Vincent said, “Let’s see what happens.” He sat in a phone booth off the lobby.
“Ricky’s out in the rain he must be making collections today, getting their cut from the horse books and the numbers. Maybe shylock payments too, I don’t know. He went in the Satellite Cafe on the Boardwalk about two minutes ago. Alone.”
Vincent said, “I appreciate it, Dix.” And said, “Wait. How about a guy named Ching? The Wheel?”
“Frank Cingoro,” Dixie said, “the Ching. He’s been here, he’s one of the few older guys still around. He used to kill people. Now they say he’s like an honorary consig, a counsellor, reactivated while Sal’s doing his two years.”
“He was at the apartment,” Vincent said, “the night Ricky was on the door.”
“Who told you?”
“Jackie Garbo was there too. From Spade’s. You know him?”
“The name,” Dixie said. “We’ll bring him in, get better acquainted.”
“Why don’t you sit on it for the time being?” Vincent said. “It could turn into an illegal gambling conspiracy and fuck up the main issue. Then where’s your homicide investigation?”
“Same place it is now,” Dixie said, “nowhere.”
“Satellite Cafe on the Boardwalk.”
“Near St. James Place.”
Vincent stood at the counter drying his face and hands with paper napkins. He could see the Boardwalk through steamy glass, that wide expanse of herringboned planking, empty in the afternoon rain. He turned, wiping a napkin over his beard, nodded to an old man, the only customer at this hour, watching him from a booth. The old man looked down through his glasses at the newspaper he held folded lengthwise. The cafe was narrow, done in yellow Formica and dark wood. Two waitresses sat at the end of the counter head to head, intent in their conversation. Vincent waited. The one facing him looked up. She rose, smoothing her yellow uniform and apron. Vincent took a stool as she came down the counter with a menu.
“Just coffee. Black.” He waited for her to place it in front of him and said, “I don’t see the boss.” The waitress stood without moving.
She said, “He’s busy,” and left him quickly.
Vincent smoked two cigarettes and looked at the menu for something to do before the door to the kitchen opened and the owner came out followed by Ricky. Vincent believed the older man wearing a sweater over his shirt and tie, and holding a dishtowel wrapped around his right hand, was the owner. He knew the other one as Ricky Catalina because he had studied him in four different sets of pock-marked mug shots, his black hair trimmed a little shorter in each set. As the owner and Ricky came past him, on the other side of the counter, Vincent could see the owner was in pain, holding the towel-wrapped hand tenderly, raised in front of him. The owner reached the cash register and stood frowning at it as though the keys were unfamiliar. Ricky nudged him with stiff fingers in the ribs and the old man pressed a key with his left hand. The drawer of the register opened.
Vincent got up from the stool and moved to the glass cigar counter where the register stood. He heard Ricky say, “You’re still light,” as the old man handed him money. Ricky was somewhat better looking than he’d appeared in his pictures, his complexion scarred but under control, a sallow color in this light. He was chunky, overweight, several inches shorter than Vincent who looked at his eyes now and saw the dumb glazed look of a guy who had conditioned himself to go through life pissed off. Vincent could see him swinging a hatchet at the man’s spine while his expression remained almost deadpan, showing little effort.
Vincent laid a dollar bill on the rubber mat next to the cash register. “One coffee.”
Ricky picked it up, dead eyes raising to Vincent, peering at him through heavy lids. Did he practice in front of a mirror? He added the dollar to the currency in his hand, folded the bills into a roll, twisted on a red rubber band and shoved the wad into the breast pocket of his jacket.
“Where’s my change?”
“You had a coffee? It’s a buck.”
“The menu says fifty cents.”
“It went up.”
Vincent looked at the old man, saw the pain in his eyes. “What happened to your hand?”
“He had an accident,” Ricky said. He moved around the counter to the front door and looked back. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Right?” The old man nodded, said yes, right. With some kind of accent. Ricky stared at him and seemed about to say something else, but pushed through the door and was gone.
Vincent took a moment. Both of the waitresses were behind the counter now, coming to the old man, touching him. He was pale, perspiring and could be in shock. “What did he do to you?” Vincent asked him. But the old man didn’t hear him and one of the waitresses said, “Please-” with anguish, and Vincent left.
He followed Ricky’s hunched figure along Boardwalk storefronts, lights showing now in the rain mist, to the end of the block and around the corner to a stairway that descended to St. James Place, where a Cadillac Eldorado was parked at the dead end of the street.
Ricky stood at the trunk of the car getting his keys out. He looked up. Vincent was on the stairs now. Ricky paused. As Vincent came down Ricky turned and walked a short distance up the street to a bar. He paused again to look back before going in. Vincent followed.
It was dark inside. Vincent ordered scotch. He said to the bartender, where’s everybody? The bartender shook his head, he said he only worked here; nobody wanted to come in, that was up to them. Ricky sat four stools away drinking a beer. Vincent studied the bottles on the back bar, trying to make out the labels, the brands. He could feel Ricky watching him. When Ricky got off the stool and walked to the back, into the men’s room, Vincent said to the bartender, “You got a little knife I can borrow? Like you cut lemons with?” The bartender held up a paring knife with a serrated edge. “Yeah, lemme borrow it, I’ll bring it back.” The bartender watched Vincent walk out with his knife. He didn’t seem to care.
Vincent knew the Eldorado’s doors were locked; he tried the one on the passenger side to make sure. Then looked around, peered into dim spaces beneath the Boardwalk that were like mine shafts with supporting timbers, saw trash, empty bottles-he needed something with heft he could hold in one hand-looked around some more and saw the bulldozer, the piles of rubble, where some type of small building had been razed. Vincent went over and poked around, selected a chunk of masonry that weighed about ten pounds.
When Ricky came out of the bar Vincent was standing close to the Eldorado’s rear deck, right hand inside his raincoat, his left arm covering it, folded across his chest.
Ricky came along the sidewalk, wary. “The fuck you doing?”
Vincent wondered if he was any good face to face, no gun. He wouldn’t be packing today, risk doing two years for nothing.
“Get away from the car.”
“Somebody smashed your window,” Vincent said.
“Where?” He came in a hurry now. Vincent nodded toward the driver’s side and Ricky moved past him, intent. Vincent followed, walked up next to him.
“What’re you talking about? The window’s okay.”
Vincent looked at it, his expression curious. He brought the chunk of masonry out of his raincoat to slam it in the same motion against the tinted glass and the window shattered in fragments. He turned to Ricky and said, “No, it’s broken. See?”
Ricky said, “You crazy?” With amazement. “You fucking crazy?”
Vincent liked the question and liked the way Ricky stood there in a state of some kind of shock, those dead eyes showing signs of life for the first time, wondering, What is this? His expression, his pocked face made him appear vulnerable, sad, the poor guy wanting to know what was going on here, perplexed.
Good. Vincent dropped the chunk of cement. Ricky glanced down and Vincent grabbed him by his jacket and his hair and slammed him against the car; told him to spread his legs, come on, spread ’em, and kicked his shins to make him lean, reach out. There were protests, Ricky wanting to know what the fuck Vincent thought he was doing. Vincent tightened his fist in Ricky’s hair, banged his forehead against the curved edge of the car roof and said, “Anything I want, Rick.” Reading it to him out of the unwritten manual. “Any fucking thing I want. Give me your keys.”