He was getting ahead of himself. He needed to contact Anthony Webster-if the man was still alive-and find out what he remembered. And then Jack needed to talk to Henry.
11
Philly Gertz, the doorman, was at the Twenty-third Precinct the next morning to “look at a few pictures.” He actually made a better appearance in slacks and a sports shirt than he did in his doorman’s uniform. Nick set him up at a table with a cup of hot coffee and several thick photo books.
Nick made Philly feel like a million bucks. “If there’s anything you need, Philly, you just let me know. If any of these uniforms ask you what you’re doing here, you just tell them you’re working for Manhattan Homicide and give them my name.”
“Sure thing, Nick.”
Philly was a little freaked out by the station. People were coming and going, talking and shouting. He was in a big room with a bunch of desks. Uniforms and plainclothes cops were everywhere. There was a little cell in the middle of the room, and a guy in the cell was yelling at a plainclothes cop.
“I gotta go to the fuckin’ bathroom,” he was saying. Philly noticed there was no toilet in the cell.
“You shut the fuck up or I’ll come in there and shut you up. You understand?” said the cop, pointing his finger. The man did shut up but started holding his groin area and jumping up and down.
Nick seemed to have vanished. He had just walked out among the desks and cops and disappeared. Philly opened his photo book for the first time and started looking at female mug shots.
Half an hour later, Paul and David arrived at the station and were led to separate rooms where Nick and Tony took their sworn statements. There were no new revelations. Everything was totally consistent with what they had said the night before.
As Philly was finishing up his first book and starting to feel a little more comfortable, Nick returned with Paul and David and several more thick photo books.
“I’m going to slide Paul here next to you, Philly, so you’ll have some company. How’s that coffee? You need a refill?”
“No, I’m okay, Nick. Thanks,” said Philly.
“We still have to keep you two apart while you look at these pictures,” Nick told Paul and David, “because you can’t talk to each other about them. David, I’m going to set you up somewhere else and we’ll split the books up. If you see someone who looks familiar, just make a note of it and let me know. Then we’ll switch books. I want your identifications to be totally independent. You understand?” Both men nodded. Nick took David to another table on the other side of the room.
Two hours later, the three men still had not picked out anybody from the photo albums. “This is a little more than looking at a few pictures,” Philly whined to Nick.
“Well, Philly, if you want to be a star you’ve got to work hard,” Nick replied. Paul and David didn’t complain, but Nick could tell they were done looking at the books as well. He decided to change gears and bring the police sketch artist in to see if they could help him come up with a composite of the suspected murderer and the woman.
Later that day, Benny Avrile was hiding in the corner of his favorite bar, Tillie’s, having a glass of beer. It was his first venture into the public since the murder two days before. It had taken him a while to come to grips with what happened that night. He’d spent most of the last two days smoking a lot of weed to calm his nerves and doing a little coke to keep his spirits up. Benny lived on the street-actually in a vacant condemned building-in a very rough section of the South Bronx, but he had never even witnessed a shooting before. He’d never seen a dead person close up-at least not before the makeup, the powder, and the formaldehyde. Seeing Carl Robertson lying there dead had truly flipped him out.
The story had been all over the Post and the Daily News, but so far the police didn’t seem to have any leads. Benny was fervently praying that they would continue to remain in the dark.
Tillie’s was a small place and it was empty except for Tillie, who was working behind the bar. Tillie was half Puerto Rican and half Italian and about forty-five years old, and he enjoyed his own booze a little too much. “I can’t go to the party and not play,” he’d told Benny one night after they’d both had a few too many. Tillie’s compromise with his demons was to work the day shift. It was usually slow, and he had no desire to drink during the day.
Benny was not in a talkative mood, so Tillie stayed at the other end of the bar catching up on some paperwork, approaching only when Benny called for a refill. They were in their respective positions when she walked through the door.
Benny didn’t notice her right away-he was too busy praying to his beer. Tillie hardly noticed her either. He just walked over to where she’d sat down and waited for her order. There were no solicitous greetings in this place.
“Vodka and tonic,” she said, and Benny looked up. She had dark glasses on, her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing a tight white tank top with jeans and sneakers, but there was no mistaking-it was definitely her.
Benny looked back down at his beer and tried to appear as inconspicuous as possible-no easy feat in an empty bar. After Tillie put her drink on the bar, she picked it up and started walking toward him. Benny didn’t budge.
“How ya doin’!” he said, turning toward her. “I’m glad you finally showed up. You know, I still don’t know your name.”
“Never mind,” she said as she came closer.
Benny snuck a glance at Tillie to make sure he was watching and listening. Tillie had a sixth sense about trouble-you didn’t last as a barkeep in this neighborhood for long if you didn’t. Benny knew he had a gun under the bar as well.
“Pull up a stool,” he said. “You’re making me nervous standing over me like that.”
“You should be nervous.” He could tell she was angry. “You should be real nervous. Is there someplace we can go to talk?”
“This is it. I don’t have a place. It’s okay, though. Tillie’s almost deaf,” he said, nodding toward the far end of the bar. That would have been news to Tillie if he had heard the remark.
Benny figured this was the safest place to be at the moment. He and Tillie weren’t great friends, but he knew Tillie would blow this woman away in a heartbeat if she pulled a gun. She clearly wasn’t from the neighborhood.
“Where’s my fucking money?” she demanded.
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it. I’ve been saving it for you,” Benny said quickly. He wasn’t lying. He’d been afraid that she might find him, so he hadn’t spent her share yet.
“Give it to me.”
“It’s not here. It’s hidden. You wait here and I’ll go get it.”
She laughed, causing Tillie to look up.
“I’ve got a better idea,” she told him. “We’ll go together.”
Benny had known she’d say this, but he hadn’t yet worked up an appropriate response, so he decided to be truthful.
“I don’t want to go anywhere with you. I don’t want to get my head blown off.”
“I’m not the shooter in this group, Benny. Besides, I don’t have a gun. I’ll let you search me before we leave.”
As afraid as he was, Benny relished the thought of running his hands up and down that body, even if it was just to check for a weapon. And maybe, just maybe, she’d like it. It might have been wishful thinking, but Benny had always been an optimist.
“Well,” she interrupted his thoughts, “are we going to do this peacefully or not?”
“What if I say okay? What happens when I give you the money?”
“And my gun.”
“And your gun. What happens to me?”
“Nothing. You have my word. Why did you run off that night?”
“I got freaked out,” Benny said. “When the old man went down, I didn’t know what to do. I just ran and ran and ran. Then I hopped the subway and ended up back here.”