Never Cross a Vampire Read Online Free PDF Page B

sensible from Coronet, and I had my envelope of money from Leib, so I went up the twenty creaking brown stairs and through the often-kicked wooden door at the top and into the squad room. The room smelled, as it always did, as all squad rooms always do, of food—old food, new food, hot food, cold food. The smell of food even overpowered the smell of humanity and stale smoke.
    It was a slow day, but detectives were seated at some of the desks. A few were on telephones. One fat detective named Veldu was sitting on the corner of the desk of a new guy I didn’t recognize. Veldu had a sandwich in one hand, coffee in the other, and a mouthful of philosophy for the new guy, whose hair was black and plastered down and parted in the middle as if he were about to try out for a barbershop quartet.
    â€œSo they rank Lem Franklin number two,” Veldu was saying. “Number two. Can you imagine that? Buddy Baer, that schlob could crack him in a minute. There’s maybe six guys who could take Franklin on a bad day.” He chomped on his sandwich and put down his coffee so he could raise his fingers to indicate the six guys. “Bob Pastor, Melio Bettina, Abe Simon, Lou Nova, Roscoe Toles, even Tamy Mauriello. In fact, Pastor should be number one and Conn should be down at the bottom. He’s got no punch. Louis hasn’t got feelings. He’s got to be clubbed to death.” With this, Veldu demonstrated with his fist against the desk how one would have to club Joe Louis. The desk shook and coffee spilled.
    â€œShit,” bellowed Veldu around a bite of sandwich. “I’ll have to get another coffee.” He lumbered away, leaving the mess for the new guy, who reached into a drawer for some Kleenex and tried to keep the stain from joining all the other stains. The new guy spotted me.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?” he said impatiently, which was a bad sign in a new detective, at least bad for me and any potential criminals he might meet.
    â€œMy name’s Peters,” I said, reaching out a hand. “I’m a private investigator doing some legwork for a lawyer named Leib on a client you have locked up here, Faulkner. I’d like to see our client.”
    The new guy looked at my hand and went on cleaning his desk. I put my hand back at my side. The new guy didn’t say anything. He just kept scrubbing. I looked over at a woman two desks away talking to another detective. She was well groomed, wearing a little hat with a tall feather and a two-piece suit with the skirt to the knees. Her shoulders were slightly padded, and she looked as if she had just been outfitted at I. Magnin.
    â€œâ€¦ my ears,” I heard her say and tried to listen to more, but the new guy was looking up at me with less than friendship and a pile of soggy Kleenex he didn’t know what to do with.
    â€œI’ll see,” he said, walking toward the office cubbyhole of Lieutenant Philip Pevsner in the corner. He dropped the Kleenex in a wastebasket, and a black kid about fifteen who was waiting to be interrogated inched away from him.
    I tried to pick up more of the well-groomed woman’s conversation. I thought I caught her saying “Sally Rand” to the cop, who listened patiently, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t have time to hear more. The new cop motioned to me from Pevsner’s doorway, and I moved through the random array of desks and bodies, stepping over feet and past secrets.
    The new guy stood back with a sour look, and I went into the office giving him a raw “Thanks” over my shoulder.
    â€œFriendly guy,” I told Pevsner as the door closed.
    â€œHis name’s Cawelti,” Pevsner said without looking up from the file on the desk. “He did five years uniformed in Venice. He had troubles but he did the job. I like people who get the job done.” Then he looked up at me. I knew the look of mild contempt I would get, but it was mixed with a recent