thirty-two

No, not Astaire. Thorne was more a Patrick Swayze kinda guy—suave, rugged, dashing, and a ballroom dancer. And as he glided Angel around the dance floor, some guests stopped and looked on. Some even applauded at the end of the dance. Just great. What was next, master chef and poet?

Thorne guided Angel off the dance floor for the second time as Cal put his sax away for a fifteen-minute break and headed for Bear and Lee at our table. As Cal sauntered up, he undid his Eisenhower jacket and tossed it on the back of the chair. Then he slumped down into the chair with a sigh and a grin.

“Man, oh man, what a crowd, eh, Bear?”

A waiter brought Cal a tall glass of something cold.

Lee said, “Calloway, you were wonderful tonight. How about some Dorsey Brothers next?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “You surprised me, Bear—you and Lee were really cuttin’ a rug. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Bear grumbled something, then said, “I guess you broke the news to Keys. I want to talk to him first chance, Cal.”

“Yeah, he took it hard, too.” Cal poured back half his drink and wiped his mouth. “Blowin’ that sax makes me bone-dry. Keys knows you’re here tonight. He’ll be over. But he doesn’t know much. They were pals and had drinks and laughs, not much more to it.”

“I still want to talk to him.”

Ollie was gone now and I was about to slip into the last chair at the table when Keys walked up and took it. He was pale and sweaty—his ninety years and extra hundred pounds were taking a toll beneath bandstand lights. The waiter followed him with a tall glass of ice water and an even taller glass of scotch.

“You must be Bear Braddock.” Keys extended a hand and a smile. He tipped back the scotch and easily swallowed half of it. The glass was barely away from his lips when he said, “Calloway and I talked—too many questions for me. But you’re welcome to grill me again.”

Lee stood. “I’ll leave you to it, boys. Bear, save another dance
for me. There’s someone I have to meet.” And she walked off toward the bar.

“You picked a feisty one, copper,” Keys said. He slapped Bear’s arm. “My girl will dance you into the floor and outdrink you, too. She’s a tough one, my Lee. But you watch it, she’s family.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Bear said with a smile. He got serious. “Keys, I’ll cut to the quick. Any idea who killed William Mendelson?”

“If I did, I’d kill the bastard myself. Slow, though. Real slow.” Keys finished his scotch and lifted his ice water. “Doctor tells me no booze with my pills. Why? Will it kill me?” He laughed and sipped his water. “I fought the big war as a boy soldier and lost a son not too many years ago. I’ve been fighting for years to put this club on the map—bankers, state liquor people, investors, even the damn zoning people. Screw ’em, all. I’m ninety years old and don’t give a shit. So, I guess that makes me dangerous, right, Calloway?”

“Right, man, dangerous.” Cal leaned toward him. “But hey, now. You and Willy were tight. If anyone can help us, it’s you. So think, Keys. Think hard. Bear and me want his killer. We want him fast. So think.”

He did. He sat back in his chair and looked out on the dance floor as waiters scurried about. His eyes didn’t seem to see anything and he looked lost in memories none of us could guess about. He took another swallow of water and fixed his eyes on Bear as his words bristled with a dry, heavy anger.

“I don’t know who killed him, Detective. Oh sure, he’s a weird old codger—just like me. But being a stingy old coot doesn’t make you a bad man, does it? He’s got all the money he needs and all kinds of baggage, too. Maybe somebody wanted that old Egyptian junk at his place for themselves. I just don’t know.”

Cal said, “Maybe, Keys. But what about the other stuff? Tell Bear what you told me earlier.”

“Everyone has faults, Cal. Everyone has demons.” Keys waved to the waiter for another drink. “I can’t count or name all mine. Can you?”

Bear tapped the table. “No, I can’t. But I’m not dead. So you need to tell me his so I can find out if they led to his killing.”

