“Ah, Mr. R.,” he said pleasantly, and seated himself opposite Reardon, transferring his grip expertly to an equally effective grasp on the sleeve of the waiter, a wise decision at Marty’s as both men knew. The waiters at Marty’s Oyster House were all expatriates from Ruben’s or Lindy’s in New York and had a tendency to be independent, to say the least. It struck Reardon that little Alfred Sullivan would have fitted in well here with his colorful shirt and armbands, although he probably would take care of customers, a crime in the eyes of the waiters at Marty’s. Porky smiled across the table.
“What will you have?”
“Just an ale, thank you.”
“Don’t thank me — you’re paying.” Porky looked the waiter firmly in the eye. “Make that two large drafts of import ale — light. And sometime this week, if it doesn’t interfere with your schedule.”
The waiter removed Porky’s hand from his sleeve with a gesture Henry the Eighth might have reserved for a wife whose seniority had expired. He flicked at the bare table with his napkin, demonstrating consummate unconcern, and walked away, sneering at the poor effort to intimidate him.
“He’ll be back,” Porky said, leaning over the table confidently. “I have pull in this place.” He smiled and leaned back comfortably. “Well, Mr. R., I know the beer is good here, and the oysters are the best, but the beer and oysters aren’t all that bad down on Bryant near the Hall of Justice. So what happy fate brings us together again, as Jean Valjean is reputed not to have said to Inspector What’s-his-name?”
He broke off in utter astonishment as their waiter came back with two foaming steins and placed them, insouciantly, on the table. He waited until they were alone once more before he spoke. There was a touch of awe in his voice.
“I knew I had pull in this place, but this is precedent-setting! Two ales served the same day! Herb Caen shall hear of this. I’ll have to start taking advantage of it.” He thought of methods of taking advantage. “Next time a martini, and if that works, the time after something really challenging. Like a planter’s punch, say, or a whiskey sour...”
Reardon smiled at him. “You mean, a beer this time-next time, the world?”
“Exactly!”
Reardon’s smile remained fixed. What did he have to lose? “Or even a... a Gremlin’s Grampa?”
“If you insist,” Porky said expansively, and raised his glass.
There was a moment’s pause. “I wouldn’t push my luck,” Reardon advised, and sipped his beer, his face sober. His gray eyes came up from the stein to his companion’s face. “Where did you hear of a Gremlin’s Grampa?”
Porky’s eyes widened innocently. “From you. About three seconds ago. Is it a secret? Or does it taste as bad as it sounds? Or is it important in the least? Tune in next week—”
“All right,” Reardon said, ending that line of attack. “Porky, question number one: You’ve heard about Jerry Capp getting hit?”
Porky nodded without lowering his glass. His eyes were fixed quite expressionlessly on Reardon’s face over the brim as he continued to drink. The police lieutenant nodded in return and went on.
“And Pete Falcone?”
Porky’s hazel eyes widened a trifle, the maximum he allowed himself — or tried to allow himself — to exhibit emotion at unexpected news. He set down his stein.
“I read about Falcone in the papers this morning, after you so rudely started unraveling the knitted sleeve of care — Shakespeare, more or less — but the papers didn’t say anything about it being a hit. The way they had it, I thought maybe he tried to fly, and forgot his wings.”
“I didn’t say Falcone was a homicide,” Reardon said impassively. “I merely asked if you had heard of his death. Well, you have, and that was my question. Now, just this morning—”
Porky Frank raised a neatly manicured hand, interrupting.
“Mr. R.,” he said, with a touch of reproval in his voice, “trust is a two-way street, running somewhere between Bush and Sutter, if I’m not mistaken; although I could be, being a stranger in town.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, did Mr. Porfirio Falcone do his dive a cappella or did someone give him a hand?”
“I was under the impression this was a buyer’s market,” Reardon said slowly. He shoved his glass around the Formica tabletop, staring at the wet rings and trails he was creating. “Since I’m paying, I thought I’d ask the questions—” He paused, took a long drink, and then put his stein down. His eyes came up. “And I’ll ask you the same question I asked you before: where did you hear of a drink called a Gremlin’s Grampa?”
“And I’ll give you the same answer: from you. And add another question — why? Is it important?”
For several moments Reardon contemplated his companion; then he sighed.
“All right, Porky. Never mind why. I need your help, so I suppose I have to level with you. Everything indicates that Pete Falcone was pushed out of that window by some second party.” He could not keep the puzzlement from his voice, although he tried. “And everything indicates it was a girl who helped him.”
“Well,” Porky said philosophically, “they helped him make his living, so I suppose it’s only fitting that one of them gave him a helping hand in dying.”
“You don’t seem very surprised.”
“The last time I was surprised,” Porky said, raising his stein and checking its dwindling contents before drinking, “was in the year fourteen ninety-two. I didn’t think old Chris would make it.” He started to bring the mug to his lips and paused. “What’s with this Gremlin’s Grampa bit?”
“It seems it was her drink. Cointreau, brandy, gin—”
“What?”
“—vermouth and vodka—”
“What?”
“It’s the truth. Anyway, as I was saying before, first it was Jerry Capp and then Pete Falcone, and just a few hours ago Ray Martin was also found dead—”
Porky Frank coughed, almost choking on his drink, spattering beer across himself and the table, barely keeping Reardon inviolate. He withdrew a pressed handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and attempted to repair the damage, at least to himself. His expression fought for a balance between his vaunted control and plain shock.
“Ray Martin? Dead?”
“This time you sound more surprised,” Reardon said casually.
There was a brief pause as Porky Frank studied the lieutenant. He shoved his empty glass away from him and leaned back. When he spoke, a good deal of the lightness had departed his tone. He almost sounded severe.
“Mr. R.,” he said evenly, “if we are going to do business, either now or in the future, possibly you would do well to recheck with our mutual friend in the Fifty-second Precinct in New York. If you expect me to exhibit guilty knowledge every time you make one of your pontifical statements, please send me a registered letter a day or so before, so I can prepare.” He placed both hands on the table, preparatory to rising. “Now, do we stop playing games and you tell me why you called me — and woke me — and what you want from me, if anything, or do I go home and try to make an honest dollar lying to someone less gullible than a bright young police officer like yourself?”