"You'll never find her, you can't bring her back."
It was too late or too early, there was no one I could call. The only person I knew who might be awake was Mickey Ballou, and he'd be too drunk by now, and I didn't have a number for him. And what would I say to him anyway?
"Forget about the girl."
Was it Paula I'd been dreaming about? I closed my eyes and tried to picture her.
When I awoke a second time it was ten o'clock and the sun was shining. I was up and half-dressed before I remembered the phone call, and at first I wasn't entirely certain if it had actually happened. My towel, tossed over a chair and still damp from my shower, provided physical evidence. I hadn't dreamed it. Someone had called me, urging me off a case I had already pretty much dropped.
The phone rang again as I was tying my shoelace. I answered it and said a guarded "Hello," and Willa said, "Matt?"
"Oh, hi," I said.
"Did I wake you? You didn't sound like yourself."
"I was being cagey."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I woke up to an anonymous call in the middle of the night, telling me to stop looking for Paula Hoeldtke. When it rang just now I thought I might be in for more of the same."
"It wasn't me before."
"I know that. It was a man."
"Although I'll admit I was thinking of you. I sort of thought I might see you last night."
"I was tied up until late. I spent half the night at an AA meeting and the rest in a ginmill."
"That's a nice balanced existence."
"Isn't it? By the time I was done, it was too late to call."
"Did you find out anything about what was bothering Eddie?"
"No. But all of a sudden the other case is alive again."
"The other case? You mean Paula?"
"That's right."
"Just because someone told you to drop it? That's given you a reason to pick it up again?"
"That's just part of it."
Durkin said, "Christ, Mickey Ballou. The Butcher Boy. How does he fit into it?"
"I don't know. I spent a couple of hours with him last night."
"Oh yeah? You're really moving up in class these days, aren't you? Wha'd you do, take him out to dinner, watch him eat with his hands?"
"We were at a place called Grogan's."
"A few blocks from here, right? I know the joint. It's a dive. They say he owns it."
"So I understand."
"Except of course he can't, since the SLA doesn't like to let convicted felons put their names on liquor licenses, so somebody must be fronting it for him. What were the two of you doing, playing canasta?"
"Drinking and telling lies. He was drinking Irish whiskey."
"You were drinking coffee."
"Coke. They didn't have coffee."
"You're lucky they had Coke, a pigpen like that. What the hell has he got to do with Pauline? Not Pauline, Paula. What's he got to do with her?"
"I'm not sure," I said, "but the machine went tilt when he saw her picture, and a couple of hours later somebody woke me up to tell me to drop the case."
"Ballou?"
"No, it wasn't his voice. I don't know who it was. I have some ideas, but nothing solid. Tell me about Ballou, Joe."
"Tell you what?"
"What do you know about him?"
"I know he's an animal. I know he belongs in a fucking cage."
"Then why isn't he in one?"
"The worst ones never are. Nothing sticks to them. You can't ever find a witness, or you find one and he gets amnesia. Or he disappears. It's funny the way they disappear. You ever hear the story, Ballou's running all over town showing people a guy's head?"
"I know the story."
"The head never turned up. Or the body. Gone, no forwarding. Finito."
"How does he make his money?"
"Not running a ginmill. He started out doing some enforcing for some of the Italians. He's as big as a house and he was always a tough bastard and he liked the work. All those Westies, tough Irish mugs from the Kitchen, they've been hiring out as muscle for generations. I suspect he was good at it, Ballou. Say you borrowed money from a shy and you're a few weeks behind with the vig, and this hulk walks in on you wearing a bloody apron and swinging a cleaver in his hand. What are you going to do? You want to tell him see me next week or are you gonna come up with the cash?"
"You said he was a convicted felon. What did he go away for?"
"Assault. That was early, I don't think he was out of his teens. I'm pretty sure he only went away the once. I could look it up."
"It's not important. Is that what he's done ever since? Strongarm work?"
He leaned back. "I don't think he hires out anymore," he said. "You call him, tell him So-and-so needs his legs broken, I don't think Ballou grabs a hunk of pipe and goes out and does the job himself. But he might send somebody. What else does he do? I think he's got a few dollars on the street, earning that six-for-five. There's joints he's supposed to have a piece of, but you hear all sorts of shit along those lines, you never know what to believe. His name comes up in connection with a lot of things. Trucks getting hijacked, a couple of heavy heists. You remember a couple of years ago, five guys with masks and guns took off Wells Fargo for three mil?"
"They had somebody on the inside, didn't they?"
"Yeah, but he happened to die before anybody had a chance to ask him the right questions. And his wife died, and he had a girlfriend on the side, and you'll never guess what happened to her."
"She died?"
