Cliff’s, three-deckers. He got out and stretched in the bright warmth. Corinne would be at her desk by now. How about going up to the café on the other corner that had opened at 6 A.M., getting a cheeseburger and fries, and calling her?
After ordering, he went outside to the pay phone, dropped his dime and gave his credit card number.
“Far Flung Travel. May I help you?”
“Toni? This is Bart. Is Corinne—”
“Thank God you called. Hang on a sec.”
But the voice that came on was Kearny’s, for Chrissake! Who explained about Emmalina Rounds’ phone call, and the fact that the search for Verna Rounds, for some unknown reason, had turned very nasty indeed.
“But what can Verna tell anybody they don’t already know?”
“I can’t figure it out either, Bart, but be careful. Watch your back-trail.”
And the sucker hung up! Just like that, so he didn’t even have a chance to tell Corinne how he missed her. He stepped out of the booth, still keeping his eye on the front of 428, up near the far end of the block on the other side of the street. Nobody who fit the neighbors’ description of either Johnny Mack or Willie had been in or out, no purple hog Cadillac had shown up in front.
He’d call Corinne again later in the day if he didn’t score here before then. Down beyond the intersection a big car backing into a parking space caught his eye for a moment. But it was a Chrysler New Yorker Brougham, not Willie’s purple Cadillac. The sunlight glancing off the chrome trim of the tinted windshield momentarily blinded him.
He started into the café for his cheeseburger. The searchers were back there somewhere, all right, but they didn’t have Roxbury, Massachusetts. Old Zebulon Rounds had come through in the pinch. They hadn’t strongarmed the address out of him, and they wouldn’t make another try, not with one of their thugs in police custody. Jesus Christ!
He whirled and ran back for the phone booth.
They wouldn’t go after Rounds again, hell no, but Fleur the topless dancer knew brother Clifford’s address, because he’d told her after getting it from Rounds. And they knew Fleur’s address...
New Orleans Information had no listing for Fleur Lisette, so he got the number for the Iberville Cabaret. Almost noon there, ought to be someone who...
“Listen, lemma talk with the manager, this is an emergency.”
“Yeah. Me.” He listened to Heslip. “Fleur? Christ man, after what that goddam weirdo did to her, she won’t be outta the hospital for—”
“Hospital?” Oh, no, it already had happened. “Which one?”
“John who got his kicks outta cutting, I guess, and... which hospital? New Orleans General.”
Another credit card call, this time to the head nurse. “I’m Fleur’s brother, in the Air Force and just passing through on assignment, can’t even come up to see her but if I could speak to her...”
“She’s in a ward, doesn’t have a phone—”
“Anything you can do?”
Head nurses could do a great deal. “But just for a moment, you understand? She’s conscious but despite the sedation in a good deal of pain, and...”
Fleur’s voice came on, weak and pinched.
“Fleur, this is Bart Heslip. I just heard—”
“You bastard! Oh, you rotten son of a bitch bastard!”
“Fleur, I swear to you I didn’t know anything heavy like this was going down—”
“You knew they was followin’ us. They said they’d hurt me an’ I told ’em. Gave that address for Verna. I’m glad I told ’em cause maybe you’ll get in their way an’ they’ll do you like they done me.”
“Fleur, anything you need—”
“How about a new nose? A new ear?” Her voice was a ragged scream. “After I told ’em they done it. For fun. I hope they get you an’ cut your nuts off!”
He hung up the dead phone and stood shivering in the sunshine.
Twenty-Seven
Dan Kearny dialed and when a hard male voice answered, asked for Benny Nicoletti. Nicoletti was out. Kearny left his name and number. Seven minutes later the unlisted phone rang — the line wasn’t run through the switchboard.
“I got your message.”
“Pivarski is going to be there on Monday,” said Kearny. “The Hearing Officer made it official.”
“Monday!” exclaimed Nicoletti. “I thought this afternoon was when they were supposed to—”
“Delaney conned him into waiting until Monday. Said Hawkley couldn’t have his client there until after the weekend.”
“Those bastards gotta have a pipeline!” exclaimed Nicoletti angrily. “After the weekend! Hell, that’s exactly...” He paused. “Look, Dan, not on the phone. Can you come over to the Hall?”
“No way. After Monday I might not have a license, I’m getting out all the billing I can today, so—”
“Okay. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Kearny hung up and looked at his watch and blew out a deep breath. Right on schedule. The bastards had better be listening. When Nicoletti’s bulky form filled the open doorway a few minutes later, Kearny actually was immersed in the billing. He looked up. “I don’t know why I ever agreed to cooperate with you guys,” he said crossly to the big cop. “Shut the door.”
Nicoletti did.
Kearny said, “Okay, what couldn’t you tell me on the phone?”
Nicoletti leaned forward confidentially. By so doing, he brought his head closer to the bugged phone. “Dan, there’s gotta be a leak in the Department. What tipped me was your saying they insisted Pivarski couldn’t show at the hearing until after the weekend. See, we got him down here early in the week, told him it’d be a day, two days, for us to set up an eyeball of Pivarski for him. Now all of a sudden it’s going on a week. So just yesterday he told us that was it, back to Canada Friday night — tonight — if he isn’t shown Pivarski in the flesh today.”
He leaned back and sighed gustily. “I’ll do my damndest between now and tonight to talk him into staying until Monday, but I think we’re dead. Jesus, what a mess.” He stood up and shook hands with Kearny, winked and grinned and said, in a very worried voice, “I’ll let you know if we can get him to change his mind.”
When he was gone Kearny lit a cigarette. So, if the tapes were turning, this would take the pressure off Nicoletti’s witness. And on Monday morning when Hawkley finally brought Pivarski in thinking there was no chance of him being eyeballed by the linen-truck driver, he would get a surprise.
Ballard was singularly unsurprised to learn the resident manager of Madeline Westfield’s apartment house could tell him little of the tenant in Apartment 23. That was par for the course. But the manager, Mrs. Garnison, wasn’t. She was the rarest of landladies, one who didn’t give a damn. She was an imperious, iron-haired fifty-five, with iron in the spine and an open mind.