Death's little helpers

25

Neary said he would work on a meet with Pflug, and I didn’t object. Chances were, Pflug would be more receptive to his approach than to mine, and I knew Neary didn’t entirely trust me to manage it without bloodshed anyway. I took a subway uptown, and the ride to Union Square was filled with the memory of those photographs, the look on Jane’s face as the elevator doors slid shut, and the choked sound of George L. Gerber’s voice. By the time I got home, my head was aching and my teeth were clenched.

The only things new at my place were the phone messages. One was from Lauren.

“It’s me again. Will you please just give me a call?” No. The next one was from Paul Gargosian. His gravelly voice was full of amusement.

“This is one hell of a game of phone tag we got going. Call me back or stop by the building if you want. I’m pulling double shifts the next two days.”

And that was all; there was nothing from Jane or anyone else. I looked around my apartment, at the dust motes and the empty space, and thought about the prospect of waiting there for Neary’s call. I decided to take Gargosian up on his invitation.

A couple of weeks in Florida had left Paul Gargosian deeply tanned, and his teeth were very bright when he smiled. He was fifty-something, and broad-shouldered, and his black hair was dense and curly and dusted with gray. His thick nose was starting to peel. It could’ve been the lingering effects of vacation that made him seem so relaxed and affable, but somehow- from the spray of laugh lines around his eyes and the timbre of his voice- I suspected he was always that way.

“I wasn’t sure you were for real,” he said, smiling. His hands were wide and calloused, and his handshake was strong. “I figured maybe you were just a recording.”

“Some days I think the same thing,” I said. “You have time to talk now?”

“Sure,” he said. He held the door and ushered me into the lobby and over to the concierge station. “What’s so important you had to call a dozen times?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Gregory Danes,” I said. His eyebrows went up. I lied a little and told him I was working for Danes’s ex, who hadn’t heard from him since he’d left weeks before, and who was getting worried. “The guy filling in for you- Christopher- said you knew most of the tenants.”

At the mention of Christopher’s name, Gargosian rolled his eyes. “A recommendation from Chrissy- there’s a career highlight.”

“You know anything about where Danes is?”

Gargosian shook his head. “The last time I saw him was, I guess, the morning he left. It was early, and I brought his bags down and held them here while he went for his car. Then I loaded him up and he drove away. I haven’t seen him since.”

“No mention of where he was headed or when he’d be back?”

Gargosian grimaced a little. “He’s not real talkative- not to the guys who work here, anyway. He said he was going away for a whilethat’s what he said, a while- and he was having his mail held. That was it.”

“Has he ever gone away this long before?”

“He’s been away two, three weeks at a time before- maybe a little longer- but not like this.”

“He have a lot of luggage that morning?”

“A couple of bags, a briefcase- no problem fitting ’em in the trunk.”

“And he was alone?”

Gargosian’s eyes narrowed momentarily. “Yep.”

“Was he usually?”

“What’s that mean?” His voice was fractionally less friendly.

“It means, did he have a lot of visitors? A lot of houseguests? Girlfriends, boyfriends- that sort of thing?”

Gargosian’s voice chilled by another few degrees. “What is this, anyway? Are you looking for a missing guy or is this some kind of divorce thing?”

“It’s not a divorce thing,” I said. “I don’t care what Danes does or who he does it with, I’m just trying to find the guy.”

Gargosian nodded slowly and relaxed a little. “It’s just that I went through a fucking evil time with my own ex, so I’m a little touchy. I don’t want to go telling tales.”

“Sure,” I said, and kept looking at him.

“He didn’t have a lot of visitors. His kid was probably the most regular; he’d come by every few weeks or so.”

“No girlfriends?”

“Not lately.”

“How about before lately?” Gargosian hesitated, and I helped him out. “How about a pretty blonde who’s shorter than she looks on TV?”

He looked relieved. “What do you need me for? You seem to know it all already.”

“Confirmation helps,” I said. “Anybody besides Sovitch?”

“No, just her. But for a while now, not even her.”

“How long a while?”

He shrugged. “It’s got to be six months at least.”

“She was a pretty regular visitor before then?”

