I picked up a paper at the stand on the corner and riffled through the pages. The News had a two-column spread on page four about how the special Army teams in their exercise maneuvers upstate had located a possible contamination source in the Ashokan Reservoir, and although the water supply to New York City and adjacent areas had been temporarily curtailed, there was no actual shortage and the Army experts were expected to clear the matter up shortly.
Further on was another little squib about a certain Long Island newspaper suspending operations temporarily
due to a breakdown in their presses. Washington was putting the squeeze on, but good. I wondered how Eddie Dandy was making out, wherever he was. By now he must have a mad on as big as his head. Somebody was going to catch hell when they released him, that was for sure.
Little Joe was working his trade on Broadway, pushing himself along on a homemade skateboard. For a beggar he was ahead in his field, peddling cheap ball-point pens instead of pencils, gabbing with all the familiar figures who kept him in business with the daily nickels and dimes.
I drew his attention by fluttering a buck down over his shoulder into his box and he spun around with a surprised grin when he saw me. "Hey, Mike. Thought I just got me a big spender. You want a pen?"
"Might as well get something for my dollar."
He held up his box. "Take your pick."
I pulled out two black ones and dropped them in my pocket. "Velda told me she saw you," I said.
"Yeah," Joe said, craning his neck up to look at me. "She was looking for that dip I saw with old Lippy."
A curious tingle ran across my shoulders. "She didn't say what he was. You didn't know, either."
"That was then. Me, I ain't got much to do except look, and besides, you two always did get me curious. So I look and ask a few people and pretty soon I get a few answers. Since Lindy's closed I moved my beat up here a couple of blocks and you'd be surprised how much can go on just a pair of traffic lights away. Like another world."
"Don't yak so much, Joe."
"Mike ... when do I get the chance to? Like you're a captive audience." Then he saw the impatience in my face and nodded. "He came in from Miami about two months ago where he was working Hialeah. That was his thing, working the tracks where the cash money was and the crowds and the excitement. Only the security boys made him and he got the boot."
"Who fed you that?"
"Banjie Peters. He hustled tout sheets. He even knew the guy from a few other tracks that kicked him out. So the only place he don't get the boot is Aqueduct and he comes up here for the season. He works it one day and blammo ... security spots him and gives him the heave. He was lucky because he didn't even have time to make his first touch. They find him with anything on him and it's curtains out there."
"They have a name for him?"
"Sure, a dozen, and no two alike." He gave me a funny little grin and fished around in his legless lap for something. "I kind of figured you'd be around so I had Banjie con his buddies in security outa a picture they had. They mugged him at Santa Anita and sent copies around."
He held out a two-by-two black and white photo of a lean, sallow-looking face with a mouth that was too small and eyes that seemed to sneer at the world. His hair had receded on the sides and acne scars marred the jawline. The picture cut him off at chest level, but under his coat he had on an off-shade vest with metal buttons that could have been red. His description on the back put him at age forty-six, five feet eleven tall and one hundred fifty-two pounds. Eight aliases were given, no two remotely alike, and no permanent address.
Now I knew what he looked like.
Little Joe said, "He couldn't score at the track, that's why he started hustling around here. You remember Poxie?" While I nodded Joe went on. "When he ain't pimping he keeps his hand in working other people's pockets. This boy sees him working Shubert Alley and beats the crap outa him. Like he laid out a claim and was protecting it. Over there's where he and Lippy used to meet up. You know, Mike, I don't think Lippy knew what the guy was doing."
"He didn't," I said.
"Maybe he found out, huh? Then this guy bumped him."
"Not quite like that, pal. You know where he is now?"
"Nope, but I seen him last night. He come outa one of them Greek language movies on Eighth Avenue and hopped a cab going uptown. I woulda taken the cab number so you could check out his trip sheet, only I was on the wrong side of the street."
"Good try, kid."
"If you want, I'll try harder."
I looked at him, wondering what he meant.
Little Joe grinned again and said, "I saw Velda too. She was right behind him and grabbed the cab after his."
The knot in my stomach held fast, not knowing whether to twist tighter or loosen. "What time, Joe?"
"Last show was coming out. Just a little after two-thirty."
And the knot loosened. She was still on her own then and Ballinger hadn't caught up with her. She had located our pickpocket and was running him down.
Little Joe was still looking at me. "I saved the best until last, Mike," he said. "The name he really goes by is
Beaver. Like a nickname. He was in Len Parrott's saloon when Len heard two guys ask about him. This guy drops his drink fast and gets out. They were asking about a red vest too and the guy had one on." A frown drew his eyebrows together. "They was Woody Ballinger's boys, Mike."
I said, "Damn" softly.
"The bartender didn't tell them nothing, though."
I let a five-spot fall into Little Joe's box. "I appreciate it, buddy. You get anything else, call Pat Chambers. Remember him?"
"Captain Pat? Sure, how could I ever forget him? He shot the guy who blew my legs off with that shotgun fifteen years ago."
If you can't find them, then let them find you. The word was out now in all the right places. It would travel fast and far and someplace a decision would have to be made. I was on a hunt for Sammy and Carl to throw a bullet through their guts and do the explaining afterward. They'd start to sweat because there was plenty of precedent to go by. I had put too many punks they knew under a gun for them to think I wouldn't do it and the only way to stop it would be to get me first. They were the new cool breed, smart, polished and deadly, so full of confidence that they had a tendency to forget that there were others who could play the game even better. Who was it that said, "Don't mess around with the old pros"?
I finished straightening up the wreckage in the office, pulled a beer out of the cooler and sat down to enjoy it. From the street I could hear the taxis hooting and thought about Velda. She was a pro too and it would take a pretty sharp article to top her. She knew the streets and she knew the people. She wasn't about to expose herself and blow the whole job no matter how far into it she had gotten. If the chips went down, she'd have that little rod in her hand, make herself a lousy target and take somebody down too. At least in New York you heard about shootings.
I switched on the transistor radio she had given me and dialed the news station. For ten minutes there was a political analysis of the new attitude the Russians had taken, seemingly agreeable to acting in harmony with U.S. policy along certain peace efforts, then the announcer got into sports. Halfway through there was a special bulletin rapped out in staccato voice telling the world that the hired killers of Tom-Tom Schneider had been located in a