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“Thank you,” she says as she looks away. She takes her coffee mug and sips from it. “Cold.”
I grab the pot and offer it to her. She holds her mug out and I fill it up. I scratch my head and want a cigarette.
“Joann, did Mickey ever talk about anyone else?”
“At first I thought he was going to have Carla in on it, whatever it was you guys were going to do. But she was still in prison I guess.”
“Yes, she was.”
“No. He never said anything about—well, he used to steal things and sell them to some shop down town. But that’s a stretch, I guess. I never knew of him working with anybody except Carla. Why?”
“Just trying to put together a case. Do you remember the shop?”
“No.” She drinks her coffee and blows her nose. “Did he die recently? Why wait twenty-something years to investigate?”
“We didn’t know where Mickey was. You know. He just up and vanished. I got a break just the other day that made the case hot again.”
“Can you tell me more specifics?”
“Not at this time.” I need to leave now. I look at my watch and feign raising my eyebrows. “I apologize but I actually have to go. I have a few more places to get to this morning.”
“Damn you, Mickey,” she says, staring at her tiny fists. “Sometimes I wish we never...”
I stare, waiting. Whatever it is, I want to hear it. When she stops talking, she looks at me ashamed. Finally, I have to pry. “You wish you never what?”
She looks away. “Nothing.”
“It might help.”
“No it won’t.”
And that is it. Joann is too taxed form her sorrow to do or say much more. I thank her for the coffee, her time, the information; apologize for the terrible news, blah blah blah. She walks me to the door and limply apologizes for how bad she looks. I blow it off as a courtesy. She does look pretty bad though.
In my car, I call Carla Gabler.
“Hello?”
“Carla, it’s Richard.”
“Hi. How’d it go with Joann?”
“Fine. Listen, when Mickey used to sell his scores, Joann said he’d take it to a pawn shop south of the river. Which one?”
“Let me think.” I can hear her drag off a cigarette. I hear Carla’s granddaughter playing in the background, laughing that musical note that all little children have. “Joe & Barry’s Family Pawn.”
Joe & Barry’s. Good enough. “Thanks, Carla.”
I hang up. Drive to Petticoat’s.
I don’t call ahead of time. I drive up to the office and see his car nosed into a space. I nose in behind him until my bumper touches its ass. I sift through my console and find a roll of pennies. I make a fist around it, feel the weight, slam my door and head in.
His office door is locked, but I can hear him on the other side of it. He speaks low. I hear a woman giggle. Say something coy. It’s nine in the morning and Petticoat is getting ready to part his secretary’s knees.
I pick the lock, open the door.
27
0921 hours
