“We’re looking for a man named Marty Sokolin,” Meyer said patiently. “Does he live here?”
“Yes, and who the hell are you?”
Patiently, Meyer took out his wallet and opened it to where his shield was pinned to the leather. “Police department,” he said.
The woman looked at the shield. “All right, Mr. Detective,” she said. “What did Sokolin do?”
“Nothing. We just want to ask him a few questions.”
“What about?”
“About what he might be planning to do.”
“He ain’t here,” the woman said.
“And what is your name, madam?” Meyer asked patiently. If there was one attribute Meyer possessed, it was extreme patience. An Orthodox Jew born in a predominantly Gentile neighborhood, he’d been further handicapped by the vagaries of a whimsical father who thought it would be a good joke to give his son a double-barreled moniker. The family surname was Meyer. And old Max Meyer decided to name his change-of-life offspring Meyer Meyer, just to get even with the powers that dictated off-season births. The joke was played. It was not a very practical one. It provided the young boy with a ready-made millstone. To say that Meyer Meyer’s childhood had been only an endless round of fist fights provoked by either his name or his religion would have been a complete understatement. For coupled with the fist fights came the slow development of a diplomat. Meyer learned that only some battles could be won with his hands. The rest had to be won with his tongue. And so he acquired a veneer of extreme patience to cover the scars of his father’s little jibe. Patiently, he even learned to forgive the old man before he died. Now, at the age of thirty-seven, the only scar he carried from an excruciatingly anxious childhood (or, to be more precise, the only scar that showed) was a head as bald as the famed American eagle.
Patiently, he repeated, “And what is your name, madam?”
“Mary Murdoch. What’s it to you?”
“Nothing,” Meyer said. He glanced at O’Brien. O’Brien stepped back a pace, as if anxious to sever whatever national ties bound him to the woman. “You said Mr. Sokolin was not in. When did he leave, might we ask?”
“Early this morning. He took his damn horn with him, thank the good Lord.”
“His horn?”
“His trumpet, his trombone, his saxophone, whatever you call the damn thing. He practices it morning and night. You never heard such unholy screeches. I wouldn’t have rented him the apartment if I’d known he played a horn. I might kick him out, matter of fact.”
“You don’t like horn players?”
“Put it this way,” Mary Murdoch said. “They make me vomit.”
“That’s a unique way of putting it,” Meyer said, and he cleared his throat. “How do you know Sokolin left with his horn?”
“I seen him. He’s got a case for the thing. A black case. That’s what he carries the damn thing in. A case.”
“A trumpet case?”
“Or a trombone, or a saxophone, some damn thing. It sure makes an unholy racket, whatever it is.”
“How long has he been living here, Miss Murdoch?”
“Mrs. Murdoch, if you please. He’s been living here for two weeks. If he keeps blasting away on that damn saxophone, he won’t be living here much longer, I can tell you that.”
“Oh, is it a saxophone?”
“Or a trumpet, or a trombone, or some damn thing,” she said. “Is he in trouble with the police?”
“No, not really. Do you have any idea where he went when he left this morning?”
“No. He didn’t say. I just happened to see him go, that’s all. But he usually hangs out in a bar on the Avenue.”
“What avenue is that, Mrs. Murdoch?”
“Dover Plains Avenue. Everybody knows the Avenue. Don’t you know the Avenue?”
“No, we’re not too familiar—”
“Two blocks down and under the elevated structure. Dover Plains Avenue. Everybody knows the Avenue. He hangs out in a bar there. It’s called the Easy Dragon, that’s some name for a bar, isn’t it? It sounds more like a Chinese restaurant.” Mrs. Murdoch grinned with death’s head simplicity.
“You’re sure he hangs out there?”
“Sure, I’m sure.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Put it this way,” Mrs. Murdoch said. “I’m not above taking a little nip every now and then myself.”
“I see.”
“Which don’t make me a drunkard.”
“I know.”
“All right. You finished?”
“I guess so. We may be back.”
“What for?”
“You’re so pleasant to talk to,” Meyer said, and Mrs. Murdoch slammed the door.
“Well!” O’Brien said.
“Luckily, she didn’t start shooting,” Meyer said. “With you along, I always expect bullets.”
“Maybe she’ll shoot when we come back. If we come back.”
“Maybe so. Keep your fingers crossed.”
“Where to now?”
“The Easy Dragon,” Meyer said. “Where else?”
The Easy Dragon was named the Easy Dragon for no apparent reason. The decor was not Chinese. There was not a Chinese in sight anywhere. The Easy Dragon looked like any tavern in any suburban neighborhood, peopled with the usual sprinkling of Sunday afternoon drinkers. Meyer and O’Brien entered the place, adjusted their vision to the dimness after the brilliant sunshine outside, and walked to the bar.
Meyer flashed the tin instantly. The bartender studied his shield with great dispassion.
“So?” he said.
“We’re looking for a guy named Marty Sokolin. Know him?”
“So?”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes. So?”
“Is he here now?”
“Don’t you know what he looks like?”
“No. Is he here?”
“No. What’d he do?”
“Nothing. Are you expecting him today?”
“Who knows? He’s in and out. He’s only been living in the neighborhood a short time. What’d he do?”
“I told you. Nothing.”
“Is he a little crazy?”
“How do you mean?”
“You know. A little crazy.” The bartender circled his temple with an extended forefinger. “Cuckoo.”
“What makes you think he’s crazy?”
“He’s got a fanatical gleam in his eyes. Especially when he’s drinking. Also, he’s a big bastard. I wouldn’t want to ever tangle with him. This guy chews railroad spikes and spits out carpet tacks.” He paused. “Pardon the cliché,” he said. He pronounced it “cleesh.”
“You’re pardoned. Do you happen to know where he might be right now?”
“You tried his house?”
“Yes.”
“He ain’t there, huh?”
“No.”
“What’d he do?”
“Nothing. Would you mind, if you know, telling us where he might be?”
“Well, I’m not sure I know. You tried his girl’s pad?”
“No. Who’s she?”
“A dame named Oona. Oona I don’t know what. How’s that for a fancy name? You should see her. She’s like a regular bombshell. Perfect for a nut like Sokolin.”
“Oona, huh? And you don’t know her last name.”
“That’s right. Just Oona. You won’t miss her if you see her. She’s a blonde with bazooms like pineapples.” He paused. “Pardon the cliché,” he said.
“You’re pardoned. Any idea where she lives?”
“Sure.”
“Where?”
“Up the street. There’s a rooming house on the corner. She’s new around here, too. The only reason I know where she lives is she mentioned she was at a place served meals. And the place on the corner is the only place serves meals. I mean, of the rooming houses.”