Senesky looked embarrassed. “You know how the talk goes,” he said. “Doesn’t mean a damn thing, I always say.” He moved toward the steps. “Nice seeing you again, Barny. I got some papers to give Ramussen. He’s upstairs?”
“Yeah, he’s upstairs,” Nolan said, and took hold of the older man’s arm. “But let’s finish our talk. The boys think I shouldn’t have shot Fiest, eh?”
“No, not by a damn sight,” Senesky said hurriedly.
“Who was doing all the talking?”
“Well, you know how Spiegel is,” Senesky said. “He’s mad at something all the time. Hell, nothing anybody does is ever right according to him. You know how he is, Barny.”
“Yeah, I know how he is,” Barny said. Spiegel, Nolan thought. The tough and lippy Yid. “What did Brewster have to say?”
“Nothing at all that I remember,” Senesky said. “He just listened.”
And now he’s listening to Linda, Nolan thought. He’d have to put a stop to that habit of Brewster’s.
He released Senesky’s arm. “Take it easy, Pal.”
“Yeah, see you around, boy,” Senesky said, and went clattering up the stairs gratefully.
Nolan wandered back to the roll room, frowning and unwrapping a fresh cigar. He stood still for a moment, staring at the pictures of the dead policemen, who smiled across eternally at the bench of Justice. Why in the name of God did cops always get their pictures taken smiling? What the hell was so funny? Every station Nolan had ever worked in had its complement of dead smiling heroes on the wall. They should smile, he thought.
His good humor was gone. Again he was sullen, nervous, irritable. Everything was following the old bleak pattern, he thought wearily. Just when things seemed bright and rosy, the roof fell in.
He took a nickel from his pocket and tossed it up and down in his palm a few times. Then, sighing, he walked to the phone and dialed Espizito’s club.
The man who answered said Espizito was busy. Nolan gave him his name, and a moment later Mike Espizito’s soft, pleasing voice was in his ear.
“Hello there, Barny. How’s the boy?”
“Fine. You called, I understand. What’s up?”
“I’d like to talk to you tonight, if you’re not busy.”
“I’m working four to twelve, you know.”
Espizito laughed good-humoredly. “I keep late hours, too. Supposing you stop by for a drink when you finish. Okay?”
“Sure, Mike.” Nolan studied the receiver, a grim little smile on his lips. “I’ll be seeing you.”
“Good.” The phone clicked in his ear.
8
Her name was printed on a white card in a brass frame: Linda Wade. Mark pressed the button beside it and the inner door lock clicked immediately. He stepped into a large, paneled foyer that was decorated with pots of ivy and several old-fashioned hunting prints.
A door on his left opened. Linda Wade, in black slacks and a white silk blouse, smiled at him and said, “Come in, please. I’ve always heard that reporters were erratic, but you’re right on time.”
His first impression was that she was smaller than he’d remembered her; but then, as he followed her into the apartment, he noticed that she was wearing flat-heeled moccasins.
The living room was high-ceilinged, spacious, and bright with colorful print drapes and white string rugs. There was a record player in one corner, and beside it, a bookcase full of albums. Music was playing now, a medley of show tunes.
She took his hat into another room and came back a moment later with a coffee tray and a plate of cookies. “Please sit down,” she said. “This is all I have before my first show, so I thought we might share it. Or would you rather have a drink?”
“No thanks, the coffee will be fine.”
She poured their coffee, then smiled at him directly. “I’ve been trying to remember where I’ve seen your name, Mr. Brewster. And I think I’ve got it now. Didn’t you do a feature on Max Leonard when he was at the Simba?”
Mark was surprised and pleased. “Where did you run into that?”
“My agent sent me a file of clips on the Simba before I took the job. I read your story on Max and loved it. I’ve met him a few times and think he’s wonderful, of course. You do, too, obviously.”
“Just about the best, if you like folk music. I do, so I asked the boss to let me take a crack at a feature on him. I’m glad you liked it.”
“I really thought it was fine,” she said, and sounded as if she meant it.
They talked for the next fifteen minutes about folk music, and some of the old and wonderful songs Alan Lomax had found in his trips through the South. By that time they had finished their coffee and were on a first name basis.
Finally she smiled and glanced at her watch. “This is a lot more fun than interviewing me, I’ll bet.”
“Well, we’ll see,” Mark said. He found himself liking Linda Wade, liking her good-humor, alertness, and poise. Also, he decided, she was very lovely. Her skin was soft and fresh, and her face, even in repose, had a quality of vitality and friendliness. He regretted that he had to put their relationship on a dishonest basis.
“By the way, we’ve got another mutual friend, I think,” he said. “Barny Nolan.”
“Oh, certainly. I’ve known him four or five months now.”
“He works at the Division I usually cover, but he hasn’t been there long. I don’t know him too well.”
Linda sipped her coffee, then smiled. “I like him. He’s the diamond-in-the-rough type. His bark is worse than his bite, if you’ll let me exhaust all my clichés in one burst.”
“I get the general idea,” Mark said. “One of the boys was telling me he’s having a rough time financially. That’s too bad, if it’s true.”
“I think it might be,” Linda said. “But he told me last night that he won’t be paying alimony any more, and he seemed sure that would make a big difference.”
“Things have improved for him, then?”
“I suppose you might put it that way.” She regarded him curiously. “I’m not sure I understand this. Did you come here to talk about me or about Barny?”
“You, of course. We just got off on a tangent. Supposing we talk about you now.”
She seemed uncertain, but began talking, telling him the sort of things she had undoubtedly told interviewers on dozens of occasions.
She’d been born and raised in Davenport, Iowa, had gone to the State University where she had sung in the glee club and with several small bands. Her father had taught music in a high school in Rock Island, which was just across the river from Davenport, and had helped train her voice. He hadn’t liked her style very much, but eventually became resigned to the fact that she simply wouldn’t ever be a coloratura soprano. When he had died she’d gone to Chicago where she got her first break in radio. That had been two years ago and she was still delighted and slightly amazed by her good luck.
“Can you remember all of this?” she said. “You’re not taking notes.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Where did my father teach school?” she said.
“What?”
She put her cup down. “I’m not so naive as you apparently think,” she said. “You’re not a bit interested in me. You’re interested in Barny, for some reason, aren’t you?”
Mark started to protest but suddenly he found himself sick of the deception. “Yes, I’m interested in Nolan.”
His abrupt candor put her off balance. She looked puzzled. “I don’t understand at all. Why would you come to me to find out about Barny? Why not talk to him?”
“That’s just not a very practical idea,” Mark said. “And you’re his girl, aren’t you? I thought you might be a good lead.”
“I think you’d better leave,” she said. She stood up, and there was an eloquent finality in every line of her slim body.