for myself and another beer for Cummins. After Swell served them and went back to the comics, Cummins said, “Friday night he told me he had a hot one. He wanted me to go in with him.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“That it would cost me three thou and that I stood to make fifteen.”
“What did he want you to do?”
“Deliver something to a laundromat. Around Twenty-first and Ninth.”
“He didn’t say what it was?”
“He said it was hot. He said I could buy in half for three thou and make fifteen more just like that.” Cummins snapped his fingers. “He said he paid six thou for it and that he was selling it back for thirty. He didn’t say anything about ninety thousand though. Were you really carrying that much?”
I nodded. “Where’d Boykins ever get six thousand dollars?” I said.
“His brother died last August out in California. He left it to him.”
“Did he tell you what he’d bought?”
Cummins shook his head. “He didn’t talk much after I said no. But he told me who he bought it from.”
“Who?”
Cummins looked at his beer glass again. It was empty. I started to order him another, but he said, “I ain’t thirsty.”
I sighed and said, “All right. How much?”
“Christ, if you’re working a ninety-thou deal, you gotta be flush.”
“It all comes out of my pocket, Finley. You know that.”
“A hundred.”
I shook my head.
“Seventy-five.”
“Fifty,” I said.
“Let’s see it.”
I took two twenties and a ten from my billfold and handed them to Cummins. He stuffed them into his topcoat pocket. “You ever hear of a guy called Jimmy Peskoe?”
“The name’s familiar. He was a safe man, wasn’t he?”
Cummins nodded. “One of the best. Or he was until they sent him up to Dannemora about ten years ago. He just got out. Well, somehow he hears about this safe and he goes in and opens it up, but there ain’t no money in it so he just grabs whatever there was. Then when he finds out what he’s grabbed he gets all nervous. He done a bad ten years up there, I hear. So he sells it to Boykins for six thou. At least that’s what Boykins said. But, shit, he lied a lot. That worth fifty to you?”
“It might be if I could talk to Peskoe.”
“I ain’t stopping you.”
“Where could I find him?”
“I ain’t information.”
“Another ten for Peskoe’s address.”
Cummins gave it to me with a proper show of reluctance. It was a hotel over on East Thirty-fourth. He watched me write it down and when I was done, he said, “Was what you wanted to buy back really worth ninety thou?”
“At least three people thought so,” I said.
Cummins turned that over for a moment. “Boykins and the guy who was putting up the ninety thou are two. Who’s the third one?”
“The guy who killed Boykins,” I said.
Neither the ambulance nor the cops had arrived yet, but a knot of people were already gathered in front of the cheap hotel on East Thirty-fourth when I got out of the cab. They were looking down at the smashed, sprawled body of a man. One of them was a skinny individual in his fifties who was coatless. I guessed he was the hotel clerk because he stared at the body and kept saying, “He was Mr. Peskoe and he was in eight-nineteen.”
I turned to a tall, stooped old man in a thin black sweater who was picking his long nose and staring at Peskoe through thick bifocals.
“What happened?” I said.
The old man inspected something that he’d found in his nose and wiped it on his sweater. “Suicide, that’s what. Some drunk probably.” He looked at me, sniffed, and then stretched his mouth into a tight line of disapproval. “Lot of drunks around nowadays. In high places, too. Washington. Albany. Everywhere.” He kept staring at me suspiciously so I looked away, over his shoulder, toward the entrance of the hotel.
If it hadn’t been for the old man’s suspicion, I might not have seen the man and the woman who hurried from the entrance and headed up
“What else did he tell you?”
“That it would cost me three thou and that I stood to make fifteen.”
“What did he want you to do?”
“Deliver something to a laundromat. Around Twenty-first and Ninth.”
“He didn’t say what it was?”
“He said it was hot. He said I could buy in half for three thou and make fifteen more just like that.” Cummins snapped his fingers. “He said he paid six thou for it and that he was selling it back for thirty. He didn’t say anything about ninety thousand though. Were you really carrying that much?”
I nodded. “Where’d Boykins ever get six thousand dollars?” I said.
“His brother died last August out in California. He left it to him.”
“Did he tell you what he’d bought?”
Cummins shook his head. “He didn’t talk much after I said no. But he told me who he bought it from.”
“Who?”
Cummins looked at his beer glass again. It was empty. I started to order him another, but he said, “I ain’t thirsty.”
I sighed and said, “All right. How much?”
“Christ, if you’re working a ninety-thou deal, you gotta be flush.”
“It all comes out of my pocket, Finley. You know that.”
“A hundred.”
I shook my head.
“Seventy-five.”
“Fifty,” I said.
“Let’s see it.”
I took two twenties and a ten from my billfold and handed them to Cummins. He stuffed them into his topcoat pocket. “You ever hear of a guy called Jimmy Peskoe?”
“The name’s familiar. He was a safe man, wasn’t he?”
Cummins nodded. “One of the best. Or he was until they sent him up to Dannemora about ten years ago. He just got out. Well, somehow he hears about this safe and he goes in and opens it up, but there ain’t no money in it so he just grabs whatever there was. Then when he finds out what he’s grabbed he gets all nervous. He done a bad ten years up there, I hear. So he sells it to Boykins for six thou. At least that’s what Boykins said. But, shit, he lied a lot. That worth fifty to you?”
“It might be if I could talk to Peskoe.”
“I ain’t stopping you.”
“Where could I find him?”
“I ain’t information.”
“Another ten for Peskoe’s address.”
Cummins gave it to me with a proper show of reluctance. It was a hotel over on East Thirty-fourth. He watched me write it down and when I was done, he said, “Was what you wanted to buy back really worth ninety thou?”
“At least three people thought so,” I said.
Cummins turned that over for a moment. “Boykins and the guy who was putting up the ninety thou are two. Who’s the third one?”
“The guy who killed Boykins,” I said.
Neither the ambulance nor the cops had arrived yet, but a knot of people were already gathered in front of the cheap hotel on East Thirty-fourth when I got out of the cab. They were looking down at the smashed, sprawled body of a man. One of them was a skinny individual in his fifties who was coatless. I guessed he was the hotel clerk because he stared at the body and kept saying, “He was Mr. Peskoe and he was in eight-nineteen.”
I turned to a tall, stooped old man in a thin black sweater who was picking his long nose and staring at Peskoe through thick bifocals.
“What happened?” I said.
The old man inspected something that he’d found in his nose and wiped it on his sweater. “Suicide, that’s what. Some drunk probably.” He looked at me, sniffed, and then stretched his mouth into a tight line of disapproval. “Lot of drunks around nowadays. In high places, too. Washington. Albany. Everywhere.” He kept staring at me suspiciously so I looked away, over his shoulder, toward the entrance of the hotel.
If it hadn’t been for the old man’s suspicion, I might not have seen the man and the woman who hurried from the entrance and headed up
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