Shred of Evidence

The day after Tony Savage was discovered in the trunk of his car on one of the piers off South Street, both garrotted and with two 9 mm. holes in his head, I had a visit from Sal Peluggi, one of the mob street bosses and Tony Savage’s father-in-law.

Sal was of the old school, a big man, well fed, well dressed, about sixty, with a full head of greying hair, always looking freshly barbered. He favored cigars and didn’t worry about his own or anyone else’s lung cancer. He did me the honor of a personal visit instead of sending for me.

“This the best you can do, Daniel?” he asked, looking with interest around my bare-bones office. He’d called me Daniel since he’d known me as a kid in the Kitchen.

“I don’t know, Sal,” I said. “I don’t like too much show, scares away the poorer clients.”

“You have many of those?”

“Not too many. But, you know…”

“Yeah,” he said, settling, flicking his ash onto the floor. I shoved the office ashtray at him, but he ignored it. “You know why I’m here,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Tony?”

“Yeah. Generally, we settle our own problems, but the new thinking—you know—we try to avoid being too obvious.”

“I understand.”

“Anyway, this is personal. No one makes my daughter a widow and walks.”

“Who’d want Tony dead?”

He shrugged. “Could be anyone. He was in business and was connected. May even be someone wanting to take a crack at me. Who knows?”

“I understand,” I said again, beginning to get a hint of where this was going. It got clearer suddenly.

“We’re looking for a mechanic. Your name came up.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. We know who did it—those two palookas, O’Meara and Hobbs.”

“How do you know that?”

“Their MO.” These old-timers watched all the crime shows. “Garrotte and nine-millimeter—two in the head.”

“Hmmm. Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“Those two aren’t blessed with much in the way of smarts.”

“Still, they’ve stayed alive this long,” I said. “And have—what?—about fifty hits to their credit?”

“Yeah, about that. So what?”

“So you wouldn’t expect them to leave their calling card if they were hitting a connected guy, would you?”

He thought about it briefly.

“We know they’re guilty, but you can check them out—then pop them.”

“Just a minute, Sal,” I protested. “I’m not just a gun for hire.”

“What are you then?”

“Well, yes, maybe you might construe what I do that way. But really I’m just a private investigator who looks into things.”

“That’s what I’m asking you to do.”

“Yes, but I can’t just pop them—even if they’re guilty.”

“Why not? Justice, ain’t it?”

“Maybe, But I’m not the judge and jury here. I’ve got to have a reason.”

“Would you consider it reason enough if they were going to pop you?”

“That might do it,” I agreed.

“I think you can be pretty sure they’re not going to surrender peacefully.”

“Doesn’t seem like my kind of job, Sal.”

“A personal favor for me, Daniel.”

“Still…”

“We’re offering twenty-five large, five down.”

“On the other hand.” I said, ” I suppose, for you, I could look into it, see where it goes.”

“Thought you might,” he said drily, slapping an envelope on the desk. I could see the bills peeking out. “We’ll do it your way,” he said. “If they’re innocent, no problem, long as you can prove it. If they’re guilty—well, you’ll think of something. We’re paying for results.”

“Okay, Sal,” I said. “Any idea where I can find them?”

“You’re the detective—pardon me, private investigator—so investigate. And before you retire them permanently, try to find out who paid them for the job.”

“You don’t want much.”

“Twenty-five big ones.”

“I’ll try. They have a rep for not talking.”

“I know. Try to loosen their tongues before you shoot them.”

We shook hands. I felt my knuckles crack. Then he left.

* * *The sign on my door read, “Dan Healey—Investigations,” but it was true what Sal said. I’d done some head-hunting, usually for my old employer, the NYPD, usually cases where there was no question about the guilt of the perpetrators, usually cases where the Department didn’t care if they came in under their own steam or not. The highest they ever went was ten, so twenty-five wasn’t something I could sneeze at. My ethics were there, of course. I didn’t deliberately execute anyone, ever. But a threatened man or woman—and I’ve dealt with both—could usually be tempted to reach for a weapon—and, well, it was a fair do from then on, and I had to keep proving that I was quicker and more accurate or I was the dead one. Sounded fair to me. So my ethics were in place—and besides I needed the money.

