"No, Barney, but I'd still like to talk to you. My name's Mongo."
He looked around. The dining room was beginning to fill. "Bad time, mister. Lunch crowd's comin' in pretty quick."
I laid another five-dollar bill on the table, pushed it toward him. "This won't take long."
He looked at the bill greedily. "Why you want to talk to me, mister?"
The waitress brought me my coffee and bun, with a glimpse of cleavage on the side. Barney ogled her as she walked away.
"I'm a private investigator," I said loudly in an attempt to get his attention back.
He cackled again. "That's the funniest thing I ever heard."
"I've got lots of friends," I said. "Big spenders with a sense of humor. I want to talk to you about a man named Victor Rafferty."
"That's easy," he said, quickly glancing at the bill as if it were about to be taken out of his reach. "I never heard of him."
Barney's hand came closer as I touched the five-dollar bill. "It would have been about five years ago. The man passed out on you."
He snapped his fingers; his eyes were suddenly clear, excited. Memories moved there like tides beneath their wet surface. "The guy that bounced the food!"
"I think that's the one," I said. "Is he the one who passed out on you?"
"Yessir, that's the guy I'm talkin' about! He zonked out after he bounced the food!"
"What do you mean, he 'bounced' the food? He didn't like it? He sent it back?"
The old man looked injured. "No! I'm tellin' you, the food bounced off him, like he was standin' behind an invisible wall. Didn't have a spot oh him!" He paused, frowned. "You don't believe me, either, do you?"
"Who else didn't believe you?"
"The cop who came."
Whatever Barney meant, it was obvious that the incident had left a lasting impression. "Why don't you tell me about it from the beginning?" I said, putting a ten-dollar bill next to the five. My wallet was emptying fast. "I'd like to hear what happened from the time that man walked in here."
"I didn't see him come in. All I know is that he ended up at that table." He pointed to a table on my left. "He didn't look good. You could tell right away he was sick. You know, he was a little green around the gills, and he looked like he'd slept in his clothes. Nasty scar down the side of his face; looked fresh-cut, if you know what I mean. At first I thought he was a bum, but he had a touch of class about him. He ordered a cup of coffee, bacon, eggs, and some orange juice, I think."
"Then it was morning?"
"Yeah. And it was summer. I remember it was summertime because of this far-out joker that came to talk to me. I mean, everybody in the city's sweatin' like a pig, and this guy's bundled up in a fur coat. Bald-headed guy. Kind of leaned on me when I started tellin' him what I'm tellin' you."
"About the food?" I asked.
"Yeah, about bouncin' the food. First he tried to make out I was nothin' but a crazy old man, like he wanted me to believe that. I told him to go screw. Then he offered me money if I'd promise not to tell anybody else about the food. I told him I didn't want his money. I told him I just wanted to be left alone so I could earn my own money." He glanced at me suspiciously. "You sure you ain't from Social Security, mister? I need this job and the pension just to keep body and soul together."
"C'mon, Barney. You're looking at the last word in neglected minority groups. Tell me what happened after Rafferty ordered breakfast."
"Well, I was bringin' his food over to him on a tray. I was just a coupla feet away from the table when I tripped over a loose board." He pointed behind him into the gloom. "Damn thing's still there. I didn't see exactly what happened because I was fallin' down myself-"
"Then, you didn't actually see any food 'bouncing' off Rafferty?"
He stiffened. "No, but I'll tell you what I did see. When I got up, this guy didn't have any food on him. The tray was flyin' right at him, so the food had to bounce. You get my meanin'?"
I waited, but it seemed that was all there was to it. "You're saying the food didn't get on him?"
He clapped his hands hard, once, then rubbed them on his apron as if he'd hurt himself. "Now you got it!" He seemed upset that I wasn't more impressed. "You see," he continued eagerly, "that's what really stuck in my mind. I was worried he'd been scalded by the coffee, but he wasn't. I could see. The food and the coffee were splattered all around him, but he didn't have a spot on him, not a single stain." He frowned, clucked. "But he was hurt; he was moanin' and hangin' on to his head. Then he just passed out. Almost fell on top of me. I tried to bring him around, but he was out cold."
"And you're absolutely sure that the food was going to land on him?"
"Yep."
"How do you think he managed it, Barney?"
"Jesus Christ, I don't know, mister. Nobody ever asked me that before." He thought about it for a moment, then cackled at me again. "He must have had one of those 'invisible shields' they talk about on the deodorant commercials!"
"Is there anything else you remember?"
"Nope. Have I earned my money, mister?"
Barney had earned his money, and I'd earned a headache. I got up and shoved the bills into his shirt pocket. "Thanks, Barney. You're a tiger."
"Hey, you really a private detective?" "Barney," I said, slapping him on the back, "it's hard for me to understand why everyone keeps asking me that question."
The waitress blew me a kiss on my way out.
8
Wanting to clear Barney's laugh and the gloom of Jack's Cakewalk from my mind, I decided to walk the twenty blocks back to my apartment to check the mail. It was a mistake. The noon streets of New York were hot, filled with the stench of exhaust fumes, the tension of constant hurry. By the time I reached my apartment, my headache had evolved from a dull throb to a sharp pain that flashed back and forth between my temples like arcs of electricity.
The man sitting on my couch was short-five feet six or seven. The eyes that had looked so dark in the newspaper photograph were actually a deep, glacial blue, made to seem even larger and colder by the high dome of his forehead. His eyes were like blank screens hiding his thoughts and emotions. I'd seen eyes like that before; they were either the mirrors in front of a psychopathic mind or the result of years of training, tempered by more than a little pain. He was completely bald.
He was a man who seemed totally at ease with himself, even in someone else's living room. He wore a light blue poplin suit with matching shirt and tie. There was no bulge under the armpit, but I was certain that was due to good tailoring.
He rose and put aside the magazine he'd been reading. "I'm Mr. Lippitt," he said, eyeing me steadily.
"I know."
"How do you know?" he asked quietly.
"You've changed your wardrobe. I almost didn't recognize you without your overcoat."
"The newspaper photo," he said. There was a hint of annoyance in his voice, and something that might have been an emotion passed quickly across the blue surface of his eyes and was gone. "The phone number had to come out of the police file. Your brother must have given it to you; very unprofessional of him, but I'm rather glad he did it. Why do you want to know about Victor Rafferty, Dr. Frederickson?"
"You're pretty goddamn abrupt for a guy who's sitting uninvited in my living room."
"Come, come," Lippitt said. His voice had dropped a half octave, the whisper of silk across a knife blade. "You indicated you wanted to talk to me and I'm here. My circumstances don't allow me to stand around on the street waiting for you."