by Martin Meyers
Martin Meyers, an actor turned mystery writer who authored five novels featuring his private detective Patrick Hardy in the 1970s, is also the co-author, with his wife Annette Meyers, of seven historical mysteries under the pseudonym Maan Meyers. The latest book in that series, The Organ Grinder (Five Star Press) was published in October and was called “a bang-up good historical” by Library Journal.
After starting the Braun coffee maker, Nate Devlin shaved while he showered. He had his usual: two raw eggs, seasoned with Angostura bitters, washed down with black coffee. Be-fore his first sip he mumbled, “Hot as hell and bitter as death.”
In both complexion and temperament, Nate was black Irish. Swarthy, dapper, and of medium height, he had hawklike features and close-cropped black hair.
Nate moved to his desk in the corner of the living room of his large, two-room apartment, winding and strapping on the Longines watch that had belonged to his father.
Next: his ceremonial counting of crisp bills taken from the desk’s middle drawer.
Ten hundreds, ten fifties, ten twenties, and ten tens. Having misplaced or lost too many real money clips, he’d begun using sturdy W-shaped paper clips.
Nate pressed his action money into a neat and even crease, adding his usual final touch, running his right thumbnail across the fold. He secured the bills with one of the large W-clips from the drawer and set it on the left-hand side of the desk.
At the proper time, the plump wad of money would go into his left-hand pocket.
He also folded the fifty fresh singles he carried for anyone who hit him up. These he placed loose next to the clip. The singles would go into his right-hand pocket.
The last thing he would do before leaving his apartment would be to place his action money in his left-hand pocket and the beggar cash in his right.
Tradition. Nate’s personal tradition. It kept him lucky day after day with his gambling and his drinking. That’s what Nate did. He gambled and he drank. And he did both very well.
Nate put on his black silk Hugo Boss suit, a clean white go-to-business shirt, and a black tie decorated with large yellow-gold fleur-de-lis.
Every day, two fresh handkerchiefs, the one for blow in his back pocket and the one for show in his front pocket. Finally, black lisle hose and gleaming black Allen Edmonds shoes.
Ready to go, Nate had his first drink of the day.
The Bushmills Malt was so amazing he had another nip. And a third. The phone rang as Nate began his money-from-the-desk routine.
He grabbed the handset from its cradle, but dropped it on the floor.
“Shit!” Nate reached down and retrieved the handset. “Devlin.”
“Sir, I represent the Benevolent Society for...”
“The only damn Benevolent Society I care about is the Nate Devlin Benevolent Society.” Nate disconnected.
He stood tall in front of the desk, clapped his hands three times, and touched the ritual spots: tie-knot, cell phone in the inside pocket of his jacket, front pocket with the show-handkerchief, and his two cash pockets. He finished with another sequence of claps. This time, seven.
Shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits.
* * * *
Nate’s stroll from his place on Henry Street to Mae’s Landing on Rivington was under a balmy, shiny spring sky. He entered the Landing, flashing a bright smile at the boss-lady, Mae Hammil.
Mae promptly poured Nate two fingers of sixteen-year-old Bushmills’ Malt, while Nate nodded a greeting at the drinkers sitting on six of the fourteen stools.
Mae Hammil was a big blond woman who looked good enough to still be the showgirl she’d once been.
Nate sat on his stool, second from the right, took a sip of the amber liquid, leaned back slightly, contemplating what was left in the tumbler for several seconds, then tossed it off.
Without any words exchanged Mae poured him another.
After a couple more shots Nate walked the short distance across the tile floor to the john that was this side of the kitchen.
Appearances meant a lot to Nate. Unzipping his fly to take a leak could lead to telltale splash marks. Not for Nate Devlin. He lowered his trousers and held them tightly in his left hand. Only then did he do his business.
No splashes, no spots.
After washing his hands he returned to the bar.
The young man stood just inside the front door, as if posing, his head tilted towards his left shoulder. He crossed to the third barstool to the left of Nate and sat.
His pushed-in face made the kid look like a pug dog. But his long hair, the color of new hay, was pretty. That was the word for it. Pretty.
The kid was not a regular, and Nate didn’t know him. His khaki pants and old-time safari jacket were clean and pressed. So he was not as spiffy as Nate. But he was neat.
Each sat silently, not talking, sipping their drinks.
It was the kid who broke the silence. “I’m Ernie McPherson, Mr. Devlin. I’m no bum, just down on my luck. If it isn’t an imposition, could you take care of this one drink I’ve been sipping ever slow, and maybe even spring for the price of a sandwich?”
