Read Online Without Mercy by Len Levinson, Leonard Jordan - Free Book Online
Authors: Len Levinson, Leonard Jordan
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Rene LeDoux,” the black man said.
“She’s living with a guy, and maybe the room’s under his name. They’re both French Canadians.”
“Oh, you mean the Canucks.” The black man found the appropriate page. “Here they are, Mr. and Mrs. Pierre Fournier. Room 1006.”
“Do you know if Mr. Fournier is in?”
“No I don’t.”
“I’m going up to see him. You’d better not tip him off that I’m on the way.”
Rackman rode the shaky elevator to the tenth floor and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. Taking out his picks, he tripped the latch and entered a small shabby room with an unmade double bed in its center. It smelled of perfume and cologne; clothing was strewn everywhere. The framed photograph of a teenage girl was on the dresser. He looked in the closet and found men’s suits and sports jackets on the hangers along with women’s clothing. It didn’t appear that Pierre Fournier had flown the coop.
Rackman returned to the lobby and approached the room clerk. “Fournier isn’t there. By the way, what’s your name?”
The room clerk took a step back. “I ain’t done anything wrong.”
“I didn’t say you did. What’s your name?”
“Percy.”
“Percy what?”
“Percy Green. Folks call me Greeny.”
“Do you have any idea where Pierre Fournier might be right now?”
“Try the First Base Cafe down the street. If he’s not there, I don’t know where he is.”
Rackman left the hotel and spotted the sign of the Cafe on the other side of the street. It was the ground floor of another broken-down hotel called the Prince Albert. He crossed over and entered. The bar was to the right and tables were in back. The jukebox played funky rhythm and blues, and the air stank of beer, whiskey, and tobacco smoke. He looked down the bar and saw black and white people dressed in cheap, flashy clothes. Near the cash register sat a guy with wavy salt and pepper hair, a mustache, and a square-shouldered suit. Rackman walked over to him and tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned around.
“Are you Pierre Fournier?” Rackman asked.
“Who wants to know?” the man asked in a French accent.
Rackman took out his shield. “I’m Detective Rackman from the New York Police Department.”
The man squinted at the shield, then looked at Rackman. “Yes, I’m Pierre Fournier. What is the problem?”
“Why don’t we go back and sit at one of those tables.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“No.”
“Why do you want to talk to me?”
“That’s what I’ll tell you about when we get back there.”
Fournier looked worried as he walked beside Rackman toward the rear of the bar. They sat in the dark corner beside the cigarette machine. Fournier took a sip of the wine that he’d carried back. Rackman took a deep drag from his cigarette.
“You live with a woman named Rene LeDoux—isn’t that right?” Rackman asked.
“Yes.”
“Is she your legal wife?”
“Yes.”
Rackman flicked an imaginary ash off his cigarette. “I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Mr. Fournier. Rene LeDoux was murdered about an hour ago at the Polka Dot Lounge.”
Fournier stared at him in disbelief. At a nearby table, two black dudes talked about the fifth race at Belmont Park.
“Murdered?” Fournier asked, bewildered and unsteady.
“I’m afraid so. We’ll want you to come to the medical examiner’s office to identify the body.”
“I. . . ah. . .”
“That’s all right, Mr. Fournier. You don’t have to say anything.”
Fournier wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His world was disintegrating and he didn’t know where he was. Rackman had been through this many times. He’d seen people fall down and cry, he’d seen them get angry and try to punch him, and he’d seen them become instant vegetables unable to respond to questions. He disliked the last category most of all.
Fournier took out a Gauloise cigarette and Rackman lit it for him. Fournier
“She’s living with a guy, and maybe the room’s under his name. They’re both French Canadians.”
“Oh, you mean the Canucks.” The black man found the appropriate page. “Here they are, Mr. and Mrs. Pierre Fournier. Room 1006.”
“Do you know if Mr. Fournier is in?”
“No I don’t.”
“I’m going up to see him. You’d better not tip him off that I’m on the way.”
Rackman rode the shaky elevator to the tenth floor and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. Taking out his picks, he tripped the latch and entered a small shabby room with an unmade double bed in its center. It smelled of perfume and cologne; clothing was strewn everywhere. The framed photograph of a teenage girl was on the dresser. He looked in the closet and found men’s suits and sports jackets on the hangers along with women’s clothing. It didn’t appear that Pierre Fournier had flown the coop.
Rackman returned to the lobby and approached the room clerk. “Fournier isn’t there. By the way, what’s your name?”
The room clerk took a step back. “I ain’t done anything wrong.”
“I didn’t say you did. What’s your name?”
“Percy.”
“Percy what?”
“Percy Green. Folks call me Greeny.”
“Do you have any idea where Pierre Fournier might be right now?”
“Try the First Base Cafe down the street. If he’s not there, I don’t know where he is.”
Rackman left the hotel and spotted the sign of the Cafe on the other side of the street. It was the ground floor of another broken-down hotel called the Prince Albert. He crossed over and entered. The bar was to the right and tables were in back. The jukebox played funky rhythm and blues, and the air stank of beer, whiskey, and tobacco smoke. He looked down the bar and saw black and white people dressed in cheap, flashy clothes. Near the cash register sat a guy with wavy salt and pepper hair, a mustache, and a square-shouldered suit. Rackman walked over to him and tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned around.
“Are you Pierre Fournier?” Rackman asked.
“Who wants to know?” the man asked in a French accent.
Rackman took out his shield. “I’m Detective Rackman from the New York Police Department.”
The man squinted at the shield, then looked at Rackman. “Yes, I’m Pierre Fournier. What is the problem?”
“Why don’t we go back and sit at one of those tables.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“No.”
“Why do you want to talk to me?”
“That’s what I’ll tell you about when we get back there.”
Fournier looked worried as he walked beside Rackman toward the rear of the bar. They sat in the dark corner beside the cigarette machine. Fournier took a sip of the wine that he’d carried back. Rackman took a deep drag from his cigarette.
“You live with a woman named Rene LeDoux—isn’t that right?” Rackman asked.
“Yes.”
“Is she your legal wife?”
“Yes.”
Rackman flicked an imaginary ash off his cigarette. “I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Mr. Fournier. Rene LeDoux was murdered about an hour ago at the Polka Dot Lounge.”
Fournier stared at him in disbelief. At a nearby table, two black dudes talked about the fifth race at Belmont Park.
“Murdered?” Fournier asked, bewildered and unsteady.
“I’m afraid so. We’ll want you to come to the medical examiner’s office to identify the body.”
“I. . . ah. . .”
“That’s all right, Mr. Fournier. You don’t have to say anything.”
Fournier wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His world was disintegrating and he didn’t know where he was. Rackman had been through this many times. He’d seen people fall down and cry, he’d seen them get angry and try to punch him, and he’d seen them become instant vegetables unable to respond to questions. He disliked the last category most of all.
Fournier took out a Gauloise cigarette and Rackman lit it for him. Fournier
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