“It was kind of tapering off, I think. But for a while there it was two or three nights a week.” Gargosian’s eyes shifted to the doors and he loped across the lobby and held them for an attractive blond woman pushing a baby carriage. He walked them to the elevators and came back to the concierge station.

“Danes have many friends in the building- anybody he might’ve told where he was going?” I asked.

Gargosian shook his head. “He’s not a real sociable guy.”

“According to his son, he’s got at least one friend in the building- someone he goes to hear music with.”

Gargosian thought for a moment and began to nod. “He had one friend, more like: the old fellow, Mr. Cortese- Joseph- and a nicer guy you’ll never meet. Hell of a sad thing when he passed. He was a real music buff, and friendly with Danes. They went to concerts together and stuff.”

“White-haired guy- mostly bald on top- with a narrow face and hollow cheeks?” I asked. He nodded. “When did he pass away?”

“Last year, right around Thanksgiving. Bad heart.”

“He live alone?”

“All alone. The missus was long gone.”

A FedEx truck double-parked in front of the building. The driver waved at Gargosian and started stacking boxes on a hand truck. Gargosian waved back.

“I got to get the service door,” he said, and went out to the street.

I leaned on the marble counter and thought about Danes and his late friend. Now I had a name to go with the face in the photosJoseph Cortese- but I wasn’t sure what that led to besides another dead end. My head was aching again and I was tired, and I wondered how Neary was faring in tracking down Pflug. I pressed my fingers to my temples but it didn’t help. Gargosian returned and I hauled my thoughts back to Danes and Cortese.

“You said they went to concerts together.” Gargosian nodded. “Here in the city?”

“Carnegie Hall, Lincoln Center, up at St. John’s- the old guy talked about it all the time. And in the warm weather he’d go someplace up in Westchester. And he went to the mountains, too- the Berkshires. He had a house up there, and he’d go for big chunks of the summer. Danes went with him now and then.”

“You know if Cortese had family? Anyone he was close to?”

Gargosian tilted his head a little. “We’re getting kind of far from Danes, aren’t we?”

“I’m looking for someone to talk to about this place in the Berkshires.”

“The old guy had a nephew, but I don’t know how close they were. He’d come around sometimes; he still does.”

“Cortese’s apartment hasn’t been sold?”

“The nephew owns it now. Like I said, he comes by once in a while.”

“Any idea where he lives?” Gargosian shook his head. “How about a name?”

“Don’t know his first name, but his last name’s Cortese.”

I pulled a card from my pocket. “Can I leave this for him, for the next time he comes in?” Gargosian looked skeptical but took the card. “What about neighbors?” I asked. “Does Danes get along with his?”

Gargosian looked puzzled for a second. “I didn’t explain it right, did I? Mr. Cortese was in apartment Twenty-C; he was Danes’s neighbor, pretty much the only one. The other two units up there are owned by a corporation, and they’re empty most of the time.”

I thought about that for a while, and about the disheveled-looking man I’d seen coming off the elevator and going into 20-C, the day I’d creeped Danes’s apartment. “What does the nephew look like?” I asked.

Gargosian thought for a moment. “A very big guy, not young… balding, with some dark hair around the sides… a big face… glasses. Kind of… messy.” That was him. Gargosian looked at his watch. “If there’s nothing else, I’ve got to get to the mail.”

I nodded. “Thanks for your time.”

“Hope I was worth the wait,” he said, and held the door for me.

I hailed a cab on Lex and rolled the window down. We pulled away from the curb and a diesel wind rushed in at me. I thought about what Paul Gargosian had told me. Joseph Cortese seemed to be the closest thing to an actual friend of Danes that I’d come across so far. Except that I hadn’t really come across him, as he’d been dead for going on six months.

That six-month period couldn’t have been a pleasant one for Gregory Danes. Cortese died; Sovitch stopped coming around; a custody battle erupted with Nina Sachs; and Turpin had shown up at Pace-Loyette with a mandate to settle the claims that Danes wanted to fight. Not an easy time. Who could blame the guy for going away? Who could blame him for not coming back? I thought about how I might find Cortese’s nephew, but I was tired and my mind kept wandering to Neary and Pflug.

The phone was ringing as I came through the door. It was Neary.

