Harry Lipkin, Private Eye Read online

  Reception answered at once. I learned that Diego began his shift at eight. He would work until two in the morning with a half hour break at around eleven. I made a note of it.

  Milton came back and placed my order in front of me.

  “Did you hear about Benny Rosen?” he asked as I took a bite into a fresh strawberry. The fruit was sweet. Fat and full of juice.

  “I should have heard something?” I said.

  Milton made a face. A face like I should have heard.

  “He is redecorating his store.”

  “I never knew.”

  “He put a sign in the window.”

  I sipped tea.

  “So?”

  “ ‘Business Bad as Usual During Alterations.’ ”

  “Benny all over,” I said.

  Someone called to Milton from the counter for an ice cream soda. I paid my tab, wished Milton mazel tov, and headed off for the Four Aces Casino.

  I took my time. I had plenty. Eight o’clock was still way off.

  I drove with the top down and let the fresh air get to my face. With a cooling wind and the calm light of a Florida nightfall, it felt good to be working. Who else works at eighty-seven? From choice. Not working to pay for a prostate operation or your brother-in-law’s funeral. Give up? I’ll tell you. A Supreme Court judge. An orchestra conductor. A Jewish comedian. And Harry Lipkin.

  I drove steadily and fiddled around with the radio for some music to fit my mood.

  I found Benny Goodman. His trio from the thirties. “China Boy.” Fast as a Ferrari and crisp as a new deck of cards. Piano. Drums and clarinet. They made history. Whites and blacks appearing on the same stage. Teddy Wilson. Gene Krupa and Benny on the stick. Correction. Two Jews and a black. I tapped my finger on the rim of the steering wheel and I thought about my life back then. Not a worry in the world. I drank a little. I shot craps. I met dames with big smiles and no plans for the future. Then came Hitler. I joined the Marines. Hitler’s show closed and they put me on a troop ship home. After a year looking for work I got a job with the Miami Police Department. After three years I’d had enough of shift work and routine. I quit being a cop and took out a Private Investigator’s license. It’s been one hell of a game. And the hundred-dollar bill in my pocket said I was still in it.

  The flashing candy pink and lemon neon sign for the Four Aces was right ahead of me. I nosed the Chevy along the narrow well-kept drive that led to the parking lot and got out. I took in a lungful of the evening air and coughed it back out and let my feet carry me to the staff entrance. It was eight on the dot. Time to meet Diego Lopez.

  · THIRTEEN ·

  Harry Meets Diego Lopez

  The security guard was one up from sumo size in a brown uniform with a yellow and red company badge in the shape of a shield sewn onto the left breast pocket. He wore dark glasses to cover his eyes, a peaked cap to cover his head, and a .44 Magnum in a holster on a strap to keep the top of his pants from bursting.

  I held my license under his nose.

  “I made an appointment,” I said. “To see Diego Lopez.”

  He didn’t read my ID. Or get up from his seat. He just waved his hand like it was the toughest job he’d had all day.

  “Last door on your right, bud,” he mumbled. “It says, no entry, keep out, private, staff only.”

  I put my license back in my pocket and went to the door as directed. I gave a polite knock and pushed it open.

  The room was brightly lit with a row of lockers on one side and a mirror running the length of the wall on the other. Under the mirror was a tabletop. The kind you see in theater dressing rooms. About thirty men were getting ready for work. Grooming their hair and fixing their bow ties. Most were young Hispanics. Young men with charming smiles and gentle manners. They all had their name, photo, and signature on a plastic card fixed to a ribbon round their neck. I looked for one that said Diego Lopez.

  Maria’s older brother was at the far end of the room trimming a thick black mustache. I sat on an empty stool beside him.

  “I am Harry Lipkin,” I said. “I need a few minutes of your time.”

  He snipped a couple of hairs.

  “A few minutes is all I got,” he said. “I’m due on the floor.”

  “It’s about a theft,” I told him. “At the house where your sister works.”

  He put the scissors down and picked up a bottle of aftershave.

  “I never been there.”

