Read Online Hundred Dollar Baby by Robert B. Parker - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert B. Parker
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guys come through couple times a day, sweep 'em out, but they're right back in here a half-hour later."
"Especially in the winter," I said. "Is `stumblebum' the acceptable term for our indigent brothers and sisters?"
"Sometimes I like 'vagrants'," Corsetti said. "Depends on how much style they got."
"Think the money will help him?" I said.
"Nope."
"Think he'll spend it on booze?"
"Yep."
"So why'd you give it to him?" I said.
Corsetti swallowed the last of his coffee and grinned at me.
"Felt like it," he said.
22
I spent an hour looking at Patricia Utley's list as annotated by Eugene Corsetti. Corsetti had thoughtfully located all fifteen guys by address and phone number for me. And he had included copies of Farnsworth's mug shots from when they'd made the first fraud arrest in 1998. Other than that, Corsetti didn't add much to what he had told me in the waiting room. I wanted to take a look at Lionel Farnsworth, so I walked across the park to where he lived, about opposite the Carlyle, in one of those impressive buildings that front Central Park West.
I wasn't sure what I thought I'd learn. The mug shots were old enough so that he might have changed, certainly.
And people don't always look just like themselves when they're being booked. He would look different in the flesh. And I had some half-articulated sense that if he looked wrong for the part, I'd know it. Besides, I couldn't think of anything else to do.
There was a doorman at the entrance. He was a bulky guy wearing a maroon uniform with some braid. He had one of those New York Irish faces that implied he'd be perfectly happy to knock you down and kick you if you gave him any trouble.
"Lionel Farnsworth," I said.
The doorman took the phone from its brass box on the wall.
"Who shall I say?"
"Clint Hartung," I said.
"Spell the last name?"
"H-A-R-T U-N-G," I said. "Hartung."
The doorman turned away and called. He spoke into the phone for a minute and turned back to me.
"Mr. Farnsworth doesn't recognize the name," he said. "He'd like to know what it's in regard to."
"Tell him it's in regard to matters we discussed in White Deer, Pennsylvania, a while back, when we were both visiting there."
The doorman relayed that into the phone and then listened silently for a moment, nodding. Then he hung up the phone and closed the little brass door.
"Mr. Farnsworth says he'll be down. You can wait in the lobby."
I went in. It was a small lobby done in black marble and polished brass. There was a bench on either side of the elevator door. They were upholstered in black leather. I sat on one. In maybe two minutes I heard the elevator coming down. And in another minute the doors opened and there he came. I stood.
"Mr. Farnsworth?" I said.
He turned toward me and smiled. He had his hand in his coat pocket, with the thumb showing. The thumbnail gleamed.
"Yes," he said. "What's this about White Deer?"
He was a really good-looking guy. About my height but slimmer. His dark hair had just enough gray highlights. It was longish and wavy and brushed straight back. He had a nice tan, and even features, and very fine teeth. He was wearing light gray slacks and a dark double-breasted blazer, and, God help us, a white silk scarf.
"I knew you were down there at Allenwood for a couple of years," I said. "Just a ploy to get you to see me."
Farnsworth's smile remained warm and welcoming. He glanced casually through the glass front door where the doorman was watching us. Then he took his hand from his coat pocket and stuck it out.
"Well, it worked, didn't it," he said. "And so delicately done. White Deer, Pennsylvania."
We shook hands, he gestured gracefully toward the bench where I'd been sitting, and both of us sat down on it. He shifted slightly so he could look me square in the eye.
"So," he said. "What can I help you with?"
Pretty good. No attempt to explain why he'd been at Allenwood. No outrage at being tricked. Just frank and friendly. No wonder people
"Especially in the winter," I said. "Is `stumblebum' the acceptable term for our indigent brothers and sisters?"
"Sometimes I like 'vagrants'," Corsetti said. "Depends on how much style they got."
"Think the money will help him?" I said.
"Nope."
"Think he'll spend it on booze?"
"Yep."
"So why'd you give it to him?" I said.
Corsetti swallowed the last of his coffee and grinned at me.
"Felt like it," he said.
22
I spent an hour looking at Patricia Utley's list as annotated by Eugene Corsetti. Corsetti had thoughtfully located all fifteen guys by address and phone number for me. And he had included copies of Farnsworth's mug shots from when they'd made the first fraud arrest in 1998. Other than that, Corsetti didn't add much to what he had told me in the waiting room. I wanted to take a look at Lionel Farnsworth, so I walked across the park to where he lived, about opposite the Carlyle, in one of those impressive buildings that front Central Park West.
I wasn't sure what I thought I'd learn. The mug shots were old enough so that he might have changed, certainly.
And people don't always look just like themselves when they're being booked. He would look different in the flesh. And I had some half-articulated sense that if he looked wrong for the part, I'd know it. Besides, I couldn't think of anything else to do.
There was a doorman at the entrance. He was a bulky guy wearing a maroon uniform with some braid. He had one of those New York Irish faces that implied he'd be perfectly happy to knock you down and kick you if you gave him any trouble.
"Lionel Farnsworth," I said.
The doorman took the phone from its brass box on the wall.
"Who shall I say?"
"Clint Hartung," I said.
"Spell the last name?"
"H-A-R-T U-N-G," I said. "Hartung."
The doorman turned away and called. He spoke into the phone for a minute and turned back to me.
"Mr. Farnsworth doesn't recognize the name," he said. "He'd like to know what it's in regard to."
"Tell him it's in regard to matters we discussed in White Deer, Pennsylvania, a while back, when we were both visiting there."
The doorman relayed that into the phone and then listened silently for a moment, nodding. Then he hung up the phone and closed the little brass door.
"Mr. Farnsworth says he'll be down. You can wait in the lobby."
I went in. It was a small lobby done in black marble and polished brass. There was a bench on either side of the elevator door. They were upholstered in black leather. I sat on one. In maybe two minutes I heard the elevator coming down. And in another minute the doors opened and there he came. I stood.
"Mr. Farnsworth?" I said.
He turned toward me and smiled. He had his hand in his coat pocket, with the thumb showing. The thumbnail gleamed.
"Yes," he said. "What's this about White Deer?"
He was a really good-looking guy. About my height but slimmer. His dark hair had just enough gray highlights. It was longish and wavy and brushed straight back. He had a nice tan, and even features, and very fine teeth. He was wearing light gray slacks and a dark double-breasted blazer, and, God help us, a white silk scarf.
"I knew you were down there at Allenwood for a couple of years," I said. "Just a ploy to get you to see me."
Farnsworth's smile remained warm and welcoming. He glanced casually through the glass front door where the doorman was watching us. Then he took his hand from his coat pocket and stuck it out.
"Well, it worked, didn't it," he said. "And so delicately done. White Deer, Pennsylvania."
We shook hands, he gestured gracefully toward the bench where I'd been sitting, and both of us sat down on it. He shifted slightly so he could look me square in the eye.
"So," he said. "What can I help you with?"
Pretty good. No attempt to explain why he'd been at Allenwood. No outrage at being tricked. Just frank and friendly. No wonder people
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