The Anonymous Client

7

They took two cars, seeing as how they had to get home again. Mark Taylor led the way in one, and Steve followed in the other. It was a short drive, up the West Side Highway to the George Washington Bridge, and then back down the river to the boat.

Steve Winslow had hoped to spot a likely car in the parking lot, but there was no hope of that. The Binghamton shared the huge parking lot with the Showboat Cinema and a racquetball club, and the place was jammed.

Steve found a parking space, got out, looked around, and joined Mark Taylor who had found a space in the next row. They walked up the covered gangplank to the boat. Inside were stairs leading up to the restaurant on the main deck.

Mark Taylor stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “They’re gonna spot us, Steve. You know that.”

“Who?”

“Miltner’s men.”

“That’s all right. They don’t know me,” Steve said.

“Yeah, but they know me. And by now they’ve spotted my men, just like we spotted them. On a job like this, you can’t help that.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So they’ll know my agency’s on the job, and when I come in they’ll spot me.”

“I know, Mark. Right now I just don’t care.”

They went up the stairs. At the top was the cashier’s booth. Taylor said, “Wait a minute,” and went up to it. While Steve watched, Taylor conferred with the cashier, then extended a bill.

“What was that all about?” Steve asked, when Taylor came back.

Taylor jerked his thumb. “Phone’s there. I left the number with my office. If anything breaks, they’ll call me here.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes and no. I’ll wind up back in the office eating a soggy hamburger.”

A waiter appeared to usher them to a table. “Party of two? Would you care to eat inside or on deck?”

“Inside,” Taylor said.

The waiter led them to a table, seated them, gave them menus and took the drink order. Steve had scotch and Taylor bourbon.

When the waiter withdrew, Mark said, “You got them spotted, Steve?”

“Yeah. I spotted ’em on the way to the table. In the far corner. It’s the only party of one man and two women that’s even in the ballpark. Gotta be them.”

“Gotta be. You spot the detectives?”

“No, and I don’t want to look around for ’em. Where are they?”

“Look over my right shoulder. The two bored businessmen at the table by the wall-those are Miltner’s men. And then the table to the left. The two rather drunk out-of-town buyer types, trying to talk the blonde into calling a friend-those are mine. The blonde’s one of their wives. They brought her along for cover.”

“And for dinner,” Steve said. “You know, the more expenses I run up on this thing, the more tempting it’s gonna be to keep that retainer.” Steve picked up the menu. “So what’s good here?”

“Well,” Taylor said. “You can get a steak or a lobster if you want, but the best bet is a hamburger.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not at all.”

Steve looked at him. “Here you are, so worried you’re gonna get sent back to the office and wind up eating a hamburger, and then what do you want to order? A hamburger.”

“Hey, there are hamburgers and there are hamburgers. The one in the paper bag is cold and soggy and small. The hamburger here is a half a pound of chopped meat served hot in a basket of fries with your choice of bacon, avocado, Swiss cheese or what have you on top. Trust me.”

The waiter returned with the drinks, and they ordered hamburgers. As the waiter left with the order, Steve looked over Mark Taylor’s shoulder and said, “One of Miltner’s men is getting up.”

Taylor watched as the man walked by, went out the door and down the stairs. “Pay phone’s down there. Probably spotted us, and he’s phoning in.”

“Right,” Steve said. “The report will read that, during dinner the surveillance of the subject was joined by Mark Taylor himself, in the company of a longhaired hippie freak.”

Taylor grinned. “I would imagine that would piss off their client.”

“It ought to,” Steve said. “And wouldn’t it be particularly nice if that client happened to be David C. Bradshaw?”

“You think it is?”

“It stands to reason. Bradshaw’s scum. The girl’s class. I can’t imagine her associating with him unless he’s got something on her. If he does, he probably hired detectives to get it.”

“Probably right,” Taylor said, He stood up. “Excuse me a minute. One of my men’s heading for the bathroom. Time for me to slip him the car keys.”

Taylor went out the door and down the stairs.

Left alone, Steve Winslow took the chance to size up the occupants of the far table. The girl who had called on Bradshaw was younger and prettier than the other woman. Steve placed her age at around twenty-three or twenty-four. The fact that she had called on Bradshaw in the afternoon, and then spent a leisurely day shopping, indicated that she was obviously not a working girl, but a woman of independent means.

