12.

I checked in with my fences and my snitch, added three more snitches to the list, and finally couldn’t think of another thing to do before dinner, so I went home to take a nap. Marlowe quickly explained to me that napping was his job and feeding the dog was mine. I opened a can of SpaghettiOs for him, decided to sprawl out on the couch while he was eating, and fell asleep to the dulcet tones of Chris Berman’s maniacal screaming as he dramatized every play, especially the dull ones, from last weekend’s football games on ESPN. I’d just dozed off when Marlowe finished the SpaghettiOs, wandered into the living room, hopped up onto the couch (which meant onto my stomach), decided it wasn’t comfortable enough, and began trying to dig out a little hole to lie down in. I waved a groggy hand in his direction, hoping I could knock him off me without waking up any further, and all I got for my trouble was a dog clinging to my shirtsleeve as it hung above the floor.

“All right, goddammit!” I muttered, sitting up and making room for him. He decided he wanted the side I was sitting on, and we changed places. He was probably snoring thirty seconds before I was.

I woke up an hour and a half later, checked my watch, and decided that it was just about time to drive up to the Greek joint. I considered walking Marlowe first, but as I approached him I elicited a growl that said I am sound asleep and woe betide the fool who wakes me, so I hung the leash on a doorknob, put on my coat, and walked out to the car.

There wasn’t much traffic, and I got there about twenty minutes early. I’d just finished a beer and was starting on a Greek coffee, which tasted exactly like American coffee only, well, Greek, when Sorrentino showed up.

“Any news?” he asked.

I shook my head. “How about you?”

“Not a thing.”

“How long is your family going to let you stay here?” I asked. “After all, Palanto can’t testify against them.”

“Another few days,” he said. Suddenly he grinned. “I told them I was recruiting you.”

“That’ll be great for business when it gets out,” I said.

“You haven’t got all that much business that I can see,” he replied. “I guess it’s feast or famine when you’re private heat.”

“Not always,” I replied. “There’s a guy in town named Bill Striker. Got the biggest detective agency in the city, maybe in the state. For some it’s feast and more feast.”

“Maybe we should let him in on this deal,” suggested Sorrentino.

“Val, we don’t have a deal,” I said. “And you don’t want to invite a millionaire detective who protects rock stars and athletes and other expensive things to help us find some diamonds that aren’t ours.”

“You see?” he said with a smile. “I keep saying you’re the bright one.”

We really didn’t have any other information to exchange, so we spent the rest of the meal talking about the Bears and the Bengals—I suppose if it had been summer it would have been the Cubs and the Reds—and finally we pigged out on baklava and made arrangements to meet for lunch at a Texas Roadhouse, just to be different.

I drove back to the apartment, forcibly woke Marlowe, and even more forcibly took him for a walk, couldn’t spot either of the remaining Bolivians, and got back inside just before it started snowing.

“Snow, rain, snow,” I muttered to the god of weather. “I wish to hell you’d make up your mind.”

I raced Marlowe for the couch, lost, went into the kitchen to make some coffee, realized I hadn’t shaved in three days, and stopped by the bathroom to apply some shaving cream. I tried not to cut myself too many times and finally sat down on the portion of the couch he’d left for me.

I was never a Barbara Stanwyck fan, but TCM was running The G-String Murders, in which Barbara, as Gypsy Rose Lee, shows how even a stripper can solve a murder that baffles the cops and the private eyes. When Pinky Lee came on doing some burlesque clown routine, I gave in to an irresistible urge to watch a documentary on gecko lizards, which were better-looking and seemed somewhat brighter than the average baggy-pants comic.

I was just about to doze off again when the phone rang.

“Yeah?” I said.

“This is Ruby,” said the familiar voice of my head snitch.

“You got something for me?”

“Maybe so, maybe not.”

“Give me the maybe so first,” I said.

“Two guys named Smith checked into the Cincinnatian this afternoon.”

“Joe and Jim?”

“I’m working on that.”

“OK, what’s the maybe not part?”

I could almost see him shrug. “Maybe they’re two gay guys out to have a good anonymous time.”

“In Cincinnati’s answer to the Waldorf or the Palmer House?” I said.

“Maybe they’re paying for discretion.”

“I don’t suppose you got a room number?”

