And again: “Hey.”
Salcito raised his head. His eyes met Pete’s in the mirror over the bar. He looked exhausted. Defeated.
“You talking to me?”
“Who else would I be talking to?”
“Wha’ . . . whaddya want?”
“To talk.”
Salcito frowned at him, shook his head. Picked up his glass.
“I don’t know you.”
“You’re Salcito, right?”
The glass was set down slowly. Salcito put his hands on the edge of the bar. Turned to face Pete.
“Who wants to know?”
“My name’s Wonicke.”
“I told you, I don’t know you.”
A pause.
“Who sent you?”
“No one.”
“Who was it? Johanssen? Who?”
“No one sent me.”
“Get the fuck away from me.”
Pete looked at his red eyes, his clenched fists. Swallowed. “Mr. Salcito, I’m a reporter.”
Salcito’s shoulders dropped a little. His hands uncurled.
“And? I ain’t news.”
“I’m covering the Malone murders. I want to talk about Ruth Malone.”
“Yeah? You and the rest of the world, kid. I don’t talk to reporters.”
He turned away, picked up the glass again.
“Look, I know you’re a cop. And I know you had a relationship with Mrs. Malone.”
This time he moved fast. The glass was slammed on the bar, and Salcito was close up in Pete’s face.
“You threatening me?”
Pete raised his hands, slid off the stool, backed away. “No. Jesus Christ. Do I look like a threat?”
Salcito shook his head, muttered something. Sat down again, picked up his drink.
Pete exhaled. Said, “Mr. Salcito, maybe you want to talk to someone. Give your side of things.”
No response.
“Okay. How about I just tell you what I know, and you can tell me what I got wrong?”
There was a pause, and then Salcito said quietly, “Not here.”
Pete looked at him. Waited.
“I don’t want my business known here. You know Ricky’s, on 57th Street?”
“Sure.” He’d find it.
“I’ll see you there in an hour. There’s a room in back—the owner knows me. Tell him you’re meeting Sal.”
When Pete arrived, Salcito was already there, seated at a rickety table with a bottle and two glasses.
He waved at Pete to sit. Frowned as he moved aside the glasses to make space for his tape recorder and notebooks.
“You ain’t drinking with me?”
“I’m working.”
Salcito opened his mouth, then shrugged.
“Okay. Well, let’s start at the beginning. I know you were in a relationship with Ruth for several months, maybe longer.”
“Rusty. We called her Rusty, on account of her hair.”
“I’m guessing you met her on the job.”
Salcito laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“You’re right, and you’re wrong. Mostly wrong.” He sighed. “I got a call. Two years ago, maybe a little less. Guy I know was in a bar one night with a few girls. I was on the late shift. He called the station house about eleven, told me to come on over.”
His eyes were on the table, his mind in another room.
“I was in the squad room when the call came in. Paperwork and coffee. That’s mostly what my job is. Fucking paperwork and coffee.”
His speech was beginning to slur.
“Anyway, the phone rang and it was Meyer. He quit the force in the winter of sixty-two when his father died and . . . well, I guess you don’t want to know ’bout that. But he still came out with us once in a while, still drank in cop bars.”
He fell silent.
Pete asked, “And he called that night?”
Salcito nodded.
“Just occurred to me that he wasn’t even calling me. He was calling to see who was around. He was looking for someone to meet him for a drink at the end of their shift. He didn’t care who came, he just wanted someone to see the kind of girls he could get. Meyer, he came into some money when his father passed. It changed him. He liked to flash it around. Liked you to see he could afford nice things. He was calling for anyone—it wasn’t me. It wasn’t about me. Christ, if I hadn’t . . .”
He took a long gulp of Scotch.
“Anyway, I did.”
He paused, shrugged. Took another mouthful.
“He was drunk. Told me he had a party going on at McGuire’s. Wanted me to come down. I told him I was working—he was so drunk he didn’t know who he’d called. I had to tell him he’d called me at work. He said to come down when my shift ended. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“When I got there, Meyer was on one of the big curved sofas near the door. He had a girl either side and when he saw me, he put an arm around each of them. Leaned back and winked at me. There was champagne in the ice bucket, two empty bottles on the table and a ten in the tip tray, right by the keys to his Caddy. Like he’d just dropped them there casually.
“He always dresses nice, Meyer. Expensive suits, matching ties, pressed shirts. But I remember thinking there was something seedy about him that night. His suit was wrinkled and his shirt was stretched over his stomach, like he’d put on weight.