I called in my secretary and the love of my life, Liz Moore, and told her about it.

“Doesn’t sound like your kind of job, Healey,” she said.

“That’s what I told him.”

“He convinced you?”

“Well, yeah. The twenty-five big ones may have had a little to do with it.”

“A little.”

“Yeah, a little,” I said. “You’re beginning to sound like Mac.”

Mac was Sergeant Ozzie McPheeters, my old NYPD partner. I’d been wounded and pensioned out but Mac and I were still close friends. The wound had come about as we were wiping up a dope ring. A bullet had nicked a lung. It was enough to lay me up for a few weeks, but when I came back I found that my days of rushing up stairs, or setting any records in the hundred-yard dash were over, so it was ride a desk or out. I’d taken my pension and gone private, and now it was through Mac and our old boss, Lieutenant Joe Mooney, that I got the NYPD jobs. Mac had an annoying habit of repeating words I used, aiming them at me in criticism. Now, Liz was doing the same thing.

“It’s not just the money,” I said.

“Of course not.”

“Look, I don’t even think they’re guilty. Knocking off a mob guy, they’d disguise their MO.”

“But if they didn’t—and they are?”

“Well, two against one. You think they’ll come quietly?”

“I don’t know the gentlemen.”

“Well, for starters,” I said, “if they heard you calling them gentlemen, that’d be enough to get you seriously killed right there. These are not gentle people.”

I told her what I knew about Timothy “Flop” O’Meara, and Homer “Happy” Hobbs. O’Meara was a broad chunk of a guy, about 30, best described by the old song, “Mister Five By Five.” The Flopster got his nickname—which was originally Bellyflop—from the time as a kid he used to put those seated around the community pool in danger of drowning when he bellyflopped into the water. He had the IQ of a pet rock, but was not without guile. He once waited a week to get back at a guy who had “borrowed” his car, then threw him off a bridge, but only after he had ascertained that the guy couldn’t swim. ‘Devious’ would be an overstatement as far as the Flopster was concerned, but he could add two and two and get four if there were no extenuating circumstances. He also was a hell of a shot with his 9mm. S&W, and could knock a floating condom out of the air at thirty feet.

His lanky sidekick was six-foot three, 160 pound Homer “Happy” Hobbs, about 33, so-called because he was always smiling even as he was sticking a knife in your ribs or easing you off this mortal coil with a well used garrotte. He was expert in the use of both, and just in case all else failed, he sported as impressive backup a .357 Magnum which he wore in his left armpit.

O’Meara and Hobbs were hit men, pure and simple, and were for hire to anyone who’d meet their price which was twenty large per erasure. If two hits were required, they’d do a doubleheader for thirty. Their price was high, considering the many competitors in the business, including myself, but they were known as reliable tradesmen who left no clues and wouldn’t talk.

If any brain work was required, then Hobbs was the principal thinker, but they were followers rather than leaders, and took direction better than they gave it. I’d known about both these gorillas for a long time but never had anything to do with them. I wasn’t sure that I would now, but I’d been hired to look into Tony Savage’s killing and what little evidence there was pointed to them.

Savage wasn’t your everyday businessman. He owned a string of pizza parlours over in the Brownsville area of Brooklyn, which may have explained why Sal had chosen me, since I was a stranger there. I was Midtown-based, and had last been in the Brownsville-East New York area years ago when I’d made a wrong turn coming from Flake Morrisey’s funeral in Holy Cross Cemetery.

Savage was known to brag about his mob connection through his father-in-law, and was also reported to be quite a lady’s man. Evidently being married to Sal Peluggi’s daughter wasn’t enough to scare him into staying home.

When I’d finished this rundown, Liz said, “What’ll you do, Healey?”

“See them. Ask a few questions.”

“And how will you do that?”

“With great caution. Very great caution.”

“And?”

