The Third Circle
Chapter 37
Chapter 37
On Wednesday morning, John bet two thousand with Lennie, this time on the number that would, indeed, win the next day, and pay out at around 300 to one.
"Hey, Lennie," John said after he gave him the slip. "I have a little proposition to make you." They were sitting on the bench in the garage.
"Oh, yeah?" Lennie said. "What proposition?"
"You know what happens to really smart young kids who get started in the rackets?"
"What's that?"
"I was talking to Claire about it yesterday. They wind up dead or in prison."
"Not me," he said. "I keep my nose clean. Just do what I'm told. I don't hurt nobody. I get along good."
"I know you do. It's a losing deal, Lennie. In the long run. You got to believe me. I'll tell you what. I got a big company starting up back in Texas. Some friends of mine run it. Nice people. I want to send you and your family back there. You go back to school. There will be plenty of money so you can buy a nice little house for your ma and sisters. After high school, you can go to college if you want. There will be a nice interesting job for you in the company when you get through if you want it."
Lennie looked hard at him, and then down at his shoes. "Why you want to do that?" he asked.
"Cause I like you. I don't want to see you throw your life away. And that's what's going to happen if you stay around here."
"What's in it for you?"
"Nothing, Lennie, except the feeling that I did a good thing, helped somebody along the way. I got a lot of money. I want to put it to good use. I want to make an investment in you."
There was a long pause. "They like Jews in Texas?" Lennie asked.
"Hm," said John thoughtfully. "I'll tell you the truth. You're going to spend your life running into people who don't like Jews. There probably aren't too many Jews in Texas. You may have to be strong, within yourself. You know how to do that, right?"
"Yeah," he said. "Well, I don't know. That's a nice thing you want to do for me. Is that where you live? In Texas?"
"No, I live ... Claire and I, we just travel around."
"So you guys wouldn't be there?"
"No, but I got some good friends there. A guy named Danny, not much older than you. Another guy named Bryce. He's a lawyer."
"Lawyer, huh? I want to be a lawyer."
"No kidding? Hey, Bryce could help you. Maybe give you a job in his office while you're going to school."
"So, what's it like in this place. Is it a big city like here?"
"No," John laughed. "It's a small town. Really flat. Wind blows a lot. Cold in the winter and hot in the summer. Lots of cowboys around."
"I seen lots of them. I seen Roy Rogers in the movies, and the Red Ryder. I like the Red Ryder. Does Red Ryder live there?"
"No, but he hangs out with an Indian kid, right?"
"Yeah! Little Beaver!"
"There will be some Indian kids living there."
"I want to see some of them Indians."
"So, what do you say?" asked John.
"This is a nice proposition you make to me," said Lennie. "I got to go check with Ma. See what she wants to do."
"I understand," said John. "Tell you what. I'll go and talk to her, if you want. Explain it all. Maybe take Claire. We'd have to do that today, though, because we're leaving town pretty soon."
"When you leaving town?" Lennie asked, alarmed.
"Tomorrow afternoon, Lennie."
"Tomorrow afternoon? You ain't gonna play the numbers no more?"
"No. Like I said, that one there's the winning number. Then I won't play any more." He smiled. "We're going to go way out West. See some real cowboys."
"I can go with you," said Lennie. "I want to see some of them cowboys."
"I'm sorry," said John sadly. "We can't take you where we're going. Besides, you got to take care of your ma and sisters, right? You guys will be better off in Texas, anyway."
"I gotta go now," said Lennie. He stood up and pulled out a pocket watch and looked at it.
"Why don't you let me go by your house and talk to your mom, Lennie? You be there later on today?"
"Yeah. I get there this afternoon. I guess you could come by. You can explain it to her?"
"Sure," said John. "I'll bring Claire along to meet your ma. She'd like that. You give me your address."
"My boss, he told me never give my address to no customers," said Lennie.
"Well, that's good advice," said John. "You should do what he says. I'm not just a customer, though. I'm your friend. Do you believe that? I want you to trust me."
