Reardon was forced to smile.
“Captain Tower can do a lot of things, but I can’t see him jamming himself into an evening gown and batting his eyes at a guy in a bar. He has trouble jamming himself into a suit—”
“He doesn’t have any trouble batting guys,” Dondero said. “Maybe not eyes, but guys.”
“—but I’m afraid we’re going to have to look elsewhere.” Reardon acted as if he hadn’t even heard the interruption. “I think we ought to have a chat with Mr. John Sekara, maybe. Possibly he has some ideas as to why all of his old co-workers are suddenly getting themselves killed. Because I sure as hell don’t. After all, they all worked for the same outfit, one way or another.”
“It’ll be a pleasure to speak with the man,” Dondero said with enthusiasm, and crushed out his cigarette. “When do we see him? With any luck, maybe we’ll be too late.”
“We’ll see him pretty soon.” Reardon came to his feet. “Right now I’ve got a personal job to do.” He paused. “Incidentally, Sergeant Bennett is going to be working with us on this.” He waited for some comment from Dondero, but the sergeant knew when to keep quiet. “While I’m gone, I’d suggest you bring him up to date on the Capp killing. I know he was there, but show him the reports. And I’d also suggest you both bring yourselves up to date on the others. Stan should have his report in on Falcone. I haven’t seen it yet myself, but it should be in that pile of garbage over there.” He pointed to his desk.
“Don’t mention that word.” Dondero shuddered.
“Sorry. And the autopsy report on Martin will be up soon, and the report from the state trooper who was called by those painters. Bone up on those. Maybe you’ll be able to tell me who did it by the time I get back.”
“I’ll be very happy to solve the case for you while you’re away, Lieutenant,” Dondero said magnanimously. “When will you be back?”
“A couple of hours at the most,” Reardon said quietly, and moved to the door.
“More than ample time,” Dondero said expansively. “Have a good time. Don’t rush.” And he reached for the pile of papers on the lieutenant’s desk with a slight flourish.
Chapter 8
Thursday — 10:05 a.m.
Lieutenant Reardon waited for traffic on Bryant to abate a bit — for without his Charger beneath him he was far from foolhardy — and then crossed the street, walking diagonally. He reached the opposite curb and continued two blocks down the street to a drugstore on the corner of Morris, enjoying the pleasant weather. The call he was about to make was one he greatly preferred not to go through the switchboard of the Hall of Justice.
He pushed through the double doors into the crowded interior — crowded not by customers, but by displays and counters filled with everything from hardware to toys to magazine racks to jewelry to automotive repair kits. And where is the drugstore of my youth? he thought; if I came in here in some dire emergency requiring instant succor in the form of — say — aspirin, would they be able to locate it? Probably not, he thought with a sense of foreboding, and managed to get through an aisle without causing a towering pyramid of strained baby food to topple on him. He slid into a telephone booth at the far end of the long room, dropped his coin and dialed the unlisted number from memory.
There was the sound of prolonged ringing at the other end of the line before the receiver was finally raised, but Reardon had expected that. Any hour before noon was sure to result in similar delay from that number. There was the sound of a prodigious yawn and then at last the voice came on. It was sonorous, polite but slightly bored; it was also quite obviously still fighting sleep.
“Dial-a-Prayer,” the voice said evenly. “O Lord, in Thy mercy please forgive the poor sinner who doth phone Thy servant at this hour as he is trying to get in a few hours sack time—”
“Porky!”
“This is a recording,” the voice said chidingly. “Please do not interrupt. As I was saying—”
“I heard what you were saying. Look, Porky, this is—”
“I know who you are, Mr. R. You are the voice of my conscience, intent upon wakening me. What can I do for you, since you obviously won’t let me sleep?”
“I want a word with you. In person. Name the place.”
There was a tragic sigh of resignation.
“And knowing your lack of patience in these matters,” Porky said, “I assume you want it like right now, if not sooner. Ah, me! Well, how about Marty’s Oyster House? In half an hour, say? They’ll be open by then, and I’ll be able to appear in something more formal than pajamas. Does that sound satisfactory?”
“Its a deal,” Reardon said. “First one there reserves a booth.”
“And last one there’s a rotten egg,” Porky said, pleased to be able to contribute, and hung up.
Thursday — 10:30 a.m.
As is so often necessary in this age of inflated living standards, aided and abetted by appetites whetted on TV commercials, Porky Frank was a man who pursued more than one occupation. His main endeavor was running a small but honest book; to supplement his income and allow him to live as he wished — which was high off the hog — and also to use up the information that came his way, sometimes even without his seeking, Porky Frank moonlighted as a stool pigeon.
The movies have done much to distort the proper image of a stool pigeon, leaving people with the impression that all stool pigeons are small, scrawny, skulking little men who always look over their shoulders in fear and speak from the sides of their mouths with prison-trained ventriloquism. Nothing could be further from the truth. Small skulking fear-stricken people would be hard put to pick up the time of day, let alone any information valuable to third parties. People who pass on vital facts always lower their voices when small, skulking characters are around. Porky Frank was a prime example of how wrong the movies are in their portrayal of stool pigeons.
Porky — nee Paul — was a medium-sized, outgoing young man with enough ebullience to gain him the lead in a Noel Coward play. He enjoyed life to its hilt, and had no objection to others sharing his joy. He had been born and raised in Manhattan and had entered both of his professions there; nor had he left his native heath because the heat was getting too great, but precisely because it wasn’t great enough. Porky, since childhood, had felt there was something subversive about snow and as an adult he frequently pointed to Russia as an example. Once his success and the scope of his acquaintanceship had expanded sufficiently to allow him to transfer the base of his operation, he had done so with pleasure, selecting San Francisco as the city in which his talents could best be exercized without the need to bundle to the ears against frost six months of the year. He had come to Lieutenant Reardon’s attention well recommended by a close friend, a New York City equivalent-in-rank policeman from the 52nd Precinct. Reardon, to date, had never had cause to regret the introduction, and many times good reason to appreciate it.
Despite having to return to the Hall of Justice for his car, the stocky detective lieutenant managed to reach Marty’s Oyster House with several minutes to spare. He parked in the lot beside the building and entered the side door. At ten-thirty in the morning even a bar as popular as Marty’s was not overly crowded; a few perennial barflies were pasted to stools at the long bar as if they had been installed with the plush walls and the brass spittoons — although this was scarcely possible, since Marty’s had only been open that day a matter of minutes. Reardon walked through the beery odor and the Gay Nineties decor and found himself a booth well to the rear, still unclothed at that early hour. The thought of a bottle of ale struck him favorably, and he was about to consider ways and means of enticing one of the pink-shirted and armbanded waiters when Porky Frank appeared, escorting one with a firm hand under the arm.