“How the hell do I know, Liz? I’ll see them. I’ll talk to them. I can’t predict the future especially where those two jokers are concerned. If I knew every move to make, everything that was going to happen, I’d be bored to death.”

“That last bit may be right, but it won’t be from boredom.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for your vote of confidence.”

She stroked my wrist across the desk. “I have confidence in you, Healey, it’s just that you shouldn’t take unnecessary chances.”

“Listen to yourself. You take unnecessary chances every time you walk the streets of New York.”

* * *I left her there and went out into the mean streets and started to work. I walked the block from my office to the Fifth Precinct. Mac was at his desk doing the Times crossword.

“Keeping the brain sharp,” I said.

“What’s a five-letter word for ‘detective’?”

“Snoop.”

“By George, I think he’s got it,” he said, pretending to write it in. He lowered the paper. “How you doin’, kid?” He struggled to his feet and hugged me like the big old bear he was. I’m six-one and 215 pounds, but Mac’s elevation was two inches higher, and he packed 250 solid—and I mean solid—pounds. I saw him one day take a suspect down with a flying tackle that broke both the poor guy’s legs. He had a knife scar on his left cheek that ran in an arc from his ear to the corner of his mouth and added to his rugged looks. It had taken 72 stitches to close that baby. He got it the day Charlie “Cutter” O’Toole whipped out a knife while we were questioning him in an alley and gave Mac a rip before we could do anything. The Cutter was rearing back for the coup de grace at Mac’s jugular when I finally got my .38 Special into action and splattered his brains all over the brick wall behind him.

“Felt those go by my ear,” Mac complained as I bent over him.

“Would you rather I’d let him complete his operation?” I asked. “By now you’d be carrying your head under your arm.”

“I’m not being critical,” he said.

“Shut up, will you,” the medic said. “I’m trying to hold your face together ’till we get to the hospital.”

“Okay,” Mac said. “You don’t have to get nasty about it.”

About then, the shot they’d given him kicked in and he went bye-bye.

Now, I asked him, “What kind of connections do you have over in the Brownsville area?”

He began singing, “Give Me the Moon Over Brooklyn…”

“Okay, okay. Skip the concert. Who do you know in the seven-three?”

He stared at me. “Spreading your talents?”

“I got a client needs to contact a couple of guys over there. I’m trying to get a line on where they hang out.”

“And their names are?”

“Geez, Mac, I’m not a suspect, am I?”

“Not yet. Names?”

“You won’t like it. Flop O’Meara and Happy Hobbs.”

“You’re right, I don’t. What does a peace loving PI like yourself want with those apes?”

“Just a few questions, that’s all.”

“Danny, Danny, you should know the Flop and Hap Show don’t answer questions, they ask them. And if you don’t answer, they break your legs, or worse.”

“I know that,” I said. “Where am I likely to find them?”

Mac held up a finger and picked up his phone. He turned his back but I could hear the low rumble of his voice, a couple of chuckles. He swivelled back, smiling.

“You’re gonna love this,” he said. “Right now your two goons are being questioned concerning the death of an honest burglar they found with a bicycle chain wrapped around his throat. That”—a nod of his head—”was Tommy Mellowes—remember him?—he said to say hello. He said they’ve got butkis on the pair and by the time you get over there they’ll likely be cut loose and celebrating in Casey’s Bar under the Liberty Avenue el. He said that’s one of their hangouts.”

“Thanks, Mac,”

“Don’t thank me for anything to do with that pair. You want to tell me more?”

I hesitated, but Mac was my oldest friend and anyway I wanted somebody besides Liz to know what I was up to in case I suddenly went missing, which would not be unusual for anyone messing with O’Meara and Hobbs. So I told him. About Tony Savage’s killing, which he knew about, about the visit from Sal Peluggi, and how he thought O’Meara and Hobbs were the killers.

“Too obvious for a mob hit,” Mac said.

“What I said. Sal wants me to touch base with them anyway.”

“Touch base? You’ll be lucky to get as far as the outfield with those guys.”

“Gotta try. Big bucks.”

