Where There's Smoke полностью

“I worked with the director in Ogunquit two summers ago,” Maria was saying, “so I think I’ve got a really good shot at the part.” She rolled her lovely blue eyes, stuffed some dangling spaghetti into her mouth and said, “I’ve got my fingers crossed.” She was wearing a low-cut print better suited to the Costa Smeralda than Little Italy, emerald earrings dangling from her ear lobes—not for nothing had Maria Hochs lived for two years with a stockbroker later indicted for fraud. “The part is a nurse,” she said. “Do you think I’d make a good nurse?”

“I think you’d make a fantastic nurse,” I said.

“I’m serious, Ben.”

“So am I. You’ve got all the qualifications. Sympathy, compassion, tenderness, an air of efficiency, and a beau­tiful behind.”

Henry Garavelli came into the restaurant just then, im­mediately located our table, and walked over to it.

“Excuse me for interrupting your meal,” he said.

“Sit down, Henry,” I said. “I see you got my message.”

“Yeah,” Henry said. He pulled out a chair and sat. In public places, he always sat facing the entrance doorway, a carry-over from his youthful gang days when, at any given moment, the members of a rival gang might burst in and begin shooting.

“Maria,” I said, “this is Henry Garavelli. Henry, Maria Hochs.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Henry said, and shook hands with her while glancing into the low-cut front of her dress. “What’s up?” he said to me.

“The body’s been returned,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Somebody dropped it off in a lot on Tyrone and Sev­enth.”

“Mm,” Henry said. “Any idea who done it?”

“None at all.”

“Mm,” Henry said. “So what does that mean? Is the case closed?”

“Yes.”

“Mm,” Henry said. ‘That’s too bad, Ben, because it was beginning to get a little interesting.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I been asking around ever since you were in the shop this morning, and I come up with some stuff that’s got the boys on the street completely mystified.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Ben,” he said, “do you know how many funeral par­lors were busted into last night?”

“How many?”

“Four. And all down around Hennessy Street.”

“Are you telling me four other corpses were stolen last night?”

“No, Ben. Nothing was ripped off. That’s what’s got the boys mystified. If somebody goes to all the trouble of breaking and entering, he’s got to have some kind of crime in mind, don’t he? And if he cracks a funeral par­lor, he knows what to expect in there, right? He’s going to find dead bodies in there and coffins and maybe some floral arrangements and a candlestick or two in the chapels. I mean, it ain’t like he’s going to find a television set and the family silver. So if a guy busts into a place like that and don’t take anything, why’d he bust in to begin with?”

“How’d he do it, Henry?”

“Amateur night in Dixie. He forced the back doors with a crowbar.”

“Have you got the names of the places he hit?”

“Yeah, I made a list for you. I figured you might be in­terested.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out first a bill from the electric company, and then a lined sheet of paper torn from a spiral notebook. He handed the sheet to me. On it he had carefully lettered the names and addresses of the four funeral parlors. I glanced quickly at the addresses. All of them were located within a rough twenty-block radius of the Gibson residence on Matthews Street. I folded the sheet again, and put it in my notebook.

“I still ain’t got a line on the hoods who were muscling this Gibson,” Henry said. “You want me to keep trying?”

“No,” I said.

“So what do we do now?” Henry asked. “Just retire from the field?”

“I guess so,” I said. “Our client’s satisfied, Henry.”

“Mm,” Henry said. He looked suddenly disappointed. “Are you satisfied?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

“Well,” he said, “let me know if you need me again. Maybe when you think this over, you’ll get some kind of inspiration. I figured at first we were maybe dealing with an international ring of body snatchers here. But there were stiffs in all those places, and whoever busted in didn’t take so much as a fingernail. Well, who knows?” he said, and shrugged, and stood abruptly. “I got to get back to the shop.”

“Henry,” I said, “let me know how many hours you’ve put in on this, will you?”

“Yeah, yeah, no rush,” he said. He glanced casually into the top of Maria’s dress, said, “Nice meeting you, Miss Hochs,” and walked away from the table. He still affected the cool, shuffling walk of a gang fighter, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his coveralls, shoulders slightly hunched, chin ducked. His eyes, which I couldn’t see from behind, were undoubtedly covering every cor­ner of the room as he walked toward the door, anticipat­ing imminent attack. A good man, Henry.

“Is this too low-cut?” Maria asked abruptly.