- CHAPTER 7 -

I SPENT THE REST of the morning making arrangements with a mortuary for the shipment of the body to Phoenix, then caught a cab back to the hotel.  The tapes had not arrived yet and I unfolded my cloak and dagger and called Sharlene.  She confirmed she had seen a driver’s license with the name Sol Amour and it was from New Jersey.  This added weight to the argument he was from the East Coast and was probably one and the same as Sal Valentine.  She said he and Muffin were still missing, but Muffin had done this before and stayed away for as long as a week.  I told her about the arrangements with the body and I had arranged with Dr. Monet from San Bernardino to fly to Arizona and conduct a new autopsy.  She agreed to give him any help he might need to accomplish this goal.

            I checked the list of numbers Arlo had given me and found two of them were bars.  I decided this was as good a place as any to start and I took a cab to the one in Brooklyn.  It turned out to be a small hole in the wall with a bartender and one customer.  The bartender was a small man, five foot six, 140 pounds, mustache, black oily hair, and the worst case of the shakes I had ever seen.

            I watched with interest as he poured a shot of whiskey into a shot glass and held it with a towel in his right hand.  He put the other end of the towel around his neck and by pulling it with his left hand managed to get the drink up to his mouth without spilling over half of it.  He repeated this exercise and this time his hand, steadied by the towel, got most of the whiskey to his mouth.  He waited for a couple of minutes and then turned and asked if he could help me.  I ordered a whiskey with a water back, told him to have one for himself, and to give the other customer a drink on me.  He gladly obliged, and I noticed his hands had settled down to a mere tremble while he tossed his drink without the towel.

            I introduced myself, and he said his name was Jack Brooks and he had just arrived at work.  He explained it usually took two drinks to stop his shaking, but today he really needed a third one.  I told him to have another one and motioned to include the other patron.  He hesitated and I put a fifty dollar bill on the bar and didn’t pick up the change.  I waited until he poured the drinks and asked if Sol Amour was around.  He and the other patron looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and agreed they had never heard of him.  I then asked if maybe Sal Valentine had been in and I got the same response.  I said I thought they might have come in with Tex O’Brien.

            The patron set back and loudly proclaimed, “I know that son of a bitch, but you won’t find him in a bar!”

            I grinned and looked directly at him.  “I didn’t know if he drank or not, but I hear he hangs out with Sol.  I take it you don’t like him?”

            He replied, “I hate the dirty bastard and I should have killed him a long time ago!”

            The bartender was shaking his head in agreement and then said, “This is my little brother, Billy, and he used to be a jockey until O’Brien had his license revoked.”

            “How did he do that?” I asked, without taking my eyes off Billy.

            Billy motioned for another drink before he spoke.  “He is filthy rich and has race horses he is running on the East Coast tracks.  I was riding for him and doing all right, until I was contacted by two real big guys who told me I was going to pull up my horse and lose a race.  I asked them what was in it for me and they said a broken neck if I didn’t, and believe me they were big enough to do it.  They then sweetened the pot and said they would put a thousand dollars down on the horse that was going to win for me and he was going to pay at least eight to one.  I didn’t dare refuse, but I guess I was too obvious about it and there was an inquiry.  “A stable boy had overheard the conversation and reported it to O’Brien.  Tex found me in a horse stall and braced me with the information.  I don’t know if you know it or not, but he is a boxer and a tough son of a bitch.  He scared the hell out of me and I told him everything.  I even offered to give him all the money or to cut him in on future deals.  Instead he slapped me half way across the stable and reported it to the board.  I lost my license and even got barred from the tracks for life.  I only saw him once since then and he was talking to a woman that someone said was his wife.  They were quite a ways off, but she looked like a beauty.  I thought about killing her to get even, but if she looked that good up close I couldn’t have done it.”

            I quietly listened and decided he was just talk, but worth watching.  I did reply, “I know the wife and while a woman’s best beauty aids are a little distance and the imagination of a man, she is an exception and even more of a beauty up close.”

            They both had at least two more shots of whiskey while we talked and each time Jack had taken the money out of my change on the bar.  I did not protest and thought this would be a good time to ask again about Sol.  I pulled out his picture and handed to Jack.  I noticed his hands were no longer shaking.  He took the picture and held it where he and Billy could both see it.  They looked at it and then at each other, then back at me  and Jack said, “Are you a cop?”

