"Welcome," I said, without looking up. "Have a look around, and let me know if there's anything I can help you with."
"Not much chance of that, Bernie. Far as I can see, there's nothin' here but books. Whatcha lookin' at?"
"Nothing interesting, Ray. Just printed matter, like a book but without the binding." I folded what I was reading and moved it out of harm's way. He tried to get a look at it without being too obvious about it, failing in both respects, but did notice my attaché case on the floor behind the counter.
"Nice briefcase," he said. "I think I seen it before."
"Well, it's possible. I've had it for years."
"Got any bunnies in there, Bernie?"
"Bunnies? In an attaché case?"
"Like I said, I seen it before, an' more'n once you've been known to yank a rabbit out of it. If you're gonna do it again, I want to be around when it happens."
"It seems unlikely," I said, "but if any rabbits are yanked, you'll have a front row seat."
"Back row's better, Bernie. So's I can block the doors." He leaned in, dropped his voice. There were no customers in the store, but maybe he didn't want Raffles listening in. "I ran the prints on that shaver. You can have it back, but I'd get a new one if I was you. The case is cracked an' it don't work."
"I know. Did you get an ID on the prints? That was fast."
"Computers," he said. "They speed up everything, even the response time from Washington. Course it's even faster when you don't have to go to Washington, which is the case if the prints match up with somebody local that we already got a sheet on."
"I thought they might."
"There were some partials, probably a woman's from the size of 'em. They didn't ring a bell, an' I didn't send ' em to DC on account of I figured the others were what you were interested in. They were the ones on top, an' they were nice an' clear, an' they damn well did ring a bell. The name William Johnson mean anythin' to you?"
"Not a thing."
"Yeah, right. You better not play poker, Bernie. The other players'll know what you got before you do. Well, this Johnson's the last person to handle the damn thing. Is that what you figured?"
I should have expected something like this, given the run of coincidence I'd had all along. And it was a common name, which was why I'd picked it for my safe-deposit box. Even so, I hadn't expected it to come up less than an hour after my first visit to the box in ages.
"It couldn't be the same William Johnson," I said. "The reason I reacted-"
"I'll say you reacted. You looked like you swallowed a bad clam."
"That was my scoutmaster's name when I was in the Boy Scouts, Ray. William Johnson. I was just thinking of him not an hour ago."
"Yeah?"
"And he got in trouble, so he could have had a sheet. But it wasn't in New York, so I don't think it could be the same man. How old is the one who left his prints on the shaver?"
"Thirty-four."
"Different person. The man I knew, well, he'd have to be in his sixties by now. This one has a record? I can't say I'm surprised."
"What do you know about him, Bernie?"
"Until a minute ago," I said, "I didn't even know his name."
He looked at me for a moment, then shrugged. "Okay," he said. "I ain't sayin' I believe you, but you found that book about the quarterback, so maybe you know what you're doin'. This Johnson's been arrested half a dozen times, charged with assault an' menacin' an' a few counts of disorderly conduct. What he is, he's a pain in the ass."
"Has he done time?"
"You only do time if you're convicted. He never even went to trial. His uncle's Michael Quattrone, an' I think you probably heard of him."
"Investments," I said.
"That's what he calls it. He's been associated with some boiler-room operations over the years, where they got a bunch of guys workin' the phones, lettin' you in on the ground floor for some stock they're pushin'. Soon as you bite it goes straight to the basement. Guy's mobbed up, an' we think he's runnin' a laundry for his friends."
"Laundering money, you mean."
"You want to get your shirts washed, take 'em to the Chinaman down the street. You want to make some drug money look like you came by it honest, maybe Quattrone can help you out. No indication this Johnson's a part of it, beyond takin' a desk an' phone in the boiler room now an' then. He's Quattrone's sister's kid, an' that means anytime we pick him up he gets a lawyer who's real good at makin' charges go away. Mostly he picks up jobs when he needs 'em, workin' for a truckin' company, or as a bouncer at a nightclub."
"A mover and shaker," I said. "You happen to know where he lives?"
"Last address we got's in the West Fifties. You want it?"
When Ray had left, after reminding me that he wanted to be there at rabbit-pulling time, I hauled out the phone book and had a look. There was no shortage of Johnsons, and a fair number of them were Johnson William or Johnson W, but none showed the West 53rd Street address Ray had supplied. I wasn't hugely surprised. Johnson's last address was almost three years ago, and somehow I didn't see him as the type to stay in one place long enough to put down roots.
I picked up the John Sandford novel, found my place, and stepped right back into the more logical world of Lucas Davenport. But I had to leave after a couple of pages, because it was time for my lunch with Marty.
Thirty-Two
The Pretenders have a rule against conducting business on club premises. Obviously they don't monitor conversations at the bar or around the billiard table to make sure no one's talking about auditions or offering a look at a script. What they want to avoid is the appearance that business is being done, and toward that end they make you check your briefcase at the door. Accordingly, I'd left the attaché case at the shop, having transferred Marty's share to a pair of plain white envelopes. I handed them to him once we were settled in with our drinks.
"These are yours," I said, and he lifted the flap on one just enough to see that it was full of currency. His eyes widened the slightest bit, and he put the envelopes in his pockets and patted them through the fabric of his suit jacket.
"Now there's a surprise," he said. "I hadn't even known you'd, uh, taken up the good fight."
"Friday night."
"Extraordinary. And I gather you were successful. Highly successful, judging from the girth of those envelopes."
"They could be all singles," I said, "but they're not. Yes, I'd call it a great success." I told him how much he'd find in the envelopes, and that it represented fifteen percent of the total sum.
"How marvelous," he said. "All of it a total loss for the shitheel, that's the best part of it."
"For me," I admitted, "the best part is the money."
"You had every right to keep all of it, Bernie. I'm quite certain I offered to waive my own interest."
"You did, but why should you? It wouldn't have happened without you."
"I'm glad you feel that way." He patted an envelope. "It's not as though I'll have trouble finding a use for it."
We worked on our drinks-a martini for him, white wine for me-and chose our lunch selections, which Marty wrote down on a check for the waiter. I'm not sure why they do it that way, the waiters can hear as well as anybody else, and could presumably either remember the orders or write them down themselves. I think they like to have things they do differently just so the members will be in no danger of forgetting that they're in a private club, not just another restaurant.
After the waiter had left, slip of paper in hand, I asked Marty if he'd had any further contact with Marisol.
"No," he said, "nor do I expect to. That's a closed chapter, Bernie. She chose another man, and it's a choice she was entirely free to make. I emerged from the experience with a strong desire to punish him, which I have to say we've done, but no desire to chastise her, or to get her back. As I said, a closed chapter."