Lennie looked at him, and then wrote an address on one of his numbers slips and handed it to John.
"Thanks, Lennie," John said, taking the slip of paper. "I don't even know your last name."
"Schoeman," said Lennie.
John wrote it down while Lennie spelled it. "We'll see you this afternoon," John said. "Things are going to work out good. You'll see."
Lennie nodded and trotted toward the street. Just before he rounded the corner, he stopped and looked back, a pensive look on his face. He suddenly looked very dignified, standing there. John thought he imagined a sort of halo around him. He waved, and John waved back, and then he disappeared around the corner.
The rest of John's Wednesday betting went smoothly. He was treated like royalty by all his bookies. They seemed genuinely sad that he had lost so much money the day before, and assured him that his luck would change again. He pushed them all to their limits on the bets he placed, acting desperate, and cutting them deals on the odds and pleading with them to take more and more of his money on that afternoon's and evening's action. He used his heavy daily double bets as leverage to get them to raise their limits on the baseball games and prize fights.
Claire and John began packing in the afternoon. John called Bernard Jacobson, the broker who rented upstairs at the store, and told him that the Carlisle and Hodges Property Management Company were taking over the property. He gave him the list of stocks he wanted, and told him that he wanted to distribute about two hundred thousand dollars fairly evenly among them. He asked him to get a portfolio together, and that he would stop by around two o'clock the next day to give him a check. He said the certificates would be mailed to Walker Creek Enterprises in Amarillo, and he gave him the address.
Around three, they found a taxi driver who was willing to take them to the Bronx, and went to the address Lennie had given them.
"Wow," said Claire as they neared the address. "Welcome to the ghetto, 1940s style."
John gave the cab driver a fifty dollar bill, and asked him to wait for them, because they didn't see any cabs cruising around the area. They went inside a run down, dirty, white brick tenement. They found the apartment and knocked on the door. A thin and angular woman of perhaps forty opened the door a crack and peered out. "What do you want," she asked in a coarse whisper.
"My name's John Banister, and this is my wife, Claire. I need to talk to you about Lennie."
"Oh, God," she said, clasping her breast. "What's happened."
"Nothing, Mrs. Schoeman," Claire smiled. "We met your son at the hotel where we're staying, and we're worried about what he's doing."
"We had an idea," said John, "to help him, and wondered if we could talk to you about it."
"He's a good boy," said Mrs. Schoeman, opening the door a little further.
"He sure is," said John. "Is he home yet? He said he'd meet us here."
"He ain't home yet," she said.
"Have you got a minute to talk?" Claire asked.
The woman stared at them for a moment, and then opened the door. "I'm sorry the place is a mess," she said. "I been sick. We've been going to move out of here anyway. Lennie works hard. He's been bringing home some extra money so we can move out of here." John wondered if that had to do with the fifty dollar tips he'd been giving Lennie.
He and Claire sat in a lumpy brown couch that had been covered with a worn quilt. Mrs. Schoeman sat in an old wooden rocker. They didn't think she was older than forty, but she walked like an old woman. Two young girls with large brown eyes peeked out at them from a bedroom door. Claire smiled and waved at them.
"He is a hard worker," John told Mrs. Schoeman, "and really smart. He said he wants to be a lawyer. Did he tell you that?"
"Oh, he talks big like that all the time," said the woman.
John described his proposition, and the woman listened intently, but her eyes were filled with distrust.
"He's going to wind up hurt, or in jail," said Claire, "if he keeps doing what he's doing."
"He's a good boy," she said. "He was going to school. He'll go back. He's just trying to take care of his mother and his sisters. He's such a good and decent boy."
"He sure is," said John. "Why don't we help him out? Get him back in school. He can still take care of you in Amarillo, but you'll be in a nice neighborhood, good schools for his sisters, too." He pointed at the two girls, who had crept into the room and stood by the doorway. "There will be plenty of money. Lennie can grow up to be successful, have a good life."
"He's such a good boy," she said again.
"He wants to do this, I think," said John. "We talked all about it this morning. He's going to come home and tell you about it."
