“Maybe I should get a lawyer or something.”

Abe cupped his hands around his tea, still close in, still whispering. “Johnny, you’re not under arrest. We are talking, that’s all. Loan sharks aren’t my beat. If it’s not homicide, I’m not busting anybody.”

Johnny finished his beer. The waiter came with minestrone. Johnny ordered another beer, then tore off a bite of bread, swirling it around in the soup.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, here’s the deal. Ingraham’s vig was six.”

Glitsky’s eyebrows went up. “A week?”

Johnny nodded. “That’s how we do the vig, capisce?

“Six hundred dollars a week?”

Johnny popped some bread into his mouth. “Guys pay more. So anyway-”

“Wait a minute. What was Ingraham doing business with you for? He owed, what, six grand? Why didn’t he get it from other sources?”

“Like where?”

“How ’bout a bank, for example. He was a lawyer. He must’ve had credit.”

Johnny shook his head. “Banks generally don’t lend money to put on the ponies.”

“Ingraham played the ponies?”

A slug of beer. “The ponies owned the sucker. The guy was a mess.” He put his spoon down. “One of these guys that say he hits the daily double, he stays around for the Exacta and puts the extra money down on it.”

“Was he any good?”

“Guys like that are never good. There’s something else pushing ’em. It’s like a sickness. I been collecting vig from him on and off since I started working for Mr Tortoni. Just keeps getting bigger and bigger.”

“And he’s never paid it off?”

“The principal? No way. He gets that kind of money, he plunks it on some nag’s nose.”

Abe had finished his tea. The waiter came by and put down a steaming plate of ravioli, taking away the soup bowl. “How’s a guy get into it that deep?”

Johnny lifted his shoulders. “I told you, he can’t help it. He gets a hunch, he’s gotta play it, you know? That’s how it all started, a couple hundred he didn’t have. Twenty a week vig. Who can’t make that? Then the vig’s a hundred. One week he can’t make the hundred, so he rolls it, borrows more to pay the vig. Between you and me, this is suicide. But he keeps paying, the vig keeps growing.”

“So what happened at Rusty’s?”

Johnny studied a piece of ravioli on his fork for a minute. “I been in some heat with Mr Tortoni lately. Couple guys stiffing me, coming in short.” He shrugged, trying to make light of it, but Abe could see his worry. “It’s business, you know, and Mr Tortoni is someone who takes his business very serious.”

“So?”

“So I gotta explain to Mr Tortoni about how there’s a body at Ingraham’s, plus there’s no money. So I’m short six hundred there on top of short”-he paused-“other places.” He put his fork down without eating. Abe had the impression he was about to tell him something more personal, but the moment passed. He shrugged again, went back to his food. “So I got mad. I was in trouble here, you understand.”

“And what’d you do? First you broke in.” The face closed up. “Johnny, B and E is not murder either. I don’t give a shit if you broke the door down.”

“We had an appointment. He was supposed to be there.”

“Okay.”

“So I’m inside, there’s this body. I know Mr Tortoni’s getting no money here. It really pissed me off. I wanted to throw something, knock something down.”

“So you grabbed the lamp?”

“Yeah. Threw it down. It didn’t help much.”

“You ever get it worked out, the anger?”

Johnny seemed to be remembering something. He let out a breath. “I guess that’s why they invented pussy,” he said.

Chapter Seventeen

Hardy remembered the days when he had been so into his work at the D.A.’s office, the hours passed unheeded trying to piece together something that didn’t fit, deciding on an interrogation strategy, formulating an opening or closing statement. Thinking hard. Caring so damn much.

He stood at the door to Tony Feeney’s office-the dress-for-success assistant D.A. who had hated Rusty Ingraham was lost in his own musings. He was half-turned back to the window, feet up on his desk, far away from anything that was happening in his here and now. Reluctant to pull him from the reverie, Hardy knocked.

The feet came down, a hand came out over the desk. Shaking it, Hardy said, “Dismas Hardy, from the other day.”

“Sure, how you doin’?”

Hardy said he was starting to feel like a cop again, doing legwork.

“You ever get over to see Hector Medina?”

Hardy kept standing. He shook his head. “He’s not a happy man.”

Feeney settled back a little into his chair. “No. No, I don’t suppose he is. Did you read about his latest…?”

“Yeah. It’s interesting.”

“Anything to do with him seeing you?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. He called Ingraham last week. Then this dog thing. Something seemed to get him going.”

Feeney sat up. “He called Ingraham? No shit?”

“No shit.” Hardy pulled over a metal chair and sat down. “But I wanted to ask you about something else you said the other day.”

“I was playing poker…” Feeney held up his hands, smiling, making a joke. Then, “What did I say?”

“You were telling me about how Rusty got Hector Medina into all this. There was some woman, you said. Somebody he was trying to prove something with.”

Feeney didn’t even have to think about it. He nodded. “Karen Moore,” he said. “But she can’t fit into all this. She and Rusty were years ago.”

“Everybody in this got connected years ago.” Hardy brought him up to date on the Baker investigation, or lack of it. “Hey, nobody else is looking. This old stuff could be related, that’s all.”

Feeney nodded, popping a Life Saver. “That’s not an entirely unreasonable theory, but it’s still a hell of a long shot. You still going on the assumption Ingraham is dead?”

“Ingraham is dead.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

Hardy sat back. “How come nobody seems to want to believe this guy is dead?”

“Oh, I want to believe it. It would enhance my inner peace to believe it. I would very much like him to be dead, but we like bodies. Missing bodies aren’t neat.”

Hardy knew what he was saying. The case against Baker rested on his motive for killing Ingraham. Not Maxine. And the D.A.’s job, without an official finding that Rusty was at least dead, would be to try Maxine’s murder before a jury that might have a hard time believing Baker killed Maxine when he had no motive, didn’t even know her. The alleged death of Ingraham would be irrelevant and inadmissible. If he killed her because she was around and in the way when he killed Ingraham, well, okay. But without Ingraham an official homicide, it would be a hard sell.

“I’m convinced Rusty’s dead,” Hardy said. “His blood was all over his barge. He fell overboard, got washed out in the bay.” Now he was going after Louis, he realized. Never mind his other doubts, he had to play this straight…

“Maybe he’s scared. Maybe he’s hiding.”

“And maybe he’s fish food.”

Feeney smiled. “I’ll grant that. It’s possible, maybe even likely. And you don’t think it’s Baker?”

Hardy gave it a second. “That’s what’s funny. If I’d gotten this case when I was working here-I mean just the file on Baker, leaving out the other suspects, I’d do a number on it. As Glitsky tells me when he’s being real professional, all the elements are there. Except the body, of course.”

“Not exactly a detail.”

“Except that a good expert witness, someone exactly like myself, should be able to convince a jury that Rusty collapsed overboard and the tide took him out.”

“Which is what you believe.”

Hardy chewed his cheek. “That one I’m going with.”

“Well, if you buy that Baker was there, which I guess you’ve got to, what’s the problem?”

“I just can’t seem to convince myself, absolutely, that he’s all of it. Problem is, I seem to be one of the players, and I don’t know what game it is. It makes me nervous.”