  “Your sister sends money home,” I said. “She says your father is sick and your older sister is looking after him.”

  Diego Lopez rubbed limes and spices onto his skin.

  “We both send money home,” he said.

  “And your brother, Manuel?” I asked.

  “What about him?”

  “Does he send money home?”

  Diego Lopez stood up and got into a black vest decorated with gold and red aces.

  “My brother is awaiting trial,” he said. “Auto theft. Five counts.”

  “No kidding,” I said and took out my notebook. “Care to flesh it out some?”

  “You know the cost of bail,” Lopez said. “Figure it out yourself.”

  I wrote it down. All of it. In big letters.

  “How long before he stands trial?”

  Maria’s brother ran a comb through his thick hair.

  “Next week. Next year. They don’t say.”

  Men dressed for work were already heading for the door that led to the casino’s gambling deck. I checked my watch.

  “And Maria,” I said. “Anything else you think I should know?”

  He came close and stared at me with hard black eyes.

  “Forget all about my sister,” he said. “Or you might end up in a lot of trouble.”

  “Is that a threat, Mr. Lopez?” I asked.

  “Friendly advice,” he replied and slipped a pair of silver bands over his shirt sleeves.

  His arms were short and thickset. No fat. Just muscle. His build was flyweight. Some men get soft and flabby spending their nights dealing cards and spinning roulette wheels. Most men. But not Diego Lopez. He was a man whose advice would be worth listening to.

  Outside the casino the security guard was eating a pizza as big as a circus ring. The empty box was on the floor. Next to it were three others. I climbed back into my Chevy and drove through the indigo dusk back to Warmheart. Cruising along the highway I thought about Maria the maid and Diego the card dealer. I had them as a couple of honest hardworking Bolivians. Full of heart and good intentions. But a bad brother might just change that. It wasn’t time to put a pencil line through the name of Maria Lopez.

  Not yet.

  · FOURTEEN ·

  Harry Gets Some More Messages

  It was after eleven when I got back to Samuel Gompers Avenue. I put the Chevy back in the garage and entered the house through the front door. On the way to the kitchen I noticed that the red light was blinking on my answering machine in the office. I let it blink. I was hungry. I heated a can of chicken soup and poured it into a bowl. Then I took it into the office and checked my calls while eating.

  There were three calls. The first was the message from Mrs. Weinberger. The one I’d heard earlier. The second was also from Mrs. Weinberger. Another expensive piece of jewelry had been stolen.

  “From under my very nose. A diamond-encrusted gold brooch that my late husband gave me. It was a birthday present. From Van Cleef and Arpels. In the shape of a lotus leaf. The most wonderful piece of jewelry you have ever seen. Taken from me like the jade I called about this morning that you never called me back about. Are you ill that you can’t answer the phone? Has something happened to you? God forbid. Please, Mr. Lipkin. Call me as soon as you get this message.”

  I looked at my watch. Too late again. I gulped some soup. Not bad for a can. Nice and salty. Not too many hard bits. Dentures do so hate hard bits.

  I pressed the button for the third message. It was from Eddie Berkowitz.

  “News
, Harry. Barney Bates dropped by the gym an hour after you left. He saw Rufus Davenport fight in South Florida. A month ago. But the name he boxed under was Frank Dunlop. He said that he hit hard and hit the target. It bothered him. The man in the ring had class and with class he should have a reputation. Yet Barney had never heard of Frank Dunlop until that night. After the fight he spoke to the promoter over a beer. That’s how he found out. The promoter let it slip. Frank Dunlop is Rufus Davenport. One and the same.”

  I wrote it all down. But why the alias? Eddie was right. Boxers crave fame as well as a purse. I could think of only one reason. Rufus didn’t want it to get around that he boxed and drove for Mrs. Weinberger. Fighting has a bad reputation. Chauffeuring doesn’t.

  I took my empty soup bowl into the kitchen and put it in the sink. It was a very old Lithuanian china soup bowl that had once belonged to my Great-Aunt Mimi. It was white with blue figures in national dress dancing in the middle and flowers round the rim. There had been six bowls once. This was the last. I washed it carefully and placed it to drain.

