Read Online Grifter's Game by Lawrence Block - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lawrence Block
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was easy to see heroin coming through Japan by way of China or Hong Kong or Macao.
I sat in his leather chair in front of his desk and tried to put myself in his place. What hit me the hardest was the very double life he was leading. He was not a crook in the same sense as, say, Reggie Cole or Max Treger.
Everybody who knew Treger knew just what sort of a man he was. He managed to stay out of jail because nobody managed to collect the evidence that would put him where he belonged. But if Treger had a wife, Mrs. T. knew just how her husband kept mink on her back. Some of Treger’s neighbors snubbed him while others pretended he was just one of the boys—but they all knew he was a gangster. The people in Cheshire Point didn’t know that about good old L. Keith Brassard.
I tapped out a drum solo on the top of that very respectable desk and wondered why the hell I had come to his office in the first place. I didn’t know what I’d expected to find, or hoped to find. I wasn’t a federal narcotics agent trying to crack a dope ring. I was a wise guy who wanted to kill Brassard and wind up with his wife. So what was I doing there?
I wiped off everything I remembered touching. It probably would never matter, but I didn’t want to leave my prints in his office in case they ever tied me to him. There was one scrap of paper I’d found with four phone numbers on it and nothing to tell what the numbers were. I copied them down.
He could tell the office had been entered. I did what I could, but I knew there would be some items out of place. I hoped there was a maid with a key—then he might not suspect a search.
On the way back to the hotel I picked up a few pairs of slacks and some underwear. I found a suit and an extra sport jacket and arranged to have them delivered to me at the Collingwood by Monday. All together the clothes came to over a hundred, and left me with not much money. It hurt to spend that much on clothes, but I couldn’t see any way to avoid it. I needed the clothes. And they couldn’t be too cheap or it wouldn’t look right. Then I picked up a fairly respectable looking suitcase for twenty-five bucks. That hurt too.
By the time I got back to the hotel I felt pretty rotten. I was tired and bored and perspiring. The shower took care of the perspiration but the boredom remained. I had nothing to do and no place to go and I did not like myself very much. And I missed her so much I could taste it. I had a good dinner with a drink before and a brandy after. Then I went out and bought a bottle and took it to bed.
Saturday came and went without my accomplishing very much. I went to a barber and got a crew cut, something I hadn’t done in one hell of a long time. When I got back to my room I gave myself a long look in the bathroom mirror. The haircut had changed me more than anything else could have. It made my face rounder, my forehead higher, my whole appearance a good two years younger.
I went down to the drugstore, picked up a handful of paperback novels, went back to the hotel and spent the rest of the day reading, and sipping what remained in the bottle. I had time to kill and I wanted to get it out of the way as quickly as possible. If I could have spent two days in a coma I would have been glad of it. I didn’t want to think and I didn’t want to plan and I didn’t want to do much of anything. I just waited for the time to go by.
Sunday afternoon I walked over to Penn Station and looked her up in the Westchester phonebook. She lived on something called Roscommon Drive. I memorized the number and left.
I called her that evening.
It was a warm night and the fan in the phone booth did not work. I put in a dime and dialed her number and got an operator who sent back my dime and told me to deposit twenty cents. I dropped in the original dime and another one and the phone rang. A man’s voice said hello to me.
“Is Jerry there?”
“I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”
“Isn’t this Jerry
I sat in his leather chair in front of his desk and tried to put myself in his place. What hit me the hardest was the very double life he was leading. He was not a crook in the same sense as, say, Reggie Cole or Max Treger.
Everybody who knew Treger knew just what sort of a man he was. He managed to stay out of jail because nobody managed to collect the evidence that would put him where he belonged. But if Treger had a wife, Mrs. T. knew just how her husband kept mink on her back. Some of Treger’s neighbors snubbed him while others pretended he was just one of the boys—but they all knew he was a gangster. The people in Cheshire Point didn’t know that about good old L. Keith Brassard.
I tapped out a drum solo on the top of that very respectable desk and wondered why the hell I had come to his office in the first place. I didn’t know what I’d expected to find, or hoped to find. I wasn’t a federal narcotics agent trying to crack a dope ring. I was a wise guy who wanted to kill Brassard and wind up with his wife. So what was I doing there?
I wiped off everything I remembered touching. It probably would never matter, but I didn’t want to leave my prints in his office in case they ever tied me to him. There was one scrap of paper I’d found with four phone numbers on it and nothing to tell what the numbers were. I copied them down.
He could tell the office had been entered. I did what I could, but I knew there would be some items out of place. I hoped there was a maid with a key—then he might not suspect a search.
On the way back to the hotel I picked up a few pairs of slacks and some underwear. I found a suit and an extra sport jacket and arranged to have them delivered to me at the Collingwood by Monday. All together the clothes came to over a hundred, and left me with not much money. It hurt to spend that much on clothes, but I couldn’t see any way to avoid it. I needed the clothes. And they couldn’t be too cheap or it wouldn’t look right. Then I picked up a fairly respectable looking suitcase for twenty-five bucks. That hurt too.
By the time I got back to the hotel I felt pretty rotten. I was tired and bored and perspiring. The shower took care of the perspiration but the boredom remained. I had nothing to do and no place to go and I did not like myself very much. And I missed her so much I could taste it. I had a good dinner with a drink before and a brandy after. Then I went out and bought a bottle and took it to bed.
Saturday came and went without my accomplishing very much. I went to a barber and got a crew cut, something I hadn’t done in one hell of a long time. When I got back to my room I gave myself a long look in the bathroom mirror. The haircut had changed me more than anything else could have. It made my face rounder, my forehead higher, my whole appearance a good two years younger.
I went down to the drugstore, picked up a handful of paperback novels, went back to the hotel and spent the rest of the day reading, and sipping what remained in the bottle. I had time to kill and I wanted to get it out of the way as quickly as possible. If I could have spent two days in a coma I would have been glad of it. I didn’t want to think and I didn’t want to plan and I didn’t want to do much of anything. I just waited for the time to go by.
Sunday afternoon I walked over to Penn Station and looked her up in the Westchester phonebook. She lived on something called Roscommon Drive. I memorized the number and left.
I called her that evening.
It was a warm night and the fan in the phone booth did not work. I put in a dime and dialed her number and got an operator who sent back my dime and told me to deposit twenty cents. I dropped in the original dime and another one and the phone rang. A man’s voice said hello to me.
“Is Jerry there?”
“I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”
“Isn’t this Jerry
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