“Yeah. Good luck. Hope there’s enough for a decent funeral.”

I rose to go. “And kid,” Mac said, “don’t go near those two without a complete arsenal.”

As I got to the door, he added, “I’m going to let Mellowes know you’re in the area—and why.”

“Geez, Mac, that was confidential.”

“I know,” he said. “So’s my call to Tommy.”

* * *I took the bridge to Flatbush Avenue and turned north on Atlantic. By the time I found Casey’s Bar, a nondescript place with shamrocks on its dirty neon sign, it was four in the afternoon. Time for a beer.

Silence fell when I entered the gloomy bar. I paused to let my eyes adjust, then moved up to a seat near the taps. The hum of conversation resumed.

The bartender looked his question as he approached. “Guinness,” I said.

While it was settling, he said, “Looking for someone?”

“Maybe.”

“Cop?”

“Private.”

“Then you’re looking for someone.”

“True.”

He glanced cautiously around. “This ain’t a good place to be nosey.”

I smiled for the patrons who were on the ear to catch our exchange. “Ain’t that the truth,” I said, and laughed. The bartender chimed in, shook his head, and walked away. Laugh with the customers. A couple of minutes later he was back, topping off my Guiness, sliding it in front of me. I passed him a twenty.

“O’Meara and Hobbs,” I murmured.

“Behind you in the corner,” I heard him, but I swear his lips didn’t move. He rang up the sale, and the change disappeared. I guess he figured putting his life on the line for a stranger was worth a few bucks.

I let the Guinness settle for another full minute, then took a hearty pull, lowering the pint about a third. I gave a satisfied burp, then shoved back and swivelled around to take in the room. The usual dozen or so habitues going on about last night’s Mets game, pouring back the late afternoon brews, a scattering of more upscale drinkers at the tables. In one corner by the window, a gaunt guy studied a racing form, an untouched pint in front of him. Behind me in the corner, my two beauts, eying me, drinks on the table in front of them.

I took another long haul on the Guinness. The instant hit made me brave. What the hell, let’s not beat around the bush here. I walked over to their table and set my pint down.

“Hi, guys,” I said brightly. “Mind if I join you?”

“Piss off,” O’Meara growled.

“And right now,” Hobbs added, smiling.

“Does the name Tony Savage mean anything to you guys?” I said quietly, leaning over the table.

O’Meara’s left hand shot out, grabbed a fistful of my shirt and hauled my head onto the table with a smack that reminded me to ask myself just what the hell I thought I was doing. At the same time a gun ground into my ear. Fast hands. “Maybe you’d like a taste of what Tony got,” he said.

“Shut up, Flop,” Hobbs said. “Now, my friend,” he said, addressing me, “perhaps you better tell us what this is all about before my friend here gets worried and pulls the trigger.”

“That would be a shame,” I ground out of my jammed face. “Because I’m sure my involuntary reaction would be to pull the trigger of this Glock and blow his balls off.” I gave O’Meara a jab under the table just to let him know I wasn’t kidding.

“Peace, gentlemen,” said Hobbs. O’Meara grimaced and growled.

“Okay by me,” I said. “Just get that piece out of my ear.”

“Everybody ease back,” Hobbs said. “Let him go, Timothy. There. Now, can we put the artillery away and talk?” The guns disappeared. As far as the patrons of this dump were concerned, we weren’t even there.

“That’s better,” Hobbs said. “Now, sir, you were saying?”

“My name is Dan Healey,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.”

O’Meara made a move towards his gun. “A snoop! Let’s do him right here, Hap.”

“Now, now, Timothy, all in good time.” He turned to me. “And what do you want with us?”

I told him I’d been hired to look into Tony Savage’s death.

“Who by?” O’Meara asked.

I gave him the eye. “Confidential.”

“Yeah. I bet.”

“A connected guy,” I said. “I told him I didn’t think you did it.”

“Why?”

“Too obviously your MO.”

O’Meara glanced at Hobbs. “I told you, Hap—”

“Shut up, Timothy. Go on, Mr. Healey.”

“I told him I thought someone was trying to frame you.”

