Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

My reaction must have showed.

“You’re surprised by the idea of a nun having a drinking problem?”

“I guess I am.”

“I always find it surprising that people are surprised. It’s what I was just saying. We’re human. We’re not saints.” She gave a coy smile. “At least not yet. We’re not without our problems, Mr. Malone. We’re mortal, and we suffer mortal failings. We do have a focus and a path and a calling and the assistance of our faith, and those are all wonderful securities. But we’re flesh, and not without sin. And I’m not going to pretend that Sister Margaret always made life at Good Shepherd particularly easy. She didn’t. She represented a formidable challenge. But in many ways, I think that might have been the gift she brought to us, at great cost to herself. Her difficulties challenged us to show the true depths of our compassion. Alcoholism is such a wretched disease. In the end, I suppose it took hold of Sister Margaret more forcefully than we did. Along with all her sadness and all her troubles.”

She lowered her head. An image of my mother rose in my mind. Two images, really. In the one, she was flashing her seductively appealing smart-aleck smile and raising her glass in a ribald toast. Shirley Malone, life of the party. In the other… well, let’s just say the party had gone on a bit too long. A gem without luster. I shook the images from my head and picked up the photograph of Angel Ramos. I waited until Sister Mary looked back up before I spoke. “I’m sorry, Sister.”

“I guess I shouldn’t let myself ramble so.”

“Can I ask you to show this to the rest of the sisters? As soon as possible? If any of them have even an inkling that they’ve seen this man before, or have any information about him, I need to know immediately.”

She leaned forward and took the photograph from me. She studied it a moment. “I know you’re going to find this man, Mr. Malone. I have faith.”

That made one of us.

I GOT MY FIRST RESPONSE TO MY AMIGO WILLY CARDS AS I HEADED down the West Side Highway. It was a male voice. No discernible accent.

“You put these cards out?”

“Yep,” I said.

“You think you’re funny. Well, fuck you .”

He hung up. I punched in *69, but the caller’s number was blocked. Probably a pay phone. Since I already had the phone out, I punched in the code for Margo. She answered on the first ring. “Hello, sailor.”

Caller ID. It still creeps me out.

“What’s new, pussycat?” I said.

“I should be asking you. Where are you?”

“Streaking past Riverside Church, on a bearing heading south.”

“Any exit plans? Like maybe Seventy-second Street?”

“Afraid I can’t. Not right now.”

I gave her a brief rundown on my day. I left out the part about Tommy Carroll’s cancer. An irritating voice in my head said, Need-to-know basis. When I was finished, Margo asked, “Where does that leave you?”

“I’m going back out to Fort Pete.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“You want company?”

“No. You stay put.”

“What do you think you can accomplish in Fort Petersen, besides getting yourself in trouble?”

It was a good question, and I didn’t have a good answer. “If Angel Ramos is holding Philip Byron out there someplace, I want to at least be in the ballpark.”

“I’m not hearing an action plan here.”

“I’ll bob, I’ll weave.”

“Oh, great.”

In front of me, a red sports car bobbed and weaved. It also swerved into my lane, nearly clipping my bumper. I hit the brakes and leaned on my horn. The driver shot a hairy arm out the window to show me his finger, but I wasn’t impressed. I squeezed on the gas, running my bumper right up to his, close enough to kiss it. Apparently, I also muttered my innermost thoughts.

“What’d you just call me?” Margo asked.

“Nothing. Sorry.” The sports car swerved back to its original lane. I swerved right with it.

“My last boyfriend never talked to me like that,” Margo said.

“Neither does this one. A guy just cut me off.”

“ I’m going to cut you off.”

As if on cue, our connection began to break up. The sports car did a little fake to the left, then roared on ahead. Margo was burbling on the phone and I almost lost her, but we got clear as I passed the railroad yards.

“What were you saying?”

“I was saying please come over tonight. I don’t care how late it is.”

“Or early?”

“Either way. This is where my fantasies of you holding down a nice job as a shoe salesman start to kick in.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Listen,” I said, “how was your pop star today, anyway?”

“Are you trying to change the subject?”

“I am.”

“My pop star had an ego the size of the Plaza hotel.”

“Is that where you interviewed him?”

“Yes.”

“But if his ego was the size of the Plaza hotel, and you were interviewing him in -”

“Hey. I don’t want the last thing I hear from you to be a stupid joke.”

“It’s not the last thing,” I said.

“But it was going to be a stupid joke, right?”

“That’s in the ear of the beholder.”

“Tell me you love me, then hang up.”

“I love you,” I said.

There was a pause. “Really?”

I hung up.

FORT PETERSEN AT NIGHT LOOKED PRETTY MUCH LIKE FORT PETERSEN during the day, except darker, and most of the shops had been replaced by iron gates. A couple of teenagers darted in front of my car in the middle of the block. One of them turned in my direction and made a pistol with his fingers. I held my fire.

The Ninety-fifth precinct house was a block off Culver. I pulled into one of the slots reserved for the local crime fighters and went inside. The old guy at the front desk studied my PI license as if it were an unusually well-written piece of pornography. If he had moved it any closer to his nose, he might have accidentally licked it.

“Who’s your duty officer?” I asked when he finally handed my wallet back to me.

“Captain Kersauson.”

“I’d like to see him.”

The old guy picked up his phone. “What should I tell him it’s about?”

“You shouldn’t tell him it’s about anything. I’ll do that.”

He paused a moment, eyeing me, then dialed a number. “Captain? It’s Ross. There’s a gentleman out here wants to see you.” He cupped the mouthpiece and gave me a wink. “You see how I called you a gentleman? Even though you’re uppity?” He went back to the phone. “No, Captain, he didn’t. He’s a private investigator from Manhattan.” He listened, then cupped the phone again. “The captain wants to know if you’re Dick Tracy.”

“I should have such a jaw.”

Back to the phone. “No, Captain, he’s not. But he looks harmless enough to me… Uh-huh. Okay.” He hung up the phone. “Captain Kersauson will see you now. Through that door, take a left, then twenty feet, take a right.”

“Sorry about the uppity.”

He waved me on. I twisted the doorknob and walked right into the door. The old guy chuckled under his breath as he pushed the buzzer.

Kersauson was waiting at his office door. He had a large head decorated with a marine cut. He could have stood to drop about thirty pounds, but I didn’t plan to veer our conversation into the realm of personal upkeep. He was in his shirtsleeves and wearing his shoulder holster and gun, as if he were ready for a siege. I handed him my card. He barely gave it a glance. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for prostitutes.”

“Is that so? What do you think this is, tourist information?”