  It was time to sleep. But first I took my notebook from my jacket pocket and went back into the office. I sat at my desk, looked at what I had so far and the schedule I had planned for the next few days. I’d talk to Oscar Letto to check out Mr. Lee. Oscar had spent his life at Gulfstream. First, feeding ponies. Then riding them and now training them.

  As for Amos and his New Jerusalem, Rabbi Katz might know something. I’d call him.

  Steve was the easy one. Any dope dealer within a mile of Mr. Weinberger’s garden would give me a lead.

  News that Rufus Davenport was on the level meant his name was getting close to dropping off the list. But only close. Boxing is no guarantee of an extra payday. Not like the price of an antique carved-jade bracelet. For the time being he’d keep his place with the others.

  I’d just turned off the desk light when the phone rang. Outside my office window the full moon was sitting on a palm tree and turned the light in my room pure silver.

  I picked up the receiver.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Weinberger.”

  There was a pause.

  “How did you know it’s me?”

  “I got a sixth sense. You can’t do my job without it.”

  “Why didn’t you call me? I left two messages.”

  “I thought you might be in bed already.”

  “I am in bed already. I’ve been in bed for two hours.”

  “You can’t sleep?”

  “Yes. I can’t sleep. The thought that a person in this house is stealing my precious belongings …”

  She sobbed.

  “Someone I employ and trust, Mr. Lipkin. It is horrible. Horrible.”

  She sobbed some more.

  “Mr. Lipkin, have you any idea who is doing this to me? Any idea at all?”

  “Sure. I got lots of ideas, but that’s all they are. I got nothing solid. Not yet. In a few more days I’ll have a clearer picture.”

  “Please hurry. It is making me feel so vulnerable. No one here to comfort me. Knowing the person I turn to might well be the thief.”

  “The fact that he or she has stolen from you again this evening narrows the field.”

  Mrs. Weinberger blew her nose.

  “Cold comfort, Mr. Lipkin.”

  “I will call as soon as I make some headway. Rest assured. We’ll nail them.”

  There was a long silence. I could hear a clock close to her strike twelve.

  “Thank you for being so understanding, Mr. Lipkin. You are a real gentleman if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “I don’t mind you saying.”

  She gave a small laugh. Maybe to reassure herself. Maybe for some other reason. It was the kind of laugh she would have given someone when she looked like Doris Day with dark hair. She’d give it to someone she was maybe fond of.

  We both said good night.

  Then I hung up and went to bed. Sleep took no time at all.

  · FIFTEEN ·

  Harry Meets Oscar Letto

  Around two in the morning it started to rain. With most of the roof tiles that covered my bedroom on the grass in my yard it didn’t take long for water to drop from the ceiling. It wasn’t Niagara Falls but it was enough to force me out of bed. I grabbed some bedding and headed for the living room couch. So far the rain hadn’t made it to the living room.

  A couch. Any couch. Even a couch that cost a thousand dollars from Bergdorf Goodman is not a place for an old man to sleep. Read a book maybe. Watch TV. Pet a dog. But not sleep. Old feet get cold quick and covers on a couch never stay covers for long. They somehow climb up your legs and expose your feet. Your feet freeze. Most of the time the covers just fall onto the floor. Then you freeze all over.

  When the clock said four I finally quit trying to sleep. I decided to drive down to Gulfstream instead. I took a shower and got dressed. Then I made some black coffee and drank it with a toasted waffle covered in cream cheese. It was six o’clock. I called Oscar and told him I was on my way over to see him. I said I needed information about a butler called Lee. He told me he’d be waiting once he was through giving Sadie’s Sweetheart a workout.

  Oscar trained Thoroughbreds. Sadie’s Sweetheart was the latest in a long line. She was class. Six listed races. Six straight wins. He named the filly after his mother. Sadie Letto. Good stock was how Oscar described his mother. A woman well bred.

