PART 35 (23 page)

They walked across the rear yards beneath the Italian woman's windows.

“
Are
we trespassing?”

“Don't worry about it,” Sandro assured Jerry. “The cops who'll respond when somebody reports prowlers will be from the same precinct as the dead cop. They'll be friendly as hell when they find out I'm Alvarado's attorney.”

“Oh? Well, that's makes me feel a little better anyway.” Jerry laughed and shook his head. They squeezed through a broken part of the fence and, walking noiselessly, approached a spot beneath the Italian woman's windows. Sandro looked around. No one was to be seen yet.

“Start getting pictures of that fire escape,” whispered Sandro. “Get some the full length of the building, and then some close-ups of that fire escape. When Mike gets out on the fire escape, get his picture looking down here. Then get some shots while he's standing on the fire-escape platform at the roof, and some while he's standing on the roof.”

Jerry aimed his camera and started snapping. Shortly, Mike looked out from the window of Soto's old apartment. Apparently Mike had been a convincing insurance man. Sandro waved to him, signaling he should not yet come out onto the fire escape. When Jerry had taken all the pictures of the empty fire escape, Sandro whistled. Mike climbed out and began feigning an inspection of the building and the fire escape. Jerry snapped rapidly.

“Now, Jerry, get a few pictures of this apartment right here. It's the apartment of the Italian woman who may be the people's chief witness.”

Jerry crossed the yard and snapped several pictures while Sandro stood next to him. As he did, a window opened in the building next to the Italian woman's, and two women peered out.

“What yez doin'?” asked the younger of the women. She was heavyset, dark-haired.

“We're just taking some pictures,” Sandro replied. “Some people are buying the buildings across the yard, and they want pictures for the insurance company.” Sandro smiled disarmingly.

“Who's buyin'?”

“Don't know. Must be some big outfit,” said Sandro. “Maybe they're going to build a big new building here or something.”

“Yeah? I'm the super here. Maybe they want to buy this building, too?” the woman suggested.

“Maybe they do. I'll ask them.”

“Maybe you should take a picture of this one and show it to them,” said the woman.

“Sure. Maybe they'll be interested.” Sandro turned to Jerry and winked. “Point your camera at them and make believe you're taking their picture,” he whispered.

Jerry pointed the camera at them and focused.

“Take a good picture now,” the younger woman called. She fluffed her hair with one hand. A smile flickered onto and off her face. She wasn't sure a smile was necessary in a business transaction.

“Okay, all done,” Sandro called. “Maybe they'll do something.” The women nodded and smiled.

Mike crossed the yard to rejoin Sandro and Jerry.

“We're all set down here,” said Sandro.

“How'd I do?” Mike asked.

“Great, Mike, great. Jerry said he'd never seen such poise in front of a camera before.”

“That's right, Mike,” Jerry added. “You ought to try getting a modeling job. You'd go over great.” They started out toward the street.

“Don't forget to show them that picture,” the younger woman called after them.

“Okay. We will,” Sandro called back.

“Who the hell is that?” asked Mike.

“She's going into the modeling business with you. She's another natural talent. You'll make a great pair.”

Mike looked back at the two women. “Thanks a load.”

“Jerry, you need a lift?”

“No, I'm fine. I followed Mike in my car.”

“Listen, Jerry, before you go, how about going into the street and taking the front view of this building,” Sandro said.

“And don't forget the factory building,” Mike added.

“I guess the best thing is to get pictures of the fronts of the buildings on both sides of the street. Then we'll be prepared for everyone.”

“How about the roof?” Mike suggested.

“Jerry, take pictures of everything.”

“Okay. When do you need all of this by?” he asked.

“As soon as you have them. When will they be ready?”

“Say Tuesday. Is that time enough?”

“That'll be fine,” said Sandro. “Mike can pick them up at your place, okay?”

“Fine, Sandro. I'll see you. So long, Mike.”

“So long, Jerry. Where are we headed?” Mike asked Sandro.

