Detective Bryant was in the squad room, taking a burglary complaint over the telephone. When he had finished, he glanced up and seemed surprised to see Neary standing there. “Well. What brings you down here, Mr. Neary?”
“I... I was wondering about that man I killed. I don’t know, it’s been bothering me, I guess. I want to know some more about him.”
Bryant smiled indulgently. “Sure, have a seat.” He passed the burglary report to another detective and leaned back in his chair. “Tony Ancona’s been around town for maybe ten years. He had a petty arrest record, mostly gambling and narcotics violations, and he served two years on one charge.”
“Was he married?”
“Divorced, I think. A long time ago. Lately he mostly lived with various women.”
“What about this trial you mentioned?”
The detective shrugeed his broad shoulders. “Fairly routine. We picked him up in a narcotics raid last spring, and promised him immunity from prosecution if he’d testify against his bosses in court. He did, and we convicted them. I understand some of the underworld goons were pretty upset about it. There was even word that they’d pay money for Tony’s removal, as a sort of lesson to others. But Tony was smart. He stayed under cover, at least until the other night.”
“Why do you think he tried to rob my house?”
Another shrug. “Probably needed money to get out of town. Maybe the pressure was getting too much for him here. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry your head about it, Mr. Neary. If you hadn’t killed him, some underworld goon probably would have, and that would be just more work for us.”
“I see,” Walt Neary said quietly. “Well, thanks very much.”
He left the building with the two thousand dollars still in his coat pocket. He drove on home.
Ellen met him at the door, frowning with apprehension. “You’re late,” she said. “I was worried.”
She hadn’t really been relaxed since it happened, and he couldn’t blame her. Already he’d promised to speak to his boss about traveling less frequently, though he hadn’t quite gotten around to it yet.
“Oh, I just stopped by to talk with that detective, Bryant.”
“Why? What for?”
“Nothing, nothing. Just thought I’d chat with him.” She seemed on the verge of hysterics, and it was hardly the time to mention the envelope with the money. “Calm down now. I’m home.”
That evening, as he watched her preparing dinner and going about her usual chores, he thought a bit about the life that was passing them both by. He was still a youthful-looking thirty-one, and he was only six years older. But they had never had children, never traveled, never really done much of anything except buy this little ranch home on a quiet suburban street where they rarely talked to the neighbors.
He thought about the things they could do with two thousand dollars, the places they could go. Europe, perhaps, or South America. She would like that.
Walt Neary had already decided against surrendering the money to the police. That would only raise awkward questions, and someone might even begin to think that he really had been paid to kill Tony Ancona. But keeping the money for his own use was another matter, and despite the attractions of a second honeymoon with Ellen in Europe, he couldn’t quite bring himself to accept the envelope in his pocket. It was, after all, blood money.
He considered giving it to some charity, but could not decide which one. Even simply throwing the money away crossed his mind as a solution, but he was too frugal for that. No, there had to be another way. If only Tony Ancona had possessed a wife and family an easy solution would have presented itself. He would have given the money to them, anonymously, of course.
Ellen was already asleep in the big bed when he decided on a tentative plan of action. He would try to find one of the women Ancona had been living with lately, and determine if she needed the money. If she didn’t, or if a brief quest was unsuccessful, he would think again about that trip to Europe with Ellen.
In the morning he told his boss he wasn’t feeling well, and took the rest of the day off. The death notice in the newspaper had mentioned a brother, Mike Ancona, who had a florist shop across town. He seemed unconnected with the underworld, or with his brother’s activities, and Neary figured it would be safe to approach him.
The florist shop was large and prosperous, a description that could also have fit Mike Ancona.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, studying Walt’s face with a frown.
“I’m Walt Neary, the man who... who caused your brother’s death.”
Mike Ancona nodded. “I thought I recognized you from the pictures.” Then he asked again, “What can I do for you?” His tone was neither hostile nor friendly. He might have been talking to a wall.
“I... I’ve been feeling bad about what happened. I was wondering if your brother had a family of any kind, anyone who might be suffering now that he’s gone.”
The florist snorted. “Maybe some of the whores and junkies around town are suffering, but no one else!”
“There was no woman he especially cared for?”
Mike Ancona sighed. “Really, I don’t know what you’re wasting your time for! He’s dead and buried! You don’t need to feel sorry.”
“All right.” Neary turned to leave.
“Wait a minute. Here’s an address, over on the east side. A girl named Marge Morgan. He was living with her, last I knew. But that was before he testified and got in trouble with the mob.”
“Thanks.” He accepted the slip of paper.
“You don’t need to feel sorry,” Tony Ancona’s brother said again as he left.
Marge Morgan worked as a cocktail waitress in a little downtown lounge, and it was there that Walt finally found her, wearing white hip-hugger pants and a short blouse that left her tanned midriff exposed.
“Sure,” she told him immediately. “You look just like on TV. I watched you the other night.”
Neary sipped a beer and said, “I understand from Tony’s brother that he was living with you.”
She tossed her blonde head. “That was six months ago. I hadn’t seen him lately.”
“Who had?”
“Why’d you want to know?”
Could he really explain it? “If there’s someone suffering because of what I did, I’d like to help out. He had no family I could give money to, but perhaps a girl friend—”
“Mister, you can lay that money right here! I need it worse than she does!”
“She? Who’s that?”
“The latest one. The last one, as it turned out. He met her right here in this joint too! I was watching the whole thing. A lonely gal looking for excitement, and she found him!”
“How long ago was that?”
“Just before the trial. After that, he laid low. I guess he knew there was a price on his head.”
“What was the girl’s name?”
She was suddenly sly. “Don’t know her name.”
“Does she still come in here?”
“No. Haven’t seen her in months.”
“Well, was Tony living with her?”
“No, nothing like that. He was holed up somewhere, and he just went to see her when he could.”
Walt Neary sighed and sipped his beer. It seemed to be a dead end. He watched Marge Morgan move away to wait on another table. Well, she didn’t need the money, and it was doubtful if the other one did, either. Maybe this whole search had only been an effort at salving his own conscience. Maybe he really wanted to keep the two thousand dollars.
After a few moments Marge returned to his table. “What’s it worth to you to find this girl?” she asked.
“Well, I hadn’t...”
“A hundred bucks?”
“Do you know where she is?”
“I can reach her.”
“I thought you didn’t know her name.”