  It took an hour from Warmheart to Letto’s Stables. Most days it’s more but that early the traffic was light. From the highway I drove along the narrow road that ran through the meadows surrounding ten miles of open land overlooking the ocean. Some days Oscar would take his horses to the beach and train them on the sand. A lot of people would go and watch. Other trainers. Interested parties who were aiming to copy his methods. They looked and hoped to learn. But no matter how hard they tried they never came close. And high-class horse traders who couldn’t copy Oscar tried to buy him. He got offers from all over. The Saudis. The Irish. The Brits. The French. Every breeder with a stable full of Thoroughbred nags wanted him. Oscar got more offers from royal families through his mailbox than I got handbills from the Chinese carryout. But all they got back was a no thanks but thanks for asking. Oscar Letto was a Miami boy. All four foot nine of him. Happy with what he had.

  I parked in the lot in front of the main stables and looked around for a horse. If there was a horse there was a good chance Oscar would be sitting on it. I found him in the time it takes to stub your toe in the dark.

  “Good to see you, Harry,” Oscar called down from the saddle.

  “Likewise,” I shouted back.

  He was in one of his famous outfits. The kind that earned him the name Dandy back in the days he rode professionally. Pink silk top. Purple breeches. Orange hat with lemon-yellow polka dots. Your wouldn’t miss Oscar Letto dressed to whip a nag round a track. Not unless he was standing behind a bar stool.

  “Give me a couple of minutes,” Oscar said. “First off. I need to put Sadie in a blanket. She cools down too fast for her own good. You want to tag on my tail?”

  I got out of the Chevy and followed him to a row of stables where a girl in blue denims and rubber boots was waiting. She had red hair cut short and plenty of freckles. Her eyes were sea green. Oscar climbed down and gave her his mount.

  “Sally,” he said and nodded in my direction. “My old pal, Harry Lipkin.”

  Sally smiled. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Her smile was enough.

  Oscar rubbed a hand over the filly’s flank and looked at the frothy sweat his fingers picked up.

  “Check her shoes,” Oscar told the girl. “She eased up a mile out.”

  Sally led Sadie’s Sweetheart into a stall with a star painted in gold above the open doors. Oscar looked at the sky. Sniffed the air. There was a rumble of thunder somewhere close. Out at sea. Somewhere over Biscayne.

  “Rain on the way,” he said. “Let’s talk in my office.”

  It was a big room wi
th a view overlooking the stone cobbled yard and two rows of stables. The decor didn’t get much beyond a full-size oil painting of Oscar on a horse.

  We both found a place to sit. I took the sofa. Oscar sank back into his black leather desk chair.

  “You mentioned a butler earlier,” he said. “A man called Lee.”

  “An Asian. Chinese. Speaks like an Englishman.”

  “Your client?”

  “He’s employed by my client,” I replied. “When Mr. Lee isn’t on duty he spends his time at Gulfstream.”

  Oscar folded his arms. “That’s not a crime, Harry.”

  “No,” I said. “But theft is. Someone is stealing from my client and almost certainly selling the goods for cash. My guess is they need it to feed some kind of habit. Or pay for some kind of hobby. Lee is a suspect. He told me he makes gambling pay. I need your help to prove it’s true. And if it is, how much he makes.”

  Oscar Letto thought about it.

  “Ten thousand to win a thousand. That’s how a pro operates, Harry. To make a lot of money, Mr. Lee would first need to have a lot of money.”

  I took out my notebook. But I didn’t make a note. I let Oscar carry on talking. He might just say something new.

  “Couldn’t he have been born lucky?” I asked. “Like you get born to sing like Perry Como? Or have eyes like Ava Gardner?”

  He shook his head.

  “Gambling is a job, Harry. You know it. I know it. A pro only bets on information. And pros pay for it. They pay plenty.”

  “Then Mr. Lee has someone on the inside?”

  “A punter wins on one race in twenty,” he said. “The Racing Commission publishes the figures once a year. But an average is an average. Punters can go years without a break. Take it from me, Harry. To make his trips to the track pay, the butler has to have information. And it will be hot and expensive. There’s no other way.”