Carriage Trade (54 page)

Listening to his tapes and hearing Moe Minskoff's name repeated again and again, Peter ponders the conundrum of this man.

He looks at his notes.

How did MM. learn of Si's death the afternoon it happened? Obit did not appear until two days later
.

Alice thinks MM. had a hand in Si's death. But why would murderer appear at victim's home the night of death to pay a condolence call and stay approx. three hrs uninvited?

Would condolence call be designed to deflect suspicion? Murderer would have to have nerves of steel to revisit scene of crime seven hrs later, and then just hang around
.

What is Consuelo Tarkington hiding?

Now his telephone rings, and Peter reaches to pick it up.

“Mr. Turner?” a woman's voice says. “Is this the Mr. Peter Turner who's writing the story about Silas Tarkington?”

“Yes, it is,” he says.

“Mr. Turner, this is Honeychile Minskoff,” the woman says. “Mrs. Moses Minskoff.”

“Well, hello!” he says in disbelief.

“Mr. Turner,” she says, “I'm calling you because I've heard you're going to be talking to a certain Miss Smith.”

“Who?”

“Diana Smith. The one they call Smitty. She was jewelry buyer at the store and a friend of Si's.”

“That's right,” he says carefully. “In fact I just made an appointment with her, Mrs. Minskoff.”

“That's what I heard,” she says. “And I just want to warn you not to believe a word that little tramp says.”

“Oh?” he says. “Why is that, Mrs. Minskoff?”

“I guess you know she quit her job at the store. And I guess you know she didn't get the job she was supposed to at the museum. She's real mad about the way she's been treated, and she's going to try to tell you bad things about my husband and I.”

“Oh? What sort of bad things?”

There is a moment of hesitation. Then she says, “Well, I used to work for my husband. Just part-time. And I sold some things, some jewelry, to Smitty that she said weren't bought quite right.”

“What do you mean, not bought quite right?”

There is another brief hesitation. “Well,” she says finally, “there was some things Smitty bought from me that she said was bought with bad credit cards. She accused me of selling her stuff that was bought with bad credit cards. She called me a fence for my husband. That's all a lie. Nothing my husband or I ever sold her was bought from bad credit cards. There's a lot I could tell you about my husband and Si Tarkington, but that wasn't one of them.”

“I'd very much like to talk to you, Mrs. Minskoff,” he says. “And I'd also like to talk to your husband.”

“Oh, that won't be possible. Except—unless—”

“Unless what, Mrs. Minskoff?”

Another silence. Then she says, “I might be able to arrange for something. But I'd need you to do me a little favor first.”

“Oh?” he says. “What's that?”

“It's a big favor. It's a favor of a more personal nature.”

“Please tell me what it is.”

“I want you to scare him.”

“Scare him? You mean your husband?”

“Yes,” she says, and a note of panic has suddenly crept into her voice. “I'm scared, Mr. Turner,” she says. “That's the thing of it with me. Daddy—my husband—he just won't scare. He just laughs it all off and tells me not to worry. But you—you're a member of the legitimate press, and maybe you could scare him for me. God knows I've tried, Mr. Turner. You don't know what it's been like these past few weeks for me, Mr. Turner. There's people my husband owes money to. Not
really
owes, but they're saying he owes it. And not just money, but they're saying favors. It's all legitimate, because everybody owes something to somebody, don't they? These people are shylocks. Do you know what that means? It means I've been getting all these phone calls. They come all hours of the day and night! They don't have any last names, these people. One is Julius. Another calls himself Don from Cleveland. Another is Ernie. One is Harry. They make threats to me. They know I have a niece who's retarded, who I take care of, and they make threats to her. They make threats to my husband. He just laughs it all off and changes the phone number. But last night, just after we'd changed the number again, there were eighteen more phone calls! Eighteen! Sometimes they just breathe hard and hang up. I'm really scared now, Mr. Turner, and maybe you could help me. I even think anti-Semitism could be a part of it, y'know.”

