Dead Street полностью

“Yes,” I said. “Something’s about to happen.”

“What?”

“Tell you the truth, I’m not exactly sure. I know the New York end is coming together. That young computer tech at Credentials, twenty years ago — he was a kid named Bucky Mohler.”

“I wish I could say that name means something to me.”

“That’s a stray piece that may float back yet. But it was him, all right — your friend Florence said the computer tech had a ‘cowboy’ name. Well, when I was a kid, there used to be a cowboy actor called Buck Jones.”

“Who?”

“Before your time, kitten. Before your time even twenty years ago... but not Florence’s, and that’s what she meant, I’m sure. Buck. Bucky.”

“Jack... you say twenty years ago, this Bucky worked where I worked, at Credentials, on computers. But what does that have to do with today?”

“I’m not sure. I think the answer is right here in the big city.” I looked out the window at the Padrone building, old and not quite proud. “And when I get it, I’ll fly home to you.”

“Fly fast, Jack.”

“Baby, I won’t even need a plane.”

Phone calls broke the monotony of the stakeout. Some I made, some were incoming, like the one from police scientist Paul Burke.

“Got something on that carved ivory hash pipe, Captain.”

“Great! Don’t tell me you actually got a print off that thing?”

“I actually got a print off that thing — a partial. But that was enough to make a match through other means. The print likely belongs to a convicted drug dealer, a sterling citizen name of Romero Suede.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Oh? He’s got a rep as a mean one. Questioned on several murders, but never charged. Served his drug-bust time, no outstanding warrants — but also no current address.”

I knew what Romero Suede’s current address was: Garrison Properties, Florida.

“How I know this partial is likely Suede’s,” Burke was saying, “comes from a letter in his file. The warden commending Suede for his ‘artistic endeavors’ — wood and ivory carving.”

“The guy is carving out hash pipes in stir and the warden commends him for it?”

Burke chuckled. “Well, Jack, the prison system is trying to get its charges ready for the outside world again.... By the way, there were traces of high-quality hash in that pipe.”

“Thanks, Paul.”

“Always happy to help a retiree enjoy his sunshine years.”

“And you could stick it where the sun don’t shine, buddy.”

He laughed, so did I, and we rang off.

That afternoon, between cold Millers, I spoke to Captain Kinder.

“You got Bettie covered, Darris?”

“Damn straight. Working the dayshift myself, Jack. And Joe is on nights. Plus, we have every ex-cop on your street, and the street behind you, alerted that something may go down and soon. All they do is nod. They don’t even ask what.”

I grinned at the cell. “Old firehorses just need to hear the bell, Darris. They don’t ask where the fire is, just follow the smoke.”

“One thing I’m keeping a close eye on, Jack, is our friendly neighborhood ice cream trucks. We’ve had two trolling Sunset today.”

“How much ice cream does a retirement village need, anyway?”

He grunted. “It’s not so suspicious that I can collar ’em or anything. We’ve always got a lot of grand-kiddies visiting down here, and for the Golden Age crowd, there’s nostalgia value in buying ice cream goodies off an old-fashioned truck. These guys really do have plenty of customers to justify their presence.”

“I think you’ll find those trucks are hauling more than ice cream.”

“What, drugs? You don’t think our fellow ex-coppers are buying their prescription drugs on the black market, do you? Weed for glaucoma patients, maybe?”

He sounded like he wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not.

“That’s not what I was thinking, Darris. Garrison Properties, right on the ocean there, is a convenient spot to offload narcotics from South America.”

“Yeah.... And with a housing development populated by retired mobsters and their families going in, who’s going to police that little action?”

“Nobody,” I said, “and nobody. Also, our favorite ice-cream salesman, Romero Suede, is probably at least using drugs if not selling.”

“That’s probably a reasonable assumption, Jack — but how did you make it?”

I told him about Paul Burke tying the hash pipe I’d found at Garrison Properties to Suede.

“I don’t suppose that hash content is enough for us to bust his ass,” Kinder said.

“No. What with lab work done unofficially for us in New York, and only a partial print. But it confirms we’re correct in giving Mr. Suede our full attention.”

Kinder grunted his agreement, assured me Bettie was under his watchful eye, and signed off.

Later I checked in with Kinder’s helper, Joe Pender.

“Your wife getting on your case, Joe, about you getting back in temporary harness?”

“Hell no,” he laughed. “I think she likes having me out from underfoot. Gets the whole damn double bed to stretch out in, plus a pass for a few nights on my snoring.... Listen, can I make a suggestion?”

“Sure.”