“I found him,” he said.

“Where?”

“Here, in town.”

“Is he willing to meet?”

“He said he’d be more than happy to. He even invited us to his rented conference room.”

“When?”

“Six o’clock this evening,” Neary said. I wrote down the address.

“Doesn’t sound like it was too hard to get hold of him.”

“I just called the numbers on his Web site.”

“Was he surprised to hear from you?” I asked.

“Not even a little.”

I met Neary in front of an undistinguished glass box on Park Avenue and 38th Street. We signed in and rode up together in silence. The company that provided Pflug with his New York address occupied the entire twelfth floor. The reception area was windowless and softly lit. The magazines were plentiful but out-of-date and the plump furniture was slightly shabby, and it looked like the business-class lounge of a failing airline. But for two receptionists preparing to leave, the room was empty.

They were making final adjustments to hair and makeup when we came in, and they eyed us warily. The short redhead with the diamond chip in her nose buzzed Pflug and led us to a conference room.

“It’ll be just a minute,” she said, and left us alone.

I sat in a scuffed leather chair at the long scuffed conference table and took a few slow breaths to bring my heart rate down. I looked out the window at the dim view of 38th Street. Neary sat across from me.

“I should do the talking,” he said.

“Sure.” I kept looking at the view.

“You should mostly just sit there.”

“Sure.”

“And not say much.”

“Uh-huh.”

Neary looked at me and sighed. Five minutes later the conference room door opened and Pflug walked in.

He was a lanky six-two, and there was a lot of elbow and knee in his gait as he shut the door and moved to the head of the table. His khaki shirt had epaulets and many pockets, and his olive-drab pants were held in place by a wide leather belt, adorned near the buckle with the brass end of a shotgun shell. His long head was topped by a brush of salt-and-pepper hair, and his sunburned face was meaty, and acne-scarred on one side. He pulled out a chair and folded his long arms and legs and sat. He looked at us with pale eyes and showed a lot of horsy teeth when he smiled.

“Tom, John, what can I do for you gentlemen today?” His voice was deep and theatrically haughty, like a bad Bill Buckley impersonation. He tapped at the side of his pockmarked nose. Neary looked at me and I said nothing.

“Mr. March is my client, and he would like to know why you’ve hired people to have him watched.”

Pflug turned to me and grinned and shook his head. “Where does this come from, John? What could I possibly know about this?” He spread his large hands in staged confusion. I said nothing.

“He’d also like to know what your interest is in Gregory Danes,” Neary said.

Pflug’s toothy smile got larger and more disingenuous. Again he turned to me. “As a matter of professional curiosity, John, do you discuss your cases with just anyone who comes in off the street? Not that I know anything about this Danes, mind you, or about people following people; I’m just curious. Is that all it takes for you to bend over, John- just someone asking?” His pale eyes locked on mine and sparkled like broken glass. I stayed quiet.

Neary cleared his throat. “Mr. March recently received some photographs of a threatening nature. We have reason to believe you sent them, and we’d like to know why.”

Pflug’s smile stayed wide, and he didn’t take his eyes off me. “Well, I guess everyone’s got a right to their beliefs, even here in godless New York City. But belief is one thing and fact is quite another. Now, what was in these photographs that could be so threatening to a strapping fellow like you, John? Or are you just the nervous kind, perhaps, the kind that scares easily? I suppose that’s no surprise, considering what you’ve been through, upstate and all. I suppose that’s enough to leave anyone a little… skittish.”

Neary rapped on the table. “Hey, squire, over here,” he said.

Pflug turned his head slowly and smiled at Neary, but when he spoke it was to me. “Is that why Tom has come along today- because you’re easily frightened?”

“Those photos could constitute harassment, Pflug,” Neary said. “Maybe worse, with a sympathetic prosecutor. And this little display doesn’t help. But we know you’re just a hired man. Let’s talk about who put you up to this.”

Pflug smirked. “That was probably more effective when you were with the Bureau, wasn’t it? It’s easier when you’ve got a badge.” He turned back to me. “So what was in those frightening photos?” I took another deep breath and let it out very slowly. I pursed my lips but kept quiet.