Nate was not annoyed. “Sure! Mae, put the kid’s tab on mine. Give him a steak sandwich and those beef fries you’re so proud of.”
There was still a phone in the old-time Bell Telephone booth, opposite the bar. Mae had managed to keep the booth because her brother-in-law Sean worked for the right people.
Nate slipped inside the booth and closed the door. Though the phone no longer worked, the light did. Nate tapped numbers on his cell and consulted with his bookie, Pete Castellano, down on East Broadway, upstairs from Wong’s Chinese restaurant.
Bets down, step jaunty, Nate left the booth and went back to the bar.
Mae poured.
Nate drank.
The pug-face kid put his arm around Nate’s shoulder. “You’re a swell guy, a sweetheart. You know how I don’t like to impose but...”
Nate knew he had to dump this weird schmuck fast. Like a gunfighter drawing two six-guns, he reached down and touched the outside of both his trouser pockets. Ten would be enough. Something was wrong.
He moved his left hand into the W-clip pocket.
Nothing!
The fat money-clip was not where it was supposed to be.
Methodically, with no rush or panic, Nate checked his right-hand pocket, turned away, and inspected the loose bills.
What he expected. All singles.
He put the singles away before he patted himself from chest to ass.
“Trouble?” the kid asked.
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“You got a smoke?”
“I don’t smoke,” Nate said, vexed at being interrupted during his inventory. Order and discipline made Nate’s world go round. Too bad everyone else didn’t think the same. Life would be a lot simpler.
He threw back another drink, Mae repoured. Nate sipped and stared at the kid. “Smoking’s against the law in a tavern in New York City, and it’s bad for your health.”
The kid shrugged as he ran his fingers through his hair.
Nate pushed his new drink back and forth through a wet spot on the bar, playing, denying himself the next taste for a moment or two more.
He rubbed his mouth with thumb and forefinger as he studied the kid. Masking his emotions and exhibiting a disciplined calm, he started again, patting everywhere. Everything was in place.
Except for the W-clip and his wad.
“Past the lips,” Nate muttered. “Past the gums, look out stomach, here she comes.” He savored the booze aftertaste while he crossed to the phone booth and squinted inside.
Nothing on the floor.
And nothing on the narrow ledge under the old phone.
Nothing.
“Hey.” The kid had followed him. “You’ve been right with me. I want to help. Just ask.”
“Here,” Nate said, his composure failing. He flung a handful of singles at Ernie. “Go away.”
“Jesus,” the kid said. But he knelt to pick up the bills.
Reasserting his calm, Nate inspected the tile floor in all directions, even walking to the swinging doors this side of the kitchen. Except for his trip to the toilet, Nate hadn’t been in those areas today.
Inside the men’s room he had a good and careful look around, then sauntered to the front door and stared at the pavement up and down the block.
Nate drew a deep breath, made his way back to the bar, and quickly drank the shot Mae had waiting for him.
As he sipped the next, it occurred to Nate that maybe he never took the clip with him when he left his apartment. “Impossible.”
“Anything’s possible,” Ernie said.
“Will you get the hell out of my face?”
The kid spread his hands. “Sorry. No disrespect. I don’t need a brick building falling on my head. I know when I’m not wanted.” He bolted for the door.
Nate didn’t notice. But he was worried. This was his action money. And his drinking money. Hell, it was nearly all his money.
Also important, no matter the situation, he couldn’t afford to have people see him uncool. Cool was as valuable a currency as money.
He smiled. “You old fool. You never took the clip.” The rest he didn’t say.
Foremost in his mind was the thought that he’d probably left the clipped wad on the desk. No problem. He’d go home, find the money-clip where it had been all this time, come back, and start his day all over again.
Nate put a smile on his face and asked Mae, “Game still on for later?”
“Bet your ass.”
* * * *
“To work,” he said, walking into his apartment. “But, first a drink.”
He had two.
Three.
“Wrong move,” he told himself, but by that time he was dedicated to what was left in the quart of Bushmills. He hunkered down and squat-walked from the kitchen, nipping and checking all the various locations for the money clip.
One more drink...
The bottle was empty.
He thought about the twenty-one-year-old stuff in his bedroom closet that he kept for special occasions.
Hell. If this wasn’t a special occasion he didn’t know what was.
* * * *
“That damn kid took my money,” Nate grumbled, even before opening his eyes. He got to his knees. “Sneaky little bastard.”