            I laughed and assured them I wasn’t.  They seemed satisfied and Jack said, “This is Sam Valerio.  He come in here sometimes and talks to the boss, but I haven’t seen him for about a month.”

            Billy nodded in agreement and added, “They usually talk in the office and I have seen him and the boss together over at the other place.”
            I looked quizzically at Jack and he explained, “The boss has two bars and he spends most of his time at the other one.”

            I nodded and Billy added, “It is over on the other side of town and I will go with you if you want to see if he has been over there.”

            I looked back as Billy and I left and saw Jack finishing my untouched drink, while pocketing the change from the fifty I left on the bar.  It was intentionally a large tip and I felt it would pay off in information in the future, should the need arise.

            Billy was very talkative and gave me his life history during the trip.  He even showed me the tattoo of a rooster and a pig he had on the calves of his legs to prevent drowning during the time he was on the Merchant Marines.  He talked about his riding life and said he rode at 108 pounds, he had lost weight and probably was under 90 pounds now.  I let him talk and finally he mentioned the bar where we were going.  I recognized the name as being the second bar on my phone list.  He said the bars were owned by a Japanese company but managed by a man named Shatar who spoke broken English.  We were just spilling into the curb when a new Ferrari pulled out.

            Billy pointed to it and said, “There is Shatar leaving now.”

            “How can you tell? I can’t see a thing through those tinted windows.”

            Billy shook his head, laughed, and said, “That is easy, no one is allowed to touch that car let, let alone drive it.”

            “He is not married then?”

            “God no.  With his money, he has good-looking young broads hanging all over him.  He doesn’t bring them around here for us poor folks to see and he takes them to fancy places up town.  I hear he has a penthouse somewhere and I’ll bet it is full of chicks.  Well, more power to him.  Let’s go in with the common drunks.”

            The place was almost empty with just three women seated in separate sections of the bar.  The place was filled with smoke and due to the poor lighting I could not see the face of the one on the far right.  She appeared to be a middle-aged woman with a slight build wearing a cheap shapeless dress.  The strings straps hung loosely over he shoulders allowing the dress top to sag below a dirty bra.  She seemed oblivious to our presence and was holding both a drink and a cigarette in her left hand.  The ashtray in front of her was emitting smoke from several smoldering butts and as I watched she lifted her left hand up and a large billow of smoke blew out of the shadows as she replaced her now empty glass back on the bar.  Billy identified her as a prostitute called Egg Teats and then added, “You know you put them in a bra and they look like two hard boiled eggs.  You take them out, they hang down like two fried eggs with the yolks broken.”

            The bartender walked up, laid both hands on the bar, nodded to Billy, and asked what we would have.  I took another fifty out, put it on the bar, ordered a shot with water back and motioned to give everyone else a drink.  He nodded and as he moved around I noticed his hands showed signs of broken knuckles, while his face carried the scars of many combats.  Both ears had developed the characteristic scarring of the cauliflower syndrome common to older retired boxers.  The left one was the most pronounced, having the tell tale characteristic of being laced by numerous boxing gloves at the end of right jabs.  He was a big man, six-foot-four, 220 pounds, and seemed to still be in good condition.  He put my change on the bar and I asked, “Did you fight as a heavy weight?”  He nodded and walked away.

            I left the change on the bar and I thought to myself, the manager certainly didn’t get the money for a Ferrari from the income from these two bars.  The female just to my left lifted her drink up in a gesture of thanks and asked if I was looking for a good time.  I looked over and noticed she was overweight, overly made up, and probably forty years old.  I smiled and asked, “What kind of a good time?”

            “The best you ever had.  I use to work in a house outside of Las Vegas, and I know about you cowboys.”

            “Really, now you are out on your own.  What are the prices?”

            “Twenty dollars, you do all the work.  Thirty dollars, I’ll help.  And fifty dollars, you just hang on and ride.”

            “You don’t know much about cowboys, most of them don’t have twenty dollars.”
            “Oh yeah, you all cowboys use to come out there with our cigarette peters and go calling us a bunch of cow cunted whores.”

            “Maybe you just met drug store cowboys.  It doesn’t sound to me like you ever met the real thing.”