“Maybe you should report this to the F.B.I., Mrs. Minskoff. After all, threatening phone calls—”

“The F.B.I.? Are you out of your gourd? We're in enough trouble already without bringing the Feds in on it! But you—you're a member of the legitimate press. You could do it.”

“But I really don't see how I—”

“Look. He's got some real money now. He could pay off his debts, and there'd be plenty left over for he and I to live on. Plenty. For years, he's been promising me he was going to retire and we'd live in the Bahamas, free and clear. Have you ever been to the Bahamas, Mr. Turner? Neither have I, but I've got all the brochures. It's beautiful there. And in Freeport, there's gambling, and Daddy likes a little action now and then. We could be happy there, happy at last, the both of us—with no more pressures from the business. But with each new deal he makes, he just … goes on to make another one! Deals to Daddy are like drugs to an addict! But he's getting too old for this, Mr. Turner, and so am I. He's got the money now to retire and take the both of us to the Bahamas. Just scare him into doing it, Mr. Turner. You can do it with just one phone call, because he's terrified of the legitimate press.”

“Why is that, Mrs. Minskoff?”

“Look,” she says, speaking rapidly now, “I haven't got all day. He could walk in on me at any minute. But let me put it to you this way. My husband is a very major man. He's an internationally respected mergers-and-acquisitions specialist, with clients all over the world, but some of his clients don't like their names to be all that well known, which is why they use Daddy as their behind-the-scenes man, which is what behind the scenes means, staying out of the limelight, staying out of the press, keeping the people he works for confidential, important people whose work is top secret, and confidential, like the C.I.A., and who don't like to see their pictures in the papers; these are private and powerful people, some of them even run whole countries, and there are other reasons, which I won't go into now, why he hates the legitimate press.”

“Something in his past, perhaps?”

A pause. Then she says, “Maybe. Years ago. But we don't need to go into that. That's not the point. Everybody has something in his past he doesn't want everybody else to know about—even you, I bet. The point is, Mr. Turner, just one phone call from you would do it. If he knows the legitimate press is after him, he'll retire and move the both of us to the Bahamas, and we'll have what he always promised me—our second honeymoon, free and clear. I'm desperate, Mr. Turner. Will you do that for me—just one phone call from the legitimate press?”

“But if he hates the press so much, why would he talk to me?”

“Look. Do I have to draw you pictures? Of course he won't talk to you. He'll
never
talk to you. All I want you to do is
scare
him! I want you to make him crazy! But if you do that for me,
I'll
talk to you. I'll tell you everything you need to know about Silas Tarkington, and Moses Minskoff too. Is that a deal?”

“Can you tell me how Si Tarkington died?”

Another pause. “Maybe,” she says. “I can tell you what my husband thinks. He was cheating on his wife, you know. He was going to run off with that tramp, Smitty.”

“You mean you think that Connie—”

“That's all I'm saying for now. I can also tell you who killed President John F. Kennedy, and it wasn't Lee Harvey Oswald, who was a friend of Jack Ruby, who was a client of my husband's years ago. Are you going to make that phone call?”

“Well … all right,” he says.

“Okay. Do it today. Right now, before he gets all the phone numbers changed again. Got a pencil? I'm going to give you two numbers. The first one's his office. He won't answer. His secretary will. Her name's Smyrna. Just tell her who you are and that you want to interview her boss. She won't put you through, but he'll get the message soon enough. Then call me back at the second number when you've done that, and I'll meet you anywhere you say this afternoon—your apartment might be best—and I'll tell you everything you want to know. Okay?”

She rattles off two telephone numbers. Then, abruptly, she says, “I've got to hang up now. He's calling me on the other line. Remember—don't believe anything that tramp Smitty tells you about Daddy and I. You'll get the truth from me.”

Peter Turner puts down the receiver and sits at his desk, feeling slightly dizzy. All these weeks he has spent trying to get to Moses Minskoff, and now—suddenly, almost miraculously—Moses Minskoff, or at least his wife, has come to him.

He stares at the two telephone numbers he has written down, then picks up his telephone again and slowly presses the buttons for the first number.

A woman's voice answers. “Development Corporation, Limited.”

