Highbinders (13 page)

Authors: Ross Thomas

“I don’t know about you, Manny, but I treasure those memories.”

“Sure you do,” he said, lighting another cigarette from the butt of the one that he took from his mouth. His hands would never touch the fresh one again until he used it to light yet another one.

“You interested in making ten pounds?” I said.

He looked up at the ceiling and spread his hands wide. “God, to think I should be reduced to this.” Then he looked at me. “What do you want, a broad?”

“No, but I am looking for somebody. And it’s worth ten pounds if I can find him.”

He looked me over. “You’re not suffering. Twenty.”

“Fifteen.”

“Done. Who you looking for?”

“Tick-Tock Tamil.”

Kaplan’s face broke into a large, white smile. “Jesus, I haven’t even thought of Tick-Tock in years. I really mean in years.”

“Is he still around?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“That’s what I’m going to pay you the fifteen pounds for. To find out.”

Through his arms that rested on the bar, Kaplan looked down at the floor, as though he might find the missing Tick-Tock’s address written large at his feet. Then he looked up at me. “He was in the nick for a couple of years a while back, but I hear he got out. What do you want with Tick-Tock, a gold watch maybe that’s just been stolen from the Maharaja of Rangpur?”

“Is he still working that?”

“Was the last I heard.”

“Is he still into gold?”

If a man’s ears can really prick up, Kaplan’s did. “Be a good lad, Phil. If it’s gold you’re into, there’s got to be enough to go around.”

“I don’t know what I’m into,” I said. “That’s why I want to talk to Tick-Tock. But if there is any way I can cut you in, I will. But don’t bank on it. Anyway, there’s fifteen pounds in it just for Tick-Tock’s address.”

“How the hell should I know where he lives?”

I sighed. “Make a phone call or two and find out.”

Muttering something about snotty sonsofbitches who forget their old mates, Kaplan went through a door that must have led to his storeroom, whatever he used for an office, and the telephone. I looked at my watch, saw that it was five till three, and had the sandwich man bring me another beer before the law clamped down.

I was just finishing the beer when Kaplan came back. He had a piece of white paper in his hand. “Where’s my fifteen quid?” he said.

I took out my wallet. “With the sandwich, two beers, and tip,” he said, “that’ll come to an even twenty.”

I nodded at the stick-up and held out two ten-pound notes. He took them and handed me the slip of paper which read, “13 Start Street, W.2.”

“Where’s Start Street?” I said.

“It’s in Paddington. Where the hell else do you think Tick-Tock would live?”

Chapter Fifteen

I
HAD BEEN IN
no particular hurry to see Tick-Tock Tamil and I was back in my room at the Hilton, watching something about ants on BBC-2 and waiting for the phone to ring, when there was a knock on the door. It was a firm knock, even an authoritative one, and I wasn’t especially surprised when my caller turned out to be William Deskins of Bunco and Fraud, or whatever Scotland Yard calls it.

“Twice in two days,” I said. “Not quite enough to be called harassment.”

I opened the door wider and he came in, wearing the same dark brown suit. He had on a different shirt though, a white one, and his tie looked something like scrambled eggs with chopped chives sprinkled over them.

“Do you mind?” he said, looking at the television set.

“Not at all. I was learning more about ants than I really wanted to know.” I switched off the set.

“Over here,” he said and moved over to the dresser. I followed him. “You ever gamble, Mr. St. Ives?”

“Now and again.”

He took three playing cards from his pocket and dealt them face up on the dresser. The cards were the jack of hearts, the jack of spades, and the queen of hearts.

“Watch carefully,” he said. “Keep your eye on the queen.” He turned the cards face down and moved them about. His movements seemed to be neither tricky nor fast. “Now for five pounds, tell me which one’s the queen.”

“Let’s make it for fifty,” I said.

He moved the cards around some more, but this time his movements were a bit more flashy. “All right,” he said. “For fifty.”

“No bet.”

“You know the game, do you?”

