Part 11 (1/2)

'Gino, I swear to G.o.d, it beats me. I see him on the street, I'll make a citizen's arrest. You're the first guys I call.'

'Would Robert Kamin know?'

'I'll have to ask Robert Kamin next time I see him.'

'When would that be?'

'No telling. He seems to be somewhat indisposed.'

'Yeah, he seems to be.' He shared looks, a smile, with the two other coppers. Finding Bert, I suspected, had recently occupied a lot of their time. 'What about Koech.e.l.l?'

'Honest to G.o.d, I never met him.' I raised a hand.

'Honest. And I have no idea where he is now.' That was true too. Pigeyes contemplated all of this.

'Which one's the h.o.m.o, by the way?' I asked. 'Koech.e.l.l?'

Pigeyes put his hands on his knees again, so he could get up in my face.

'Why ain't I surprised that's of interest to you?'

'If you're trying to disparage me, Pigeyes, I'm going to have to call the Human Rights Commission.' We were heading back to where we had been. Fun and games. Gino's bladder had run dry on the hot p.i.s.s of vengeance for only a moment. The reservoir was filling and he was ready again to lower his fly. It came back to him as the lodestar of his universe: he really did not like me.

'Suppose I tell you,' he said, 'that you could fit a Saturn rocket up Archie Koech.e.l.l's hind end, you gonna tell me how come you're so curious?'

'I'm just looking for clues to Bert's social life. That's all. Guy's out of pocket. You know that. My partners are worried and asked me to find him.' I gave an innocent little shrug.

'You find him, I wanna know. He talks to me about Kam, he can go home. But you screw around, Malloy, it's the whole load: break and enter, credit card fraud, false personation. I'll f.u.c.k you up bad, big guy. And don't think I won't enjoy it.'

I knew better than that. Dewey opened the van door from inside and I stepped down to the street, enjoying the daylight and the cold, the greatness of all outdoors. Twice now, I thought, two miracles. I spoke words of thanks to Elaine. Pigeyes had let me go.

XV. BRUSHY TELLS ME WHAT SHE WANTS AND I GET WHAT I DESERVE.

A. Brushy Tells Me What' s on the Menu For our luncheon on Friday, Brushy had chosen The Matchbook, a quiet old-line place that tried to preserve some atmosphere of leisured sanctuary for the business cla.s.s. You walked down from street level into a feeling of soft enclosure. The ceiling was low; the lack of windows had been obscured by little puddles of light projected onto the faux marble wallpaper from the top of the plaster columns dividing the room. The waiters in black waistcoats and bow ties did not tell you their first names or get so chummy that you started hoping the meal might be on them.

Following my adventure with Pigeyes, I'd had an uneventful morning, ruminating periodically about the body vanished from Bert's fridge. I wanted to believe that its disappearance had nothing to do with my visit to the apartment, but I was having a hard time convincing myself.

Eventually I tracked down Lena in the library. She had her feet up on her oak carrel and was absorbed in one of the heavy gold-bound federal reporters as if it were a novel, giving off the fetching aloof air of all brainy women. I asked if she had a pa.s.sport and a free weekend and still wanted to work on that gambling case, the one where she'd cracked the bookmaking code on Infomode. She was enthusiastic. I did the usual law firm delegating, s.h.i.+t always rolling downhill, and told her to call TN's executive travel service, pull strings if need be to get us on a plane to Pico Luan Sunday and a decent hotel, the beach if they could. She took notes.

'So,' I said, when Brush and I were seated side by side in a booth at the back. The maitre d had greeted Brushy by name and took us to a rear corner on a raised terrace of the room, with a column and a plant buying a little more privacy. The table was adorned with big linen napkins and a splendid anthurium, looking like a priapic valentine, and a huge cloth, stiff and white as a priest's collar, that ran to the floor. I looked about and marveled. For Center City, The Matchbook was a great place. A few years ago I would have pleasantly surrendered to temptation and had a drink at lunchtime, which would have been the end of my day. I asked Brushy when she was here last.

'Yesterday,' she said. 'With Pagnucci.'

I'd forgotten. 'How was that?'

'Strange,' she said.

'What did he want? Groundhog stuff?' 'Just a little. Basically I think he was trying to figure out why I keep having lunch with Krzysinski.' 'Jeez, I hope you slapped his face.'

She squeezed my knee with a grip strong enough to cause pain.

'He wasn't being like that. It was business.'

'Pagnucci? What a surprise. What did he want to know?'

'Well, he said it's a turbulent period for the firm. He wondered how I viewed things, my practice. He made it sound like a management review.'

'Sort of checking you out for a mid-life crisis?'

'Sort of. I thought he was trying to set a context. You know, for Groundhog Day. Points. But the way he ended up putting it was, did I think that my personal relations.h.i.+p with Tad was strong enough that TN would remain a client of mine, come what may?'

' ”Come what may”?'

'His words.'

I took a moment. Brushy and Pagnucci would make a great team, a litigator and a securities guy, two up-and-coming Italians.

'Did he actually say it? That he was thinking of leaving the firm and taking you with him?'

'Mack, we're talking Pagnucci here. He barely gets a word out. He made it sound, you know, like some remote curiosity.'

'Like a dinner party game. Who Would You Be If You Weren't You?'

'Exactly. And I cut him off. I told him I was fond of my partners and proud of the work we do and that I didn't spend my time thinking about questions like that.'

'Good for you. Leotis couldn't have done better. Was he abashed?'

'He completely agreed. He fumpfered around. ”Of course, of course.” He tried to act as if it was nothing to him.'

'Carl obviously thinks I'm not finding Bert, the money's not coming back, TN's going bye-bye, and the firm is too. Right?'

'Maybe. He's probably just being cautious. Considering all the angles. You know Carl.'

'Maybe he knows I'm not going to find Bert.' 'How would he?'

I couldn't figure much that made sense. Especially after Carl had blessed my voyage to Pico.

The waiter came and we ordered iced teas, then Brushy on second thought asked for white wine. We looked over the menus, a foot and half if they were an inch, oldfas.h.i.+oned, with vellum pages and a ta.s.seled binding. I remained puzzled by Pagnucci's game, but Brushy cut me short when I returned to the subject.

'Mack, do you really think I wanted to have lunch so we could talk about Pagnucci?'

I told her if I had, I probably wouldn't have come.

'I want you to try to be serious about something,' she said. 'You hurt my feelings yesterday.'

Within, I recoiled. Some ancient retractile mechanism set in. Another lecture from another woman about how I'd disappointed her. We were going to have feminist reconstruction of my spicy remarks about her wandering loins.

'Hey, Brush, I thought we went past that. It's me, us, you and me. Pals forever.'

'That's the point.' She faced me in a casual way, so that we were more or less knee to knee. Her back was to the adjoining wall and she propped an arm on the top of the banquette and leaned her full face and her soft hairdo against a hand in an appealing fas.h.i.+on. She looked frank and friendly, like a teenager in her rec room. 'I thought the next time you danced the hokey-pokey, Malloy, it was going to be with me.'