“And you’re right. The cops were already onto us for this. The night in question we were in a casino in Atlantic City—and we have about twenty witnesses to prove it.”

“I’m sure you do,” I said, grinning.

“And even if we did it, they got no proof,” O’Meara chimed in, helpfully. I began to see why Hobbs was supposed to do the talking for this pair.

“Shut up, Timothy,” Hobbs suggested.

I finished my Guinness. “Well, that’s good enough for me. I’ll pass the information along and I’m sure that’ll be the end of it.”

“Do you really think so?” said Hobbs.

“I don’t see why not.”

“My partner’s little slip don’t arouse your suspicions?”

“What slip?”

“I see. Well, I think you’d better come along with us, Mr. Healey, until we’re satisfied that you’re satisfied.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” I said, reaching for my Glock.

“Don’t! That’s really a very bad idea,” Hobbs said, flashing his Magnum .357 under the table’s edge.

“On the other hand,” I said. “Maybe you have something there.”

“I’m sure I do.”

“Does this mean we get to do him?” O’Meara said eagerly. “I want first dibs.”

“Down, boy,” I said. “You’ll get your turn.”

It was a simple matter for them to walk me out to their car. Hell, it would have been a simple matter for those two to walk me out of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral or anywhere else. You don’t argue with a .357 Magnum or with an ape who has your arm locked behind your back and could break it in a second or two if you didn’t go along.

Hobbs did the driving—a Cadillac Seville—with me beside him and O’Meara in the back with his S&W occasionally jabbing me in the neck just to let me know it was there. As if I needed reminding. As if he even needed the gun. The fear of those massive hands around my neck was enough to keep me in place and quiet. He reached across my chest and relieved me of the Glock.

“What now?” I asked. We’d left Casey’s about five minutes ago.

“Guess,” came from the back seat, followed by a raspy chortle.

“You need have no fear, Mr. Healey, as long as you co-operate,” Hobbs said.

“I’m co-operating,” I said. “I came along quietly. I could have objected—made a fuss.”

A guffaw came from the back seat turning into a coughing fit. Hobbs glanced back, concerned, as O’Meara hacked away.

“Now, see what you’ve done,” he said. “You’ve started my friend’s allergy. Any time he starts to laugh, his lungs fill up—or something.”

“I didn’t realize I was being funny.”

“Timothy has an odd sense of humour.”

“I’ll say.”

“I wouldn’t go too far down that road, Mr. Healey. Timothy is very sensitive.”

“But you said—”

“It’s all right for me to say things like that, but not anyone else.”

“I see. Okay, sorry. Won’t happen again.”

“Fine. Fine. Remember, keep on the good side of the Flopster and you’ll be okay.”

I looked at O’Meara heaving away, red in the face, and wondered which was his good side.

“What about yourself?” I asked.

“Me? Oh, I’m no threat to anyone, especially you. Not as long as—”

I chimed in, “—you do what you’re told.”

He smiled. “You’re a quick study, Mr. Healey.”

I looked out the car window for a few seconds. “Where we going?”

“We’re there,” Hobbs said, pulling up in front of what looked like a deserted warehouse.

“It looks like a deserted warehouse,” I said.

“It is.”

Hobbs had a key for the big brass lock on the door. We went in, snapping the inside deadbolts into place. I was liking this less and less.

“Those guys at the bar know I left with you,” I said.

“No they don’t,” O’Meara said. “They’ve forgotten you already. And they never saw us.”

“In here,” Hobbs said, leading me into what was probably once an office. “We do some of our best work in here.”

There was a desk against one wall, a couple of green filing cabinets against another, two office chairs next to them, and a heavy, straight-backed chair in the centre of the room. There were dark patches on the floor around the chair and it didn’t take any great detective work on my part to deduce that they were bloodstains.

“Sit down, Mr. Healey,” Hobbs said, but just as I moved towards the chair, O’Meara smashed me on the side of the head with a right hand I never saw and drove me into the wall. I slid to the floor. The left side of my head felt like it had been jammed in a vise. My vision was blurred and I shook my head a few times to clear it. They left me there to work my way back to full consciousness.

