Read Online 01. Labyrinth of Dreams by Jack L. Chalker - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jack L. Chalker
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Don't call again. I'll be in touch with alternatives."
"Okay, but I need a guide through these local sewers. Somebody with clout whose information will be reliable and who won't go squealing to Kennedy all the time."
"I have an idea. Go home. Get some sleep. I'll see what I can do."
And he was as good as his word. Believe it or not, the next morning the man from Federal Express came by with one of those overnight letters and it was from somebody I never heard of in Sacramento, California. Still, when I opened it, there was a note that I could only assume originated with Little Jimmy a couple of miles across town.
There will be somebody at a phone booth at seven AM and again at seven PM at each of the numbers below. Call them, in order, at the indicated times with your reports and needs. Ask for Sandalwood. If the person on the other end is not responsive, hang up and try the next number. Do not reuse a number. When the last one is dead I will get you a new list. As for your trusty guide, try Sgt. Albert Paoli, Central District Vice. You and he will just hit it off perfectly.
I knew Paoli—or, at least, I knew of him. He was wholly owned and operated by the mob, although which branch I never really knew. Still, with his years on the pad and who-knew-what skeletons in his vast closets, he wasn't the kind of guy to betray anybody—and he was too low a fish to get complete immunity if he got a sudden case of nerves or conscience. The last thing any cop wants is to do time in the pen.
Paoli was an all-right sort of guy with some people, but he had certain strong dislikes that you might call hatred. He hated Jews, for example, even more than he hated blacks, and he hated the idea of mixed marriages even more than both of those groups. These paled only in comparison to his total and complete hatred of all private investigators. The word to cooperate might have originated with Little Jimmy, but I'd bet my life it was delivered in Italian.
Brandy and I stopped by a shopping mall before going into Philadelphia, and spent some time there, and a fair amount of Little Jimmy's dough. In fact, I was beginning to think that if we recovered all two and a quarter million, we'd still owe the big weasel money. Still, with me there to try things on, I had clothes now that looked decent and fit me, and Brandy had almost a wardrobe. It was the first time she'd done much with cosmetics and jewelry since she played that hooker, and even though this was understated and looked real good, it still didn't seem natural looking to me after all this time. After a nice, expensive charged lunch, we drove over to see Sergeant Paoli.
He was a thin, dour-looking man of maybe forty-five going on sixty, with less hair than I had, all gray, and one of the biggest noses this side of the ocean. Had a desk out in the middle of a combined office, but ushered us back immediately to a small private office obviously used in interrogations. The look of total disgust on his face was undeniable. Shoot somebody, yeah. Frame 'em, sure. Take bribes, screw your fellow officers, fine. But we were garbage.
"I need some reliables in the Sansom Street district," I told him. "Ones who might know the transvestites and the queens equally well, and know where they hide out in the daytime."
"Thinking of coming out of the closet?" he shot back like he meant it. "That's a pretty closed society in there, even harder because it's quite small. Most of that sort aren't downtown, they're down in south Philly."
"Either who I'm looking for is there, or he goes through there to make his changes," I responded. "He's real good at covering his tracks and he's now on the lam from You-Know-Who, and maybe the law as well."
"You want to give me a name?"
"You sure you want to know?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
"Whitlock. Martin Whitlock."
"The banker? Well, I'll be damned.... He's hotter than the Fourth of July right now. The feds are in. I can't do nothing about the feds."
"Screw the feds. I want
"Okay, but I need a guide through these local sewers. Somebody with clout whose information will be reliable and who won't go squealing to Kennedy all the time."
"I have an idea. Go home. Get some sleep. I'll see what I can do."
And he was as good as his word. Believe it or not, the next morning the man from Federal Express came by with one of those overnight letters and it was from somebody I never heard of in Sacramento, California. Still, when I opened it, there was a note that I could only assume originated with Little Jimmy a couple of miles across town.
There will be somebody at a phone booth at seven AM and again at seven PM at each of the numbers below. Call them, in order, at the indicated times with your reports and needs. Ask for Sandalwood. If the person on the other end is not responsive, hang up and try the next number. Do not reuse a number. When the last one is dead I will get you a new list. As for your trusty guide, try Sgt. Albert Paoli, Central District Vice. You and he will just hit it off perfectly.
I knew Paoli—or, at least, I knew of him. He was wholly owned and operated by the mob, although which branch I never really knew. Still, with his years on the pad and who-knew-what skeletons in his vast closets, he wasn't the kind of guy to betray anybody—and he was too low a fish to get complete immunity if he got a sudden case of nerves or conscience. The last thing any cop wants is to do time in the pen.
Paoli was an all-right sort of guy with some people, but he had certain strong dislikes that you might call hatred. He hated Jews, for example, even more than he hated blacks, and he hated the idea of mixed marriages even more than both of those groups. These paled only in comparison to his total and complete hatred of all private investigators. The word to cooperate might have originated with Little Jimmy, but I'd bet my life it was delivered in Italian.
Brandy and I stopped by a shopping mall before going into Philadelphia, and spent some time there, and a fair amount of Little Jimmy's dough. In fact, I was beginning to think that if we recovered all two and a quarter million, we'd still owe the big weasel money. Still, with me there to try things on, I had clothes now that looked decent and fit me, and Brandy had almost a wardrobe. It was the first time she'd done much with cosmetics and jewelry since she played that hooker, and even though this was understated and looked real good, it still didn't seem natural looking to me after all this time. After a nice, expensive charged lunch, we drove over to see Sergeant Paoli.
He was a thin, dour-looking man of maybe forty-five going on sixty, with less hair than I had, all gray, and one of the biggest noses this side of the ocean. Had a desk out in the middle of a combined office, but ushered us back immediately to a small private office obviously used in interrogations. The look of total disgust on his face was undeniable. Shoot somebody, yeah. Frame 'em, sure. Take bribes, screw your fellow officers, fine. But we were garbage.
"I need some reliables in the Sansom Street district," I told him. "Ones who might know the transvestites and the queens equally well, and know where they hide out in the daytime."
"Thinking of coming out of the closet?" he shot back like he meant it. "That's a pretty closed society in there, even harder because it's quite small. Most of that sort aren't downtown, they're down in south Philly."
"Either who I'm looking for is there, or he goes through there to make his changes," I responded. "He's real good at covering his tracks and he's now on the lam from You-Know-Who, and maybe the law as well."
"You want to give me a name?"
"You sure you want to know?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
"Whitlock. Martin Whitlock."
"The banker? Well, I'll be damned.... He's hotter than the Fourth of July right now. The feds are in. I can't do nothing about the feds."
"Screw the feds. I want
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