“The man he wants is at the Stockbroker Bar!” and I gave him the number on Church Street.
“I relayed the data to Grafferty,” his office man said. “He is on a case but he is taking care of it. Public cooperation is always appreciated in criminal matters, sir.”
I rang off, satisfied. New York’s finest was on the job.
Heller folded up his coat, put it in the bag and then took out a dark blue engineer’s coverall suit, like a workman’s. He put it on. Then he put on a plain blue workman’s cap. He looked deeper in the bag. “Blast!” he said in Voltarian. “No engineer gloves. Only these cotton things.” But he put them on. Then he found a redstar engineer’s rag and put it dangling out of his hip pocket.
He tidied up and went back out into the bar.
The place was still deserted except for the barman, and that worthy had put the Seven Up at a side table with a sandwich. “That Seven Up is awful stuff,” said the barman. “No alcohol in it. So I give you a pastrami cushion. What else can I do for you?”
“You can show me where the phone is.”
The barman dragged a long-corded phone over to the table. “I see you got some sort of a system for sneaking up on the market. Going to make another thousand?”
“I’ve got an idea I can hit the jackpot,” said Heller.
“Yes, SIR! I promise not to listen much.”
Heller dialed a number. The other end said, “Really Red Cab Company.”
“Listen,” said Heller. “Is Mortie Massacurovitch back on the job yet?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t advise it, sir. The doctor said . . .”
“I know all about his eye infection,” said Heller. “I’ve been told about nothing else for two days! Can you connect me?”
“Not directly. But he is back on duty.”
“You tell him to dump any fare he has and get down to the Stockbroker Bar on Church Street. Tell him Clyde Barrow needs him bad and right now!”
The dispatcher said he would and rang off.
Clyde Barrow? He was a notorious gangster of the thirties! Then I recalled that that was the name Mortie Massacurovitch knew him by.
“I get it,” said the barkeep. “You’re going to do a bag job on some broker’s office for the insider information. Smart.”
“Yeah,” said Heller. “I’m going to make a killing.”
I chilled. That was three times now he had threatened vengeance. It was not like him to be that way. I knew pretty well what I had felt all along. Heller was going to go gunning for ME!
Hurry up, Grafferty!
Heller drank his Seven Up and ate his pastrami.
The door burst open and Mortie Massacurovitch came in, hit a table, bounced off, hit the bar.
“Over here,” said Heller.
Mortie had bandages over his eyes, just looking through a slit. “Hello, kid,” he said, looking in another direction.
Heller got his change and gave the barkeep twenty bucks for his trouble. He steered Mortie outside. The cab was parked with two wheels on the sidewalk. Heller got him into the passenger side of the front seat.
“Mortie, I’m in trouble,” said Heller, settling himself under the wheel.
“Ain’t we all,” said Mortie. “I’m going broke. A dumb spick hit me in the face with a load of mace and I been off for a week.”
“I know. I been trying to reach you for two days.”
“They disconnected my phone for nonpayment,” said Mortie. “The (bleeped) company wouldn’t even let me have a cab this morning until I gave the dispatcher a black eye. I ain’t never blind enough not to be able to hit what I aim at! So who you driving for now, kid?”
“Right now, you,” said Heller. He shot the red cab away from the curb. I cursed. He had not looked at the number and the city swarmed with red cabs. I listened closely to pick up their destination.
Heller stopped. All I could see was poles and cobblestones. Where the Hells was he?
“Now, Mortie,” said Heller. “A string of cabs was ordered.” And he gave him the exact time and place they were ordered from. “I’ve got to locate what company and where those cabs went.”
“Oh, hell, kid, that’s easy.” Mortie began to fumble around under the panel. “I always bring this little device. I hook it into the company radio. I can get every dispatcher of every cab company in New York. Helps to pick up the juicy, long-run fares before their own cabs can get there.”
He started talking to dispatchers, giving fictitious cab numbers of their own fleets. The story was the same, “I got an old-lady fare here that was so pleased with some service that she wants regular service. She’s forgotten the company. Was it ours?” And he would give the time and departure point and the dispatchers would look on their logs.
Suddenly, on his fifth call, Mortie stiffened and nodded at Heller. “Thank YOU!” he said and clicked off. To Heller, he said, “Smeller Cabs. Whole bunch of baggage. Took five cabs. They went to the 79th Street Boat Basin, Hudson Harbor.”
“Hudson Harbor?” said Heller. “Nothing leaves from there. Not even a ferry.”
“Beats me,” said Mortie.
“Well, we’re on our way,” said Heller. And he shot the red cab into motion up onto the recently completed West Side Elevated Highway, and was shortly speeding north at a high rate.
I had my destination.
I phoned Grafferty’s office. “Your man is heading north to the 79th Street Boat Basin!”