Neary shook his head and changed tack. “What are you doing in New York, anyway? From what I heard, you work out of Virginia- in your garage or something.”

Pflug didn’t like that. His brow wrinkled momentarily and his thin lips curled in a scowl, but he recovered quickly.

“You know, I ask myself the same question: What are you doing in this city, Jeremy? Between the foreigners and all the domestic whiners and complainers, I feel as if I’m in another country when I come here. Lord, I feel as if I’m on another planet. I don’t know how you stand it. But hang on- you’re actually from here, aren’t you, John? You actually grew up here. Well, maybe that explains it.” He showed me more teeth, and his eyes found mine again.

“You don’t like leaving the country?” Neary asked. “Then what’s with all the foreign-correspondent CIA bullshit on your Web site? Or is this Long Island lockjaw routine the bullshit part?”

Pflug’s eyes narrowed and his face clouded with brief irritation. “Your friend is taking us away from our conversation, John. Let’s get back to those photographs. Maybe if you’d tell me what was in them, it would stir some memories.”

I nodded slowly.

Neary rapped on the table again. “Look. We know you’re interested in Danes, and you know we are, too. Maybe we can cooperate here.”

Pflug laughed. It was loud and braying, and it went on too long. “Well, that’s very generous,” he said finally. “But I don’t think I could hold up my end of the bargain. I’ve got nothing to say about this Danes, and- truth be told- I’m not really a very cooperative fellow. At any rate, I don’t think John here has his mind on that business anymore. I think he’s got his mind on those photographs.” He turned to me again. “Now, how about telling me a little about what was in those pictures. There was nothing of a personal nature, was there? No pictures of you and that Chinese girl of yours? Because from where I sit, that would be rude.”

I looked at Neary. “This is pointless.” I sighed. “He isn’t going to help himself.” I shook my head and got up from my seat. Pflug laughed loudly and stood up too, and as he did I whipped my right forearm into the side of his head. He went backward over the top of his chair and came down loud and hard, and before I could do anything else Neary had his hand on my chest. I leaned against it for a moment and then stepped back. My heart was pounding and adrenaline was careening through my veins.

Pflug rolled to his feet. He came up quickly and gracefully, a step out of my range and with his hands in front of him. His eyes were unfocused for a moment, but he shook it off and bent his legs and balanced nicely. A red welt was growing along the left side of his face. He touched it with his fingertips.

“Now we’re getting to the point,” he whispered.

Neary turned to him and put out his other hand. “Right there is fine,” he said softly. He turned back to me. “You done now?” His voice was calm. “You satisfy your inner idiot?” I looked beyond him, at Pflug, and nodded minutely. Neary followed my gaze. “And you?” he asked. Pflug grinned. I was pleased to see there was blood in his mouth.

“I’m just fine,” he said. He was breathing hard and fighting to control it.

“Then I think we’re done here,” Neary said to me. I nodded. He moved to the door and Pflug opened it. He stepped aside and made a little bow and started tucking in his shirt. Neary went through and I followed, and as I passed him, Pflug twisted his hips and his left arm snapped out and up at my face. I was looking for it but not at that speed, and he tagged me hard under the eye with the back of his fist. My head jerked sideways and filled with flares of pain and light and I shuffled back. I heard rather than saw him closing and I brought my hands up and tucked my chin down. I turned my body and his boot smacked my right arm, just above the elbow. It was like a brick shot from a cannon, and I staggered back. Numbness spread up to my shoulder and into my hand. I shook my head and my vision cleared and I saw Neary holding Pflug, one-handed, against the conference room wall.

“I thought we were done, Jer,” he said softly.

Pflug managed a little smile. “We are now,” he said.

Neary shook his head and took his hand from Pflug’s throat. “Let’s go,” he said to me.

I looked at Pflug and didn’t move. My knees were twitchy and so were my arms, and I could barely hear Neary over the rushing sound that filled my ears.

“John,” he said more sharply.

I walked out and Neary followed. The reception area was deserted when we passed through, and quiet except for the sound of a vacuum cleaner running somewhere out of sight. The elevator came quickly and we got on. The doors were sliding shut when we heard Pflug’s braying laughter.

Peter Spiegelman

JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home