The couple was different. The man was a nine-to-fiver. His suit, slightly wilted from a long day’s work, indicated that he had come to dinner straight from the office. The purposeful aggressiveness in the man’s demeanor led Steve to speculate that his occupation was insurance, advertising, or real estate.

His wife seemed older than the other girl. She was thinner, more angular, and seemed more sophisticated. Her makeup, though impeccable, seemed severe. The general impression Steve got was cold and catty.

Mark Taylor came back, sat down and took a slug of bourbon. “No food yet?” he said. “I’m starving.”

“I think this is it coming now,” Steve said.

The waiter stopped at their table and put the huge hamburgers in front of them. “You Mr. Taylor?” he said.

Taylor groaned. “Oh shit. That’s timing. Phone call, right?”

“At the desk.”

Taylor glanced ruefully at the basket of burger and fries, then pushed back his chair, got up and went to the cashier’s booth, and took the phone.

He was back in a minute. He sat down, picked up his burger, and took a huge bite.

“What’s up?” Steve said.

“Bradshaw went out.”

“How?”

“In a taxi.”

“Got him covered?”

“I’ll say. I’ve got two cars on him this time. We’ve got him bracketed, one car in front of the taxi, and one car behind. He may know he’s being followed, but there won’t be anything he can do about it.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Mark. Bradshaw’s tricky.”

“Sure he’s tricky, but this time we know it. He ditched my shadows this afternoon because it seemed like a routine job and no one suspected he was wise. My men are onto him now. They’ll stick like glue.”

“You sure of that?”

“Of course I am.”

“Wanna bet?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll bet you dinner Bradshaw walks away from your men again.”

Taylor rubbed his hands together. “You’re on, Steve. Shit, if I’d known that I’d have ordered steak.”

“I thought you liked the burgers here.”

“I do. But I love to gamble.”

“Big deal. All we’re really betting is whose expense account it goes on. So it’ll come back to me anyway.”

“I know, but what the hell. You want a side bet?”

“No. It’s a bad bet for me anyway. If I win, I lose. But-” Steve broke off. “Son of a bitch!”

“What?”

“Don’t look around, but there’s a girl with blonde hair and big round glasses sitting at the end of the bar.”

Taylor grinned. “No shit? Your secretary? Why don’t you ask her to join us?”

“It’s not funny, Mark. She’s playing detective. I don’t like it.”

“She know you saw her?”

“I don’t think so. Stay here and don’t look at her. I’m gonna head for the men’s room.”

Steve got up, went out the door and down the stairs. Instead of continuing down to the men’s room, he went up the stairs on the other side. He circled around the bar, came up on Tracy Garvin from the other side, and slid onto the bar stool next to her.

“You come here often?” he said.

Tracy turned to give him an exasperated are-you-really-trying-that-old-line look. Then she recognized him. For a second her eyes flashed embarrassment, then anger. Then she smiled and said, calmly, “No. First time. And you?”

Steve frowned. “Look. You’re playing detective, and I don’t like it.”

Tracy’s eyes flashed. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “What are you gonna do, fire me? I already gave notice. And it’s after hours, and what business is it of yours where I eat?”

Steve took a breath. “Look. This isn’t a game. If the girl spotted you watching her, it could be serious.”

“She won’t.”

“I spotted you.”

“Bullshit. You know me. The girl doesn’t.”

Steve frowned again. She was right. Women who were right exasperated him. “All right.” he said. “Since you’re here, you might as well join us.”

“Thanks for the invitation,” Tracy said, pointedly.

They got up and went back to the table.

“Look what I found, Mark,” Steve said.

Mark Taylor actually stood up, which Steve thought was overdoing it. “Hi, Tracy. Sit down. Join the fun.”

“Go ahead and fill her in, Mark,” Steve said. “She’s gonna pump you for the information anyway.”

“O.K.,” Taylor said. “Now, if you promise not to turn and stare, I’ll tell you who everyone is.”

“I know that,” Tracy said. “I just don’t know who is who.”

Taylor frowned. “What?”

“There’s the two guys over by the wall, and the nitwits entertaining the blonde. I just don’t know which pair is yours.”

