The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [17]
“Yes,” agreed Turk. “That must have been it. Still, you must have seen him jump … say, you did see … you told me.”
“Did I?” I replied. “I don’t remember.”
“You did,” Turk said, and then he paused. “We’re friends now, right?”
“Absolutely.” I nodded for emphasis.
“You like Monique?”
“Absolutely,” I repeated. “She’s beautiful.”
“She likes you. I’m glad I got you two together.”
“Absolutely.”
“What did you see of her?”
“Who?”
“The girl in the morgue.”
“Oh.” I put a finger to my lip. “Roughly handled. Big bruise on her left arm. Didn’ you see?”
Turk shrugged. “Does he ever talk about me?”
“Who?”
“Osler.”
“Talk about you how?”
“C’mon, Carroll. Friends don’ lie to each other. Did he say anything about me?”
“Nope.”
“You sure? I know he talks to you.”
“Absolutely.”
Turk’s eyebrows turned down, as pondering some question, but then he shrugged as if to dismiss the question entirely.
The girls returned a few moments later. They seemed to glance at Turk before resuming their seats. Monique had renewed her scent and I started to lean toward her, when the man from the door, shorter muttonchops, appeared at our table and put his hand on Turk’s shoulder. “Someone to see you,” he said gravely.
“Can’t see anyone now, Haggens. Having far too good a time.” Turk waved in mock gaiety.
But Haggens did not leave. “Better see this one,” he said.
Instantly, Turk seemed to sober. He looked up at Haggens, their eyes held for a moment, and then Turk pushed back his chair. “Only take a minute, Carroll,” he told me. “Entertain the ladies for me.”
“I wonder what that could be about?” I asked, addressing the question to the table after Turk had moved across the room.
“Oh, his fixing, no doubt,” replied Suzette hazily.
“His fixing?”
“Oh yes. Georgie’s a great fixer. If you need something you don’t have, he’ll get it for you …” She giggled. “And if you have something you don’t want, he’ll get rid of it.”
Before I could inquire further, I heard the sound of shouting, loud enough to pierce the din. I turned and saw a highly agitated man with a turned-up mustache and beard arguing with Turk. I could not tell what the squabble was about, but the older man grabbed Turk by the coat. Turk pushed him and then moved forward, wagging a finger under his chin. Haggens appeared, seized the older man by the arm, and said something in his ear. The older man drew back, still furious, but reluctantly turned for the door, Haggens close behind to make sure he arrived there.
As they reached the exit, another man was waiting, a small man wearing a bowler hat, but otherwise obscured by a post. He moved forward for just an instant to take the older man’s arm.
I bolted upright, the effects of the drink gone. Although it could not possibly be true, it appeared that the man in the bowler was Dr. Osler. I started to push out of my seat to get a better look, but the crowd had swallowed him up. No, I decided, after I was sure they were gone, I had been mistaken. Surely, this was a datum I had misread—Philadelphia is filled with small men in bowler hats.
My head swiveled back to Turk, who had remained at the other side of the crowded room, waiting for Haggens to return. They spoke, leaning close to each other. Haggens nodded, as if in grudging acceptance. Then he made his way across the room, vanishing somewhere against the far wall.
Turk returned to the table in a dark humor. His eyebrows were knotted together so acutely that he looked raptorish. “Come, Carroll,” he said brusquely, without sitting. “We’re leaving. Sorry, ladies.”
“But it’s so early,” moaned Suzette.
“Stay,” said Monique, looking languorously at me. “Let’s have another drink.”
“It’s not that late, Turk,” I heard myself say. “Why must we leave?”
Turk grasped me under the arm and pulled me to my feet. His grip was extremely strong. “Carroll, when I say it’s time to leave, it’s time to leave. If you wish to get home with your health intact, I suggest you listen. Pay the bill and