Clandestine

"I been clean for six years. Topped out my parole, knock wood." The guy made an elaborate show of rapping his knuckles on the countertop.

"I congratulate you," I said. "How long have you been working this joint?"

"Two years on the job. Knock wood."

"You know the locals pretty well?"

"Local yokels or regular customers?"

"Very astute. I mean people who live in the neighborhood who frequent this place."

"Oh." The man's eyes narrowed into a con-wise squint. "You got any particular locals in mind?"

"Yeah. A guy named Eddie. A handsome guy about thirty. Curly brown hair. Brown eyes. Sharp dresser. A lover-boy. Always a good-looking tomato in tow. You know him?"

The counterman's eyes remained impassive. When I finished, he nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Yeah, I think so."

I came on strong. "I'm a police officer and a big tipper. Tell me."

He looked around for prying ears. There weren't any. "Okay—you got it right. Smooth boy. Lover-boy. I should get the dames I seen that bastard with. Listen, Officer—"

I reached into my coat pocket for my photograph of Maggie Cadwallader. "Her?" I said. "This tomato?"

The counterman scrutinized the photo and shook his head. "Naw, lover-boy would never be seen with a beast like this. Ugh. What a—"

"Shut up. Tell me about the women you have seen him with."

Chastened, he went on, his voice low: "Just movie star material. Real beauts. Class-A poontang hangin' onto him like there's no tomorrow."

"Do you know any of these women? Are any of them regular customers?"

"Naw, I think he just brings 'em in for a quick burger, 'cause he lives around here."

"How do you know that?"

"That's kinda funny. Once he was in here with this good-lookin' blond. She was teasin' him about somethin'. He didn't like it. She had her hand on the countertop. Eddie started squeezin' it, real hard. The dame had tears in her eyes. She was hurtin' bad. She said, 'Not now, baby. You can give it to me good at the apartment, but not here. We'll be back there in a minute. Please, baby.' She looked scared, but kind of excited, too, you know?"

"When was this?" I asked.

"I dunno. Months ago."

"Have you seen this woman again, with or without Eddie?"

"I don't think so."

"Did you see Eddie exhibit violence toward any other women?"

"Naw. But I wouldn't call that violence."

"Shut up." I handed him a slip of paper from my notebook. "Write down your name and address," I said.

The ex-con did it, his jaw quavering slightly. "Look, Officer . . ." he started.

"Don't worry," I said, smiling. "You're in no trouble. Just keep it zipped about what we talked about. Capische?"

"Yeah."

"Good." I put the slip of paper into my pocket and dropped a five-spot on the counter. "Keep the change," I said.

I found a pay phone in the parking lot and called Dudley Smith downtown. It took some moments for him to come onto the line and I waited in the sweltering booth, lost in thought, the receiver jammed to my ear. Smith's loud high-pitched brogue suddenly hit me.

"Freddy, lad! How nice to hear from you!"

I recovered fast, speaking calmly: "Good news, Dudley. Our boy was seen at a local diner with a woman some months ago. The counterman said he abused her physically and she enjoyed it. I got a statement from him." Dudley Smith seemed to be considering this—he was silent for the better part of a minute. In my eagerness, I broke the silence: "I think he's a sex sadist, Dudley."

"Ahhh, yes. Well, lad, I think our pal is a lot of things. I've got some interesting stuff, too. Now, Freddy, tomorrow you will be the straight man to greatness. You pick me up at my house at nine A.M., 2341 Kelton Avenue, Westwood. Wear a light-colored suit, and be prepared to learn. Have you got that?"

"Yes."

"Ahhh . . . grand. Was there anything else you wished to tell me, lad?"

"No."

"Grand. Then I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodbye, Dudley."

I drove home and showered and changed clothes. I shaved for the second time that day. I drove downtown fighting a tingling anticipation that was half nerves and half a thigh-warming sexual flush. I parked in the lot for city employees on Temple Street, showing the attendant my badge in lieu of a parking sticker. I combed my hair several times, checking in my rearview mirror to see that the part was straight.

At exactly five o'clock, I was stationed directly in front of the Spring Street entrance to city hall, waiting for Lorna Weinberg.

Lorna came out the broad glass doors a few minutes later, limping with one foot kicked out at almost a right angle. She guided her way with a thick, rubber-tipped black wood cane. She carried a briefcase in her left hand, and had an abstracted look on her face. When she saw me she frowned.

"Hello, Miss Weinberg," I said.

"Mr. Underhill," she returned. She moved her cane to her left hand and offered me her right. We shook, the handshake an implicit reminder that this was a civil meeting of two professional people.

I said, "Thank you for agreeing to see me. I know you're a busy woman."