Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

“Not a peep, sir. I been sitting here expecting a call any minute.”

“What makes you expect a call?”

“Well, it ain’t — isn’t — like Martin to run off without a word. As soon as the booze wears off he always comes back or at least gives me a buzz.”

“Where does he generally go to wear the booze off?”

“He likes a good snooze in a Turkish bath.”

“Did he ever favor the Oriental Bathing Parlors?”

“Not that I know of. He was always promising to take me along on Ladies Day, but we ain’t made it yet.”

Making a note to have every Turkish (and Finnish) bath in the city checked out, McFate said, “Well, as soon as you hear from him, ma’am, call here. His life is in danger, and I’m not just talking.”

On the way to the Municipal Emergency Hospital, McFate had an idea. The Sunday emptiness of the streets gave it to him. He pulled the unmarked cruiser to an outdoor phone booth near a closed gas station and dialed the number of A. B. C. Damroth, executive director of the Tillary Foundation, honorary doctor of science and septuagenarian widower, who answered the ring himself.

“Has your cook anything special planned for lunch, Doc?” asked McFate.

“Why, good morning, Captain,” said Damroth with delight. “So nice to hear from you. I regret to say that Mrs. Simco is off on a holiday.”

“You plan to eat out then?”

“Well, what I actually planned to do was to ring your apartment and suggest that we join forces at my Club. They feature an excellent crabmeat mornay on Sunday. But after reading the newspaper, I must assume you are busy on the self-actuated shooting which took place last night in the West End.”

“You get up early, don’t you?”

“Habit, Captain.”

“Since you’re up then maybe you’ll do me a favor.”

Damroth said with his innate courtesy, “You need but ask, my dear friend.”

“Well, Doc, a little later I want to have free access to the desk of Martin Mulcahy in the city room of the Evening Express. He’s the paper’s obituary editor.”

“Who nearly made his own page last night, I gather. Yes, that can be arranged. I’ll call the editor immediately.”

“Would you like to come along, Doc?” The question was a teaser.

“I insist upon it, Captain.”

“Then I’ll pick you up.”

They had Tippy Welinski in Ward D with the terminal cases. Sitting in an undertaker’s chair in the corridor, McFate studied the police photograph of Arthur Iacobucci and the terse descriptive paragraph under it. The hair was black and bushy; eyebrows the same; eyes large and limpid brown; nose large and Roman; mouth small and rather pouty; chin somewhat receding with a faint cleft; ears—

It was the thing about the left ear which fascinated McFate now as it had fascinated him eight years ago. Behind the lobe, tattooed in tiny blue letters, was the word Due — meaning Two in Italian.

Fred Iacobucci’s left ear lobe had borne the word Uno. Papa Iacobucci, long dead in another country, had numbered his sons as well as named them.

The floor nurse materialized in front of McFate. “Doctor Wallace says you may see Welinski for ten minutes.”

Getting to his feet and rolling the police flyer into a tube, McFate asked, “Is Tippy considered terminal?”

“He’ll live,” the nurse said. “Bed five.”

McFate found the bed fast enough but hardly recognized the occupant. The sunken face wan against the bony structure of the head was not made easier to identify by the white plastic hose running from the nose. It also occurred to McFate that the last time he had seen Welinski lying down was in a prize ring.

“I know you can’t talk with that tube down your throat, Tippy,” McFate said, remaining at the foot of the bed. “But the doctors say you can see and think. Now I want to ask you a few questions and all you have to do is to move your head to the side if the answer is no and forward if the answer is yes. To start with, you know who I am, don’t you, Tippy?”

The time-worn head on the pillow moved slightly in acknowledgment.

“You work at the Oriental Bathing Parlors, don’t you?”

Again the acquiescing movement.

“You’ve worked there, off and on, for five years. Right?”

Affirmative.

McFate unrolled the police flyer and walked to the side of the bed. With his thumb over Iacobucci’s name, which he was sure Welinski would never associate with the pronunciation, he asked, “Ever see this guy around?”

The diluted blue eyes said nothing. After several seconds the head turned negatively.

“This shot was taken more than eight years ago, Tippy. The guy may be gray now or bald.”

Welinski continued to look dull.

“Never saw him around the Oriental?”

Negative.

“Ever hear the name Yakaboochee?” He bore down on the phonetics.

The blue eyes in the tired sockets glimmered faintly.

“Arthur Yakaboochee. Five foot six, a little on the stocky side. Ever hear of him or see him, Tippy?”

The eyes seemed on the verge of saying something.

McFate leaned in, “You have heard the name?”

Yes.

“Recently?”

Yes.

“Yesterday?”

Yes.

“From Martin Mulcahy?”

Yes.

McFate tapped the flyer with his forefinger. “This is a picture of Arthur Yakaboochee. You sure you don’t recognize him?”