“Sure. It’s a variation on the shell game, except that they make a production out of it here. There’s usually a dealer, a couple of shills, and a lookout. They sucker you in and let you win a few times. Then they take you for everything you’ve got.”

“There’s a way to win though,” he said.

“If you don’t mind a broken jaw, there is. You can bet a couple of times and then try to walk off with your winnings, but I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Nor would I,” Deskins said. He turned the cards face up and then face down. He moved them around a few times. “Where’s the queen?” he said. “For gratis.”

I tapped one of the cards. He turned it up. It was the jack of spades. “You’re good,” I said.

He turned all of the cards up, showing me the queen again, turned them face down, and started moving them around. I kept my eye on the one that I thought was the queen.

“Some of the lads had a little game going today in Shepherd Market just off Curzon. Know it?”

“I know it,” I said and tapped a card. Deskins turned it up. It wasn’t the queen. It was the jack of spades.

Deskins began moving the cards about again. “They had a nice wood box set up, a couple of shills, and as you say, a lookout. They were working the luncheon crowd, you know.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “That one,” and tapped a card. It was the jack of hearts.

Deskins flipped the cards back over and began moving them around some more. “Who should come by but a busload of tourists.”

“Well, Shepherd Market’s pretty interesting. Sort of quaint. That one.” I tapped a card and he flipped it face up. It was the jack of hearts again.

Deskins rubbed his hands together and started moving the cards around once more. “These were Bulgarian tourists,” he said. “We don’t get too many of those.”

“That one,” I said, tapping a card. He flipped it over. It wasn’t the jack of hearts or the jack of spades. It was a photograph of me, the knave of nothing, standing in front of Karl Marx’s tomb, holding a cloth sack that clearly read “Roosevelt Hotel,” and wearing a silly smile that displayed most of my teeth.

“When you rubbed your hands together,” I said.

“Mmm,” Deskins said. “One of the Bulgarian chaps bet twice, won twice, and tried to walk away with his winnings. He’s now in the hospital. Nothing broken, but possible internal injuries. He was still wearing his camera around his neck so we developed his film for him. You take a good picture, Mr. St. Ives.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I tend to freeze up.”

Deskins turned from the dresser and crossed over to the window. He left the photograph of me where it was. “Nice view,” he said.

“Pleasant,” I said. “Especially this time of year.”

He turned from the window. “Too bad about poor Billie Batts, wasn’t it?”

“Was it?”

“They found poor Billie at Highgate about half past seven this morning, all curled up in a stone piano with his throat cut. Poor lad.”

“You knew him?” I said.

“Yes. Didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Well, Mr. St. Ives, I did know him—in a professional way, one might say. That’s why I’m here now, because I knew poor old Billie. But you say you didn’t?”

“That’s right. I didn’t.”

“Well, maybe you didn’t know him by name, but only by sight. Take a look at this.”

He crossed the room and laid another photograph on the dresser. It was a larger one, about five by seven inches, black and white, and it showed Billie Batts curled up underneath the open lid of the marble piano, wearing his tweed coat with the leather patches, his gray eyes open, his gray teeth showing, and his throat cut.

“You still say you didn’t know him?”

“I didn’t know him.”

“I knew him for years,” Deskins said. “He was always on the edge of things, poor Billie was. He pimped a bit, shilled when there was nothing better about, wanted to be a con man, but had neither the class nor the brains. He was too lazy to steal, Billie was, but got into porn in a small way for a while. He was a bust-up man for one of the protection rackets for a couple of years. Carried a razor, but I don’t think he ever used it, except maybe once on one of his birds, but we could never prove it and she wouldn’t talk. So really no one’s too upset or even too surprised now that Billie’s bought it.”

“I didn’t know him,” I said, for lack of anything else to say. “I don’t think I would have wanted to.”

Deskins nodded, never taking his eyes from my face. “You play poker, don’t you, Mr. St. Ives?”

“Sometimes.”

“You’ve got a good poker face. I’ve been watching it. I can’t tell whether you’re lying or not.”

I shrugged. A shrug is as good a way to lie as any.

