ahead, caught full face and pin sharp.
‘My God.’
Whitlock watched Mike. He had the look of a man who had been searching for something under a stone and had found it; fascinated repulsion was the description that came to mind.
‘That’s the man?’
‘That’s him.’
Mike took in the wide clear eyes, the firm arrogant set of the mouth; the nose, once straight, had gone through a few changes of shape since boyhood. It had even changed since Mike last saw it.
‘Ugly, isn’t he?’
Whitlock frowned at the picture. ‘He looks normal to me. Quite handsome, even.’
‘OK. I’m prejudiced.’
‘Tell me about him.’
Mike made a face.
‘You promised.’
Mike got two Styrofoam cups of coffee from the machine by the door and brought them to the table. They sat down in front of the big monitor.
‘Lenny Trent asked me if I had a private agenda where this man is concerned,’ Mike said. ‘You asked me if it was a vendetta. Well, yes to both questions. The agenda is bedded in a time long ago, when I was a kid. When I was, to be precise, a rookie quarterback for the New York Giants.’
‘If this is a football story I may fall asleep.’
‘Stay with me, you’ll be all right. During my second week with the team one of the star players, Lou Kelly, got his career ended abruptly in the parking lot behind the ball park. He was beaten half to death. At that time I had never seen anyone injured so badly. He lost an eye and had his left arm broken in so many places it had to be amputated below the elbow.’
‘How come?’
‘I didn’t get the full story until years later. A certain senator had offered Lou Kelly money to perform badly in a crucial game. He only had to play badly enough to give the other team the edge, that was all they needed. Lou Kelly refused and he was promptly offered twice as much money. He still refused. So a man was sent to punish him for being so intractable.’
‘A contract beating.’
‘Yeah. It turned out worse than a killing for Lou. I still remember seeing the man waiting for him outside the players’ exit and thinking, that guy is bad news. It was a long time ago and everybody was much younger then, but I’ve got no doubts. The man who destroyed Lou Kelly’s career that night was Paul Seaton.’
They were silent for a minute, drinking coffee, staring at the picture on the screen.
‘According to my contact at Aerial Defence,’ Whitlock said, ‘Seaton and his bandits are a bunch of crazies. They don’t limit their activities to running drugs. They’re into fundamentalist agitation, sabotage, even random murder. They could be a part of Reverend Young’s local problem.’
‘How much intelligence does Aerial Defence have on the bandits?’
‘I just gave you all of it. The one other thing they know for sure is that nobody offers the bandits any resistance. People are too scared. Look over your shoulder at these guys, you won’t survive past sunset.’
Mike leaned forward and touched the PRINT button on the computer keyboard. When the menu came up he clicked the High Resolution option. The printer started up.
‘I’ll take copies to Kashmir with me.’
‘Just don’t say where you got them,’ Whitlock said.
Mike crossed his heart and finished his coffee.
At one o’clock Whitlock took a cab to an address on West 3rd Street. He checked a name in his notebook, then descended carefully on narrow steps from street level to a shadowy basement door. A neon sign outside said TIME OFF in letters that alternated buzzily between green and red.
There was a weary woman at a desk by the door. ‘Five bucks,’ she announced.
Whitlock gave her a five. She dropped it in the drawer and stared glassily past him.
‘I’m looking for a man called Clancy Spencer,’ Whitlock said.
‘He’s working.’
On the platform at the far end of the club a grizzled black man was singing croakily into a microphone. He was accompanied on piano, sax and drums by men who looked nearly as old as he was. They were doing ‘Malted Milk’, after a fashion.
‘How do I get to speak to him when he’s done?’
The woman glanced at Whitlock for a split second. ‘Just let him see you got a drink for him, he’ll come soon enough.’
At the bar Whitlock got a Coke for himself and a large scotch for Spencer. He took the drinks to a table near the platform. As he sat down he held up the whisky in one hand and pointed to the singer with the other. Spencer caught on straight away and nodded, still croaking into the mike.
There were no more than twenty other customers in the place. Their applause when Spencer and the combo finished was a thin rattle around the smoky room, a sound like twigs snapping. A moment later Spencer sat down opposite Whitlock.
‘Nice meetin’ you.’ He reached across and shook Whitlock’s hand. ‘Call me Spence. What’s your handle?’
‘People call me C.W.’
Spence had the worst-fitting set of dentures Whitlock had ever seen. They were loose and they moved when he spoke, giving the impression that his mouth was out of sync with his speech.
‘Well then, C.W., this is mighty nice of you.’ Spence picked up the glass with finger and thumb, toasted Whitlock with a little swing of the glass, then swallowed half the whisky in one go.
‘How long have you been doing this, Spence?’
‘Singing in jazz dives? Since I was a kid.’
‘Never done anything else?’
‘I’d three years off to go to the war. Then I got married for a while and tried to make a go of a regular job. But it didn’t work out.’ He laughed throatily, making the dentures click. ‘Most of my life it’s been the way it is. Of course I ain’t what I was. Used to be a regular Eckstine. Now I’m just a broken singer of mostly broken songs.’
‘I thought that was Randy Newman.’
‘He stole the line off me.’ Spence laughed again. He finished the scotch and put down the glass, stared at it pointedly.
Whitlock got him another. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions, Spence?’
‘You a cop?’
‘No. I’m not anyone who means you harm.’
‘Easy to say.’ Spence picked up the fresh glass and sipped this time. ‘What
