You're nobody 'til somebody kills you

Thirty-four

When we walked into the office of the motel the skinny girl behind the desk looked at Jerry with wide eyes. He was big, and was wearing a sports jacket. Even though I was used to the heat-being from Vegas-I had taken my jacket off and left it in the car.

“Who owns this joint?” Jerry demanded loudly.

“Um, um, Mr. Cohen,” the frightened girl replied.

“Where is he?”

“Um, he’s in-in the back.” She jerked her finger toward a doorway.

“Thanks.”

He stormed past the girl toward the doorway.

“Uh, you can’t-” she started, but I stopped her.

“Don’t bother,” I said. “You’ll just make him mad.”

I followed Jerry through the door, found him facing a guy in a tank top seated in a leather lounge chair. The guy was in his sixties, with buzz-cut white hair and white stubble. He had good biceps on him for his age, but his gut hung over a cheap belt.

“What the hell-” he started.

He tried to get up but Jerry put a massive hand on the guy’s chest and shoved him back down. He kept his hand on the man’s chest. The guy grabbed Jerry’s wrist with both hands and strained, but despite the good biceps he couldn’t budge it.

“Whataya want?” he demanded.

“Just answer a few questions,” I said to him, “and we’ll go away.”

The guy looked at me.

“You his keeper?” he demanded. “Tell him to stop crushing my chest.”

“I ain’t his keeper,” I said, “but I might be able to persuade him, if you’re willing to talk to us.”

“I ain’t gonna be talkin’ to nobody if he crushes my damn chest!” He looked up at Jerry. “It’s a crime I should breathe?”

“Okay, Jerry,” I said. “Let him breathe.”

Jerry removed his hand.

“Jesus!”

“Are you Cohen?”

“Yeah, Stanley Cohen. Who’re you? I don’t owe no bookies.”

“We’re not collectin’ on the debt, Mr. Cohen,” I said.

“Well, you ain’t cops.”

“No, not cops.”

“Then what?”

“I told you. Somebody with questions.”

“I ain’t answerin’ no questions-oof-” He got cut off when Jerry clamped his hand back on Cohen’s chest. “Jesus, awright already.”

Jerry removed his hand.

“Whataya wanna know?”

“The cops were here talking to you about one of your desk clerks.”

“Yeah. So?”

“We want his name and address.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s lyin’ to the cops, and to you, and we want the truth.”

“Max don’t lie to me.”

“Okay, then you’re lyin’, too,” I said. “Jerry, the man’s lyin’. Make him tell the truth.”

Jerry reached down for the guy, this time with both hands. Cohen squawked, put his hands up in front of his face and said, “Awright, awright, call ‘im off!”

“Jerry.”

The big guy backed off.

“Johnson, Max Johnson,” Cohen said. “That’s his name.”

“We need his address.”

“Can I get up?”

“Sure,” I said.

Cohen eyed Jerry warily as he got to his feet. He walked to a cabinet, opened it and removed an index card. Turning, he held it out to me.

“Here, take it. I’m gonna fire his ass anyway.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because he brought you guys here,” Cohen said. “He brought the cops here. This I don’t need.”

“So what about Danny Bardini?” I asked. “Was he registered here or not?”

Cohen put his hands out, as if to ward us off, and said, “I really don’t know about that. Max said he never registered, and I believed him. When the cops showed up askin’ questions I didn’t know what the hell was goin’ on, and now that you guys are here I still don’t. What’s the big deal if the guy stayed here or not?”

“He’s missing,” I said. “That’s what the big deal is.”

“Well, I don’t see no record that he was ever here. I’m sorry.”

“Max Johnson told me he was here for four days.”

“Well then, Max musta got rid of the registration card.”

“Let’s go,” I said to Jerry. I looked at Cohen. “If you call Johnson and warn him we’re comin’ we’ll be back-and I won’t hold my friend here back.”

“I got it,” Cohen said. “Believe me, I got it.”

“And don’t let your girl out there make any calls, either.”

“She don’t know nothin’,” Cohen said.

“Oh, one more thing,” I said. “We need to talk to two of your other clerks. Hilary? Is that the girl outside? And Harry.”

“I got no Hilary and no Harry,” Cohen said. “I guess Max really was a liar.”

I looked at Jerry and we turned and left.

“Well, we didn’t get anything to prove to Stanze that Danny was here.”

“It sounded to me like he believed ya already,” Jerry said, leaning against the car.

“Maybe,” I said, “but let’s find this Johnson guy and confirm it.”

“You got it, Mr. G.”