"He should be home by now," she said, looking at a clock in the corner of the room. "He's always home for dinner."
John took a piece of scratch paper out of his wallet and wrote down Bryce Robinson's name and phone number. "Here's what I want you to do, Mrs. Schoeman." He handed her the paper. "This man is a lawyer in Texas. I'm going to ask him to put thirty thousand dollars in a trust account for Lennie, for high school and college, and another twenty thousand in a bank account to take care of you folks while he's in school. You talk this over with Lennie, and then you call Bryce at that number. He'll help you make all of the travel arrangements, and find you a place to stay when you get there until you find a little house you like. Help get the kids started in school."
"I don't understand why you want to do this for Lennie," she said.
"Oh," Claire laughed, "My husband is one of these do-gooders. He's always helping people. He's just like that. I try to make him be practical, but he just won't listen to me." She looked at Mrs. Schoeman, her eyes twinkling. "Besides," she added, "if it doesn't work out, you can always come back here." She looked around the room.
Mrs. Schoeman looked around the room, too. "Lennie's a good boy," she finally said.
Claire and John stood up. "Our cab is waiting," said John. "We don't want to lose it. You talk this over with Lennie, and then call Bryce."
"Those are fine girls," Claire said, nodding at the two children in the doorway. "I have a wonderful daughter, too. I'd show you a picture if I had one. She's fourteen. I love her a lot."
"Those are good girls," said Mrs. Schoeman.
"Nice to meet you," said John. "I hope we see you again."
They left the apartment and rode back to Manhattan.
Claire wanted to spend their last night simply soaking in the New York images of 1946, so they rode around in a taxi for three hours through Manhattan, Jersey City, and Brooklyn. They got home at ten o'clock, finished packing, and got a good night's sleep.
The next morning, Thursday, Claire insisted that she go with John to collect on the bets.
"These are some very seedy places," said John. "I would be worried if you came."
"Well, not as worried as I will be if I sit around here and wait for you. Besides, I can take care of myself."
"I know you can."
"Besides that, I can help you."
"How's that?"
"I can pretend I want you to place more bets with all the money, and you can do your 'it's my mother's birthday' routine. I'll pretend to be a nagging wife who didn't like your mother anyway. We can make a big scene. What do they call it? A decoy? Diversion? Something like that. You'll win the argument and tell them you'll be back tomorrow."
"Hm."
"Besides," she put her arms around him. "If there is any trouble, I want to be with you, because I love you so much."
John reluctantly agreed. They went downstairs for breakfast and then went to the barber shop. John collected the few thousand from Harrison.
"If you be waitin' for that kid Lennie," Harrison told them, "he won't be coming 'round this morning. They probably send somebody else, though. I know 'em all. I he'p you look out for him."
"What do you mean Lennie won't be here?" asked John.
"They found that poor kid early this morning. It was an awful thing, yes suh."
"Found him where," asked Claire.
"Some doorway down on the Lower West Side somewhere. Not sure where. His throat cut clean open. Awful thing. Them numbers folks is bad business. Me, I don't mess with them numbers no more, no sir."
John stood dazed, trying to make sense out of what Harrison had said.
"Who ... who did it?" Claire asked.
"Oh, don't nobody know."
She felt John's pain and took his arm. "But ... why?" she asked Harrison.
"Oh, who knows, Ma'am," he said. "Tried to hold back on 'em, no doubt. That's usually what it is. Too bad. He was a good kid. Got greedy, I s'pect. Can't get greedy with them folks. They don't take kindly to that gettin' greedy, no sir, not a'tall."
John turned, numb and wandered out in the street. Claire followed him. "Honey?" she said. "Are you okay?"
"It's my fault," he said.
"Sweetheart! How can you say that?"
"Probably had to do with that winning number. That was going to pay almost six hundred thousand dollars. They probably thought he fixed it somehow."
"How could they think that? Those numbers can't be fixed. You told me so yourself. It's that complicated racing formula."
"Well, if not that, maybe he told them he was leaving, quitting. Maybe you can't just up and quit if you're running numbers."