“There’s just so much you can get out of a place like that.”

“Okay,” I said. “And thanks.”

“If it’s them, I did this for more than verbal thanks.”

“If it’s them, I’ll find a proper way to thank you, Reuben,” I said.

“It’s Ruby, goddamn it!” he bellowed and slammed down the phone.

Well, it was a lead. Not iron-clad, but it was the first one to show up in three days, if you didn’t count being followed by a Bolivian killer the night before.

I checked my watch. Eight-forty. I decided it was too early. I didn’t want to case the joint while they were out; I wanted to talk to them.

I turned back to TCM. Barbara Stanwyck was all through solving murders, and Bette Davis was preparing to commit one. I switched to the ESPN channels, looking for a football game. The first four had women’s tennis, amateur golf, a basketball game between two junior colleges, and synchronized swimming. I tried a fifth ESPN channel and got a sixty-year-old title fight between Rocky Marciano and Jersey Joe Walcott, and when that was done, a classic battle between Gene Fullmer and Carmen Basilio. They had almost worked up to the Muhammad Ali era when I checked the time again, saw that it was ten-thirty, and decided it was time to go. I didn’t want to show up before they got back from dinner or murder or whatever they were out for, but I didn’t want to wake them and meet when they were in a foul mood either.

I drove over, decided to park in a cheap lot two blocks away rather than use the valet service and pay parking and a tip. I knew the hotel didn’t hand out room numbers to anyone who walked up and asked, but I’d faced that problem many times in the past and there was always an easy way around it.

I saw a young man climbing out of a Nick’s Pizza car and stopped him on his way into an office building. I asked him if he’d like to make a quick ten dollars, he said sure, and I told him to walk up to the Cincinnatian’s front desk and tell them he had a pizza for Joe Smith. If they offered to take it up to him, say no, he had to be paid for it. Once he got the number all he had to do was walk out of sight, count to sixty, and go back out. If they questioned him about still carrying the box, just say the order got mixed up and he’d be back in twenty minutes with the right pizza.

I watched him as he entered. He spent about a minute speaking with the desk clerk, then went to the elevators. Then, just to be safe, he got on one, probably rode it up one floor, counted to sixty, and came back down.

I was waiting for him by his car.

“The room number?” I said.

He smiled and held out his hand. “The ten bucks?”

I gave it to him.

“1723,” he said, and walked off to deliver the pizza.

I went into the hotel, walked straight to the elevator, and took it up to the seventeenth floor. There was a middle-aged woman just walking out of room 1718, and I fiddled with a nonexistent shoelace—I gave up shoes with laces years ago—until she was on the elevator and the doors slid shut behind her.

Then I knocked on the door of 1723.

“Who is there?” said a heavily accented voice.

“Room service,” I replied.

“We didn’t order no room service.”

“Compliments of the hotel,” I said.

The door opened a few seconds later, and I walked into the room, hands in the air.

“Howdy, gents,” I said. “Who’s Joe and who’s Jim?”

“Paxton!” growled the closer one, pulling a gun out of its shoulder holster.

“I’m not armed,” I said. “I’m just here to talk.”

The closer guy kept the gun on me while the other walked over and patted me down.

“Clean,” he announced.

The gun stayed trained on me.

“Nice room you’ve got,” I said.

“Cut the billshit, Paxton,” said the one with the gun.

“That’s bullshit,” I corrected him. “You’ll get the hang of the lingo in a few more weeks.”

“We ain’t staying in this stinking town a few more weeks.”

“You know where the money is?” I asked.

They just glared at me.

“Neither do I,” I said. “And if we’re going to hinder each other, it may very well take a few more weeks than necessary. Now,” I added, “which one is which, and no Joe Smith bullshit.”

“You go to hell. We are the Smith brothers, and you cannot prove otherwise.”

“Okay,” I said. “Who’s Joe and who’s Jim?”

“Just talk, Paxton,” said the farther one. “The fact that we haven’t killed you yet doesn’t mean we won’t.”

“Okay,” I said. “You’re looking for the money. I’m looking for the money. Our friend from Chicago is looking for the money. The widow is looking for the money.”

“Get to the point.”

