361 - Donald E. Westlake [27]
I went over and got the hotel’s pen and a piece of the hotel’s stationery. Behind me, Bill said, “For all I know, this is some sort of gag.”
I came back and put the pen and paper on the table and he said, “What was that name? No, I didn’t hear it.” His eyes found me again and he grinned and asked the phone, “Eddie Kapp? Who the hell is Eddie Kapp?”
I grinned back at him. I lit two cigarettes and held one of them for him. I walked around the room.
“To you maybe it’s comedy,” Bill told the guy, “but to me I’ve got better things to do. You want to give me a number, go ahead.”
I walked back and stood watching.
“I’ve got pencil and paper,” Bill said. He was enjoying himself now, acting like he was bored and irritated, all his stagefright gone. He picked up the pen. “Go ahead,” he said. “Shoot.” He winked at me, and I nodded and laughed.
“Circle,” he said, writing it down, “five, nine, nine, seven, oh. Yeah, I’ve got it.” He read it off again. “Maybe I’ll call it, maybe I won’t” he said. He grinned. “Up y—” Then he looked at me. “He hung up.”
“You, too. Here’s a cigarette.”
He traded the receiver for the cigarette. “He wouldn’t give me his name. He said all he wanted was to give me the phone number. We should stick close to the room until Friday, and then we should call that number. When I asked him why, he said maybe the name Eddie Kapp would tell me.”
“He’s getting out Thursday,” I said.
“I know.”
“Hold on a second.” I dialed the number, and after two rings a recorded female voice told me it wasn’t a working number. I hung up. “Okay, let’s get out of here. That guy’s already calling his buddies in the lobby. The Kellys are home.”
We went out and down the hall to the freight elevator. I’d unlocked the door on the way in. I pushed the button, and when it came down we got aboard and I pushed the lock button on the inside of the door. Then I closed the gate and we went down to the cellar.
The cat was sleeping on top of the desk. She raised her head and looked at us. Way down to our right were some whiskey cases. We went down there, and looked around. In a shallow concrete pit there were four tapped beer kegs, the copper coils running up the side wall. So it was all right, it was the bar and not the liquor store. We went over to the stairs and up them. This was a regular door, not a trap like in the cleaners. I opened it and peeked out. I was looking at the corridor between the bar and the kitchen. It was empty. We went through and made a sharp left into the men’s room. We washed our faces and hands, and then went down the long length of the bar and out the street door. We turned the corner and walked crosstown and downtown to the West 46th Street parking lot where we’d left the car. There was a sullen veteran in khakis and fatigue cap on duty, and he walked back to the car with us and stood looking in through the windshield at the steering wheel as he said, “I’m taking a chance on this, but what the hell. I don’t do their goddamn dirty work or anybody’s.”
He sneaked a quick look at us and glared back at the steering wheel again. “They screwed me out of two hundred fifty bucks. What am I going to do, call the goddamn cops on them? They got the goddamn cops in their pocket. You know that.”
I said, “What’s the point?”
His cheek twitched, and he kept staring through the windshield into the car. “I just want you to know, that’s all. How come I’ll do this. I’m paying the bastards back, that’s what, two hundred and fifty bucks worth.” He tugged at his fatigue cap, and turned around quick to look out at the street. Then he turned back. “A guy came around yesterday afternoon,” he told the car, “with a sheet of paper and your license plate on it. He give me, and said I should call in at Alex’s if the car shows up. He described the car, red