Taylor looked at her. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “The nitwits happen to be mine. But how the hell’d you spot them?”

“The blonde pretending to be a pickup is one of their wives. She’s wearing her wedding ring. If she were a real pickup, and she were married, she’d leave her ring off as a matter of course.”

Mark Taylor stared at her.

Steve shook his head. Jesus Christ. A ridiculous, farfetched piece of deduction, that absurdly happened to be true. It was a little much.

The waiter came back. “You got another phone call.”

Mark Taylor pushed his chair back. “Our bird must have lit somewhere. I’ll find out where he went.”

He went over to the cashier and took the phone.

“What’s that all about?” Tracy asked.

“Bradshaw went out. We’re tailing him.”

“And Mark just got a report?”

“Maybe. I just bet Mark dinner Bradshaw’s gonna ditch his men again.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“’Cause I think he will.”

She stared at him. “Don’t you care?”

“Sure, but there’s nothing I can do about it. But I’m betting he will.”

Tracy was interested. “Why do you think so?”

“Because he gave up trying to talk me into calling them off. That must mean he thinks he can handle them.”

“Or that his heart is pure,” Tracy said.

Steve grinned, in spite of himself. “Now there’s a thought,” he said.

Mark Taylor came back from the phone. He slumped into his chair, drained the last swallow from his drink, and sighed.

Steve Winslow shot Tracy Garvin a look. “What’s the scoop, Mark?”

“You win, Steve.”

“He lost ’em?”

“He sure did.”

“How did he do it?”

Mark Taylor shook his head. “He did it so easy it makes me sick just to think about it.”

“Gonna tell us how?”

“Yeah. Now get this, Steve, ’cause it’s a new one on me. Bradshaw hails a taxi and my men pick him up. They’ve got him boxed in, with one car in front of the cab and one car behind. They’ve got the number of the cab and everything. O.K. They’re going up Park Avenue, right? They hit 42nd Street, they go around the Pan Am building, you know? They continue up Park Avenue, and you know what it’s like-a two-way street with a median strip in the middle. So what happens? They come to 48th Street. That’s a one-way street going east, a right-hand turn if you’re going uptown. Now the cab slows down and gets in the right lane, but he doesn’t signal, so the lead car has to play it by ear. He goes straight through, which turns out to be the right thing to do, because the cab goes through the intersection and pulls up at the far corner. Bradshaw gets out, pays off the cab, and starts across Park Avenue. The lead car sees this, so he beats it down to the end of the block and pulls a U-turn at 49th. The second car can’t turn left because 48th is a one-way street, so he pulls up next to the cab to see what Bradshaw’s gonna do. Bradshaw reaches the other side of Park Avenue, and starts trying to hail a cab going back downtown. When he sees this, the second car runs up to 49th Street and pulls a U-turn too. By this time, Bradshaw has walked halfway up the block toward 49th Street, still looking for a cab. So when the second car pulls up, the first car passes Bradshaw and waits on the corner of 48th, so when he gets a cab they’ll have him bracketed again.

“O.K. A cab comes along. Bradshaw gets in. The first car pulls out ahead of the cab. He’s right at the corner of 48th, so that takes him through the intersection. The cab cuts into the left hand lane and hangs a left onto 48th Street. That takes the first car out of the picture. His best bet is to beat it down to 46th, hang a left, run parallel, and try to spot the cab from two blocks away going through an intersection. That’s what he does.

“Meanwhile, the second car is right on Bradshaw’s tail. He makes the left hand turn onto 48th right behind the cab. Now get this. The cab goes twenty yards down 48th and stops dead in the middle of the street. He’s blocking the whole street, there’s no room to get by, and two cars have followed my man into the turn so he can’t back up.”

“So?”

“So,” Taylor said, “Bradshaw gets out of the cab, walks calmly to the corner, hops back into the first cab that he’s left waiting there, and goes off free as air, leaving my man caught in a traffic jam.

“I told you he was smart, Mark.”

“Yeah.”

Mark Taylor took a futile swig at his empty bourbon glass and lapsed into a moody silence.

The waiter reappeared. “Everything all right?”

“Just fine,” Steve told him.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“Just the check,” Steve said. “And you can give it to the gentleman who’s been getting the phone calls.”