“Dear me, Mr. Healey, you should watch your step,” Hobbs said. “Be more careful or you’ll do yourself an injury.”

“Whatta ya want?” I mumbled blearily, holding my head.

“Not much. Merely the name of the man who hired you.”

“Thass confidenshul,” I got out, wondering if my brains were seeping out through my ears.

O’Meara had me off the floor in one sweep of his left arm, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and seat of the pants and hurled me into the opposite wall. I passed out.

I don’t know how long I was out, but as I eased back into the world, I vaguely discerned the outlines of the pair sitting in the chairs near the desk, clinically observing me as if I were an insect on a pin.

“Tough head, give him that,” O’Meara said as I struggled into a sitting position.

“Really, Mr. Healey, there is no point to this violence,” Hobbs said. “Tell us who hired you and you’re free to go.”

I was by now in a proper go-to-hell mood. Getting knocked around does that to me. “Tell you what,” I said, “tell me who hired you and I’ll tell you who hired me. Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

O’Meara started towards me. “Okay, okay,” I said. “Just kidding.”

Hobbs arose and came close. “You’re in no position to kid or to trade, Healey.” I noticed the politeness was gone. “Tell us, or the next time I probably won’t be able to contain my partner.”

“Okay,” I said. “You win. Give me a hand up, will you?” I stuck out my left hand and Hobbs grabbed it and heaved me to my feet. It was the opening I was looking for.

I twisted his arm and brought him around with his back to me. At the same time I was under his coat with my right hand, coming up with his Magnum and bringing it to bear on O’Meara.

But O’Meara was fast on his feet as well as with his hands. He dived and rolled for the safety of the desk, his hand inside his coat.

Hobbs gave me an elbow in the ribs to throw me off, but I hit him a crack on the head with the Magnum and he dropped, out of it for now. O’Meara’s S&W barked as he rolled. I felt a sting on the calf of my left leg and suddenly I was on the floor again. I still had hold of the Magnum and as O’Meara scrabbled to get cover he let go a couple at where I had been standing. I fired three quick shots. The bullets tore the corner off the desk and found his body. I saw him go slack and his S&W skittered across the room.

I struggled to my feet only to discover that Hobbs was not out of the play. He came at me from behind and the garrotte dug into my neck. I got my left forefinger under the wire and twisted away. Hobbs was riding me like a bareback rodeo rider, exerting terrific pressure. I figured I had about three seconds.

I crashed his back into the wall and reached behind me with the Magnum, feeling soft flesh. I kept pulling the trigger until I felt the pressure ease. Then I slid down to the floor on top of Hobbs and pulled the garrotte away from my bleeding neck.

The air was acrid. I breathed it in as if it were ambrosia. I didn’t move for about two minutes, enjoying the sensation of being alive. Then I crawled over to O’Meara, recovered my Glock, and sat on the floor checking the wound in my leg. It was a pass-through in the fat of the calf, bloody but not serious. I bunched my handkerchief against it, binding it with two flash hankies I took from Hobbs and O’Meara. I pulled my shirt collar up to cover my seeping neck, got the car keys from Hobbs’s pocket, and hobbled out.

By trial and error I found my way back to Casey’s Bar. My car was still at the curb and I pulled in behind it and climbed out of the Seville, leaving the keys in the ignition. I figured it would be gone by midnight. I stumbled to my own car and headed for Liz’s place.

* * *I have little memory of the drive back, but I awoke the next morning in Liz’s bed with an aching head, an iodine-stained neck, and a leg that throbbed but was bound up and feeling better.

“You’re tough, Healey,” she said, bringing me a mug of steaming black coffee. “When you crawled in here last night, I thought you were dying.”

“You should see the other guys,”

“Yeah, you told me before you passed out.”

I admired the bandage on my leg. “Your work?”

She laughed. “Hardly. Bill came in and cleaned the wound, put a few stitches in it and said to take it easy for a few days.” Bill was Dr. Bill Carpenter, a neighbor of Liz’s, who had done similar patch-up work on me in the past.

