Lippy Sullivan had been forgotten. Maybe it was just as well. The guy who died on the subway station wasn't mentioned at all either. When I finished with the paper I tossed it in the litter basket and went into the cigar store on the corner and called Velda.
When she came on I asked her how she made out at the bank and she said, "The teller remembered Lippy all right, Mike. Seemed like they always had a little something to talk about."
"He remember the deposits?"
"Uh-huh. Tens, twenties and singles. Nothing any bigger. From what was said he gathered that Lippy was in
some small business enterprise by himself that paid off in a minor fashion."
"Nothing bigger than a twenty?"
"That's what he told me. Oh, and he always had it folded with a rubber band around it as if he were keeping it separate from other bills. Make anything out of it?"
"Yeah. He was smart enough to cash in the big ones before depositing them so nothing would look funny." I told her briefly about Heidi Anders identifying Lippy in the crowd.
All she said was a sorrowful, "Oh, Mike."
"Tough."
"Why don't you leave it alone?"
"I don't like things only half checked out, kid. I'll push it a little bit further, then dump it. I wish to hell he hadn't even called me."
"Maybe you won't have to go any further."
"Now what?"
"Pat called about twenty minutes ago. He had pictures of Lippy circulating around the theater areas all day. Eight people recalled having seen him in the area repeatedly."
"Hell, he lived not too far from there."
"Since when was Lippy a stage fan? He never even went to the neighborhood movie house. You know what his habits were."
"Okay, okay. Were they reliable witnesses?"
"Pat says they were positive ID's. Someplace Lippy learned a new trade and found a good place to work it."
"Nuts."
"So make Pat sore at you. He's hoping this new bit will keep you out of their routine work. Now, is there any reason why you still have to go after it?"
"Damn right. Only because Lippy said there wasn't any reason to begin with."
"Then what else can I do?"
"Go ask questions around Lippy's place. Do your whore act. Maybe somebody'll open up to you who won't speak to me or the cops."
"In that neighborhood?"
"Just keep your price up and you won't have any trouble."
She swore at me and I grinned and hung up.
I was only three blocks away from Irving Grove's Men's Shop on Broadway and there was still time to make it before the office buildings started disgorging their daily meals of humans, so I ducked back into the drizzle and
walked to the corner. A little thunder rumbled overhead, but there were a few breaks in the smog layers and it didn't look like the rain was going to last much longer. In a way, it was too bad. The city was always a little quieter, a little less crowded and a lot more friendly when it was wet.
Irving Grove was typical of the Broadway longtimers. Short, stocky, harried, but smiling and happy to be of service. He turned the two customers over to his clerks and ushered me into his cubicle of an office to one side of his stockroom, cleared a couple of chairs of boxes and invoices and drew two coffees from the bartered urn on the desk.
"You know, Mr. Hammer, it is a big surprise to know my wallet was found. Twice before this has happened, but never do I get them back. It wasn't the money. Three hundred dollars I can afford, but all those papers. Such trouble."
"I know the feeling."
"And you are sure there will be no reward?"
"The P.A.L., remember?"
He gave me a shrewd smile and a typical gesture of his head. "But you are not with the police force, of course. It would be nothing if ..."
"You don't know me, Mr. Grove."
"Perhaps not personally, but I read. I know of the things you have done. Many times. In a way I am jealous. I work hard, I make a good living, but never any excitement. Not even a holdup. So I read about you and ..."
"Did you ever stop to think that there are times I envy you?"
"Impossible." He stopped, the coffee halfway to his mouth. "Really?"
"Sometimes."
"Then maybe I don't feel so bad after all. It is better to just read, eh?"
"Much better," I said. 'Tell me, are you a theatergoer?"
"No, only when my wife drags me there. Maybe once a year if I can't get out of it. Why?"
"Whoever lifted your wallet was working the theater crowds."
Irving Grove nodded sagely. "Ah, yes. That is possible. I see what you mean." He put his cup down and picked a half-smoked cigar from an ashtray and lit it. "See, Mr. Hammer, I live on the West Side. For years yet, always the same place. I close here and on nice nights I walk
home. Maybe a twenty-minute walk. Sometimes I go down one street, sometimes another, just to see the people, the excitement. You understand?"
I nodded.
"So pretty often I go past the theaters just when they're going in. I watch what they're wearing. It helps for my trade, you know. It was one of those nights when my wallet was stolen. I didn't even realize it until the next morning, and I couldn't be sure until I came back to the store to make sure I hadn't dropped it here somewhere. Right away I reported it and canceled all my credit cards."
"What denomination bills did you have with you?"
"Two one hundred dollar bills, a fifty and one five. That I remember. I always remember the money."
"Where did you carry it?"
"Inside my coat pocket."
I said, "Maybe you can remember anybody that pushed or shoved you that night. Anybody who was close to you in the crowd who could have lifted it?"
Grove smiled sadly and shook his head. "Fm afraid I'm not a very suspicious person, Mr. Hammer. I never look at faces, only clothes. No, I wouldn't remember that."
I crushed my paper cup, tossed it in the wastebasket and thanked him for his time. He was just another blank in a long series of blanks and all it was doing was making Lippy look worse than ever. Velda was right. I should have just left it all alone.
So I got out of there, walked over to Forty-fourth and The Blue Ribbon, pulled out the chair behind my usual table and had the waiter bring me a knockwurst and beer. Jim waved hello from behind the bar and switched on the TV so I could watch the six o'clock news.
Eddie Dandy came on after the weather, freshly shaven, his usual checkered sportscoat almost eyestraining to watch whenever he moved, his voice making every piece of dull information sound like a world-shattering event. George came over and sat down with his ever-present coffee cup in his hand and started in on his favorite subject of food. He had just asked me about a new specialty he was thinking of putting on the menu when I stopped him short with a wave of my hand.
Eddie Dandy had changed the tone of his voice. He wasn't reading from his notes, he was looking directly into the camera in deadly seriousness and said, ". . . and once again the public is being kept in the dark about a matter of grave importance. The unidentified body found in the
Times Square station of the subway has been secretly autopsied with the findings kept locked in government files. No information has been given either the police or the press and the doctors who performed the autopsy are being confined in strict quarantine at this moment. It is this reporter's opinion that this man died of a virulent disease developed by this government's chemical-germ warfare research, one that could possibly lead to severe epidemic proportions, but rather than inform the public and institute an immediate remedial program, they chose to avoid panic and possible political repercussions by keeping this matter completely in the dark. Therefore, I suggest. .."
I said, "Oh, shit!" Then threw a bill on the table and dashed to the phone booth in the next room. I threw a dime in the slot, dialed Pat's number and waited for him to come on the phone.