Taking her words under advisement, I told Abby about the various names and numbers I’d gleaned from Rhonda’s list, reporting on every aspect of my study. Then I sat back in my chair, lit up one of Abby’s Pall Malls, and related all the details of my phone conversation with Binky.
“Ve-ry interesting,” Abby said, when I’d finished my summary. “Binky-Winky sounds kind of stinky. Maybe he murdered Gray himself. ”
“Could be,” I said, remembering how Binky’s tone and vocabulary had turned angry when we were discussing Gray’s rave review. “I’ll have a better idea after I meet him on Tuesday.”
“I’ll go with you!” she said, getting excited. “I’m a really good judge of character, you know. And I’d love to take a stroll around the Actors Studio, get an up-close and personal look at James Dean. I think he’s in town now. And he’s my fave new screen boy. He’s so hot it hurts!”
I didn’t say a word. I had no intention of taking Abby with me, but I didn’t tell her that. I knew she’d have a complete fit. Then she’d dig in her heels and torment me until I surrendered and let her come-a consequence I simply could not allow to happen. Abby’s presence at my meeting with Binky would rattle my concentration, play havoc with my cover, and lead Binky to question my “true” motives for contacting him (i.e., wreck the whole darn operation!). Better to keep my mouth shut, keep the peace, and wait until Tuesday to crush Abby’s hopes of meeting her fave new screen boy.
I glanced at the clock on Abby’s kitchen wall. It was nine thirty-five. “Holy moley, would you look at the time?!” I cried. “I’ve got to run home and change my clothes. If Flannagan saw me in this outfit” (a pair of short shorts and one of Bob’s old army T-shirts), “he’d arrest me for sure.”
“Then you’d better scurry, Murray,” Abby said. “From what I’ve heard, It ain’t too cool in the cooler.”
THE SIXTH PRECINCT STATION WAS JUST a few blocks away on West 10th Street. Abby and I walked there as fast as we could-which wasn’t very fast since the heat, humidity, and our dangerously high heels slowed us down to a stroll. I bought a newspaper on the way over, but didn’t take the time to look for any articles about the murder. We were late enough as it was. Entering the busy station through the streetlevel double glass doors, we headed straight for the main desk to our right, stilettos clicking across the scuffed brown linoleum.
A tall, well-built young man with an exceptionally long, narrow face was standing like a sentry behind the counterlike partition. He was wearing the standard summer uniform (same as the winter but with short sleeves)-no jacket or hat. A badge was pinned to his shirt, and a gun was holstered on his hip. As Abby and I approached the desk, he snatched a white handkerchief out of his pocket and quickly mopped the sweat off his handsome, shoebox-shaped mug. “Hello, ladies,” he said, stuffing the handkerchief back in his pocket. “How can I help you?”
“We’re here to see Detective Flannagan,” I said. “We had a ten o’clock appointment but, as you can see, we’re a few minutes late.”
“Then I’ll have to take you into custody,” he teased.
“I can think of worse punishment,” Abby said, batting her lashes so hard and fast I felt a breeze.
Oh, brother! She was flirting with him. She was flaunting her so-called charms all over the place. You’d have thought our horrific reason for being at the station (or, at the very least, her randy reunion with Jimmy last night) would have stifled her seductive ways-but noooo. There she stood, one hand propped suggestively on her jutting hip, making eyes at a horse-faced policeman as if she were a filly in heat and he were the last stallion on earth.
Luckily, I found my voice before they galloped off to the nearest stable together.
“Detective Flannagan is expecting us, sir,” I said, with a loud sniff of annoyance. “And we don’t want to be any later than we already are. Can you let him know we’re here, or direct us to his office, please?” I was doing a swell immitation of Susan Hayward in a righteous huff, but I felt like Milton Berle in a prom dress (i.e., more likely to attract ridicule than respect).
“Oh, uh… sure,” the young officer said, reluctantly turning his attention from Abby to me. “I’ll just give them a call upstairs. They’ll send somebody down to get you.”
“Can’t you show us the way yourself?” Abby said, batting her damn lashes again. “That would give us a little more time together.”
His rectangular face turned as pink as a primrose. “Oh, no, ma’am,” he said. “I couldn’t do that. I’m not allowed to leave my post. But hang on for a second, I’ll get you another guide right away.”
While he was dialing and then talking on the intercom, I gave Abby my sternest look. “Cut it out!” I whispered. “We’re here to help the cops find a killer, for God’s sake! Your search for a new lover can wait!”
“That’s not fair!” she hissed. “I’m looking for a new model, not a lover!”
“Same difference,” I said.
“IT’S SEVENTEEN MINUTES AFTER TEN,” Flannagan said, looking at his watch, shooting me a nasty scowl, then standing up behind his desk. His jacket was draped on the back of his chair, his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his collar was unbuttoned, and his tie was loose and lopsided. “It’s about time you showed up,” he growled. “I was beginning to think I’d have to send somebody to your place to get you.”
“Please forgive us, Detective Flannagan,” I said. “We got off to a bit of a late start this morning.”
“Yeah, well, your ‘bit of a late start’ has thrown my whole damn schedule off track,” he griped, looking at his watch again. “I have to be somewhere else at eleven, so we don’t have much time.”
“Oh, what a shame!” Abby cried, putting on a big sarcastic show of contrition. “I could just kill myself for taking so long to eat that extra bagel.”
Her jeering tone was making me squirm. Would Flannagan realize that she was mocking him? Would he get mad and give us an even harder time than originally planned? I tried to think of something soothing to say-something that would calm the choppy sea between the surly detective and my irascible best friend-but finally decided it would be safer to just leave things alone.
“Let’s get started,” Flannagan said, showing no more anger (or awareness) than usual. He gestured toward the two old wooden chairs positioned in front of his old wooden desk and muttered, “Sit down.”
We did as we were told. (I don’t know about Abby, but I was glad to get off my feet.)
Flannagan sat back down behind his desk and began shuffling some papers around. While he was getting organized, I took the opportunity to look around his office-or, rather, the large bullpen in which his work area was situated.
Flannagan’s desk was one of seven in the drab, greenish-gray room, one side of which was lined with windows so dirty they barely let in any light. The desks all faced the door and were aligned along the outside wall like cars in a parking lot. A row of tall, beat-up file cabinets stood against the wall opposite the windows, narrowing the aisle running down the center of the office to a width of about four feet. (A rhino might have made it through, but never an elephant.) Except for Flannagan and the rhino-size man sitting at the first desk in the front, there were no other homicide detectives in sight (unless you want to count
me, which you probably don’t).
Flannagan slapped the papers down on his desk and lit up a Camel. His boyish, clean-shaven face was scrunched up in an ugly frown. “Okay, first things first,” he said. “Give me the names of your doctors.”
“What?!” we cried, in unison.
“The names of your doctors,” he repeated.