The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [64]
The hour was early for such an establishment, so, when I arrived, the giant outside the door was lolling about, without the guarded tension I had observed the previous week. He did not challenge me as I walked past him into the largely empty saloon. Few of the tables were occupied, and those by men with thick hands and dark expressions, sitting silently with their liquor.
I had not realized how vast an establishment it was. With the tables situated as close as they were, The Fatted Calf might easily accommodate two hundred revelers. Nor had I realized how downtrodden—everything in the room, from the floor to the walls to the tables to the glasses on the bar, appeared to be embossed with a layer of grime. If Turk actually had acquired a gastrointestinal ailment from drinking in this place, it would have been no surprise.
I strode across the room to the bar, my boot heels echoing softly on the pitted floorboards. A man behind the railing was polishing the glasses, using a dirty towel that left them looking no cleaner than when he had started. He ignored me until I asked for Mr. Haggens, at which point he looked up with a decidedly unfriendly expression. “What do you want with him?” Under the gruffness, however, he was a bit taken aback at my dress and demeanor, likely endeavoring to decide if I was someone to be feared or robbed.
“I have business with him. Please tell him that I was in last Thursday with George Turk.”
“Tell him yourself,” grunted the bartender, who directed me to a door at the far end of the room.
When I knocked, an indistinct voice responded from inside, so I opened the door and walked in. Haggens was seated at a dilapidated rolltop desk, piles of papers before him, with a surprisingly elegant Waterman fountain pen held in his hand. I was reminded that The Fatted Calf was, after all, a business like any other, with records to keep and accounts to pay.
“I’m here about George Turk,” I said simply, assuming that Haggens was far too clever not to know Turk’s identity.
Haggens did not look up. “I know who you come about,” he said.
“I suppose you know that he is dead.” I was confident Sergeant Borst’s inquiries were now a matter of common knowledge in this part of town.
“I suppose I do,” Haggens replied. He pushed himself away from the desk and leaned back in his chair. “And I know who you are, too. You know, Doc—it is Doc, right?—this is a pretty dangerous place for a gent like you to be wandering around in. Why, there’s stabbings, and shootings, and all sorts of things that happen to those who come down here and don’t know what they’re doing.”
Although I had come prepared to be threatened, now that I was actually facing a threat, I realized that no amount of preparation was enough. An immense effort at self-control was going to be required if I was to come through this.
“Yes,” I replied, “I’m sure that’s true. Nonetheless, Mr. Haggens, I think it would be best for you if I retained my health. I believe we can be of help to one another.”
“Oh, yeah?” he replied, his eyebrows rising in mock surprise. “And please be so kind as to inform me how you can help me?”
“My inquiries are limited. Once I find what I’m looking for and relay my information to the appropriate authorities, it will end the matter. If, however, the police proceed on their own, their interest will assuredly be more open-ended. Sergeant Borst impressed me as a rather determined fellow.”
Haggens considered this. “Borst is that,” he conceded. He thought some more. “So you’re telling me, Doc, that if I tell you what you want to know, you’ll keep me out of it? You know that if you cross me, I’ll kill you sure, even if I have to do it from the clink?”
“I have no reason to cross you,” I said. “This is an honest proposition.” “Honest” was an odd word to use with this fellow but it was, in