When he finished a desperate crawl-around-one-more-time search, Nate pulled himself to his feet. His luck wasn’t all bad. He couldn’t find the twenty-one-year-old Bushmills, but he located the flask he had parked in his old tweed coat.
* * * *
It was raining. He grabbed a cab to the Lorelei Bar and Grill on Fourteenth Street.
Nate told those around the bar and anyone else he could think of that he was offering a C-note for the whereabouts of Ernie McPherson and to call him on his cell if they knew anything.
Next thing you know, he got the information for the price of a drink, but gave the hundred anyway to the pathetic lush who came up with the answer.
The lush told him that Ernie was playing poker at the Stagger Inn opposite the docks on the East River.
“Looks like Nate’s luck is changing,” Nate chortled. He polished off his drink as he hurried to the street, shoving the shot glass in his jacket pocket and flagging a cab.
Bootsy, the bartender at the Inn, told Nate he’d just missed the pug-faced kid. Ernie always liked to take a walk along the river after making a big score at the poker table.
Catching up to Ernie was fairly simple. Even in the semidark the kid’s tilted head was hard to miss. He was standing on the old Pier 13, looking out over the river towards Brooklyn and sucking in deep drags from his smoke. The rain had stopped and a cool breeze was blowing in from the river.
“Nice night,” Nate said, his right hand fondling the shot glass in his pocket. The kid was still wearing that corny khaki outfit.
“Sure is.” Ernie squinted at Nate in the darkness. “Hey, Nate. What brings you here?”
“You, you little thief!” He hit Ernie across the bridge of his nose with the shot glass, launching the kid’s sparking cigarette into the water below. “Empty your pockets.”
Blood gushed from Ernie’s nose. “Ow, that hurts.” The kid held his hand to his face. Blood leaked through his fingers.
“Empty your damn pockets!”
“Sure, sure. Anything you say.” Ernie fished bills out of every pocket of his safari jacket, but he was so scared they all fell to the ground. “What I do to make you so mad?”
When Nate saw the money, he yelled, “How much of that is mine?”
“I won it fair and square in a game.”
“Say hello to your new partner,” Nate said, snatching up the mass of bills and cramming them in his own pockets.
“If you say so.” Ernie dabbed at his broken nose. “Shit, it hurts. And I’m bleeding real bad. Why the hell did you have to do that?”
Nate was having second thoughts and was about to say he was sorry when he saw the metal glinting in the moonlight.
On the ground amidst the money that had come from Ernie’s pockets was a large, sturdy W-shaped paper clip.
Nate exploded. With the shot glass clutched tight in his right hand, he beat Ernie about the face.
The glass splintered into dozens of pieces. Nate threw the shards and splinters aside and choked what life was left out of the kid.
There were glass fragments and blood on Nate’s shoes.
First, using his for-blow handkerchief, Nate wiped and buffed his Allen Edmonds shoes back to their previous veneer and wiped his hands.
Second, he searched Ernie’s body and found three one-hundred-dollar bills. “Asshole!”
Third, he wiped the blood from Ernie’s face and his pretty hay-colored hair.
Fourth, he shoved Ernie’s body into the water.
Fifth, he wiped his hands again and let the handkerchief follow the kid down.
Chores done, Nate clapped his hands three times and touched only one spot.
Where the money now was.
He finished with the familiar sequence of seven claps.
Shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits.
* * * *
Nate woke. His head hurt. He rarely drank enough to make his head hurt. The clock said four-thirty. “Shit. Slept the whole day away.”
Only when he pressed the button of the coffee maker did he notice that the machine didn’t have water or coffee in it.
It all came back to him with the force and pain of a sledgehammer.
The day before he’d lost his money.
And offed the stupid kid who stole it.
Nate stumbled to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet.
He ran to his desk, flailing at it, bulldozing small change, clips, papers, stapler, and the phone to the floor.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Nate screamed, grabbing the desk, shaking it, knocking it over.
“What do I do now ...?”
He stopped, mesmerized by the mess at his feet.
Shrouded by fluffs of dust and partially hidden under one desk leg, he saw...
Nate Devlin dropped to his knees.
He grinned at his W-shaped paper clip like a birthday boy viewing his surprise birthday cake and hugged the thick wad of crisp hundreds, fifties, twenties, and tens to his chest.
The birthday boy righted the desk, picked up the fallen items, and set them in their proper places on the desk.
* * * *
Shaved and dressed, he checked his father’s watch and wound it. As his grin grew broader, he put his action money in its pocket on the left.
If he hurried, he could still make the poker game in Mae’s back room.