“Let's try some pawnshops on Delancey Street. Hernandez mentioned something in his letter about trying to pawn two suits on Delancey Street near Essex. Let's find the place.”

“You still think he might testify against us?”

“To save his own skin? He might. He's already gotten us into this for no reason. Why not save his skin now by getting our guy the chair?”

Mike started the car. They drove along Suffolk Street to Delancey Street. “Which way?” asked Mike.

“Turn right, Mike. Didn't Hernandez say between Allen Street and Essex Street somewhere?” Mike drove along Delancey Street to where it was crossed by Allen Street, then circled back. “I saw a couple of them. How about you, Sandro?”

“The same. Let's go back to Essex. We'll walk our way along the street.”

They studied the windows of the first pawnshop west of Essex Street. It was the typical pawnshop—cutlery and banjos and cornets and guitars and binoculars and cameras proliferating in the window. Sandro entered first. A small, gray-haired man was sitting on a high accountant's stool behind a caged window. A clerk was sorting items in a showcase.

“Can I help you?” The man on the stool chewed into his cigar.

Sandro walked to the back. “My name is Luca. I'm an attorney.”

The old man's eyes studied Sandro more closely. He flickered a glance to Mike, then back to Sandro.

“I'm investigating a case involving a fellow named Antonio Cruz, who's charged with a crime last July third,” Sandro continued. “He says that at that very time he was pawning some things right here. I'm just trying to find out if it's so.”

“Listen, I couldn't tell ya. There's so many people …” The old man shrugged.

“I know you don't remember everybody who walks in, but his name would be in your pledge book, wouldn't it? And, after all, you don't want a man to go to jail for something he didn't do.”

The man studied Sandro a bit longer. He turned to the clerk. “Angel, get me the book for—what day you say?”

“July third.”

“July third. Bring it.”

Angel, a young Puerto Rican, walked behind a counter and carried a large ledger book to the old man. The old man opened the book, licked his thumb, and leafed through the pages. When he reached July third, he turned the book so Sandro might read it.

“What's his name? If it's there, he was here. If not, maybe he's a liar too,” the old man said flatly.

“Or perhaps he was in a different pawnshop,” added Sandro.

The old man shrugged. “Why should I say no?”

Sandro's finger quickly descended the list of names before him. There was no Antonio Cruz nor Ramon Hernandez listed. He went through the names again. There was a Santiago Cruz, but no Antonio Cruz.

“This is the only book you have for that day?” Sandro asked.

“That's it. Your fellow's not there?”

“I don't see him.”

The old man shrugged again. “Maybe another pawnshop. Good luck.” He closed the book and handed it back to Angel.

“Thanks very much,” said Sandro.

“For what? You didn't find nothin'.”

“Because you're a nice fellow. You let us look at the books.”

“When I'm going to jail someday, maybe I'll need a lawyer. You'll do me a favor, charge me not so much.”

“It's a deal.” Sandro smiled. “
Sei mir gesunt.
”

The old man's eyes twinkled. “
Sei mir gesunt.
”

Sandro walked out behind Mike. “What did you say to him?” asked Mike.

“That was Yiddish. I told him, ‘Watch out for Puerto Ricans!'” Sandro and Mike laughed. “And the old man said, ‘Watch out for the sneaky one behind you.'”

Closer to Allen Street, they found another pawnshop. Sandro talked to the proprietor, traced through the names listed in another pledge book. Antonio Cruz's name was not there.

“Well, what do you think?” asked Mike. “That's Allen Street.”

“There's a pawnshop on the next block. Maybe Hernandez can't tell one street from another.”

Mike studied the private detective badges in a showcase as Sandro spoke to the proprietor of the next pawnshop. The tall, slick-haired man behind the counter went to the back and picked up the pledge book. Sandro ran his finger down the list. A little more than halfway through the list was the name Antonio Cruz, and sure enough, it was written in Hernandez's scrawl. There was also a pledge number, 57, and the item pawned: one suit. Beneath that entry was a ditto mark for a pledge of another suit.

“This is it,” Sandro announced, smiling. Mike walked over. The proprietor turned the book toward himself and studied the entry.

