I’m not a cop. I don’t give a shit if there’s a bunch of drugs up there. That’s none of my business. I just want to get paid.”
“How I know you’re not a cop?”
I had him. At least, I was pretty sure I had him. The thing is, I had never bribed anyone before, and I was somewhat hesitant about doing it, but that’s where I figured we’d gotten to. The way I figured it, the super didn’t care if I was a cop or not, or if Gutierrez was dead or not, or whether he opened the guy’s door or not. All it came down to now, assuming I’d read the situation correctly, was how much money it was going to take to get this basically lazy guy who just wanted to go back and watch TV to climb four flights of stairs in this stifling heat. If, of course, I was right.
What made me hesitant, of course, was what if I was wrong? What if I pulled out a wad of money and, instead of taking it, the guy got offended and froze up on me? In that case I would feel like an asshole, and I wouldn’t know what to do next, which is a hell of a position for a private detective to find himself in.
I needn’t have worried. My assessment was dead on. I opened the bidding at five dollars and closed it out at ten.
Guillermo Gutierrez’s apartment was about what I expected. A dirty, ill-furnished, one-room apartment with a kitchen alcove and a small bath. I couldn’t help wondering why a guy who obviously moved huge quantities of drugs for exorbitant amounts of money would choose to live in squalor like this. The answer, of course, was obvious. He was investing all of his capital in his arm.
I couldn’t search the apartment with the super there watching me like a hawk, so I didn’t find anything interesting, but I hadn’t expected to anyway. I just wanted a little confirmation. I found it on the floor just outside the door into the bathroom. A faint reddish tinge on the floorboards, which were cleaner there than anywhere else in the room, as if someone had made an effort to mop something up. I didn’t point it out to the super, nor did I suggest to him that he notify the police that the occupant of the apartment was, to the best of his knowledge, missing. But I would have given long odds right then and there that, whatever information Rosa might have notwithstanding, I wasn’t going to be seeing Guillermo Gutierrez in the near future.
7.
T HE S ECURITY AT A LBRECT’S U PPER East Side apartment house was a trifle better than it had been at Gutierrez’s Lower East Side one. I’d known I was in trouble the minute I walked into the lobby. A uniformed doorman was stopping all visitors and calling upstairs on a house phone to get the tenant’s permission before letting anyone up. There was actually a line ahead of me. I watched a young man receive approval to visit a Lisa Hartman, and a middle-aged woman be confirmed as a suitable caller for a Mrs. Ruth Goldstein. I jotted the names in my notebook and left.
I went outside and did some serious thinking. This was not going to be easy. First I had to get past the doorman, then I had to get past the door. My talents did not seem particularly suited to either task. I racked my brain for an answer. I didn’t get an answer, but at least I got an idea.
I went to a pay phone on the corner and called Leroy Stanhope Williams. For me, this was a radical departure. You see, Leroy was one of Richard’s clients. I had never called any of Richard’s clients before on anything other than Richard’s business and, quite frankly, I was sure I’d never want to. You see, it is an occupational hazard of my profession that one soon becomes contemptuous of the very people one is supposed to be helping. Often, I have to stifle the urge to say, “Madam, you are fat, lazy, stupid, and incompetent. You fell down because you are overweight and clumsy and too dumb to look where you are going. And now you want to sue someone for something that is obviously your own fault.” I never actually say that, but I
“How I know you’re not a cop?”
I had him. At least, I was pretty sure I had him. The thing is, I had never bribed anyone before, and I was somewhat hesitant about doing it, but that’s where I figured we’d gotten to. The way I figured it, the super didn’t care if I was a cop or not, or if Gutierrez was dead or not, or whether he opened the guy’s door or not. All it came down to now, assuming I’d read the situation correctly, was how much money it was going to take to get this basically lazy guy who just wanted to go back and watch TV to climb four flights of stairs in this stifling heat. If, of course, I was right.
What made me hesitant, of course, was what if I was wrong? What if I pulled out a wad of money and, instead of taking it, the guy got offended and froze up on me? In that case I would feel like an asshole, and I wouldn’t know what to do next, which is a hell of a position for a private detective to find himself in.
I needn’t have worried. My assessment was dead on. I opened the bidding at five dollars and closed it out at ten.
Guillermo Gutierrez’s apartment was about what I expected. A dirty, ill-furnished, one-room apartment with a kitchen alcove and a small bath. I couldn’t help wondering why a guy who obviously moved huge quantities of drugs for exorbitant amounts of money would choose to live in squalor like this. The answer, of course, was obvious. He was investing all of his capital in his arm.
I couldn’t search the apartment with the super there watching me like a hawk, so I didn’t find anything interesting, but I hadn’t expected to anyway. I just wanted a little confirmation. I found it on the floor just outside the door into the bathroom. A faint reddish tinge on the floorboards, which were cleaner there than anywhere else in the room, as if someone had made an effort to mop something up. I didn’t point it out to the super, nor did I suggest to him that he notify the police that the occupant of the apartment was, to the best of his knowledge, missing. But I would have given long odds right then and there that, whatever information Rosa might have notwithstanding, I wasn’t going to be seeing Guillermo Gutierrez in the near future.
7.
T HE S ECURITY AT A LBRECT’S U PPER East Side apartment house was a trifle better than it had been at Gutierrez’s Lower East Side one. I’d known I was in trouble the minute I walked into the lobby. A uniformed doorman was stopping all visitors and calling upstairs on a house phone to get the tenant’s permission before letting anyone up. There was actually a line ahead of me. I watched a young man receive approval to visit a Lisa Hartman, and a middle-aged woman be confirmed as a suitable caller for a Mrs. Ruth Goldstein. I jotted the names in my notebook and left.
I went outside and did some serious thinking. This was not going to be easy. First I had to get past the doorman, then I had to get past the door. My talents did not seem particularly suited to either task. I racked my brain for an answer. I didn’t get an answer, but at least I got an idea.
I went to a pay phone on the corner and called Leroy Stanhope Williams. For me, this was a radical departure. You see, Leroy was one of Richard’s clients. I had never called any of Richard’s clients before on anything other than Richard’s business and, quite frankly, I was sure I’d never want to. You see, it is an occupational hazard of my profession that one soon becomes contemptuous of the very people one is supposed to be helping. Often, I have to stifle the urge to say, “Madam, you are fat, lazy, stupid, and incompetent. You fell down because you are overweight and clumsy and too dumb to look where you are going. And now you want to sue someone for something that is obviously your own fault.” I never actually say that, but I
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