“Well, I sure as hell hope you’re right. Grafferty just this minute got through chewing my (bleep) out. He wasn’t at that statue place, he wasn’t in the Stockbroker Bar and the (bleeped) bartender wouldn’t even give him the time of day. You sure this is on the level this time?”
“Tall blond man, blue eyes. You tell Grafferty you got this tip from a Fed and tell him to get a move on! You’re dealing with Federal satellite surveillance, buster!”
“That’s different,” said the office man. “Yes, sir. Right away! But what’s the Federal interest? He’ll want to know.”
“Secret Federal New York Grand Jury indictment,” I lied. “We want Grafferty to make the public pinch so we don’t show our hand.”
“Ah, a standard Federal operation! Get the man for anything at any cost. And Grafferty gets the credit?”
“Tell him TO GET MOVING!” I half screamed. I hung up. I turned anxiously to the viewer. Heller must not be left to get away, the criminal. He was the cause of all my troubles after all! And he must pay for it!
PART FORTY-NINE
Chapter 4
The 79th Street Boat Basin was in the throes of spring. The long lines of small pleasure craft, winter-landed on the dock in chocks, lay like a forest of leafless trees. Other assorted yachts bobbed around the landing stages. Many workmen swarmed around, apparently readying these millionaire toys for the joys of a boating summer.
This was the view that met Heller as he slid the red cab along the ranks at low speed, avoiding piles of this and that and people.
A sign said Dockmaster and Heller stopped. He went in the hut. A small, round man looked up from a desk.
Heller gave the probable time and date. “Five Smeller cabs,” he concluded. “Did you see them?”
“Matey,” said the dockmaster, “they come and go and I don’t pay much attention.”
“It’s quite important,” said Heller. “I have to find out where they went from here.”
“Wait a minute,” said the dockmaster. “The looker! Would the woman have been a real tomato?”
“I suppose you could say so.”
The dockmaster looked at his log. “Yeah, I remember now. They rented a service boat to take out the baggage. Too much for their speedboats. They used a Squeeza credit card, Sultan Bey and Concubine. I remember the boys saying, ‘Jesus, look at that god (bleeped) concubine, those foreign (bleepards) sure are taking over.’ What a looker! She sure was sad, though, but I guess anybody would be sad being sold off to some god (bleeped) Turk.”
He got up from th
e desk and walked outside and looked out at the river. Then he yelled over the side of the dock to a man working with some rope on the deck of a miniature tug. “Remember that looker the other day? What yacht was that you took the baggage to?”
“The Morgan yacht,” the man called back. “The Golden Sunset.”
“Oh, well, that figgers,” said the dockmaster. “She’s got too much draft to come in here. Too big.”
“How do you find out where yachts go?” said Heller.
“Oh, I dunno,” said the dockmaster. “Nobody keeps much track of documented yachts. They don’t have to clear in and out unless they’ve been foreign. You could try Boyd’s of London, the insurance people. They keep track of ships.”
“Thank you,” said Heller.
“Glad to be of help. That sure was some sad tomato.”
A far-off wail of police screamers was audible, getting louder. Aha! “Bulldog” Grafferty was on the trail!
Heller went to a phone kiosk near the dockmaster office. He called to Mortie, sitting in the red cab, “I think we’ve got it.”
He ruffled through the book and got the number. He got a British hello. Heller said, “I want to know where the Morgan yacht, the Golden Sunset, is.”
“Put you onto Shipping Intelligence, old boy.”
Another came on and Heller repeated his question.
“The Morgan yacht?” Shipping Intelligence said. “We have only one Golden Sunset in the American Yacht Registry but it’s crossed out. Oh, yes. It was the Morgan yacht but I’m afraid, old boy, that she is no more.”
“You mean it’s been LOST?”
“Let me check with legal, old fellow. Just hold on.”
Police screamers penetrated the glass of the phone kiosk. Heller glanced down the dock. Three police cars were racing up, full blast, toward the dockmaster office. I hugged myself in glee.
“Are you there?” said the British voice. “I’m afraid you caught us with the panties half off, old boy. The yacht fell between registries. She should now be in the Foreign Yacht Registry. Been bought by some barbarian Turk and transferred to the Turkish flag. We simply hadn’t re-entered it.”
“Could you tell me where she is now?” begged Heller.
“Oh, really. We can’t possibly give out information like that. Confidential, doncha know.”
“I’m trying to collect something,” said Heller.
“Oh, a bill collector. That’s different. Half a mo’. I’ll see if we have it on the board.”
Heller looked out. Half a dozen cops had offloaded and were racing around grabbing people, demanding answers.
Cops raced by the phone kiosk.
I blinked! They hadn’t looked into the kiosk!
Heller cracked the door slightly. A cop had the dockmaster at bay. “We’re looking for the Whiz Kid! If you’ve seen him, you better (bleep) well report it or we’ll run you in as an accomplice!”
The dockmaster was shaking his head. The cop gave him a shove and went off to grab somebody else.