“Won’t he have to report a gunshot wound?”

“Said he’s not sure it is. Said it could have been caused, for instance, by a hot poker.”

“With those two, that would have been a distinct possibility.”

“Bill’s on our side,” she said. “He’ll do anything I ask.”

I looked at her sharply.

“No, we’re not,” she said, reading my mind. “He’s just a good friend.”

“Okay then,” I said. I made getting-up motions. “Gotta call Mac.”

“We went through all that last night,” she said. “I called him and gave him the same vague directions you gave me. He called Tommy Mellowes and they found the pair a couple of hours ago. Mac called me and said to tell you. Said it looked like quite a bloodbath.”

“It wasn’t pretty,” I agreed, and suddenly I started shuddering and shaking. Liz held me until the spasms ceased. She wiped the sweat and tears off my face.

“You never like this part of it,” she said gently.

“I hope I never do,” I said. “If I ever start to enjoy it, do me a favor—shoot me.”

“It’ll never happen,” she said, squeezing me.

We comforted each other for a bit then I said I had to go. “Report to Sal.”

“Phone him from here.”

“I will, but this requires a face-to-face.”

I phoned Sal, said simply, “It’s over,” and asked him to meet me at my office in half an hour. He agreed. There was no need for either of us to mention money.

I bumbled around Liz’s apartment over her protests until I felt capable of walking to my car without fainting. I’d dressed in casual clothes I kept there, jeans and a sweatshirt. My suit was a total writeoff.

I was sitting behind my desk when Sal came in, my wounded leg on the corner of the desk, my jeans leg pulled back revealing the bandage.

“The things I do for clients,” I said.

He took a look at the leg, the fresh iodine stained welts on my neck, my general overall battered and bruised appearance. He said, “You don’t look a hell of a lot better than O’Meara and Hobbs.”

“You heard?”

“I got the word. Your friend, the bartender at Casey’s, is on the payroll. He saw you coming back in their car and taking off in your own. We were there before the cops, wiped the place down in case your prints were around, wiped the car too.”

“Thanks,” I said. It didn’t matter, I thought, Mac knew about it anyway. There was not going to be any serious investigation into the deaths of those two. It would go down as another gangland slaying, bad guys killing bad guys, the mayor and the NYPD happy to have another pair of killers off the streets.

“You did a good job, Daniel,” Sal said. He slid a stuffed wallet across the desk. “Here’s the remaining twenty, plus another five for wear and tear, and”—he eyed my outfit—”a new suit.”

“Thanks, Sal,” I said. “You’re satisfied, then?”

“Perfectly.”

“I got the name of the man who hired them,” I lied.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Take the money, Daniel. I’m satisfied.”

“You should be,” I said. “I was kidding. Actually, neither of them talked.”

“Didn’t think so.”

I decided to gamble. “I’m slow, Sal, but I get there. You were the one who hired them to get rid of your son-in-law. You wanted them to use their usual methods so it could be traced to them. You just wanted me to destroy anyone who could point the finger back at you.”

He went still and sat staring at me for long seconds, his eyes dark and deadly, cold, like he was looking at a man already dead. When he spoke, his voice was a whisper.

“Where are you going with this, Daniel?”

“Nowhere,” I said. “You used me, Sal. I don’t like being used, being played for a patsy.”

He looked down. “Sorry about that. It seemed the only way to get the job done. That bastard fooled around on my daughter once too often. And he had designs on my job as well. And Hobbs and O’Meara—well you saw them, you know what they’re like. How long, do you suppose, it would have been before they came around with their hands out?” He sighed. “I must be getting old. I’d never have hired those two even as gofers in the old days.”

“Don’t tell me your troubles,” I snarled. “I’m not interested.”

We sat staring at each other for long seconds. Finally, he stood up.

“You do good work, Daniel,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll have something for you in the future.”

“Don’t bother,” I said. “We’re through.”

He glared at me for a moment, then nodded once and left. There was no handshake this time.