Manhattan Noir - Lawrence Block [63]
The tap of a club on bricks was unmistakable. Now the whistling of some awful Irish tune located a policeman on his rounds just a block away.
Tony eased back into the alley. The rats again. This time he saw the bright eyes staring at him from not ten feet away. Glints of white teeth showed in the dim light. Five or six filthy rats, on their guard and enraged, screamed at him.
He found a broken cobblestone, but didn’t throw it lest the cop hear. The minutes passed with Tony and the rats staring at each other. When he could no longer hear the tapping or the whistling, Tony let fly.
An angry screech. When the stunned rat fell, his mates immediately turned and fed on him. It was to be expected. Such was the world. Tony headed back to the Mulroony house.
A heavyset man had his hand on the door.
“Mr. Mulroony?”
“No, I’m O’Neil. What you want with Al?”
“He helped a friend of mine with a problem. I have some money for him.”
“Why don’t you come inside? Money is always welcome. I’m sure his missus will give you a taste for the news of it.”
“No. If she asks for the money, I’ll have to give it to her.
Then Mulroony may never know my friend was grateful.”
The man laughed. “Begorra, you’ve got Alice Mulroony down all right. Don’t you worry, I won’t tell her.”
“Thank you.”
Shortly after O’Neil went in, a pudgy policeman paused in front of the rooming house to straighten his uniform. Just the type to be a cop in this city. Tony could smell the dust and beer on him.
“Mr. Mulroony?”
“Who wants to know?”
“If you’re the right Mulroony, I have money for you.”
“I’m Mulroony of the Metropolitan Police.” His greedy eyes glinted like the rats. “What money?” he demanded.
Tony walked into the alley surreptitiously, drawing Marie from her place on his thigh up through the hole in his pants pocket. Mulroony followed.
The organ grinder fit his gold tooth back in place. He spat at the dead Irish cop and caressed Marie before putting her to bed.
A long day, a bad day. Tonneman was late coming home to the house on Grand Street where he lived with his widowed mother, Meg. There was a light on in the kitchen. She always left a light on for him and food on the stove or in the ice box, fussing over whether he was getting enough to eat while he did the good work of the police.
He came in quietly so as not to wake her, but she was there waiting for him.
“You have a visitor, John Tonneman.” She was the only one who called him John, his birth name. And her tone told
him that she didn’t like his visitor.
“Where is he, Ma?” There was no one in the kitchen. He looked in the parlor. No one there.
“I wouldn’t put him in the parlor,” she said, shocked.
“Then where is he?”
“Out back. And I don’t like the look of him.”
“What’s wrong with him, Ma?” Tonneman splashed his face with cold water and used the cloth his mother handed to him.
“He’s a dago,” she said in a loud whisper. “I gave him a bit of bread and ham. He didn’t want beer. You see to him, and be careful. I don’t trust them.”
Tonneman opened the back door. Sitting on the steps was a man in heavy trousers, a long coat, and a shabby brown hat. An enormous mustache hid his mouth, which was only visible because he was smoking an Italian stinker. The man was a stranger to him until their eyes met.
“Petrosino.”
With a half-smile, Petrosino put aside the empty plate. “Your ma was kind to a poor old dago.”
“You heard about Mulroony?”
“Yes. The story I’m hearing is he found a gold tooth near the body of the prostitute, Delia Swann.”
“So I heard, too. Same sticker. Stiletto. Right up the middle. Killer made off with the gold tooth.”
A small stream of smoke came from the twisted stub of a cigar. “Killer may have lost the tooth when he was gutting the girl.” He puffed on the cigar. “Mulroony took the evidence, a lot of good it did for him.”
“I heard that someone looking like you made the rounds of the Irish bars looking for Mulroony. Wasn’t you, by any chance?”
“No.”
Tonneman