"But honey, none of it is your fault. Whatever it was. It's not your fault.
"Hey," said a voice behind them. "You John Banister?"
John turned, startled. A gaunt kid was staring at him.
"Yeah," said John.
"This yours?" he handed a numbers ticket to John.
John looked at the ticket from yesterday. "Yeah," he said.
"You hit," said the kid. "You gotta go to Nugent's Dry Cleaning to collect. It's down on West 22nd Street. Ask for Marty. They don't let us carry no money like that around."
"Hey," said John. "What's your name?"
"I'm Freddie," he said. "You want to bet again for tomorrow?"
"No," said John. "I want to know what happened to Lennie."
"I don't know no Lennie."
Of course you do," said John angrily. "This is his route."
"No,
this is my route. They give it to me this morning. I don't know no
Lennie."
John grabbed him by the shirt.
"I think he's telling the truth, John," Claire said softly.
John let him go, and he darted away.
They got a cab to the Lower West side, and the driver cruised West 22nd until they found Nugent's Laundry and Dry Cleaning. Claire gave the driver a twenty and asked him to wait. "Darling, settle down, be careful," Claire said as they got out and walked into the shop.
"I want to see Marty," said John to a woman behind the counter. He showed her the ticket.
"Hey, Billy," she called to the back. "Somebody for Marty."
A huge, swarthy man with dark eyes appeared from behind some laundry pressing machines and came to the counter.
"Yeah?" he said.
"Guy wants to see Marty. He's got a ticket."
"Lemme see your ticket," the man said, and John showed it to him.
The
man looked at it. "This way," he said, turning toward the back
of the
store.
"I want to know what happened to Lennie," said John.
The man turned around again. "Oh, yeah, Lennie. Too bad about that. Nice kid."
"What happened to him?"
"I heard he had an accident, that's all I heard. You wanna see Marty and collect on that there ticket?"
"Yeah," said John. "I want to see Marty."
The big man led them back through the shop, and they followed him through a door, down a hall, and up a flight of wooden stairs to a small office. A wiry man with a cigar sat behind a cluttered desk.
"Hey, Marty," said Billy. "Guy's got a winner."
"You Banister?" Marty asked.
"Yeah," said John.
"Well, you got lucky, Banister. Ain't seen one of these in a long time. Got some money here for you." He reached in a safe and hoisted out a dirty brown canvas bag.
"What happened to Lennie," John asked somberly.
"Oh, Lennie got mugged last night. Too bad. Nice kid."
"Who mugged him?" Claire asked.
"Oh, could've been anybody around this neighborhood. He was probably carrying too much cash around. Flashed it somewhere. Always a problem for these kids, you know? This is over half a million bucks here," he said. "I ain't seen one of these in a long time. You're a lucky guy, Banister. Why don't you let me take some of this off your hands for you. I got some nice pics at Belmont this afternoon. You like the horses?"
"Marty," said John, "I happened to like Lennie quite a lot. Suppose I wanted to find out what happened to him, who mugged him. Would you have any advice about where I might start?"
Marty looked up at him, and his face darkened. "Yeah," he said. "My advice would be take your money and forget about it." His face brightened again "That's a lot of dough. Take a nice vacation. Enjoy yourself. Have fun."
John tensed as though he was going to go around the desk and strangle the man. Claire sensed it and put her hand gently on his arm. "I think that's good advice, Darling," she said. "Let's take the money and get out of here. We've got a plane to catch, remember?"
John picked up the canvas bag from the desk.
"Count that if you want," said Marty. "I can explain how the payoff breakdown works."
"No, thanks," said John. He turned, and Billy led them back down to the shop, and they walked outside.
"Let's hurry and get that to the bank," said Claire, "before someone mugs us."
"He wasn't mugged," said John angrily. "They killed him. I want to find out what happened."
They climbed into the cab, and Claire gave the driver the address of the bank. "Sweetheart," she said, "it was a terrible thing, and I really feel badly about it, too. But, Honey, I don't think there's anything we can do."
"Yeah there is," said John.
