Authors: John R. Maxim
“Like what?”
“Have you told me everything?”
Look who's asking. “Scout's honor.”
“You've left nothing out?”
“Come on up, Mr. Doyle. You've been in New York
too long.”
Fallon did leave one teensy thing out.
The place was supposed to be haunted.
Chapter 10
Jimmy
Cagney.
In Cagney's day, thought Doyle, gangsters knew how
to get things done. If they needed answers they'd pull a
snatch, hang the slob from a meat hook, and let him ripen
for a day or two until he was ready to cooperate.
But Cagney, to be fair, didn't have to worry about wired
phones, bugged restaurants, video cameras, and RICO stat
utes. Three weeks after getting that police report, after
lunching with Johnny and Fat Julie Giordano and handing
them a copy with the names, addresses, and even mug
shots of the two black muggers who tried Michael, be
tween them they still had zilch.
Well . . . zilch isn't fair either.
We now know some interesting facts. They are not, for starters, your ordinary street hoods. One of them isn't even
black. The one with the dreadlocks is Jamaican but the
one with the mustache who shaves his head is a Pakistani.
Mohammed something or other.
The Jamaican is a parole violator who, even if he could talk through a jaw that still takes only liquids, is now back
in custody. But wonder of wonders, whom did he list as
his employer?
Parker Security Services, Inc.
And how many clients does Parker Security have? Only
two of any size. The firm of Lehman-Stone and the firm
of AdlerChemiker AG.
Knowing this is one thing. Getting at the Jamaican to
ask a few questions is another. Fat Julie Giordano was
somewhat more hopeful of getting at the Pakistani who is
an illegal alien and is currently in the custody of the Immi
gration and Naturalization Service. Word is, however, that
he is to be given a conditional release by this weekend
because they're short of jail cells and because risk of flight
is minimal. Michael did a good job on him. Word is he
walks like a duck and still farts through his cheek when
he talks.
Fat Julie's plan is to intercept him between Riker's Is
land and the welfare hotel where they got him a room.
That done, Julie will ask him if he'd care to fill in a few
gaps or is he ready to play make-a-wish again.
It had better work.
Moon is hard enough to keep down as it is. This one clear connection, tying those two muggers to Lehman-
Stone, would be all he needs to hear. Short of pumping
him full of Thorazine, there would be no stopping him.
Michael's pen had been poised over the binder agree
ment when Millie Jacobs said, “By the way . . .” These
three words made him freeze.
According to Sheldon Greenberg's book, when people say, “By the way . . .” whatever follows is almost always
the key issue at hand and, chances are, they're about to
try to diddle you.
“
Not that this would bother you, Michael
...
a worldly
young man like yourself . . . educated . . . however . . .
full disclosure and all that . . .”
Wouldn't bother you, my ass.
It was almost a deal-breaker. He had to take a long
walk to think about it.
On the one hand, he didn't need this. He had enough
ghosts of his own. On the other, it wasn't much of a
haunting. No blood oozing up through the floorboards or
anything like that. All it was, it seems that over the years quite a few guests have said they've heard the laughter of
children coming from empty rooms.
”
Hey, Dr. (JreenbergY
”
“
I told you so, Michael.''
“No, wait. This could even be good.”
That, in fact, was Millie Jacobs's argument. For open
ers, she said, everyone who lives here has heard the story
and no one gives it much thought. The truth is, any num
ber of Martha's Vineyard houses are said to be haunted.
Try to find a town in all of Massachusetts that doesn't
have at least one ghost.
“Watch out for ‘The truth
is...'as
well.”
“Will you listen for once?”
Most of the guests who've stayed there, Millie went on,
either didn't know, didn't care, or assumed that any chil
dren they might hear were those of other guests. But here's
the good news. Quite a few have come
because
the place
is thought to be haunted. The Taylor House is listed in
Haunted Houses of New England
and a number of other
such books. Those listings, she said, are as good as a four-star rating in the Mobil Guide. If the sort of clientele they
attract are a bit eccentric, she asked, what's wrong with
that as long as they keep coming and tell their friends?
“And they're very quiet, of course.”
“Quiet?”
“The better to listen.”
Ask a silly question, thought Fallon.
“Are there any theories? Any legends about who these
children are?”
“Several. But Polly Daggett invented them.”
“Why several?”
“So her guests could have charm or horror depending
on what turned them on.”
“Polly, I take it, was not a believer.”
“She knew a good thing when she saw it.”
Fallon bought the place.
Or at least he signed the binder. The closing was three
weeks off but he decided to move in. The Daggetts could
not object as long as he paid the full off-season rate.
For the first time in months, he needed nothing to help him sleep
.
No Dalmane or Seconal washed down with a
scotch. His stash was running low anyway. He decided
that he would risk the return of the nightmares and the
four-in-the-morning gremlins. If the place was going
to
spook him, let it be now while there was still time to
back out.
He heard no laughing children.
His bed never levitated, he felt no sudden chills, nor
did he wake from a sound sleep to see a beautiful young
woman floating near the foot of his bed. But he had no
nightmares either. Just a minor amount of tossing. Perhaps he no longer needed drugs to sleep. Or a Colt Python kept
within reach. Still, after all the talk, he was a little
disappointed.
On the third night, he had retired early. Something woke
him near midnight. He wasn't sure what. He lay there,
listening for a while. The only sounds were those of the
oil burner kicking on and a faint low whistle that seemed
to be in the wall that faced front. Fallon got out of bed,
crossed to the wall, and put an ear up against it. He heard
it clearly, more so near each of the windows. He smiled.
“Dummy,” he murmured. “It's the shutters. Just the
wind off the ocean blowing through the slats.”
But he was awake now. He slipped into his robe and
sat by the window, elbows on the sill, looking out over
the harbor and at the dark mass of Chappaquiddick just
beyond. It struck him that if any place on this island
should be haunted, it would be Chappaquiddick. That Ken
nedy mess. The Kopechne girl who drowned. He wasn't
here three days before he heard the absolute, guaranteed true story about what really happened that night. Every
body hears it. Same story. It seems that there was a sec
ond girl . . .
Movement on the sidewalk below caught Fallon's atten
tion. He leaned closer to the pane and looked down. There
was a man there. Just standing. He was dressed in a
hooded black slicker and he seemed to be staring at the
front entrance. His hands were raised to his temples as if
to hide his face. Fallon felt a weight in his stomach. His
mind, the rational part, said it was only another tourist
admiring the house. But the darker part of his mind saw
the faceless man of his nightmares. That man had found
him.
Fallon backed away. He stepped to his night table and
slid the Colt Python from the drawer. Fear was replaced
by anger. This was his new life, goddamn it. He made his way to the staircase and started down. He moved slowly,
pausing every several steps to listen. One of them, for all
he knew, could already be in the house.
In his mind he saw those two from New York. The bald
one, the taller of the two, could be the man outside.
They're walking again. It's been three months. It's possi
ble that they've healed by now.
But by the time he reached the front door and looked
out through the side light, the man in the slicker was gone.
He heard an odd grinding sound. It came from the street,
just off to the right. Fallon fumbled for the latch and
pulled the door open. He took a breath and ducked
through. He followed the Python, held with both hands,
and aimed it at the source of that noise. The man in the
slicker was leaving. On a bicycle.