Keys sat back and looked hard at Bear. He cocked his head a couple times back and forth like he couldn’t decide what to say. Then he sighed and held up a finger. “Sure, sure. It’s not like that shit son of his will help you. Look, me and Willy liked to go to Charles Town—you know, the track and casino—to do some gamblin’ now and then. But one day, Willy refused to go back. He said he had issues with the races and slots.”

I said, “Gambling debts? That could explain cleaning out his private vault, Bear. And it might explain someone killing him if he was in too deep.”

Bear said the same thing and it sent a painful darkness over Keys’s face.

“Willy didn’t have markers. That bastard son of his, Marshal, did. And Willy tried to unbury Marshal from the hole he’d dug. I went to him last year and wanted him to invest in this club. We go back seventy years, right? He was loaded—or so I thought. So I went to Willy. Not as a banker, no, but as a private investor. A friend.”

“And?” Bear asked, seeing Cal’s mouth form the same word. “Did he invest?”

“Nope. Not one dime. Couldn’t.” Keys’s drink arrived and he took a long sip. “He said he wanted to but didn’t have the capital. And then he told me not to apply at the bank because he could never get the loan through without substantial collateral, which I ain’t got. He gave me the bum’s rush.”

I looked over at Poor Nic sitting on the mezzanine. He watched us, too. “So, now you know how Poor Nic fits in, Bear. Nic loves the underdog. Or perhaps he loves the vig.”

The vig is the ridiculous interest a loan shark charges for money lent. The vig also can include kneecaps, ankles, arms, and legs if payments are late. I don’t recall where the nickname comes from, but I can tell you it isn’t from a dictionary. My guess is that if it were in any book, it would be Poor Nic’s operating manual.

Bear watched Keys. “And that’s how Poor Nic became your partner? Alternative financing?”

“Not a partner,” Keys said in a tight voice. “An investor. He doesn’t own anything but my marker. And yeah, Nicholas has been good to me. And I’m good to him. And before you start all your cop bullshit, the interest ain’t bad and he plays nice. It’s all legal.”

“Whoa, now.” Bear patted the air. “Nic and I are good. Ask him. As long as he stays inside the rules, I’m a happy guy and he can invest where he wants.”

A waiter left Keys another scotch, which he tossed back and stood up. “Gotta hit the latrine, boys. Look, I ain’t sayin’ Marshal’s gamblin’ is why somebody popped Willy. I’m just sayin’ that hole was deep and Willy tried to fill it. Maybe somebody killed Willy to send a message. Willy couldn’t invest in my place and that bothered him—all his money went to Marshal’s debts. Willy was my friend back from the days friends didn’t live so long, know what I mean? The war.”

I did know what he meant. “He’s holding back Bear. Nostalgia’s got his tongue. And I think Nic’s in this up to his vig, too. Just like always.”

Bear watched Keys walk off. Then he turned to Cal. “Tell Bartalotta I want an audience—ten minutes.”

“Sure, Bear.” Cal stood, then threw a chin toward Angel and Thorne across the room. “Good to see Angela out, too, Bear. No offense to Tuck and all, but she’s too young and too much of a catch to stay off the market. No matter where he is.”

“I’m sitting right here, Cal,” I said. “And she’s off the market either way.”

Bear grunted, then said, “Yeah, but Thorne?”

“Yeah, man, I hear you.” Cal watched them. “Thorne’s a little stiff. She’s way out of his league, but I don’t think he gets that. He’s pretty enough and kinda slick, but … something about that guy just doesn’t sit with me, you know?”

I did. And the way he leaned close to my Angel and refilled her wineglass didn’t sit at all. And there was something odd about him. Not just that he had his own eavesdropping equipment or that he used words like tradecraft, either. He seemed a little too confident and righteous—like he knew something we didn’t. And while bankers were often like that, he wasn’t a banker. He was a security guy and ex-Army Ranger. If you put the two together, you get a professional soldier who knows about alarms, CCTV, and eavesdropping—someone who knows how to kill and cover his tracks.

The question was, was Franklin Thorne my best suspect or just my worst nightmare?