Claire stiffened. Somehow she knew what he was going to say.
"We can go back and stop it. Save his life."
"John, how on earth could we do that? That would be really dangerous."
"They killed him, Claire. A nice, young kid, and they killed him. Doesn't that matter to you?"
"Don't talk like that to me. Of course it matters. Everything matters. People die every day. Kids die. You want to go back and save them all?"
"Just Lennie," he said. He began to sob quietly.
"Oh, Sweetheart," she said. "I know you thought a lot of him. We can still help his family out. Send them some money. It's a horrible thing, but let's just get on with our lives. This is our day in the sun, remember?"
John didn't respond.
"What?" said Claire. "Do you still think it was your fault somehow?"
"It was," said John. "Lennie kept his nose clean. I know he did. He wouldn't flash money around. He was too smart for that. He knew how to take care of himself. I also know they killed him, or had him killed or something. And it must have been because he tried to quit, tell them he wanted out."
"It could have been lots of reasons. You have no idea about his relationship with them. How can you possibly think that he got killed because you offered to help him out?"
They got to the bank. Claire told the driver to wait, and they went inside and deposited the currency in their checking account. The currency was loose, and it took almost half an hour for the teller to count it. It came to $546,040. John stood by, watching sullenly.
They walked outside. John stopped, put his hands in his pockets, and stared across the street at their cigar store. It still had the "Closed for Inventory" sign in the window.
"I can use the store," he said. "Transport back to Monday. Hire a detective. I don't care how much it costs. Find out why they killed him. Stop it from happening. Get him out of here."
"John, that's crazy," said Claire. "Crazy and dangerous. Okay. If you want to save him, let's just go back a couple of weeks, go to his house, introduce ourselves as good Samaritans, and send them off to Amarillo."
"But I want to get the guys who would do something like that, kill a nice young kid like that."
"Oh, so, you don't really care about Lennie. It's the revenge you want. That's really crazy!" Knots of fear spread through her. Suddenly, she knew he would go back. That's why she had seen him on Tuesday, on the street corner, while they were talking to Lennie. He would go back, did go back.
"John look," she said. "Listen to me. Remember on Tuesday, when I saw you on the street? And I got so afraid? I felt like something terrible was going to happen."
"It did. Lennie got killed."
"No, something terrible was going to happen to you! I still feel that. It's really strong, Sweetheart. I don't know why Lennie died. I don't know why his father got killed by the Nazis, and hundreds of thousands others. I don't know why those Vietnamese orphans have to die. I don't know why anybody dies when they do. And neither do you. It's just part of life, and we have to just accept it. Now, let's go and collect our money, check out of the hotel, come back to the bank, go see that broker over there, meet Gus, and get the hell out of here."
"Fuck it," said John. "I'm going back. You coming with me?"
She stared at him. "Jesus, what's wrong with you? Okay. No. How's that? I'm not going with you. You're crazy. You're going to get killed yourself. Then I'll have to go back and save you! And then I'll get killed! That's the goddamned mob your talking about! Some private detective isn't going to be able to walk in there and fix this. How goddamned naive can you be? I'm going to say it again. Let's go and collect our money, check out of the hotel, meet Gus, and get out of here."
"How can you just walk away from something this important to me?" asked John.
"But why is it so important to you? That's the question!" People were stopping to stare at them. "Let's cross over and go into the store where we can talk," she said.
"We can't," said John. "We gave the keys to the property managers."
"Shit. Oh, well, there it is, then. You can't go in there and transport anyway."
"I'll go get the keys back."
She threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. "I've never seen you so perversely obstinate. What the hell is wrong with you? Is this all about because your own father died or something?"
"Forget the Freudian shit, Claire. Look. Right over there," he said, pointing vaguely, "are some men who think nothing of using people like shit to make their fortunes, and who would cut some sixteen-year-old kid's throat open, who was just trying to do the responsible thing and take care of his mother and sisters because the Nazis gassed his father, a guy who probably sacrificed his own life to get them out, and they sliced his throat and threw him in a doorway like a sack of garbage, probably because he told them he didn't want to play their game anymore, and we have the power right here," he said, pointing at the time watch on his wrist, "to go back and save his life and get the people who did it."
