Finally with the check approved, Walsh returned to the teller. Even the initials on the check didn’t seem to convince her, and it wasn’t until she caught the eye of the young supervisor, held up the check and saw him nod his approval, that she was willing to proceed with the transaction. She stamped the check, jerked open the cash drawer and began counting out money. She counted it three times, shoved it through the slot. Jack Walsh took it, and stuffed it into his coat pockets. He walked out of the bank, straight back to his hotel and up to his room.
Inside, he locked the door, took off his coat and flung it on the bed. He rubbed his hands together, cackled gleefully again. All right. Now to business.
But first he was hungry. All he’d had today was some cheap wine. And the slop in the hospital he’d refused to eat.
He picked up the phone and started to call room service. Thought better of it. After all, Fred and Jason were watching the lobby. Might as well give them a turn.
He dialed information, got the number for Lutece. He ordered a full-course dinner complete with wine. There. Let them think about that.
Except he still had the taste of cheap wine in his mouth.
He went in the bathroom, squeezed some toothpaste out of a tube and brushed his teeth. He did so by taking them out of his mouth-Walsh wore dentures. He opened the medicine cabinet, took out a bottle of mouthwash, and gargled. He spit out the mouthwash and replaced the dentures.
He straightened up and looked at himself in the mirror. There. Still a wild man, but with sweeter breath. He grinned at the reflection in the mirror. Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.
He yawned, stretched. Well now, perhaps a shower might be in order. Maybe even a change of underwear.
But later. Much later. First to business.
He went out of the bathroom, sat down on the bed, picked up the phone and began making calls.
12
Mark Taylor settled back in the clients’ chair, flipped open his notebook, looked up at Steve Winslow and Tracy Garvin, and said, “O.K. Here’s the dope.
“Yesterday afternoon Jack Walsh left the subway and went straight back to his hotel, got his key from the desk, went up to his room. Two-oh-five. Two-fifteen he’s back down again, walks to the corner, mails a letter, walks down to the Chase Manhattan Bank and presents a check to the teller. She directs him to the supervisor, who goes through the usual red-tape bullshit-only it being Jack Walsh, perhaps slightly more than the usual red-tape bullshit-but eventually he initials the check. Walsh takes it back to the teller, who doesn’t seem too convinced but who eventually pushes the money through the window. Walsh stuffs it in his pockets and leaves.”
“How much money?” Steve said.
“I don’t know, and the bank won’t say. I might have had a chance of finding out if it weren’t for the fact Jason Tindel and Fred Grayson are after the same thing.
“When he left the bank, Fred Grayson tagged along and Jason Tindel stayed behind to hit on the bank supervisor. One of my men stayed behind to watch. From what he observed, Tindel didn’t get any satisfaction. But he sure did cause a fuss. The supervisor called in reinforcements, and it took the branch manager to come out and tell Jason Tindel to get lost. After all that, there’s not a prayer of them letting the information slip.”
“Gotcha,” Steve said. “What’s next?”
“Jack Walsh went straight back to his hotel and up to his room. Fred Grayson tagged along. About twenty minutes later Jason Tindel got back there, followed of course by my other man.
“Jason and Fred confer in the lobby. Now my men can’t get close enough to hear what they’re saying, but apparently they’re discussing shifts. Tailing Jack Walsh, I mean. Like setting up a schedule. At least that’s what I figure, ’cause anyway they talk a bit and then Grayson leaves. So I figure Tindel’s drawn the first shift, however long that’s gonna be, then Grayson’s gonna replace him, then probably Carl Jenson after that, and so on.”
“Don’t you know?” Steve said.
“No.”
“You mean you lost him?”
Taylor held up his hands. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. You’ll see why. Just let me tell it.
“O.K., so it’s like you think. Tindel’s got the first shift, I don’t know how long or who’s next, but I’ll find out when the relief arrives.
“Only it doesn’t happen that way. What does? Well, first off, around-” Mark checked the notebook, “-6:26 my man puts it, a van pulls up outside. A team of men get out, start unloading trays of food. Hot food. You know, like steam trays on wheels. The guy in charge goes up to the desk, asks for room 926. Which happens to be Jack Walsh’s room. So Jason Tindel pumps one of the waiters. My man overhears. It turns out the van’s from Lutece. Our homeless bum’s ordered a two-hundred-and-forty-nine-dollar meal, specifying each and every item, from the Chateaubriand to the vintage wine. Moreover, the head waiter comes down grinning like a Cheshire cat, so we can assume Jack Walsh was in no way stingy about the tip.”
“Right, right,” Steve said. “But the schedule. How come you don’t know when Tindel was relieved?”
“’Cause of what happened next.”
“Which was?”
“Starting seven-thirty they all show up.”
“They?”
“The family. The Tindels, the Graysons, Aunt Claire and the gang.”
“All together.”
“All of them together. Carl Jenson showed up about ten minutes later.” Mark flipped open the notebook. “7:26, Fred Grayson, the two wives and Claire Chesterton show up together. 7:38, Carl Jenson.”
“Why’d they show up?”
“Walsh sent for ‘em.”
“How do you know?”
“From what happened. See, with all those people milling around it got a little hairy for my men. Of course, they don’t want to be spotted. With so many people there, there was a good chance someone would get wise. Particularly after Carl Jenson showed up. He’s a wary son of a bitch. Suspicious nature, eyes open all the time, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah. So?”
“So anyway, the relatives are off in a corner of the lobby conferring in low tones and my men can only catch a word or two here or there. So when I say Jack Walsh sent for them, I’m inferring that from what happened.”
“Which is?” Steve said somewhat impatiently.
“Yeah, yeah,” Taylor said. “Sorry. Which is, they all went up to see Jack Walsh one at a time.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Like clockwork, starting at eight o’clock. It’s easier if I just give it to you. Here you go. Two minutes of eight, Jason Tindel goes up in the elevator; 8:14 he’s back down. They all converge on him, they’re all talking at once, you can’t make out a thing. Best you can tell, they’re not happy. Jason Tindel, at least, does not look happy.
“8:27-Fred Grayson up in the elevator. 8:38-Grayson down. Same thing.
“8:57-Rose Tindel up in the elevator. 9:10-Rose Tindel down.
“9:26-Pat Grayson up in the elevator. 9:37-Pat Grayson down.
“9:58-Claire Chesterton up in the elevator. 10:10-Claire Chesterton down.
“And last but not least: 10:26-Carl Jenson up in the elevator. 10:36-Carl Jenson down.”
Taylor flipped the notebook shut. “And that’s that. When Jenson came down they all conferred one last time, apparently over shifts. Because immediately after that everybody left but Jason Tindel. He staked out the lobby and was on till three in the morning, relieved by Fred Grayson. Fred stayed on till eight, when Carl Jenson took over. Jenson’s there now.” Taylor shrugged. “Not that it’s doing any good. So far, Walsh hasn’t shown.”
“By rights he should be dead,” Tracy said.