Westlake, Donald E - Novel 41 (31 page)

 
          
 
"What happens if I tell
Banadando no?"

 
          
 
"I pull him in," Santangelo said.
"I try to convince him his scheme is busted anyway and he might as well
cooperate with us."

 
          
 
"He'll say no."

 
          
 
Santangelo shrugged. "It's worth a
try."

 
          
 
Levine said, "You won't have to. I'll
tell him yes."

 
          
 
"Good," said Banadando's husky, low,
insinuating voice on the phone. It was twenty to five on Friday afternoon and
Levine was in the hospital again, visiting with Andy Stettin. Andy's phone had
rung and it was Banadando, for Levine.

 
          
 
Conscious of Andy's curious eyes on him,
Levine said into the phone, "What happens now?"

 
          
 
"Nothing.
I can
still play my own hand till tomorrow night. You know
Long Island
well?"

 
          
 
"Pretty well."

 
          
 
"About fifty miles out there's a town
called
Bay Shore
.
On the
Great South Bay
."

 
          
 
"I know it."

 
          
 
"Go there Sunday morning, around nine. Go
down to the end of Maple, park there."

 
          
 
"What will
I "
But Banadando had hungbp.

 
          
 
Levine replaced the receiver and Andy said,
"What was that? Sounded like a real sweetheart."

 
          
 
"Mobster," Levine said. "He's
gonna give some evidence, for some reason he made me the intermediary."

 
          
 
"Why's he giving evidence?"

 
          
 
Levine was reluctant to hold back —it wasn't
as though he mistrusted you—but he had to maintain a habit of reticence in this
situation. "Some of his pals have a contract on him," he said.

 
          
 
Andy's lip curled. "Let 'em kill each
other off. Best thing that can happen."

           
 
"I suppose so," said Levine slowly,
but the words were ashes in his mouth. He understood why what Andy had just
said was the common, almost the universal belief among the police; whenever one
mobster killed another, great smiles of happiness lit up the faces in the
precinct houses. But Levine just couldn't take pleasure from the death of a
human being, no matter
who
, no matter what he had done
in his life. He supposed it was really selfishness, really only a matter of
projecting their deaths onto himself, visualizing his own end in theirs, that
made him troubled and sad at the cutting short of lives so stained and spoiled,
but nevertheless he just couldn't bring himself to share in the general glee at
the thought of a murdered mobster.

 
          
 
A little later, as he was leaving Andy's room,
he paused in the doorway to let a wizened ancient man pass by, moving slowly and
awkwardly and painfully with the help of a walker. That's me, Levine thought,
and behind him Andy said, "If they start bumping one another off, Abe,
just step to one side."

 
          
 
Levine looked back at him, bewildered, his
mind for an instant filling with visions of doddering oldsters bumping one
another off: "What do you mean?"

 
          
 
"Your mobster pals. They love to kill so
much, let *em
kill
each other. It isn't up to us to
stop it, or to get in the way."

 
          
 
"I'll stay out of the way," Levine
promised. Then he smiled and waved and left, walking around the ancient man,
who had barely progressed beyond the doorway.

 
          
 
Maple Avenue in
Bay Shore
ended on a long wide dock, covered with
asphalt and its center lined with parking meters. Levine found a free meter, got
out of the car, and strolled a bit, smelling the salt tang. Once or twice he
glanced back the way he had come, without seeing Jack Crawley; which was as it
should be.

 
          
 
Out near the end of the dock, several small
boats were offloading bushel baskets and burlap bags, all filled with clams.
Two trucks were receiving the harvest, and the men working there called
cheerfully at one another, talking more loudly than necessary, but apparently
filled with high spirits because of the clarity and beauty of the day.

 
          
 
Nine a.m.
on the third Sunday in October. The air was
clear, the sun bright in a sky dotted with clouds, the water frisky and
glinting and cold-looking. Levine inhaled
deeply,
glad
to be alive, barely even conscious of the straps around his shoulders and
chest, under his shirt, holding the recording apparatus.

 
          
 
He strolled aimlessly on the dock for about
fifteen minutes and then turned at the sound of a beep-beep to see a small
inboard motorboat bobbing next to the dock, with Banadando at the wheel. Banadando
gestured, and Levine crossed over to stand looking down at him. "Come
aboard," Banadando said. "We'll go for a run on the bay."

 
          
 
Clammers and fishermen were in other small
boats dotting the bay. Long Island was five miles or so to the north, the
barrier beach called Fire Island was just to the south, and Banadando's hosii —
Bobby's Dream was the name painted on the stern in flowing golden letters —was
simply another anonymous speck on the dancing water.

