Recoil

“You’re not making much sense, Gle

“How much do you know about electronics?”

“About enough to change a light bulb when I have to. Why?”

“Whoever set Gillespie up knew about the microphones in his office.”

“So?”

“You knew about them.”

“I suppose I did. You did mention it to me. Has Gillespie dropped some goodies?”

“Enough to keep the FBI busy for about ten years, I imagine. We’re still extracting it, still collating. It’ll be a while before we’re sure what we’ve got but it’s a rich vein. It’s all unsupported for now, of course. But it’s the biggest break we’ve had since Joe Valachi turned inside out.”

“Congratulations. Maybe it’ll give you enough to nail Frank Pastor again.”

“Sure—in five years or so after his lawyers exhaust all their delaying tactics and Pastor runs out of public officials to buy.”

“You sound jaded.”

“Well it’s a little outside my bag you know. I just protect them. Interrogation is the FBI’s job. I’d like to see Pastor put away but right now I’m not too happy about the idea of having to nursemaid C. K. Gillespie. He’s not my favorite sort of client.”

“Look on it as penance.”

“Why the phone call?”

“Maybe I’ve been doing a little investigating on my own, Gle

“You damn fool. You bloody idiot. If you——”

“Pipe down. You’re looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

“What gift horse?”

“Who do you think gave Gillespie to you?”

“So it was you.”

“I’m the computer programmer.”

“You bastard.”

“I’m taking them apart, Gle

“Oh you stupid bastard. You’ve gone bananas.”

“… by the seams.” He couldn’t help the tight little smile. “And I may have some good news pretty soon for Benson and Fusco and Draper.”

“What kind of news?”

“I’d rather give it to them personally.”

“Nothing doing. No addresses, no phone numbers.”

“I’m not asking for addresses or phone numbers. You’re in touch with them, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“You can get a phone number to each of them. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Shit.”

“It’ll be a pay phone. No bugs. No traces.”

“How can I trust you now?”

“Am I going to sell them out, Gle

“You’ve got to give me more than this to go on.”

“I can’t. Not now. Later.”

Bradleigh said, “What the hell do you think you can accomplish? You can get yourself killed, that’s all.”

“I could do that just by standing still and waiting for them to find me. Come on, Gle

“What about Jan and Ro

“They’re safe. They’re fine.”

He heard the exhalation of Bradleigh’s breath. “Maybe I’ll see what I can do. I’ll ask them if they want to talk to you.”

“Tell them it could save their bacon. Tell them: it could mean they’ll be able to come out of hiding.”

“In a pig’s eye.”

“Who gave you Gillespie?”

“That was a fluke but don’t rub it in.”

“It wasn’t a fluke, Gle

After a pause Bradleigh said, “I don’t know you at all, do I?”

“I’m not a bad fellow.”

“You’re a fucking lunatic.”

Mathieson said cheerfully, “I’ll see you.”

2

Ramiro was a big heavy dark cigar-chewing jowly sour-faced man at the wheel of an overshined twelve-thousand-dollar automobile. It slid in at the curb and Mathieson watched Ramiro get out, turning the fur collar of his coat up against the drizzle.

The passenger emerged from the far side of Ramiro’s car—a short truncheon of a man with vanishing gray wisps of hair and a rigid coin-slot mouth.

“Vince Damico,” Homer muttered by way of identification. “Manages the restaurant-linen supply business.”

From the front seat of the rented Plymouth they watched Ramiro and Damico go into the restaurant.

“They eat here every Wednesday?”

“And then they go upstairs and play poker.”

“It’s a gambling joint?”

“No, just a friendly poker game. Lou Tonelli runs the restaurant. He hosts the game every week.”

“Fu

“Well it’s still the Italian neighborhood, you know.”

Traffic squeezed through the narrow street and pedestrians hurried by, topcoated under umbrellas. Mathieson said, “We’re likely to be here for hours.”

“That’s what stakeouts amount to. The thrill and adventure of detective work.”

The rain frosted the windshield but he didn’t switch on the wipers; it would have been a giveaway. He could see the restaurant well enough. ANGELO’S—Fine Italian Food. It looked expensive.

He had never been an easy victim to boredom but it was a bleak night, autumnally cold; he thrust his hands into the pockets of his topcoat and reminded himself to buy a pair of gloves.

“Vasquez wanted to be in on this, didn’t he?”

“Did he say so?”

“It was a feeling I got,” Mathieson said.

“He’d have liked it. But no way. Too much chance Ramiro might recognize him.”

“Does Ramiro know him?”

“A lot of people recognize him. Not as recognizable as Roger Gilfillan, maybe, but a lot of people do spot him.”

“I’m surprised he exposes himself to all the publicity. I’d think it would be a handicap in such a confidential business.”

“Times like this, maybe. But it’s celebrity that sells popcorn. Vasquez is the best-known private detective in the world. That’s what brings the clients in. It’s what brought you in.” Homer ruminated over his slice of cold pizza. “It’s you I’m worried about. Ramiro’s never met you but he must have seen your photograph.”

“I’m nine years older than those photographs. Don’t you think the disguise works?”

“It’s the same disguise you used with Gillespie, without the glasses. I don’t know—I guess it’ll fool him. He’ll have no reason to think of co

“Homer, there was no way I could wait somewhere else. I’ve got to be in on this—I want to see his face.”

“I can understand that. But you let me do the talking, understand? You must be the silent menace. Concentrate on looking like a killer.”

“What does a killer look like?”

“Silence is the main thing. Don’t say a single word. It’ll shake him up more than anything else would. Keep your hand on the gun in your pocket.”

“Don’t worry about that. I haven’t forgotten he carries a Magnum.”

“Well we’ll have to take care of that before we do anything else, won’t we.”

3

Finally they came out of the restaurant—Ramiro and Damico. It was half past one in the morning; the rain had stopped and a cold mist flowed through the empty street. A third man came out into the street and there was some conversation among the three; then the third man embraced Damico, turned and pumped Ramiro’s arm in a politician’s handshake, left hand on Ramiro’s elbow.

“Lou Tonelli,” Homer said. “He’s the ward boss down here, among other things.”

Tonelli went back into the restaurant. Ramiro and Damico climbed into the Cadillac Fleetwood and after a moment its tailpipe spouted white steam.

For three blocks Homer followed without lights; then the Cadillac turned uptown on the Bowery and Homer switched on the headlights when he fed the Plymouth into the traffic. Mathieson observed how he interposed several cars between himself and the Cadillac without getting caught behind traffic lights; it looked easy but it wasn’t.

Ramiro went west on Thirteenth Street, dropped Damico on University Place and went uptown again. “All right,” Homer said. “He’s not going home—that’s what we needed to know. We’ve got him. He’s heading for the call girl. Forty-sixth between First and Second. Now all we’ve got to do is get there first.” He swung off Madison Avenue and they barreled across Twenty-sixth street, jouncing in the chuckholes, ru