Viper

28

Grand Hotel Parker's, Napoli Jack kicked off his shoes and slumped on to the hotel bed. It needed new springs or a better base. He'd barely slept last night. Before he'd left New York he'd filled Howie in on Creed and why he was heading to Naples. As he dialled his number he hoped his old partner wasn't too juiced to remember.

'Hi there, H. You sober?'

Howie Baumguard croaked a laugh back down the line. 'You joking? I left sober 'bout the same time you left charm school.'

Jack checked his watch, it would be just after seven p.m. in New York. 'What wild evening are you cranking up for yourself?'

'A couple of trays of Chinese slop. A few Buds. And I'm twenty minutes into Apocalypse Now.'

'Terrific. "I love the smell of Napalm in the morning."'

'"Smells like victory,"' returned Howie.

'Man, that's a grim movie.'

'Grim, but brilliant. You wait two friggin' hours for Marlon Brando to come on screen and, when the thing's over, all you can remember is him.'

Jack recalled the classic Coppola epic and Brando's chilling Colonel Kurtz. 'Wouldn't you be better with something lighter?'

'Only other thing I've got is The Grinch Who Stole Christmas,' said the big guy. 'My son left it on top of the TV after his last sleepover.'

'You up to helping me with something?'

'Sure, what d'you want?'

'Remember the creepy Italian guy I met at the conference – Luciano Creed?'

'Kind of.'

'He stayed at the Lester. You know the place?'

'Yeah, I know it. Not exactly Trump Towers.' Howie found a pen down the side of the settee and used the cardboard lid from the Chinese food tray to write on.

'And that's a bad thing?' Jack would rather sleep on the street than at Trump. 'Would you take a ride out there and have a look around the nearby bars, clubs, check out the hotel again? See if he had any friends, visitors, such like while he was there?'

'You mean friends that get paid by the hour and never stay for coffee?'

'Yep, those are the ones I mean.'

'Okay. What's he look like?'

'Shit. He looks like shit. Small, thin, bony, five-five maybe, a hundred and ten to a hundred and twenty pounds, really dark beard line -'

'Designer stubble?'

'No, more Bluto black. Like this guy could never shave clean. I've got a picture from the cops over here; I'll email it to you.'

'Fine. I'll hit the street tomorrow. That okay?'

'That's great.' Jack's voice grew serious. 'Howie, I need a break here. Girls have been going missing. Maybe even getting murdered. It would be good if you gave up the sauce – good for you too.'

His friend let out an exasperated sigh, the kind he used to reserve for his nagging wife – now his nagging ex-wife. 'Don't worry, I won't screw up on you. My fat ass will be on the case and will do good.'