Manhattan Noir - Lawrence Block [28]
“I have a proposition for you,” Schaeffer said.
“Proposition?”
The cop nodded. “Okay. I’m convinced you’re not going to do this again.”
“Never.”
“I could let you go with a warning. But the problem is, the situation got called in.”
“Called in?”
“A vice cop on the street happened to see you go into the hotel with Darla—we know all about her. He reported it and they sent me out. There’s paperwork on the incident.”
“My name?”
“No, just a John Doe at this point. But there is a report. I could make it go away but it’d take some work and it’d be a risk.”
Shelby sighed, nodding with a grimace, and opened the bidding.
It wasn’t much of an auction. Shelby kept throwing out numbers and Schaeffer kept lifting his thumb, more, more … Finally, when the shaken man hit $150,000, Schaeffer nodded.
“Christ.”
When T.G. and Ricky Kelleher had called to say that he’d found a tourist to scam, Ricky told him the mark could go six figures. That was so far out of those stupid micks’ league that Schaeffer had to laugh. But sure enough, he had to give the punk credit for picking out a mark with big bucks.
In a defeated voice Shelby asked, “Can I give you a check?”
Schaeffer laughed.
“Okay, okay … but I’ll need a few hours.”
“Tonight. Eight.” They arranged a place to meet. “I’ll keep your driver’s license. And the evidence.” He picked up the cash on the table. “You try to skip, I’ll put out an arrest warrant and send that to Des Moines too. They’ll extradite you and then it’ll be a serious felony. You’ll do real time.”
“Oh, no, sir. I’ll get the money. Every penny.” Shelby hurriedly dressed.
“Go out by the service door in back. I don’t know where the vice cop is.”
The tourist nodded and scurried out of the room.
In the lobby by the elevator the detective found Bernbaum and Darla sharing a smoke.
“Where my money?” the hooker demanded.
Schaeffer handed her two hundred of the confiscated cash. He and Bernbaum split the rest, a hundred fifty for Schaeffer, fifty for his partner.
“You gonna take the afternoon off, girlfriend?” Bernbaum asked Darla.
“Me? Hell no, I gots to work.” She glanced at the money Schaeffer’d given her. “Least till you assholes start paying me fo’ not fuckin’ same as I make fo’ fuckin’.”
Schaeffer pushed into Mack’s bar, an abrupt entrance that changed the course of at least half the conversations going on inside real fast. He was a crooked cop, sure, but he was still a cop, and the talk immediately shifted from deals, scams, and drugs to sports, women, and jobs. Schaeffer laughed and strode across the room. He dropped into an empty chair at the scarred table, muttered to T.G., “Get me a beer.” Schaeffer being about the only one in the universe who could get away with that.
When the brew came he tipped the glass to Ricky. “You caught us a good one. He agreed to a hundred fifty.”
“No shit,” T.G. said, cocking a red eyebrow. The split was Schaeffer got half and then Ricky and T.G. divided the rest equally. “Where’s he getting it from?”
“I dunno. His problem.”
Ricky squinted. “Wait. I want the watch too.”
“Watch?”
“The old guy. He had a Rolex. I want it.”
At home Schaeffer had a dozen Rolexes he’d taken off marks and suspects over the years. He didn’t need another one. “You want the watch, he’ll give up the watch. All he cares about is making sure his wife and his corn-pone customers don’t find out what he was up to.”
“What’s corn-pone?” Ricky asked.
“Hold on,” T.G. snarled. “Anybody gets the watch, it’s me.”
“No way. I saw it first. It was me who picked him—”
“My watch,” the fat Irishman interrupted. “Maybe he’s got a money clip or something you can have. But I get the fucking Rolex.”
“Nobody has money clips,” Ricky argued. “I don’t even want a fucking money clip.”
“Listen, little Lime Rickey,” T.G. muttered. “It’s mine. Read my lips.”
“Jesus, you two are like kids,” Schaeffer said, swilling the beer. “He’ll meet us across the street from Pier 46 at 8 tonight.