“Are you there? Yes, we have the Golden Sunset. She’s at anchor off Gardner’s Basin, Atlantic City.”
Heller thanked him and hung up. And then I blinked!
Heller walked out of the kiosk and up to the dockmaster. He indicated the rows of dry-landed vessels in their chocks. “Are any of those for sale?”
“Usually,” said the dockmaster. “With the price of fuel, the amount of use is cut down. It’s spring, though, and a lot of owners think that’s the time to get a high price. You know boats?”
“Well, not too well,” said Heller, “though I was in the Fleet.”
“Yeah, well, then you don’t want no sailboat. Get you in trouble if you’re not experienced.” He started to walk down the line of small craft. “There’s a trawler type there I know for a fact is for sale. Diesel. Good sea boat. Patterned after the fishermen.” They were looking up at a forty-foot cabin cruiser.
“Is it fast?” said Heller.
“Oh, hell, no,” said the dockmaster. “Who wants a fast boat? Reason you buy them is to get away from things. But you don’t look like you’re a yacht buyer. You interested for somebody else?”
“A company,” said Heller.
“Oh, well. Why fast?”
A cop rushed by.
“Let’s just say I like to get away from things fast,” said Heller. “What’s that one?”
“Why, that’s a Sea Skiff.”
“Skiff?” said Heller. “I thought a ‘skiff’ was just a little rowboat.”
“Oh, well, hell, I don’t know why Chris-Craft called them that. Most speedboats, you see, do all right on lakes and smooth water. But that one is an oceangoing speedboat. It’s thirty-six feet, heavy built to take the pounding of the waves. But look at it. No cabin, just an open cockpit. The bunks, if you can call them that, are up under the foredeck.”
“Is it fast?” said Heller.
“Oh, hell, yes. Does forty knots in heavy ocean waves if you can stand the pounding. But your company wouldn’t want that.”
Heller was looking up at the dry-landed craft. It was heavily tarpaulined but you could see the sleek, almost vicious, lines of it. “Why not?” said Heller, as a cop raced by in front of him.
“Why not? Listen, she’s powered with gasoline engines, that’s why not. Two Chryster Crowns, huge things. They make her just stand up on her rudders and rocket. Costs a fortune to run.”
“I think my company would be interested,” said Heller.
“One is born every minute,” said the dockmaster. “Hey, Barney! Is this Sea Skiff for sale?”
A rugged-looking sea dog came over. “That Sea Skiff? Hell, yes, it’s for sale. The Faustino mob has been trying to offload it since last year. The Corleones sort of drove them off the sea, you know. They used to use it to race out beyond the continental shelf and pick up dope cargoes off freighters in it. Has radar, autopilot and even radio controls.”
A cop was looking under tarpaulins and into the cockpits of the beached craft.
“How much?” said Heller.
“Oh, Jesus. I don’t know,” said Barney. “They carry it on their books for twenty thousand, they said. But I think five would take it.”
“Could you get it in the water and get it gassed up and running?”
“You buying it?” said Barney, incredulous.
Heller was peeling off thousand-dollar bills.
“Jesus,” said Barney. He turned and yelled at a workman, “Hey, Fitz! Run the travelift over here and get this Sea Skiff in the water before this guy changes his mind!”
Heller handed five thousand-dollar bills to Barney with another thousand for service, gas and water.
In a casual way, Heller walked over to the phone kiosk. He dialed a number. A girl answered. Heller said, “Tell Izzy she’s in Atlantic City aboard the yacht Golden Sunset. I’m handling.” He hung up. He was about to leave the kiosk when he stopped, door partly open. He put his hand back on the phone.
A cop was walking up to the red cab. He glared at Mortie in the front seat. “We’re looking for Wister,” snarled the cop, “and you’re a lead! You tell me who your fare up here was or I’ll have your hack license with one short call to city hall! You told us nobody. It must have been somebody!”
“All right, all right,” said Mortie. “That kid over there is driving for me today. He brought us up here hoping for a fare. Known him for years. Taught him how to hack, in fact.”
“What’s his name?” snarled the cop, glancing toward the kiosk.
“Clyde Barrow.”
The cop took quick steps to a cop car and made a call. He came back. “He used to be on the most-wanted list but you’re lucky there’s no outstanding warrants. Now you listen to me carefully: we’re after Wister. You keep your eyes open. You see anything of him, you report it!”
“You mean the Whiz Kid?” said Mortie. “Jesus, what’s he done now?”
“Bigamy, that’s what!” said the cop. “Stealin’ cities, robbin’ train
s. But now he’s really done it. Married TWO women!”
“Jesus,” said Mortie. “That IS asking for trouble. That Whiz Kid don’t care WHAT he takes on!”
“Shows he’s crazy,” said the cop. “We also got a commitment order. So you keep your eyes open!”
Grafferty came up. “You and Sloan,” he said to the cop, “stay here in case he shows up. We coulda been ahead of him.” He walked off and got in his car.