 
          
 
Bobby's Dream was compact but comfortable, its
cabin — where Levine now sat —containing a tiny galley-style kitchen, cunning
storage spaces, a foldaway table and a pair of long upholstered benches that
converted to twin beds.
"Nice, huh?"
Banadando said, coming down into the cabin after cutting the engine and
dropping anchor.

 
          
 
"Very clever," Levine said.

 
          
 
"That, too," Banadando agreed. Today
he wore a longbilled white yachting cap edged in gold, the bill shielding his
eyes as yesterday's hat had done. In blue blazer, white scarf and white pants,
he was almost a parody of the weekend yachtsman. Sitting on the bench across
from Levine, he said, "After dark I take the inlet, I go out to the ocean,
I sleep in comfort and safety. Nobody knows where I am or where I'll be next, I
land where I want, when I want. Until I leave town, this is the safest place in
the world for me."

 
          
 
"I can see that," Levine said.

 
          
 
"You wired?"

 
          
 
"Of course," Levine said.

 
          
 
Banadando shook his head, smirking a bit.
"We all go through the motions, right? You know I know you're gonna be
wired, so I know you know I won't say anything you can use. But still you got
to go through the whole thing, strap it on,
walk
around like a telephone company employee. You broadcasting or taping?"

 
          
 
"Taping," Levine said, wondering if Banadando
would insist on being given the tape.

 
          
 
But Banadando merely smiled, saying,
"Good. If you were broadcasting, we'd be too far out for your backup to
read."

 
          
 
"That's right. Mr. Banadando,
we "

 
          
 
Banadando made a face. "I figured you'd
find that out, who I am, but I don't like it. How many cops know about our
little conversation?"

 
          
 
"Four, including me.
We're already aware of the existence of rotten apples. Don't
worry,
we won't alert Polito through the department."

 
          
 
"Don't tell me not to worry, Mr.
Levine."

 
          
 
"Sorry."

 
          
 
"You're a long time dead."

 
          
 
"I agree," Levine said.

 
          
 
Banadando took from an outside pocket of his
blazer a sheet of white typewriter paper folded into quarters. Opening this,
smoothing it on the tabletop, he turned it so the handwriting faced Levine. It
was large block-printed letters in black ink. He said, "You see all
this?"

 
          
 
"Yes?"

 
          
 
"I'm not giving you this paper, you're
remembering it. Or you'll listen to your tape, later. You see what I
mean?"

           
 
Levine looked at him. "Why do you think
I'm going to be in that much trouble, Mr. Banadando?"

 
          
 
"Because I don't know how smart you
are," Banadando said. "Maybe you're very dumb. Maybe one of the three
cops you talked to is right now on the phone to Giacomo. Maybe you get nervous
in the clutch.
Maybe all kinds of things.
I can't see
the future, Mr. Levine, so I protect myself from it just as hard as I can.
Okay?"

 
          
 
"Okay," Levine said.

 
          
 
Banadando's fingertip touched the first word
on the sheet of paper. His hands were thick and stubby-fingered, but very
clean, with meticulously-groomed nails. The effect, however, was not of
cleanliness but of a kind of doughy unhealthfulness. "This,"
Banadando said, his sausage finger tapping the word, "is a telephone number."

 
          
 
Levine frowned. The word, all alone near the
top of the sheet, was THIRSTY. "It is?"

 
          
 
"The phone dial doesn't just have
numbers," Banadando reminded him. "It has letters. Dial those
letters. You'll call just after
noon
today; this is back in the city, it's a city
number."

 
          
 
"All right."

 
          
 
"You got to call no later than
ten past twelve
, or he won't be there."

 
          
 
"All right."

 
          
 
"When the guy answers, you tell him
you're Abe. That's all he knows about you, that's all he needs to know. He'll
tell you does he have the stuff yet or not. If
it's
no, he'll tell you when to call again."

 
          
 
"What is this stuff?"

 
          
 
"Let it be a surprise," Banadando
said.

 
          
 
Levine took a breath. "Mr.
Banadando," he said, "I have to tell you something you should already
know. If any evidence of crime is put in my possession, I am going to turn it
over to my superiors."

 
          
 
"Sure you are," Banadando said.
"You'll take the package.
you'll
sniff all over
it like a bird-dog, you'll get nothing out of it. The next thing that happens,
you'll bring it to me."