holding his jacket by the lapels and shaking it. “Fucking wrinkles.” He buttoned the jacket and patted its pockets. Apparently our conference had concluded.
“What about Tony?” I asked.
“You put him to sleep,” Nash said. “You wake him up.”
He walked to the top of the stairs.
“Tell the kid he’s fired,” Nash said. His feet made thumping noises on the stairs and he slammed the front door.
I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Same face, marginally smarter. I filled the sink with cold water and submerged my head. George Raft used to give himself the same treatment in the movies after somebody punched him. The cold water hurt the sore spots on my cheek and jaw. Or it might have been Jimmy Cagney who soaked his face. One of those guys I shouldn’t pick as a role model.
I rinsed a washcloth in the water and spread it on Tony Flanagan’s forehead. He was holding firm on the living-room floor. I lifted his head, slipped a pillow under it, and raised the end table off his shoulders. Tony’s jaw looked whole and unbroken, but I didn’t envy him the headache that would greet his awakening.
Out in the kitchen, I poured three inches of Wyborowa in a glass with ice and took it to the chair that Sol Nash had so recently vacated. I sipped, watched a vein throb in Tony’s neck, and contemplated my lame try at putting pressure on Charles Grimaldi. I’d disturbed him sufficiently to send Sol and Tony on a mission to retrieve the invoices but not enough to make him cut a bargain with me. Hadn’t nudged him close to a deal. The vodka nipped at the inside of my mouth. Tony’s punches must have torn something in there. I’d take another crack at Grimaldi. Give him an irresistible reason to trade with me. This time out, I’d be sneaky clever. Somehow put Grimaldi in a corner. Tony gave off blubbering noises and opened his eyes. I swallowed a long tug of vodka. Tony’s eyes were glassy, but he managed to fix his gaze on me.
“Here’s the good news, Tony,” I said. “Sol thinks you’re a hell of a driver. The bad news is he fired you.”
Tony got on his feet without a wobble.
“Fired?” he repeated.
“That’s what the man said.”
“Guess I should of kicked you,” Tony said.
He asked for a drink of water, and when he finished it, he left my apartment. He was wearing his straw hat.
29
RAY GRIFFIN was as good as his threat of that morning. He phoned. The call came thirty minutes after Tony had made his exit and I was applying a cold compress to a small lump on my cheek. I gave Griffin a warm welcome. He sounded surprised at the reception. He was more surprised when I said I planned to invite him over for a drink that evening. Major matters to discuss. He said he’d make it about eight o’clock, as soon as he’d wound up an interview. Wonderful, I said. By the time he hung up, Griffin’s surprise had acquired a tinge of suspicion. Perceptive of him. He didn’t know I had him ticketed for a key part in my latest surefire scheme.
He arrived closer to seven-thirty than eight. Suspicious but eager. He was wearing white pants with bell bottoms and a black tank top that showed the pimples on his shoulders.
“Want a vodka?” I asked. I oozed solicitation. “Sorry, it’s all I have in the place.”
“Sure,” Griffin said. He was carrying a notebook. “What’ve you got to go with it?”
“Ice.”
“Seven-Up? Or Sprite? Something to give it taste?”
I made him a Bloody Caesar and sat him at the kitchen table.
“I’m going to ask two things of you, Ray,” I said. “One, you make a phone call. Two, you wait a couple of days before you print anything.”
“Print what?”
“They’ll stop the presses for this one.”
“Unions’d go bananas if anyone stopped the presses.”
“Give you a National Newspaper Award then.”
Griffin’s mouth puckered when he tasted his Bloody Caesar. I’d gone heavy on the Tabasco.
“Who do I phone?” he asked.
“Your old sparring partner Charles Grimaldi.”
“So,” Griffin said, “the story I get at the end is what’s going on at Ace Disposal?”
“Terrific guess, Ray,” I said. “But after the phone call, you hold your horses on the article until I say go. No speculation on your own, no digging around at Ace, no requests for interviews.”
“And you’ll give me the whole picture?”
“Exclusive.”
“What do I say to Grimaldi?” Griffin asked.
I slid a piece of paper across the kitchen table. It had three names written on it in my own round hand. Laidlaw Construction. Stibbards Wire. Soward Brothers Concrete. I’d culled the names from one of Harry Hein’s computer printouts. Beside the names was the magic number. 837.
“When you get Grimaldi on the line,” I said to Griffin, “tell him you’re following up on your garbage series from last year. Say you’ve got fresh leads and want to check out your facts with him. Read off these names on the paper and ask if it isn’t odd the three companies were charged an identical amount for a day in the third week in June. That’s the 837. Quote him the figure.”
Griffin listened, his mouth hanging a shade open.
“Let Grimaldi talk,” I said. “He’ll have some kind of explanation.”
“A glib guy, all right,” Griffin said.
“Wait till he’s winding down,” I said. “Then say, well, you think you might have access to invoices that’ll make things clearer.”
“After that, what?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Grimaldi’ll have heard his fill.”
“You’re not going to let me in on what these names mean?” Griffin said. “And the significance of the 837?”
“Just dollars.”
Griffin studied the sheet of paper for clues.
“I could follow this up myself,” he said. “The companies are customers of Ace’s, that’s easy, and something’s wrong with them getting billed 837 dollars.”
“It’d take you weeks to get past what I’ve put in front of you,” I said. “My way, you get the complete bundle in a couple of days.”
I was exaggerating. Maybe lying. I couldn’t tell what Grimaldi’s reaction would be. He might bluff it out. He might catch a plane for Brazil. He might send Sol Nash around for another visit. Do it to me professional this time.
“Where’s