“Mr. Moses Minskoff, please.”

“Whom shall I say is calling, sir?”

“My name is Peter Turner. I'm a writer for
Fortune
. I'm writing the Silas Tarkington story.”

“Mr. Minskoff is in conference, sir. May I take your number?”

But Moe Minskoff isn't in conference. In the office on West 23rd Street, Smyrna is working alone, answering crazy phone calls. She is very cross about this. She's not supposed to work on Saturdays. He never pays her extra when she does. But last night he told her to open the office up at 9
A
.
M
., and of course when she got there, he was nowhere to be found, though from the looks of his old sofa he'd slept there. He's off somewhere this morning, doing God knows what. Now, about half past nine, he comes waddling in.

She hands him his messages. “Mr. Albert Martindale of Continental called three times,” she says. “He's not happy. He says he doesn't like all these postponements of the deadline on the stock offer. He says it doesn't look good for his company. He's worried the whole deal is gonna come unstuck.”

“Tell him to keep his shirt on, tell him to keep his pants on, tell him to keep his lid on. Tell him to keep everything he's got
on
on. Tell him I've got everything under control.”

“He wants to know what's happening with that one stockholder, the woman in Florida whose shares you told him you had in your pocket. He wants to know what's happening with her.”

“Did you tell him it was a woman in Florida?”

“Well, maybe. That's who it is, isn't it?”

“Goddamnit, Smyrna, you don't need to tell him things he doesn't need to know. Why'd you tell him it was a woman in Florida, for God's sake?”

“Sorry, Moe. I didn't know it was supposed to be a secret.”

“Everything I tell you is supposed to be a secret. What the hell do you think the word ‘secretary' comes from? Secret. The girl that's hired to keep the secrets.”

“I didn't tell him what her name was.”

“He'll figure it out soon enough, damn it! Anyway, Simma Belsky is giving me a hard time—can you believe it, after all I've done for her?—but don't tell Martindale that, for God's sake! Just tell him I've got everything under control.”

“He wants you to call him back right away.”

“Well, I ain't gonna call him right away. Got that?”

“And now we got a whole bunch of those other calls again today. Guys who won't give their last names: Don from Cleveland, Ernie, Harry, and Julius. Another says he's a friend of Herbie the Heeb, and that you'll know what that means. Who are these guys, Moe? Where are they getting our unlisted numbers? We just had 'em all changed again last week. Are you sure everything's all right?”

“Damn it, what did I just tell you? I just told you: everything's under control!”

“Then there's a new call, on your private line, from a man named Peter Turner. Says he's writing a book or something about Silas Tarkington.”

“Goddammit, Smyrna, where the hell did
he
get that number from?”

“How the hell would I know? Where are all these other jerks getting our numbers from? The heavy breathers, Ernie and Julius and them, and the friend of Herbie the Heeb? Maybe they've got a spy at the telephone company.”

“Oh, no. Not this number, Smyrna. He called on my super-private number, that is only known by you, Martindale, and me.
Did you give it to him, Smyrna?”

“I did not! I never even heard of this jerk! Why would I give out your super-private number to some jerk I don't even know and never even heard of?”

“Maybe he paid you off. Is that what happened? C'mon, Smyrna, 'fess up. You gave it to him, di'ncha? It had to of been you. You been givin' out secrets lately, Smyrna, so it had to of been you gave it to him. You're in big trouble, Smyrna, if you did.”

“Well, I fuckin' well didn't!” she says.

“Like I just said, nobody knows this number but me, Mr. Albert Martindale, Esquire—and you!”

“Honeychile knows it too!” she screams.

He scowls and chomps down hard on his cigar. “Yeah,” he says between his teeth. “You got a point there. Honeychile knows it too.”

“So quit tryin' to blame me!”

“Excuse me, Smyrna,” he says, “but I got some very private phone calls to make,” and he walks into his office and closes the door behind him.

First he dials the new combination on his wall safe and checks its contents. All seems to be in order there. Then he seats himself behind his desk and begins punching out telephone numbers.