William Lashner - Past Due

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. You want to see?”

“Yes.”

He took off his glasses, handed me the file. “You sure the guy you’re looking for isn’t that Tommy McNally? He seems a more likely candidate. I figured if Joey Parma was involved it had to be a lowlife that was missing. Not a law student, for God’s sakes.”

“Are you implying, Detective,” I said as I examined the file, “that not all lawyers are lowlifes?”

“There are a few I’ve met that seem decent enough. Mostly retired folk.”

The file contained write-ups of the mother’s initial report and the cursory follow-ups done by a police detective. Once he found the girlfriend’s evident lack of interest and the failing grades, the detective figured he had figured it out. No reason to listen to the harping of a distraught mother in a distant state when there were more pressing matters. Not much there, to be sure, but this was my boy, Tommy Greeley, I could feel it. The initials matched the ring, the Penn Law connection was clear, and there was a girlfriend – I leafed through the file – a Sylvia Steinberg. I made a mental note of the name. But how would a law student end up with a suitcase stuffed with money? How would a law student be so calm and cocky under the pressure of a midnight rough-up? There was something missing still, a second shoe that needed to drop.

“So, Carl,” said McDeiss, “you think maybe this missing Greeley and the floater without the face are one and the same?”

“They seem to match up,” I said.

“Yes they do. And you’re interested because…”

I raised my hand to catch the waiter’s attention. When he looked my way I pretended to scribble and he nodded.

“You’re not going to tell me,” said McDeiss.

“Can I keep this?” I said.

McDeiss took off his glasses, looked at me for a moment, and then shrugged. “A twenty-year-old missing persons file? Knock yourself out.”

As I continued looking through the file I said, “You get anywhere on Joey yet?”

“We’re getting somewhere.”

“You should know I now represent Joey’s mother and am investigating a possible wrongful death claim against his killer. Anything you can tell me about the status of your investigation would be most welcome.”

“I knew you chased ambulances, Victor. I didn’t know you chased coroner’s vans too.”

“I find my business where I can and sometimes where I can is at the morgue. Funny how that sort of puts us in the same boat. Any leads?”

“Some.”

“Fibers on the body?”

“Gray polyester from the interior of a car.”

“Make?”

“Late-model Toyota.”

“That narrows it down like not at all. Have you gotten around to tracing the phone call he got at Jimmy T’s before he stepped out for his meet?”

McDeiss’s eyes bulged and his cheeks swelled and he looked for a moment like he swallowed his tongue.

“Nice little double take,” I said. “You could have been in pictures.”

“The investigation is proceeding apace and we’ll keep you informed to the extent we see fit. But just so you know, the owner of the fine establishment you mentioned wasn’t so cooperative.”

“You should have made him a sea breeze.”

“Excuse me?”

“Go on.”

“We learned enough to get a warrant for a search of his phone logs and we believe we found the call you may be referring to.”

“A woman, right?”

“Isn’t it always?”

“You mind giving me the address?”

“Yes, I mind. But I will give you some advice, Victor. You don’t want to be interfering with an active homicide investigation. Trust me, you don’t.”

“I don’t want to interfere, Detective. I want to help. I heard Joey was in a little too heavy with a loan shark by the name of Teddy Big Tits.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He hangs out at a saloon called the Seven Out.”

“Is that right?”

“It seems Joey might have been borrowing to keep the party at that number happy to see him walk in the door. Don’t know for certain, but I’m just trying to help.”

“We always appreciate help.”

“And I wouldn’t mind asking that same party some questions so long as you don’t think it will hinder your investigation.” I was just about to close the Tommy Greeley file and stuff it in my briefcase when something stopped me.

“What’s this right here?” I said, pointing to a small yellow slip fastened in between two longer sheets of paper.

McDeiss shoved his glasses back onto his face, brought the file close. “It says the active investigation was closed after the initial inquiries and a discussion with… with S.A. Telushkin, and then it gives a phone number.”

“Who is S.A. Telushkin?” I said.

“I didn’t notice this before.”

“Who is he?”

McDeiss took off his glasses, pursed his lips. “Remember when I said you could have the file?”

“Yes.”

“I was mistaken.” He shut the file, jammed it into his briefcase, and grinned at me. “Believe it or not, I might want to look at it again. In fact, I might want to reopen a decades-old missing persons case. Would you have a problem with that?”

“Would it make a difference?”

“No.”

“Then I’ve no problem, no problem at all.”

“Good,” said McDeiss. “Later on maybe I’ll make you a copy, send it off to your office. But right now I have a sneaking suspicion that this old file might prove to be more interesting than I first thought. You know, Carl, I suddenly am wondering whether this old file might link up to one of my open cases. What do you think about that?”

“I think you’re a hell of a detective, Detective.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Who is S.A. Telushkin?”

“I think he’s retired now, but I had some dealings with him early in my career when I was doing fraud. An interesting character. Easy to underestimate.”

“McDeiss.”

“His name is Jeffrey, Jeffrey Telushkin.”

“So what’s the S.A. part?”

“Special Agent,” said McDeiss.

“Aaaah.”

“Special Agent Jeffrey Telushkin of the FBI.”

Did you hear that? Did you? There it was, the kerthump of the other shoe dropping smack on my head.

PHIL SKINK WASa long walk off a dank pier. Phil Skink was as ugly as a Salisbury steak but his teeth were pearly. He smoked cigars that smelled like the New Jersey Turnpike. He bought his suits wholesale from a guy named Harry. His cholesterol level was a national tragedy. The sight of him on the beach with his shirt off was enough to stun a jellyfish. Phil Skink played golf in a straw hat and old wingtips, and on the city course he played once a week he would take your money, guaranteed. He would have been the world Jumble champion if there was any money in it. He could have starred in the Lon Chaney story without the makeup. He played the “Star-Spangled Banner” through the gap in his teeth. He was a bad enemy, a good friend, a free man. Just by looking at him you would never figure he was smarter than you, but he was, guaranteed.

I had met Skink when he was working the other side of a murder case, working the other side, that is, until we realized we had the very same intentions and so we started working together. He was a licensed PI, and every lawyer needs a PI, and so I hired him, when he was available, to PI for me. He was smart, like I said, and he was fast.

“She’s working for a company called Jacopo,” said Skink over the phone as Kimberly Blue, Vice President of External Affairs, sat in a plastic chair set up in front of our secretary’s desk. “Some la-dida outfit what is renting a town house smack on the southwest corner of Rittenhouse Square.”