Grant McCrea - Dead Money

Wow. You’re even more fucked up than usual today. Tell me more.

I recounted my meetings with FitzGibbon and Jules, my talk with Butch.

Intriguing, she said. Lots of loose ends. I guess there’s enough for you to play Philip Marlowe for a few more days.

So come play with me.

Now you’re talking my language.

Not that. Butch gave me a couple of names. Let’s check them out.

Good old-fashioned PI spadework?

Exactly.

Could be fun.

Or not.

Worth a try.

Okay, there’s a Sarah Fishlin. Apparently she’d been Larry’s girlfriend for a while. Actually made it through a semester at Brooklyn College one time. Very high-functioning, for this crowd. She’s a stripper now. You take Sarah.

Sure. Clearly my type.

And I’ll take Serge. Reportedly a dealer on the neighborhood level. Larry might have bought from him. They knew each other, anyway.

That sounds vague enough.

You never know.

All right. Let’s check them out tomorrow. White Stallion at seven, compare notes?

The White Stallion. Decent food, good wine list.

Couldn’t say no.

Butch had given me an address for Serge in Williamsburg. I took the subway. Get me into the proletarian mood.

It wasn’t the funky part of Williamsburg, the land of mediocre poets and art-house filmmakers who couldn’t afford Manhattan. It wasn’t even the upwardly striving immigrant Williamsburg, which in any case was largely indistinguishable from the funky bits. It was bombed-out Williamsburg. Empty lots choked with trash and hopelessness. Crumbling buildings that might once have housed a thriving sweatshop or two. Rows of shabby two-and three-family tin-sided houses. Graffiti so old you figured even the vandals had fled the place long ago.

I found the address. Boarded-up windows. Broken concrete steps leading to a steel-reinforced door. A casual glance and you might think the place was abandoned. But the steps were cleaner in the middle than at the edges. If you looked from the right angle, in the sunlight, you could make out a boot print or two. On the door, two ancient heavy-duty locks. Scratches in the grime around the keyholes. Someone with a shaking hand had been there, not so long ago.

I banged on the door. I listened for movement. I thought I heard a footstep. I couldn’t be sure. I banged again. Nothing.

I looked up and down the street. Not a soul. I felt exposed. I turned to go.

A muffled voice stopped me.

What do you want? it said from behind the door.

I told the voice I was a lawyer. Not the cops. A private lawyer. Looking into a case. Nothing to do with him. Just had a few questions.

The voice asked me to wait a couple of minutes.

Okay, I said.

More than a couple went by. I sighed. Slipped a twenty under the door. A minute later, the door opened a crack. A long pale face peeked out. Stringy hair. Dark rings around reddened eyes.

Yeah? it said.

Serge?

What’s it to you?

I took that for a yes.

Keep the twenty, I said. No obligation. But I’d like to talk to you. Just a few minutes. You don’t have to tell me anything. Just listen to the questions.

It gave me a good long look. Pronounced itself satisfied. Unhooked a couple of chains. Let me in. Didn’t say a word. Went down a flight of stairs.

I followed.

We were in a basement. It was lit by candles. As my eyes adjusted to the dark I looked around. There wasn’t much to see. Stone walls. Concrete floors.

Serge sat down cross-legged on a cushion on the floor. The guy was junkie thin. He was wearing a tattered Adidas tracksuit. His bare feet were black with grime. A gold chain around his neck glinted in the candlelight. It seemed utterly out of place.

I sat on the floor next to him. I refrained from pulling up my trousers to preserve the crease. Might have sent the wrong message.

He looked at me without a trace of interest.

Serge? I said.

I got an almost imperceptible nod in reply.

I’m Rick.

Congratulations.

I’m trying to help out a guy.

A guy.

Guy named Jules FitzGibbon. I’m his lawyer. You know Jules?

Maybe.

They think he might have killed somebody.

No shit, said Serge, flat and uninterested.

You knew that?

No.

Okay, well. Murder. Serious stuff.

No shit, he said again, in the same flat voice.

Yeah. They say he killed Larry Silver.

No shit?

This time he added the question mark. I was making progress. Pretty soon we’d be best friends.

Yeah, I said. You knew Larry Silver?

Maybe.

What do you know about him?

He’s a guy, he said. Guy who hung around.

Serge and Jules must have gone to the same elocution school.

He have any enemies? Anybody might want to kill him?

I don’t know, man, said Serge.

He was warming up a bit.

Can you tell me anything else about him?

He was just a guy. Hung around. I don’t know anybody liked him much. I don’t know anybody wanted to kill him, neither.

He have any friends you know of?

He had a girlfriend, for a while.

You know her name?

Nah.

Sarah?

Don’t know.

Was he into drugs?

Serge almost smiled. Didn’t say anything.

Listen, man, I said. I’m a lawyer. I’m not a cop. I’m here right now. I got eyes. Don’t worry about it.

Serge thought about it.

Yeah, he said.

What was he into?

Whatever was around. You know. Tree. Meth. Whatever.

Did he sell?

When he had some money to buy, he’d sell. What he didn’t do hisself.

I’m thinking that wasn’t too often.

You got that right.

Did he and Jules know each other?

Sure. Everybody knows everybody.

Anything special between them? They hate each other? Hang together?

Nothing special I know about.

You know anything about a poker game, a few days ago?

Poker? Shit, no. I don’t play no poker.

Not you. A game that Larry and Jules were at.

Nah.

Anything else you can tell me? I asked. About either of them?

Serge sat and thought. And thought. I rolled my eyes. Pulled another twenty out of my pocket. I placed it neatly on the floor in front of him. He eyed it. He thought some more.

I think they had some kind of a deal going, he said. One day. Once.

What kind of a deal? Dope deal?

I don’t know. Maybe.

Anything you know about it at all?

Nah. Not really. Larry saying something about how they had something going. He was going to get some money out of it.

Some kind of poker scam? I persisted. They going to take somebody for some money?

Could be. I don’t know.

Anybody else you know might know something about it?

Nah.

I asked a few more questions. I didn’t learn anything more. He was a slug. A cipher. He couldn’t even make stuff up if he wanted to.

I got out of there.

The light and air of the outside world startled me. I squinted. My eyes slowly adjusted. I took a deep breath. A whole bunch of tension I hadn’t known was there slid out of me.

Jesus H. Christ, I said to myself. I thought I had problems.

When I got to the White Stallion, Dorita was already there. We compared notes. I told her about Serge. She told me about Sarah.

She’s quite a number, she said. Purple hair. Mouth on her like a rabid carp.

A rabid carp? You’re outdoing yourself.

I’m just getting started.

I was afraid of that.

She talked up a storm. But she didn’t say much.

You must have got along famously.

Have you noticed how pointy these shoes are?

Sorry.

You’d better be.

I am. Truly. Abjectly. As sorry as those shoes are pointy.

That sounds like just about the right amount of sorry.