Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

Jigs passed by about twenty minutes later. He had latched on to a pair of young women. One of them looked soft and doughy, a little homely. Her friend was taller, skinnier and glaring at Jigs like a hawk. Jigs stole a quick glance my way and touched a finger to his upper lip. My fake mustache needed centering.

ONE O’CLOCK. MY LEGS WERE TIRED. WHAT THEY NEEDED IN THIS stuffy little closet was a stool. Conditions in my workplace were getting to me. Normally the coat-check person would have been spelled for lunch, but this wasn’t normally. There was a million dollars in cubby number 16.

I considered the cold hot dog in the wastebasket. I turned around and made a face at the wicker bag holding the video camera. I started wondering what sort of junk was in the other checked bags. A little chill ran through me as I recalled the scene the other night at Barrymore’s.

JIGS’S TWO WOMEN CLAIMED THEIR COATS AT AROUND TWO-FORTY. The tall one was chewing out the doughy one for giving “that creepy Irish guy” her phone number. The doughy one countered that he “was sort of cute.” As she handed me her claim number, she added to her friend, “I can look out for myself.”

Maybe so. But I know Jigs Dugan, and he can look after himself, too. Jigs wandered by some ten minutes later, smiling like a wolf.

“I found that cherub you were talking about, Mac.”

IT HAPPENED AT TEN MINUTES AFTER THREE. I HAD ENTERED INTO A fugue state, and it took a moment for it to register that I was looking at a blue claim tag with the number 16 on it. My heart took a running leap against my ribs.

A woman in her mid-fifties stood in front of me. She had graying brown hair cut in a fashionless bowl, sharp cheekbones and large eyes the same color as the tag she had just pulled from a purse. She was dressed in a long beige jacket and a pair of brown slacks. Of all the day’s customers, she was making the most direct eye contact. Her thin eyebrows arched quizzically.

“I’m sorry. This is going to sound a little peculiar. But… well, I think something has been left here for me.”

My cell phone was sitting open in cubby number 12, right below the million-dollar cubby. Jigs’s pager number was programmed into the speed dial. The plan had been that in retrieving the backpack from number 16, with my back blocking what I was doing, I would hit the speed dial and fire off a call to Jigs’s pager. The moment he got the call, Jigs was to make a beeline for the entrance area, eyeball the person retrieving the bag, then step outside and perform his invisible shadow act. It was a gamble-the note from Gristedes had been clear as to what the consequences of a tail would be-but Jigs Dugan was a man worth betting on. Besides, the note hadn’t been addressed to me.

I took the claim tag from the woman’s hand.

“I’m a little confused,” she said again.

I didn’t want to stare. I turned away, being sure to give the wicker bag with the hidden camera a full frontal view of the woman. I started for my cell phone, then hesitated. Something was wrong here. I reached one hand up to grapple with the bag while I quickly hit the few buttons on my cell phone with the other. Then I grabbed hold of the bag with both hands. Cubby 16 was slightly higher than my head. My bad shoulder practically burst into flames as I pulled the bag down.

She can’t possibly carry this.

The woman was still talking. “… so maybe I should talk to someone first. Take a look at-”

She was reaching into her purse. From the arched doorway, I saw Gerald Small moving fast, one arm raised as though he were hailing a taxi. Out of the corner of my eye, I also noted a dark blue jersey, number 08.

I landed the backpack directly on top of the woman’s purse. The counter rattled.

“Oh!” She pulled her hand back.

Gerald Small was charging forward. “Listen! Listen! I just received-” He stopped. He saw the backpack sitting on the counter. “Oh my God !”

He lunged at the woman. Speedy little devil. The woman screamed. I whipped off the stupid glasses and grabbed at Small. The man was growling like a deranged terrier. He had the woman by the arm. She was clawing at his fingers. “Let me-”

I did the job for her, peeling the museum director’s fingers off her arm.

“ Freeze! Police !” The cop in the Giants jersey had his gun out and was holding it at arm’s length, both hands wrapped firmly around the handle. “ Freeze !”

It wasn’t clear who he was barking at. The barrel of the gun was hopping stiffly between the terrified woman, the ballistic museum director and me. Behind the cop, people were scrambling for cover.

A second pistol appeared. An old snub-nose. Somehow, amid all the noise, the telltale click of its being cocked sounded very clearly. The sound seemed to echo off the stone walls. The pistol’s barrel was three inches from the undercover cop’s head. It didn’t waver so much as a millimeter. Steady hand. Practiced hand.

“You’ll lower it, or it’s off to the angels with you,” Jigs Dugan said calmly. “Count of three. That’s one, two-”

The cop lowered it.

Jigs didn’t. Not right away.

IF ONE MORE PERSON HAD TRIED TO SQUEEZE INTO GERALD SMALL’S tiny office, the floor would have buckled. It held three comfortably. Four in a pinch. Five was not going to float. I dispatched the undercover cop. He was the largest of the five, and from where I sat-on a corner of Gerald Small’s desk-the most expendable. What he knew, I knew, and I knew more.

The cop still had a chip on his shoulder about being drawn on by wiry Jigs Dugan. Jigs was leaning against a file cabinet with his arms crossed, taunting the cop with his best Irish smirk. The cop swore under his breath as he lumbered out of the room.

“Okay. Now there’s a little more oxygen for the rest of us,” I declared.

The woman who had arrived with claim number 16 was seated in the office’s only chair other than the one behind Gerald Small’s desk, which was occupied by its owner. She sat erect, with her hands in her lap. Once all the artillery had been put away at the coat check, I’d cautioned her, “This is a police matter. I’m going to ask that you remain silent for the time being.”

She repeated what had already become abundantly clear: “I’m confused by this whole matter.”

Gerald Small was huffing and puffing like an old Stanley Steamer. I demand to know this, I demand to know that. I will not put up with people waving guns all over my museum. This and this and that and that . A wavering finger took aim at Jigs, along with a wavering voice. “Who is that man?”

I answered matter-of-factly, “He’s a friend of mine. Francis Dugan.”

Gerald Small sputtered, “He could have killed somebody.”

I stole a glance at Jigs. “True. Or he could have saved somebody.”

“Or both,” Jigs threw in.

“I demand an explanation.”

“Mr. Dugan is my responsibility,” I said. “I asked him to come to the museum. Philip Byron knows nothing about him.”

That was when Gerald Small delivered his provocative bombshell.

“Philip Byron is missing.”

“Missing?” For no logical reason, I looked to the woman as if she might be able to offer some illumination. But unless she had mastered the Queen of All Poker Faces, she was as clueless as the chair she was sitting in. I turned back to Gerald Small. “Who says he’s missing?”

“I got a phone call. I was coming down to tell you. Philip never showed up at that officer’s funeral. His car was found on Fort Washington Avenue, not more than a quarter mile from here.”

“Who called you?”

“The mayor himself.”

The woman in the chair brought her fingers to her throat. “My goodness.”