“Do you know who entered that pledge?” asked Sandro.

“Look, kid, all I know is that there are two suits here with this name. I don't know who brought them in here months ago. I mean, we got a lot of people coming in here, a lot of people.”

A young clerk who was listening and watching walked over, looked at the book and then at Sandro.

“I think the police came in about this pledge a while ago,” the clerk announced.

“Did they take the suits?” asked Sandro.

“No, the suits are right here, in the back. They just put a hold on them.”

Mullaly again, thought Sandro. “Can I see the suits?”

The clerk looked at the proprietor.

“Show him the suits.” The clerk walked to the back. “Listen,” said the proprietor, “you can look at the suits, but I don't know anything about the guy who brought them in here. It could be you for all I could remember.”

“Who was on duty here that day? Do you know?” Sandro asked.

“I was, but I don't remember. The clerk wasn't. That kid wasn't,” he said, pointing toward another young Puerto Rican polishing bugles. “It must'a been me, but I don't remember this name, especially the guy, what he looked like.”

“Mike, would you hand me my briefcase.”

Sandro took out the newspaper clippings with Hernandez's picture. “Start copying the information out of that pledge book while I talk to this guy,” Sandro murmured as he feigned rummaging further through the briefcase. “Get the pledge numbers, the items pawned, the amounts, even get the brand names out of the suits. Don't let him see you. We're going to have trouble with this guy.”

“This is a photograph of the fellow,” Sandro said aloud, turning to hand the clippings to the proprietor. “What's the name of this shop, anyway?”

“Excelsior Pawn Brokers,” the man said, studying the photos. “A cop got killed? Is that the case? A cop got killed?” The man looked apprehensive.

“Yes, that's the case. But if one of these fellows was here pledging something at the very moment he's charged with killing the cop, he couldn't have killed the cop.”

“I don't know nothing about it, I'm telling you. Nothing!” He pushed the clippings back across the counter.

“What's your name? May I know your name?”

“What's the difference?” He looked blankly at Sandro.

The clerk came over with the suits. Out of the corner of his eye, Sandro saw Mike writing intently, copying the information from the pledge book, opening the suit jackets and writing down the brand names of the suits. The proprietor noticed Mike writing and abruptly closed the pledge book.

“Listen, I don't know this guy,” said the proprietor. “I don't remember the pledge, nothing. I took the suits in, and that's all I know. If they're stolen, I don't know it. A cop!”

“Can I see the signature card this fellow signed?” asked Sandro.

“Listen, I can't show you a thing. I'm not supposed to even show the pledge book. The cops are tough on pawnshops. I'm not going to get involved, commit a crime besides. I might be liable or something.”

“Mister, a man's life is at stake. Besides, I'm only interested in seeing the book. I'm not going to ask you to let me have it,” Sandro explained.

“Look, I showed the book, you saw the suits, that's it. I can't help it if a guy brings in stolen stuff. A lot of people come in here. You think I can remember everything? I'm a little busy right now, so if you don't mind.” He picked up the book and walked behind the counter toward the back of the store.

“The son of a bitch,” muttered Mike.

“Don't worry about it. You get the information?”

“Sure. I got the whole bit.”

“That's all. He can't destroy the book, the suits. He's got to keep them here. When I need them, I'll subpoena the book, the suits, everything, even the guy. Thanks,” Sandro called to the proprietor as he followed Mike out of the store.

“What a bastard!”

“Forget it. Be happy,” said Sandro. “The case is sewed up now, back to front. We've an alibi for Alvarado; we have an alibi for Hernandez. I'll take care of the pawnshops when we need them. I'd like to find the man who fits in those suits, the man whose place Hernandez burglarized that morning in El Barrio.”

“Where we going to find him?”

“I don't know. Maybe Hernandez can tell us. We're going to have quite a story to tell that jury.” Sandro felt good as they walked back to the car.

Mike was muttering to himself, “Find a guy who fits into a suit we don't even have! We haven't finished some of the easy work yet, like Asunta for instance.”