"Jeez, Dale, what kind of shit would anybody try to pull on a guy like that? People'd have to be nuts."
"You'd be surprised. Lotta dumb-ass people in this world. You'd be surprised."
"You ever take anybody out for Crane?"
He glanced around the bar, then leaned toward me again. He said beerily, "No. But I busted a guy's collarbone once."
"No shit. Recently?"
" 'Bout a year ago. Goddamn asshole was tryin' to hold Millpond up for a quarter of a million for a zoning approval out around Syracuse. Crane has me play a tape of a certain conversation for this shit-ass. I give him five grand, and then I knock him around a little to remind him he isn't dealing with goddamn Fanny Farmer. He got the point. Oh, he got the point."
"I guess a class outfit has to do business that way sometimes if it's going to stay on top. Stay in the big time."
"You better believe it. Competition'll eat ya alive. Gotta goddamn push."
Overdorf made a pushing motion with his thighlike forearm. The bartender glanced our way, but I shook my head.
"Any action like that lately, Dale? I hear Trefusis is getting a lot of grief from some old broad in west Albany who's holding up his new project. Some crazy old lez."
"Nah. The word is Crane's handling that one himself. The only rough stuff I've had lately was back in June when Crane had me do a favor for one of the Millpond owners, a building supply guy who found out some goddamn smartass who worked for him had his hand in the till. I persuaded the gentleman to start making rinston-too-shun. Reston-too-shun."
"Why didn't they just bring in the cops?"
"Dipped if I know. Doing the guy a favor, I s'pose. I was nice about it though. But not too nice. Just nice enough. When I was done, it didn't show.
Much. 'Nother collarbone job. Hey-hey, Life-raft, what time you got?"
"Ten to eight."
"Yeah. Early. Too soon to head over to goddamn Troy. Albany's a.. dead town."
"You over there last night, Dale? Over to Troy for the action? Or were you stuck on a goddamn job last night?"
"Yeah, I was over. Not much action though. This one chick-I was in Bill Kerwin's place about twelve o'clock- and this one chick, built like Polly Parton, this one chick comes over and says,
'Hey-hey, you wanna bite a real cute chick's neck?' And I says, 'Yeah, sure, and that's not all.'
And she says, 'Okay, here,' and she hands me this goddamn chicken neck. Shit. Fuck. Real cute.
She was cute, all right. But she wasn't so goddamn cute afterwards. Uhn-uhn."
"This was just last night? Jeez, I was all alone in my room watching the Carson show, having no fun at all."
"Yeah, but tonight I'll score. I mean, goddamn Troy on a Saturday night? You better believe it, Life-raft. You can't find some action in Troy on Saturday night, you may's well go back to Cobleskill. That's where I grew up, out in Cobleskill. Now, there is a goddamn dead town. Hey, you wanna tag along over to Troy? I don't make promises, butHey, I'll bet you're a real cocksman, huh? Look like the type. Real pussy chaser. Get it comin' and goin'."
"H-yeah. Gotta admit it. Comin' and goin'. But I'll pass on tonight, Dale. I've made other arrangements."
"That so? Don't leave nothin' to goddamn chance, huh? Well, drop one for me, pal. Case there's no action in Troy."
"No action in Troy? Dale, I find that hard to believe."
"Nyaah. These towns around here are all the same.
Dead! Goddamn dead towns. They all suck."
"Even Schenectady?"
"Especially Schenectady."
"Guess I'm lucky I'm heading back to Elmira tomorrow. "
"Someday I'm just gonna pick up and go where the action is. Get the goddamn fuck out of these.. dead towns."
"Where would you go, Dale?"
"Rochester. You want action, you gotta go to Rochester. Listen, Life-raft, lemme tell you about goddamn Rochester…"
I crossed State Street and loped down the hill toward Green. It was just past eight o'clock and the temperature sign on the bank at State and Pearl read 87 degrees. The high-intensity arc lamps clicked on in the blackening dusk. In the orange glare the street looked like the portals of hell, though less populated even on a Saturday night. Dale Overdorf had been a washout, I figured, but I kept thinking there was something I'd missed or hadn't picked up on. I went back over the conversation in my mind. When Overdorf had gone into his "cocksman" characterization I'd thought about dropping the good news on him, but concluded I might need to come back to him, and so failed to contribute to his worldly education. But there was something else. I didn't yet know what.
The captain at La Briquet led me past the sweat-drenched pols, lobbyists, and high-tech entrepreneurs waiting for a table. We crossed the main dining room to an alcove in the back. One table was occupied by a bishop and two lesser spiritual operatives celebrating a secular ritual involving a Lafite-Rothschild '76 and a coq au vin. At a second rear table were three men in blue-black suits, horned-rimmed glasses, and five o'clock shadows. They were listening thoughtfully to a slim 61 black-eyed woman with a briefcase on her lap who spoke at the speed of light: "You know goddamn well the senator is not going to go along with this shit, so why waste our time with a couple of raggedy-ass proposals our people have looked at ten times already, and want to puke every time we…" The juke box was playing Telemann.
The banquette in the rear alcove was occupied by Crane Trefusis and Marlene Compton, the blonde who sat outside his office. She was holding an unlighted cigarette, and the captain, deftly producing a silver lighter as a magician might from his sleeve, held out a small blue flame, which Marlene utilized with the bored indifference of a woman not unaccustomed to having small blue flames produced for her benefit.
I thought, Trefusis is going to suggest to Marlene that she go powder her nose. Trefusis said,
"Marlene, why don't you go powder your nose?" She went. I flopped the bread bag full of checks onto the linen tablecloth alongside a slim vase containing a single yellow rose.
"Seventy-two," I said. "Local banks."
Trefusis stuffed the bag into a side pocket and from his breast pocket retrieved a fat brown envelope.
"Seventy-two, U.S. currency."
"Where'd you get it?" I said.
"Hard work."
I folded the envelope in half and jammed it into the back pocket of my khakis. It bulged.
I said, "Did Dale Overdorf kidnap Peter Greco?"
He didn't blink. "Not that I know of."
"I didn't think so."
"Overdorf is never sober after five P.M. Friday. He'd be incapable of it on a weekend. That would be his alibi, Strachey, and a damned good one in court. Where did you get Dale's name, if I may ask?"
"It came up."
"Dale is quite reliable during the week. He runs errands for our security chief, fills in, handles special assignments."
"Uh-huh."
"For a man with your reputation, Strachey, I'm amazed you would even consider such a possibility. Even though I know you'd love to discover that Millpond is involved in this idiotic kidnapping in some way. Or even the vandalism."
"You're right, I waste a lot of time. But occasionally it pays off. And it's always instructive. In a general sort of way."
"Yes. You must know a great deal about the manner in which life in our time and place is lived."
"I do."
"Perhaps you'll write a book someday: Memoirs of a — Gay Gumshoe. Are people in your profession still called gumshoes?"
"That went out with Sam Spade. Anyway, most of us don't get gum stuck on our shoes while we're pounding the streets. I'm sure I won't. In here."
"Then perhaps you're spending your time in the wrong types of environment in your search for criminals these days, Strachey. As I look around this room, I see none."