Claire stood staring at him. He looked like a stranger to her. She felt like her insides were collapsing. She had tears in her eyes. "You care more about him that you do about us?" It sounded like a little girl's voice.
"No," said John. "Come with me. Help me. I have to do this."
She stood tapping her toe impatiently on the cement, her back rigid, tears on her cheeks. Then she turned and walked away. John stared after her. She got in the taxi and rode away.
John felt the same sensations he had felt back in Amarillo the night he had made the staring man disappear in the hotel lobby. There was the same tingle in his loins. He felt alert, clear, focused. He crossed the street to the cigar shop, went through the adjacent door, and walked upstairs. The stairs led directly to a reception area, where a woman worked at a typewriter.
"I'm John Banister, the owner of the building," he said.
"Why, uh, certainly. I have you down for an appointment at two o'clock. Mr. Jacobson isn't in at the moment. What was the name of that company again?"
"Walker Creek Enterprises," said John. He took a blank check out of his wallet from the First Texas State Bank and Trust in Amarillo. He wrote it out for two-hundred thousand dollars and tossed it on her desk. "I won't be back at two, he said. Give this to Mr. Jacobson. He knows what it's for. I need to use a telephone. A directory, too, please."
"Of course. I'm sure it would be all right if you use his office. Right this way." She rose and led him through a door behind her desk. The office was small and orderly, with a window overlooking Liberty Street. The woman found a Manhattan phone directory and handed it to him, and he sat at Bernard Jacobson's desk and thumbed through the yellow pages under "Private Investigators." The woman left him alone.
There were three pages of listings. John picked one named "Steenberg Protection and Investigations." It was a small ad that said they specialized in complete investigative services, executive protection, and bodyguards. He dialed the number.
"Steenberg services." It was a man's voice.
"My name's John Banister. There was a young kid, a numbers runner, murdered last night on the Lower West side. I want to find out who did it. And why."
"Have you checked with the police?"
"No. It's being reported as a mugging."
"Maybe it was."
"I don't think so. I think the mob did it."
There was a long silence. "What is your interest in this, Mr. Banister?"
"I ... I knew the family. Jewish family in the Bronx. I had a personal interest in the kid. I ... I need some help."
"How did you hear about me?"
"I got your name in the phone book."
There was another silence. "What was the kid's name?"
"Lennie Schoeman."
Another pause. "Well, why don't you come on by. We can talk about it, I suppose. You know where I'm located?"
"East 47th?"
"That's it."
"I'll be right there."
The man hung up. John thanked the receptionist on the way out and got a cab.
Max Steenberg's office was upstairs over a jewelry store just off 5th Avenue. The words "Steenberg Investigations" had been stenciled on the opaque glass in the door off the hallway. John tried the door and it was locked. He knocked, heard footsteps, and heard the door being unlocked. A large, tired looking, graying man opened it and peered out.
"Mr. Banister?" he said.
John nodded skeptically. He had second thoughts. He imagined he would need a company with a lot of resources, not a small, one-man operation.
"Max Steenberg," the man said, without offering to shake hands. "Come in."
"I don't know if you can help me," said John, following him into the office. The man had a huge frame, but walked with a stoop that made him seem smaller than he was. John sat in a wooden chair facing a cluttered desk. Behind the desk was a gray filing cabinet, and in the corner was a window that had been painted over with the same drab gray as the walls. There was an old overstuffed brown couch on one wall, and John had the feeling that Steenberg slept there. There was a small ice box and a sink. On a shelf by the sink was a hot plate with a large percolator of coffee. Max poured a cup, but didn't offer any to John, and then he went around behind the desk and sat down wearily.
"So, tell me what you know about this kid," Steenberg said, lighting a Lucky Strike cigarette.
"He was sixteen. A smart kid. All he did was run numbers, as far as I know. His family escaped from Yugoslavia during the war. His father didn't make it. He was supporting his mother and two sisters."