            “For twenty dollars you can prove me wrong.”

            “If I prove you wrong, do I get my money back?”

            “Honey, if I am wrong by the time we are through you will want to give me and extra fifty.”

            I laughed and said I would take a rain check, but for now I would buy another drink.  I turned to the bartender, who was setting up the next round, and asked if he knew Tex O’Brien.

            He stopped, looked at me, took a deep breath, and said, “Yeah, I knew him, a real straight shooter, and one hell of a boxer.  His death was a terrible shock and I guess they still don’t know what killed him.  I heard his last fight was with El Toro Bravo and if his manager was still around he never would have let him in the ring with that son of a bitch.

            “A guy who saw the fight told me you would have thought the referee was at a wrestling match.  He was even looking away while Bravo butted Tex three times opening a gash over his eye that was bleeding like Niagara Falls.  If you ask me I think it was a setup and I hope they find out what happened.

            Billy listened quietly and suddenly he said, “Do you mean O’Brien is dead?”

            I nodded and watched his reaction.

            “My God!”  He half whispered and lowered his head to his chest where it remained as he sat in a stunned silence.

            A woman entered and seated herself on the stool to my left.  She was overdressed for this type of bar.  She had remained quiet until the conversation died down and I turned and asked if I could buy her a drink.  She half turned, looked at me, but didn’t respond and I wondered if she heard me.  I started to ask again, but before I could speak she said, “Yes, a Tom Collins, please.”

            I nodded to the bartender and looked back toward her only to find she was staring at me with unblinking eyes and a fixed smile.  Her face was pale, but she had tried to conceal her pallid complexion with a lot of makeup.  Her short sleeve blouse allowed me to notice she had covered her arms with powder to hide the ashen flesh.  I looked closely for needle marks and didn’t see any, but when I looked back into her face her expression had not changed.  The bartender served her drink and gave me a “Damn if I know” look, and then moved several feet to the right where he could observe without being obvious.  I told her my name was Dutch and asked her what her name was.

            She seemed to give this a great deal of thought and just as I was about to give up she said, “Betty,” without changing her expression.

            The only part of her body that seemed to be moving was her finger sliding up and down her glass as she played with the condensation drops as they formed.  She hadn’t made any effort to take a drink and she reminded me of an old computer with a slow modem.  I hadn’t seen anyone under the influence of Quaaludes for over ten years and didn’t even know if they were still available.  If my observations were correct someone had made it available to this doll and judging from her paleness they were keeping her locked up in a stupor.

            I noticed Billy had turned his away from us, but still had a hangdog posture and was ignoring his drink.  I asked him if there was something wrong with the drink and he replied, “No,” without emotion, then added, “You drink too much, you talk too much, you get the snakes.”

            I didn’t believe I heard him correctly and thought he must be drunk or I just couldn’t understand his Brooklyn dialect.  I was sure he had meant to say shakes, but then again I wondered if he was all right when Betty said, “I want to walk.”

            Billy shuddered and lowered his head further and for a fleeting instant I had the feeling he and Betty knew each other.

            Betty was now looking down at her glass and playing with the drops with both hands.  She hadn’t touched the Tom Collins, and it was obvious she didn’t come to the bar for a drink.  She didn’t look up when I turned toward her, and she quietly said, “I have something to tell you about Sol.  Please come outside.”

            I didn’t stop to think or to question this and I quickly stood up, helped her to stand, and let her precede me through the door.

            I stepped into the daylight and was struck on each side of my head with what felt like sledgehammers.  Before a complete fog moved in I saw gigantic fists swinging toward me from the arms of two guys who looked like gorilla bookends.  I staggered and before I could react they were facing me and each held one of my arms while using their free hand to pummel my face and body.  I was barely conscious and just had enough instinct left to turn and catch a knee on the left thigh instead of my groin.  This felt like it broke my leg and if I was not being held I would have sagged to the sidewalk.  I could no longer see and the world seemed to be spinning inside a black hole.  I felt like I was being attacked from all sides by huge monsters.

            I could hear Betty laughing hysterically somewhere in the darkness and then she screamed and I was falling.  My face struck the cement and a large foot tried to kick a field goal with my ribs.  A loud male voice said, “Welcome to the Big Apple, shamus.”