A Handy Death

“With a recorder in it?” Mike shook his head decisively. “Not a chance! Don’t even have bulky pockets if you want him to talk. He’s cagey.” He glanced at his watch. “I told him between nine and nine-thirty.”

“Then let’s eat and get over there,” Hank said, and attacked his steak. He grinned at the girl beside him. “Besides, I wouldn’t want Sharon to miss the trailers...”

Chapter 11

Frank Bukvic was nondescript in the extreme. His suit was of neutral gray and cut to fit his body neatly but without any detracting stylish innovations; his hair was thin and colorless, neither too long nor too short; his eyes were pale in color and his small features extraordinarily regular. His general appearance was so subdued that one could easily forget that he was around. This anonymity was far from accidental; it was cultivated to bolster Bukvic’s principal profession. While he did many things from time to time to earn a living, in general Frank Bukvic was a salesman. He sold information.

Now, seated in the back booth of a small, dimly lit, and poorly attended bar on Second Avenue, sipping his highball, he spoke in a quiet voice that seemed to issue from motionless lips. The sound reached the two men across from him but miraculously went no further.

“Ray Neeley? Sure. A runner.”

“The numbers racket?” Mike was doing the talking, Ross merely listening.

“That’s what I just said.”

“A loner?”

“Nobody lones for near ten years, which is what Neeley did. He worked for the Organization. He had the section from Seventh to Eighth, Fifty-fifth to Sixtieth, if I remember right. Not the hottest property in town, but when he worked it properly he managed all right.”

“What about his love life? Ever hear of him and a Grace Melisi?”

“Never.”

“Or any other dame?”

“No idea,” Bukvic said. “Nothing real loud, that’s sure, or the Organization would have cracked down. Like they did when he tried to shake down that kid — that baseball kid. I forget his name.”

Ross leaned over, his eyes bright.

“You know about that? That it was a shakedown?”

“Me and half the town.”

“You can prove it was a shakedown?”

“Prove it? Who has to prove it?”

“I mean, would you be willing to testify in court—?”

“Court?” It was such a stupid question that Bukvic, usually exceptionally polite, pressed his lips together in disapproval. “I’m not in the business of proving; I’m in the business of reporting.”

“Well, then, do you know of anyone else — for a generous fee — who would consider testifying? One of those ‘half the town’?”

“No.”

“Look, Mr. Bukvic—”

“The answer is no.” The tone was as nondescript as the face, but final.

“Damn it!” Ross said to Mike, savagely, “how in the hell come nobody dug these facts out eight years ago? When they were hot?”

“If you don’t look, you don’t find,” Mike said in a soothing tone, and turned back to Bukvic. “Frank, how did they crack down on Neeley?”

“Just told him one more try to do something on his own and that would be that. They didn’t spell it out, but those boys don’t have to.” For the first time the faintest hint of a smile crossed the thin lips, but it disappeared so quickly that Ross wondered if he had imagined it. “Lucky for Neeley the heads of the numbers end were a bit more lenient when he tried to hire Jennings.”

Mike frowned. “Jennings? Russ Jennings?”

Ross cut in. “Who’s Jennings?”

“Local investigator,” Mike said, and went back to Bukvic. “What happened?”

“All I know is the Organization didn’t like it, but they weren’t too tough on him that time. Had him on the carpet, but he must have promised to keep his nose clean, because nothing came of it.”

“Who reported it to the Organization?”

“Jennings himself, I imagine. He must have figured it would be smart to check it out. Jennings is lots of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”

“What did Neeley want Jennings to do for him?”

Bukvic shrugged. “No idea. Strictly between Jennings and the top boys. Never leaked, as far as I know.”

There were several moments of silence. Bukvic took advantage of the pause in conversation to sip his drink. Ross frowned down at his hands on the table in frustration, then looked Bukvic straight in the eye.

“Look, Mr. Bukvic, I have a client who can get life because nobody believes his story about that woman being in Neeley’s apartment.”

“I know,” Bukvic said. “Tough.”

For a moment Ross thought he saw a gleam of pity in the small man’s pale eyes, but he knew that even if it was there, nothing would be done about it. He sighed. Mike looked at him.

“Anything more, Hank?”

“No.” Ross shook his head in disgust. “Damn it, Mike, we have our case! We made a wild guess and we were right! Only how the hell do you prove it? If we could get anyone to testify...”

He looked at Bukvic imploringly. The slender man’s face was impassive.

“No way,” he said, and went back to his highball.

Mike stood up and sidled from the booth. Ross followed, Mike leaned down.

“Thanks, Frank. The usual post office box?”

“The same,” Bukvic said. He looked past Mike. “Sorry, Mister.”