Twenty

Wolfowitz met Conlon at his office, a small suite of rooms in a gray commercial building west of Herald Square. It was the kind of office an old-time movie private eye would have, grungy and disreputable, not unlike the man whose name was on the door. Wolfowitz appreciated the investigator’s unabashed authenticity. Over the years he had published a number of mysteries by ex-cops and private investigators who looked as wholesome and healthy as forest rangers. Nobody would ever mistake Conlon, with his pot belly, blue-veined nose and heavily Brylcreemed pompadour, for a forest ranger.

Years ago, Wolfowitz had told Conlon that he wouldn’t be needing pictures of Mack and Louise, and he had never used him to snoop on his wife again. But he had been impressed with the investigator’s discreet professionalism and had employed him ever since on sensitive cases. Conlon had looked into the backgrounds of potential libel litigants, engaged in industrial espionage against other publishing houses and tracked down writers who had gone AWOL with their advance money. This time, he had a report on Mack Green’s movie deal.

There were things about the Hollywood offer that had bothered Wolfowitz from the start. For one, Tommy Russo seemed almost unhappy about it. Even more puzzling, he didn’t understand why anyone would buy a Mack Green novel sight unseen, for six figures. He had asked Conlon to look into it, and now the detective was ready to give him some answers.

“The first thing is, this guy Ligget’s a front,” said Conlon, coming right to the point. He knew, after all this time, that Wolfowitz was not a man interested in pleasantries.

“A front for who?”

“Guy named Jeff Reggie,” said Conlon. “He’s a producer out there, does a lot of porno crap and some regular B movies.” He squinted at his typewritten notes. “I could give you some titles if you want. I’ve got ’em right here.”

“Later,” said Wolfowitz. “Unless it’s important.”

Conlon shook his head. “What’s important, looks like, is that Jeff Reggie’s cousin is Herman Reggie. That’s interesting.”

“Why? Who’s Herman Reggie?”

“He’s a bookie,” said Conlon. “Very big time. Also, he does enforcement for other bookies. You wouldn’t like him.”

“And he’s connected to this?”

“Yep,” said Conlon, consulting his notes again. “He owns a part of the deal. It’s a payment for a bad gambling debt.”

“Mack’s not a gambler. He doesn’t even play cards.”

“No, but his agent does. Tommy Russo. He bet with Herman, he lost to Herman and he paid up by giving his share of the book, which is entitled The Diary of a Dying Man, to Herman.”

“I know the name of the book,” said Wolfowitz impatiently; the one drawback in dealing with Conlon was his plodding thoroughness. “How do you know he gave the book to Reggie?”

Conlon fixed the editor in chief with a mysterious stare. “Mr. Wolfowitz, I can’t reveal that information,” he said. In fact, Conlon knew because Jeff Reggie had told Ligget, who had told Conlon’s associate in California. The reason Ligget had been so forthcoming was that Conlon’s associate was a moonlighting LA narcotics detective who threatened to bust him for dealing cocaine if he didn’t talk. These transactions were almost always easier than the client imagined, which was why Conlon liked to keep his professional secrets to himself.

“Okay, so Reggie owns 10 percent of the book,” said Wolfowitz. “That still doesn’t explain why his cousin bought the movie rights.”

“They think it’s going to make a lot of money,” said Conlon. “Ligget says his cut, just for fronting the deal, could be half a million bucks.”

“Half a million dollars?” Wolfowitz repeated, scratching his head. For once the gesture was real; he was genuinely baffled.

Conlon shrugged. “I’m not a movie critic, but they think a story like this, the author offs himself and leaves a book about it as a suicide note, is a big deal.”

“Offs himself? They’re crazy, Green’s not going to kill himself, he’s just writing a novel about someone who does. It’s fiction.”

“Whatever,” Conlon said noncommittally. It occurred to Wolfowitz that the ex-cop, with his little notebooks and written reports, probably hadn’t forgotten that he had once caught Mack Green sleeping with his wife.

“I wonder where they got the idea that Green was going to kill himself?” Wolfowitz mused. “Wait, did the name McClain come up?”

“McClain?” said Conlon, scanning his report. “Nope, no McClain. Who’s he?”

“Nobody,” said Wolfowitz. “It was just a thought.” Suddenly he felt a shiver of apprehension. Mack’s book, whatever Reggie had in mind, would be worthless once Horton’s suicide novel appeared. And if the bookie found out that Wolfowitz had ruined his investment, there could be trouble. “Tell me something. This guy Reggie—would you say he was dangerous?”

“Which one?”

“Either one, but I meant the bookmaker.”

“Jeff Reggie’s a pussy,” said Conlon. “Herman?” He raised his eyebrows. “There’s better people to owe money to.”

“No, I mean in general. If somebody cost him a lot of money, say, do you think he might do something violent?”

“That would be speculation on my part,” said Conlon.

“We’re not in court,” said Wolfowitz impatiently. “Speculate. What do you think?”

“What I think is that Herman Reggie wouldn’t gamble a hundred bucks, let alone a hundred thousand, unless he knew it was a sure thing.”

“You mean Green killing himself?”

“I didn’t say that,” Conlon said, looking directly into Wolfowitz’s cold gray eyes. “I just said that if Reggie thinks he can make that kind of dough on a book by a dead writer, and he’s shelling out a hundred grand of his own money for a book by a dead writer, you’re gonna wind up with a book and a dead writer.”

Wolfowitz was silent for a long moment as he digested Conlon’s analysis. “It would have to be suicide, though,” he said finally. “Or at least look like suicide. Could he do that?”

Conlon grunted as he shifted his weight off his hemorrhoids. “Make it look like a suicide?” he said. “Hell, there’s ways to make it look like he croaked from the bubonic plague.”