The Gentlemen's Hour

69

George Poptanich lives in PB.

Boone rings the doorbell of his little bungalow. They must have built a thousand of these places on the PB flats back during World War II to house the aircraft workers. They mostly look alike—the living rooms are in the front, the kitchens in back on the left, two bedrooms in back on the other side. They have small front yards and a small rectangular yard in the back.

George looks like the doorbell woke him up—his gray hair is tousled, he’s wearing a wife-beater, plaid Bermuda shorts, and sandals. He’s in his midfifties—fifty-three, Boone knows from his sheet—heavy, sloped shoulders, and a potbelly.

He looks real happy to see Boone.

“Georgie Pop,” Boone says. “Do you remember me?”

“No. Should I?”

“About five years ago,” Boone says. “I arrested you.”

“That don’t exactly make you special,” Georgie says, that tired look in his eyes that comes from a life of being hassled by cops.

“You going to invite me in,” Boone asks, “or should we do this on the street in front of the neighbors?”

Georgie lets him in.

The place is a dump, which is too bad, Boone thinks, because the other people in this neighborhood took pride in keeping their places up. Georgie points to an old sofa, disappears into the kitchen, and comes out with a bottle of beer.

One bottle of beer.

He plops down in an easy chair and asks, “Who are you and what do you want? You don’t look like a cop.”

“I used to be.”

“We all used to be something.”

“True that,” Boone says. He identifies himself and tells Poptanich that he’s working on the Corey Blasingame case. “I read your statement.”

“So?”

Georgie’s sheet is for B&E. He did two stretches, walked on two other charges. It’s not uncommon for burglars to moonlight as cabdrivers. What they really love are bookings to the airport. Chat with the fare: “So where are you off to?” “Long trip?” “Give me a call when you get back—I’ll pick you up.” Sometimes the fare comes back to a house that has been denuded of stereo equipment, televisions, cash, and jewelry. Or they pick up a drunk from a bar—drunks are notoriously chatty, they’ll tell you anything. Who they live with, where they work, what their hours are, all the great stuff they own . . .

“So,” Boone says, “what do you want to bet that you don’t have a cab license?”

Because a two-time felon isn’t going to get one. The idea is to put them in the hole for a while, let them out, and then make sure they can’t make honest livings.

“I gotta make a living,” Georgie says. “So I moonlight for a buddy. He keeps his cab busy, I make a buck. You wanna bust my balls for that, go ahead.”

No, Boone thinks, but I’ll bet Steve Harrington did. I’ll bet he took one look at Poptanich, one look at the photo on the taxi license, and knew that he had a live one. A major fine at least, and the buddy loses his card and his living.

Harrington has a memory like a beefed-up Mac. He probably made Poptanich right away. And maybe . . .

“Steve Harrington looking at you for a job?”

“Harrington don’t do B&E.”

“No shit,” Boone says. “But he talks to the guys who do. Maybe he mentions to them that he found Georgie Pop out on the prowl again so they might want to come around and ask you your whereabouts on certain nights, or take a look at cab bookings, unless—”

“You fuckin’ guys are all the same,” Georgie says. “Always twisting the arm.”

“Yeah, boo-hoo, Georgie.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“I dunno, the truth?”

“Already told it.”

There’s that look in his eye that Boone’s seen a thousand times from skells. That little glint of feral cunning that they just can’t help from flashing when they think they’ve done something cute.

Boone laughs. “I get it. I had it backward. You were

already

in the line of fire and you saw a chance to do yourself some good. So you write down the license number because you know you can trade up on a murder beef.”

Georgie shrugs.

“Except Harrington drives a tough bargain,” Boone says, “especially since he knows you’re looking at three-time-loser status. You want a solid from him, you’re going to have to give him more than a license plate. You’re going to have to wrap up Corey Blasingame for him.”

“I heard the kid confessed anyway.”

“So what’s the harm, right?”

Georgie shrugs again. Like, yeah, what’s the harm? A man’s dead, the kid’s going down for it anyway, someone might as well get some good out of it.

Someone like Georgie Poptanich.

Boone is faced with the hard truth that most career criminals are sociopaths. It’s no use appealing to their consciences because they don’t have them. You can only appeal to their self-interest.

Or their fear.

“Let me tell you what the harm is,” Boone says. He pauses for a little dramatic effect and then says, “Red Eddie.”

Georgie goes white. “What’s Eddie got to do with it?”

“Eddie is going to clip the guy who killed his calabash cousin,” Boone says. “And if he finds out that he didn’t because certain people like you deliberately misled him . . . well, that would be the harm, Georgie. And he will find out.”

“Because you’ll tell him.”

“Bingo.”

“You son-of-a-bitch cocksucker!”

Boone gets up from the chair.

“Just tell the truth, Georgie, all I’m asking. If you saw what you said you saw, fair enough. But if you didn’t . . . I’d think about that, if I were you.”

“Harrington

told

me the kid confessed.”

“He didn’t lie,” Boone says. “The question is, did you?”

“Fuck you.”

Yeah, Boone thinks.

Fuck me.