"She disappeared. A few other people disappeared too, and a couple more turned up in car trunks out at JFK. We'd hear that this guy or that guy was one of the guns and masks on the Wells Fargo thing, and before we could go out looking for him we'd get a call that he was in the trunk of his Chevy Monte Carlo out at Kennedy."
"And Ballou-"
"Was supposed to be the man at the top. That was the word, but nobody said it too loud because it was a dangerous thing to do, you could wind up in Long-Term Parking along with all your friends and relations. But that was the word, Ballou set it up and ran it, and he may have come out with the whole three mil because there wasn't anybody around to share it with."
"He have anything to do with drugs?"
"Not that I ever heard of."
"Prostitution? White slaving?"
"Not his style." He yawned, ran a hand through his hair. "There was another one they called Butcher. A mob guy, out in Brooklyn if I remember it right."
"Dom the Butcher."
"That's the one."
"Bensonhurst."
"Yeah, right. Under Carlo G., if I remember it right. And they called him the Butcher because he had some kind of no-show job in the meatcutter's union, that's what he paid his taxes on. Dominic something or other, I forget his last name. Something Italian."
"No kidding."
"Somebody shot him a couple of years ago. His line of work, you call that dying of natural causes. The thing is, they called him the Butcher because of his cover job, but all the same he was a brutal bastard. There was a story, some kids robbed a church and he had 'em skinned alive."
"To teach respect for the cloth."
"Yeah, well, he must have been a deeply spiritual guy. All I'm getting at, Matt, is when you got a guy they call the Butcher, or the Butcher Boy, or whatever the fuck they call him, you're talking about an animal oughta be in a cage, you're talking about the kind of guy eats raw meat for breakfast."
"I know."
"What I'd do in your position," he said, "is I'd take the biggest gun I could find, and right away I'd shoot him in the back of the neck. Either that or I'd stay the fuck away from him."
The Mets were back home for a weekend series with the Pirates. They'd won last night and it didn't look as though anyone was going to catch them. I called Willa but she had chores to do and wasn't enough of a fan to shirk them. Jim Faber was at his shop, with a job he'd promised a client by six. I flipped through my book and called a couple of other fellows I knew from St. Paul's, but either they weren't home or they didn't feel like shlepping out to Shea.
I could just stay home. The game would be televised, NBC was carrying it as the game of the week. But I didn't want to sit around all day. I had things to do and I couldn't do them. Some of them had to wait until dark, and some until after the weekend, and I wanted to get up and go somewhere in the meantime, not sit around looking at my watch. I tried to think who to go to the game with, and I could only come up with two people.
First was Ballou, and I had to laugh at myself for thinking of him. I didn't have a number for him, and wouldn't have called it if I had. He probably didn't like baseball. Even if he did, I somehow couldn't see the two of us palling around, eating hot dogs and booing a bad call at first base. It just showed how strong if illusory the bond between us had been the previous evening for me to have thought of him at all.
The other person was Jan Keane. I didn't have to look up her number, and I dialed it and let it ring twice, then rang off before either she or her machine could answer.
I rode the subway down to Times Square, switched to the Flushing line and rode all the way out to Shea. The cashiers were sold out, but there were plenty of kids out front with tickets to sell, and I got a decent seat, up high behind third base. Ojeda pitched a three-hit shutout and for a change the team got him some runs, and the weather was just the way it ought to be. The new kid, Jefferies, went four-for-five with a double and a home run, and he went to his left for a low liner off Van Slyke's bat and saved Ojeda's shutout for him.
The fellow on my right said he'd seen Willie Mays in his rookie season at the Polo Grounds, and he'd been exciting in the same way. He'd come by himself, too, and he had a lot to say over nine innings, but it was better than sitting home and listening to Scully and Garagiola and Bud Light commercials. The fellow on my left had a beer each inning until they stopped selling it in the seventh. He had an extra in the fourth, too, to make up for the half of one that he spilled on his shoes and mine. I was annoyed at having to sit there and smell it, and then I reminded myself that I had a lady friend who generally smelled of beer when she didn't smell of scotch, and that I'd spent the previous night voluntarily breathing stale beer fumes in a lowlife saloon and had a grand time of it. So I had no real reason to sulk if my neighbor wanted to sink a few while he watched the home team win one.
I had a couple of hot dogs myself, and drank a root beer, and stood up for the national anthem and the seventh-inning stretch, and to give Ojeda a hand when he got the last Pirate to swing at a curveball low and away. "They'll roll right over the Dodgers in the playoffs," my new friend assured me. "But I don't know about Oakland."
I'd made a dinner date with Willa earlier. I stopped at my hotel to shave and put on a suit, then went over to her place. She had her hair braided again, and the braid coiled across her forehead like a tiara. I told her how nice it looked.
She still had the flowers on the kitchen table. They were past their prime, and some were losing their petals. I mentioned this, and she said she wanted to keep them another day. "It seems cruel to throw them out," she said.