“The police have your brother in jail. They’ll be letting him out, of course, but they know who you are, if not your real names, they know why you’re here, and they know what you do for a living. They’ll be watching every move you make.” I paused in case they had anything to say, but they kept silent. “They know what our friend from Chicago has done, who he works for, and what he’s here for, and they’re watching him, too.” Still no comments. “They know the widow doesn’t have the money, they know she wants it, and they’ll be watching her too.” I stared at them. “I’m the only one they’re not watching. If I get the money they think I’ll be turning it over to them for a reward. I’m the only one who is free and clear to look for it without police harassment. Am I getting through to you yet?”

“I’ll say it once more,” said the farther one. “Get to the point.”

“The point is if you guys are going to tail me every minute of the day, and the cops are tailing you, they’ll know the second I get the money—and believe me, there are a lot more of them than there are of you, and they all have guns. In fact, if you keep following me, I’ll just stop looking for it for a year or two. Unlike you, my boss didn’t send me to get the money, because I don’t have a boss. Am I getting through to you?”

They exchanged glances.

“If you come up with the money and we’re not following you, how will we know you have it, and how will we get our hands on it?”

“The insurance company is offering a five percent finder’s fee,” I lied. “Offer me ten percent, and I’m working for you.”

“We must discuss it.”

“I’ll wait,” I said.

“With our . . . brother.”

“He should be out sometime tomorrow. Will he know where to find you?”

“We have meeting places.”

“All right,” I said. “We don’t know if my phone is bugged, so here’s the deal: if you’re not on my tail tomorrow or the next day, we have a deal. If I spot you, the deal’s off and it’s every man for himself.” I paused. “And before you think of killing me, just ask yourself who is better equipped to find it: three Bolivians who don’t speak the language very well, at least one of whom will be watched by the cops, or a private eye who knows the city inside out and does this kind of thing all the time.”

The closer one nodded his head. “You will know tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” I said. Then: “Do you mind if I use your john? I had lot to drink at dinner.”

They frowned. “John?” said one.

“Bathroom,” I replied. “Toilet.”

He nodded, and I walked into the bathroom and locked the door. Then I took out the glass and soap dish I’d purchased on the way back from dinner, placed them on the sink, transferred the soap from the old dish to the new, and then wrapped the old glass and dish in Kleenex and stuck them in my coat pocket. I was just about to exit the room when I remembered to flush the toilet so they could hear it.

I walked to the door under their watchful eyes.

“Good night, Joe. Good night, Jim. My best to Sam.”

“Shut up,” said the closer one.

“Whatever you say,” I replied, walking out into the corridor. I made my way to the elevator, and a moment later was walking through the elegant lobby to the front door.

I walked the two blocks to my car, paid the dollar fee for under an hour, which was probably nine bucks less than parking and a tip would have cost at the hotel, and drove straight to police headquarters.

Jim Simmons had gone home, but Bill Calhoun, who’d drawn the night shift this month, was sitting there at the next desk.

“Hi, Eli,” he said, looking up. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi, Bill,” I said. “I brought you a present.”

“Me?” he said, surprised.

“The Cincinnati Police Department,” I answered, pulling out the tissue-wrapped glass and dish and placing them on Jim’s desk.

“What have we got here?” he asked, standing up and walking over.

“If we’re lucky,” I said, “if either of the Bolivians had a drink of water or adjusted the soap dish, we’ll have some fingerprints so you can find out who they really are. I can’t imagine there aren’t some warrants out for their arrest, either in Bolivia or somewhere in South America. Once you get an ID, check with Interpol, and maybe we can put these guys on ice until someone with a grudge against them takes ’em off your hands.”

“Will do,” he promised.

I was feeling pretty pleased with myself when I got home. I could lie to killers just like Sam Spade could lie to Joel Cairo and the Fat Man, and thanks to a brilliant piece of acting I didn’t have to look over my shoulder every few minutes while I was hunting for the diamonds.

“Shove over,” I said to Marlowe as I plopped down on the couch and hit the remote. “You’re dealing with a genius here.”

He gave me a look that said: Okay, genius, what do you know about the diamonds that you didn’t know five seconds after Sorrentino told you about them?

If there is a quicker way to kill a proud, happy, boastful mood than a sober, unimpressed dog that doesn’t know he’s supposed to worship you, I don’t know what it is.