"Well, I don't know what I can do, Mr. Banister. There's not much to go on. I called a guy I know in the precinct down there. You were right. They have it as a robbery related mugging. They think the kid had a lot of cash. They don't have any leads."
"He was working out of a laundry on West 22nd Street called Nugent's. Guy's name is Marty. I know he knows what happened."
"How do you know that?"
"I went in there to collect on a winning number this morning, and I asked him about it, and he told me to mind my own business."
"You know, Mr. Banister, that might not be bad advice." Steenberg clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. "There's lots of people in that racket get bumped off all the time for all sorts of reasons. Usually they're siphoning money off. Those guys have the cops in their pockets. Nothing ever comes of it."
"This kid was playing it straight."
"How do you know that?"
"I just know, that's all. I knew the kid. He was keeping his nose clean, doing what they told him to do."
"How did you know him?"
"He came by the hotel where I was staying every day. He met my wife and me. We talked a lot. Met his family."
"Hmm." Steenberg studied John. "Well, I can poke around a little, I guess. Ask a few questions. Doubt if it will turn up very much."
"Well, maybe you could recommend someone who has ... "
"Connections with the mob?" Steenberg smiled.
"Yeah," said John.
"Anyone in this business has connections with the mob. Lemme ask around. Where you staying?"
"At the Waldorf."
"I charge twenty-five dollars a day and expenses. Four dollars an hour."
"Look," said John, "I'll be honest with you, Mr. Steenberg. I want to get to the bottom of this, and I want to do it quickly. I don't care what it costs. I need someone who's willing to walk all the way through with me on this."
Steenberg studied him for another moment, and then put his hands on the desk. "I appreciate that," he said. "I'll find out what I can. Call you this afternoon. You got an address for the mother?"
"Yeah," said John. He stood up, took out his wallet, and handed him the Bronx address Lennie had written on the betting slip.
John left with mixed feelings about Steenberg. There didn't seem anything solid there, nothing to inspire confidence, but his instincts told him to give the detective a try. He made his rounds of his bookies. He was met with suspicion because of his astounding luck, and he was fearful. He collected less than twenty-five percent of his winnings, betting the balance on games the following day about whose outcomes he hadn't a clue. He held the cab at each stop so he wouldn't be on the street, and made trips back to the bank between pickups, ending the day with new deposits of just over $400,000. Paranoia began to replace his earlier confidence, and a queasy feeling settled in his stomach over Claire.
At the hotel, Claire repacked dazedly through her tears, randomly tossing clothes that didn't seem like her own into a suitcase. She caught a taxi in front of the hotel and rode to LaGuardia, weeping quietly in the back seat. She had never seen John so bullheaded! She fidgeted with her time watch. She wanted to go home. That would end it. End her pain, her pain and her frantic worrying that John was going to die. But if she went home, and he wasn't there, that would mean he had died, and then she would have no way back to save him. Then she would spend the rest of her life in the knowledge that she had left him back here, when possibly there was something she could do to help him. But what? There was nothing she could do.
She decided she would go to the bluff. Wait for him there, where they had written their vows, married themselves. That is where they had said they would meet if anything happened. She couldn't save him. She could only wait for him. Wait for him as women waited for men at war, women like Gus Lineweaver's Annie. Annie hadn't waited forever, though. She had gone on with her life. But Claire could not go on with hers. She would wait for John forever, on the bluff. He would know to come there. There was nowhere else to go, and nothing else to do.
That's it, said the chairperson of the committee of voices in her head that came to life whenever she got frightened. Throw yourself on the bluff. Very noble. What an excellent martyr you are. The perfect little nineteenth century woman.
"Shut up!" she whispered. She sensed the driver glancing back in the rear view mirror and raised her eyes. He looked away.
It won't be so bad. You can come down from the bluff and have lunch with Marie once in awhile on Fridays. She suppressed a sob. The horrible sense of isolation swept over her again. She didn't know anyone here. She had no friends here. Everyone here was going to die. There was no one she could talk to.