Killing Time

Nineteen

We went down to the car, and the one named Art, the grinning one, slid into the front seat beside me, while the other one settled himself in back. I U-turned and headed back downtown.

After a couple of blocks, Art said, “Where we headed for, Mr. Smith?”

“Get some insurance,” I said. “Make your job easier.”

He grinned some more. “Jack told us you were shifty but honest,” he said conversationally. “How do you work a stunt like that?”

“I’m on the side of the angels,” I told him.

“There aren’t any angels in Winston,” he said. He reached out to flick on the car radio. “Mind some music?”

“That’s a police radio,” I told him. “All it picks up is squad-car calls.”

He looked impressed. “How come you rate that?” he wanted to know.

“I’m on the city payroll,” I told him. “I could have one of those things for my house if I wanted it.”

“Wow,” he said, in mock awe, and we rode the rest of the way in silence. I checked the rear-view mirror a couple of times, and Ben, the dead-pan one, just kept looking out the window at the houses as we went by. I wasn’t sure whether he was being extra conscientious and was looking for possible snipers, or whether he was just bored.

Downtown, I found a parking space half a block from the Winston Hotel. “I’ve got to go talk to somebody in there,” I told Art. “You and Ben can come along as far as the lobby, but from there on I walk alone.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Smith,” he said. “You’re the boss.” He unbent his lanky frame out of the car and strolled along beside me to the hotel. Ben kept a couple of paces behind all the way.

“Be right back,” I said, when we were all in the lobby together, and went on to the desk. I got Masetti’s room number from Charlie, the desk clerk, and took the elevator up to his floor. I followed the corridor around a couple of turns, and knocked on Masetti’s door.

He opened the door right away, and looked at me as though he didn’t at all like what he saw. I asked him if I could come in. He said, “Yes,” and turned his back on me.

I went on into the room, and was surprised to see his suitcase, half-packed, lying open on the bed. Completely ignoring me, he went on with the process of transferring his clothes from the bureau to the suitcase.

I waited a minute for him to remember I was there, and when it became obvious that he wasn’t going to remember, I reminded him, saying, “I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Masetti.”

“Go ahead and talk,” he said. He sounded peeved.

“I want to give you a piece of information,” I told him, “if I can get a guarantee from you you won’t use it until and unless I say you can.”

“Is that right?” he said. He went on packing shirts, moving with the fast, unnecessarily rough movements of a man about to boil over with rage.

I didn’t get it, and I didn’t much like it. This wasn’t the way I’d expected to find Masetti. I’d planned on telling him where the soup cartons full of files were hidden, if I could get a promise from him that he wouldn’t make a move toward them unless I didn’t call him at four o’clock. That way, I’d have double insurance against any double-cross from Jordan Reed. Because Jordan, after all, was one of the seven possibles on my suspect list.

But the way Masetti was acting, he couldn’t care less if I talked to him or left or flew to the moon. It wasn’t according to my plan, and it annoyed me.

“Look, God damn it,” I said. “Are you going to listen to me, or aren’t you?”

He turned then, and glared at me. “Mr. Smith,” he said, “I don’t frankly care what you do. You can tell me your little secrets if you want, or you can go to hell.”

I blinked at him. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“I’ve been replaced, that’s what the hell’s the matter with me,” he said. “I am leaving this fetid little town you love so well. I am going back to Albany, on the three-fifteen train.” He paused, glowered some more, seemed to think things over a bit, and added, “If you really have information, you can tell the other man when he gets here.”

“Who is he,” I asked, “and when does he arrive?”

“His name is Danile, Archer Danile. And he should be here by seven o’clock.”

Seven o’clock wasn’t much help to me. And if Masetti was leaving at three-fifteen, he wasn’t going to be much help to me either. I’d just have to find somebody else to carry my insurance. Cathy, maybe. I’d thought of her before, and decided against it, partially because I didn’t want to expose her to the possible risk in it, and partially because I didn’t want to expose myself to another one of her lectures.

“All right,” I said. “Thanks anyway.”

“You are quite welcome,” he said angrily, and went back to his packing.

And I went back to the lobby.

Art was still grinning when I got there. “Guess you won’t be needing us any more, Mr. Smith,” he said.

I frowned at him. “Why not?”

“I called Jack while you were upstairs. He just heard on the radio, they arrested the guy who’s been trying to kill you. Arrested him for the killing of the old guy in the grocery store.”

I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t thought Harcum would dare blow the whistle on one of his pals. “Who?” I demanded. “Who was it?”

“A lawyer,” he said. “Ronald Lascow.”

“Lascow!”

That stupid son of a bitch, that Harcum, he’d tried to palm the whole thing off on a fall guy! And he’d picked one of the few people in town I was absolutely sure couldn’t possibly be the one who’d been after me. Ron Lascow. Harcum must be losing his mind, I thought, he must be losing his useless mind.

And then the other part of it hit me. It was on the radio, and they were specifically mentioning that he’d been arrested for the murder of Joey Casale.

The family, the Casale family. They were out buying the rope right now, I was as sure of that as I was sure that Ron Lascow was being framed.

That’s what Hal Ganz had been going to tell me, up there outside the office! And no wonder Harcum had shut him up, because Harcum knew I wouldn’t go for that for a minute.

I had to go over there and get Ron out, but that came second. The first thing I had to do was stop the Casales.