“Well, as I said, they found poor old Billie Batts about half past seven this morning. It was getting on for one before the Bulgar made his little mistake down at Shepherd Market. After the punch up and him landing in hospital, we developed his film on the chance that he might have taken some pictures of those who’d done the beating. You know how tourists are.”

“Yes.”

“Well, they brought the prints in to me and who should be standing there in front of Marx’s tomb large as life but Mr. Philip St. Ives of New York. So I laid on a translator and we went to see the Bulgar. He was conscious by then. He said that you were a very kind gentleman who had just happened to be strolling down the path at Highgate Cemetery at seven this morning and who’d been willing to take his picture. And then he took yours, as sort of a souvenir.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“And then, to the best of the Bulgar’s recollection, you strolled on down the path—down toward where poor old Billie Batts lay dead with his throat cut. Is that right?”

“I went on down a path.”

“What were you doing at Highgate at that time of morning, Mr. St. Ives?”

“My ex-wife and I used to picnic there,” I said. “It was a long time ago. You might say I was making a sentimental journey.”

“What was in the cloth sack?”

“My lunch.”

Deskins sighed. “You know, Mr. St. Ives, I talked to the lads at the murder squad about you and we weren’t at all sure whether I should come and see you or whether they should. They’re not nearly as polite as I am.”

“Most homicide cops aren’t,” I said.

“You’ve known a few, have you?”

“A few.”

“Well, the lads at the murder squad had a preliminary report on Billie and it seems that he was done in about two o’clock this morning, give or take an hour or so. We decided we’d better find out where you were around that time.”

“I was playing poker.”

Deskins nodded. “At Shields. It seems that you won in one night more than I earn in a year.”

“It hardly seems fair, does it?” I said.

“But you’ll lose it back, won’t you?”

“Next week,” I said. “Or the week after. I stay about even.”

“Yes,” he said, running an appraising glance over me. “You haven’t quite got what it takes to be a professional gambler.”

“It takes hard work,” I said and before he could think of something to say to that the phone rang. I answered it and the voice that I had last heard at six o’clock that morning said in its mid-Atlantic tone: “Are you alone?”

“No.”

“Then just listen. You won’t have to ask any questions.”

“All right.”

“Tomorrow morning buy yourself a pram. A large one.”

“All right.”

“I suggest Harrods. They have excellent ones there.”

“All right.”

“At three o’clock sharp enter the small church park that’s just off South Audley Street between Mount Street and South Street. Do you know it?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you might. Most Americans do. At three o’clock push your pram down to the section where it narrows and comes out on Carlos Place. There’s a bench on the left. If you’re in doubt about which bench, there’s a small plaque on it that says that it’s a gift from an American woman who spent many happy hours there. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Have the money in the pram. Sitting on the bench will be a young woman dressed as a nanny. She, too, will have a pram. In it will be the sword. You may bend over and inspect the sword for two minutes. She meanwhile will inspect the money in your pram. Is this all quite clear?”

“Yes.”

“After two minutes, you will wheel the pram with the sword back up toward Audley Street. The girl will go in the opposite direction. Incidentally, dear man, do have the money in something a trifle more convenient this time, will you?”

“Yes.”

“As for trying something clever, such as taking a picture of the girl, or finding out who she is, don’t bother. She will be hired for the afternoon and she will know absolutely nothing. Oh. One more thing. You will be watched, of course. Now is everything quite clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” said the man on the phone and hung up.

I put down the phone and turned back toward Deskins. “Three all rights, one no, and five yeses,” he said. “Your telephone conversations aren’t too informative, are they?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

He stared at me for a long moment and then said, “Eddie Apex.”

“What about him?”

“You’re up to something with Eddie, something that smells, but I don’t know what.”

“Why don’t you ask Eddie?”

“I already have. This afternoon. I asked him about you and I asked him about poor Billie Batts.”

“What did he say?”

“He said you were an old and good friend of his.”

“What’s he say about Batts?”

“He said he’d never heard of him and you know what I thought?”

“What?”

“I thought he was lying both times.”