City of the Dead

»38«

“I can’t do that, Paul.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Are you kidding? They’d fry me alive if they ever found—”

“Oh, cut the crap, Bill. Listen, you owe me a couple, don’t you?”

“Sure. I’m not saying I—”

“Don’t forget that Mendoza business.”

“I’m not, but—”

“I’ve got a whole file on that. Then there’s the Bartholomew job. To a lot of people I know downtown that still stinks out loud. And I’m not forgetting—”

“Okay. Okay, Paul. What the hell do you want exactly? Just spell it out.”

Konig leans back in his chair, puffs deeply on his cigar, then withdraws it and for a moment regards its glowing tip. “Blaylock’s appointment book,” he says very quietly, “for the month of March.”

There’s a pause in which Konig can hear the agitated breathing, the palpable desperation on the other end. Finally it erupts in hissing torrents. “Are you mad? Crazy? He keeps that right on his desk. He’d know in a minute if—”

“You’re an appointments secretary, aren’t you, Bill?”

“Yes. What the hell’s that got to—”

“You keep a log of his appointments, don’t you?”

“A log?”

“Don’t play dumb, Bill. I’m in a rush. I’ve got no time for games. You’re an administrative assistant. No one sees Blaylock without going through you first. Right?”

“Right, but—”

“No buts. So you have a log. Right?”

“Yes, but—”

“Where is it?”

“In my desk drawer.” Ratchett’s voice is now grim, resigned, all the protest leaking out of it.

“Very good. Now, take it out of your drawer.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Paul—I can’t do it now. Let me have twenty-four hours on this. First I’ve got to—”

“Now,” Konig growls into the phone. “If I don’t get the information I want from you this minute, the Mendoza file and the Bartholomew file are going to be tied up in pink ribbon and hand-carried to the District Attorney’s office.” There is complete silence from the other end of the phone. For a moment Konig believes they’ve been disconnected or that Ratchett has hung up. But in the next moment he can hear quite distinctly the slow, rasping sound of a drawer sliding open a few miles south of where he himself is sitting at that moment. Then comes the sound of papers rustling. Then William Ratchett’s agitated breathing back on the horn.

“Okay,” says Konig. “You got it?”

“I got it.”

“Fine. Now open it to the month of March.”

Konig can hear papers flipping quickly.

“Okay,” says Ratchett. “I’m at March. What part of March are you interested in?”

“Linnel Robinson was found dead in his cell on March seventh. He was autopsied here March ninth. I want you to tell me if between the seventh and the ninth Blaylock had a visit from Carl Strang.”

Konig carefully lays the receiver down on his desk and rummages through a protocol while all the choking and gagging come sputtering through the receiver. When the voice seems to have quieted, he slowly lifts the phone again. “Finished now?”

“I can’t, Paul.”

“But you will.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

“Fine,” says Konig, a strange, resolute calm in his voice. “At least you can’t say I didn’t warn you of my intentions.” He starts to put down the phone.

“Paul—wait.”

“Yes?”

“Paul, if I divulge that information they’ll know. They’ll know that kind of thing could only have come from me.”

“Probably.” Konig nods sympathetically. “But you’re a resourceful fellow, Bill. Well versed in the manly art of survival at City Hall. I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone else, some poor duffer, to hang it on.”

“Paul—”

“Goodbye, Bill.”

“Paul, wait.”

“I’m still here, Bill.”

The pages flip again—a rapid, susurrant sound. Then Ratchett’s weary, beaten voice croaks through the receiver. “Strang was here to see Blaylock on the seventh and the eighth of March.”

“Thank you, Bill. That was very helpful.”