Ice Blues

"Could be. And while you're over there, would you mind picking up a few things? I'll leave you a list."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"What did the ME have to report on Lenihan?"
"That is confidential police information."
I flipped a dime onto his desk. "Here-your first bribe."
He actually laughed. And pocketed the dime. "It'll be released to the media today anyway, so what the hell. Lenihan was hit hard at least five times most of the blows from behind-with a blunt object, probably hard metal.
Whatever it was left no residue. He died soon after, in your car, between ten o'clock Tuesday night and one A.M. Wednesday. The forensic indications were that he had not put up much of a struggle, so the second or third hit probably knocked him out. He might've been snuck up on, or maybe the killer was a person he knew and trusted. Since he'd made some attempt to defend himself, it's hard to tell."
"So he was actually dumped in my car while it was still on Crow street."
"Your car wasn't towed until after three. I talked to the crew who hauled it out to Faxon's and they didn't notice anything, but then they wouldn't have, because your windows were all frosted up from what are presumed to have been Lenihan's last breaths. Or maybe when you parked your car that night you let one rip. We didn't analyze the window moisture."
"When had Lenihan last eaten?"
"Dinner that night, it looked like. Some kind of creamed-chicken shit."
"Creamed chickenshit?"
"Creamed chicken."
"What about Lenihan's car? Has it turned up?"
"He didn't own one. His friends say he rode the bus."
"What about my car? Was there anything helpful in it?"
"No prints, if that's what you mean. Just yours, which the state of New York wisely keeps on file. Whoever touched anything wore gloves. These are pros we're dealing with here, Strachey, it is plainly evident."
"Everybody's wearing gloves this month. It's cold out. When can I get my car back?"
"Tomorrow maybe. We'll see."
"Lenihan wore glasses. Have they been found?"
"Nah. They must have been knocked off wherever he got conked."
"Lenihan was away from his apartment over the weekend. Have you been able to track where he went?"
"Not yet. We're talking to his family and the people he knew, but nobody's been very goddamn helpful. There are a couple of them I might have to go back and lean on a little." He wrinkleld his nose as if to try to make it scratch itself.
I said, "This looks like a dopers' execution, doesn't it? Is that the angle you're pursuing?"
"You know what Lenihan's record was. Of course that's what it is. I think you know that, Strachey. I think you know a whole lot more about this than you're letting on, that's what I think."
"Well, you're going to think what you're going to think." I passed him my spare set of house and office keys. "It's 218 Crow Street, and you know where the office is. If you want to use searchlights and bullhorns that's okay, but once you're inside try not to get any fingerprints on the Millie Jackson records. That's all I ask."
He gave me his demented-dunce look. "Just keep yourself available, Strachey. I mean it. I want you at my beck and call."
"I'm always at your beck and call, Ned. Especially your beck. If you need me for anything, just press your lips together and-beck."
"Take care of yourself. You want protection of some kind?"
"Nah, I'm cool."
"You're at the Sheraton?"
"Americana."
"Oh, yeah."
As I went out the door I thought I caught him out of the corner of my eye dunking his nose in the glass of prune juice, but that couldn't have been.
The blue Dodge with two of Bowman's junior dicks in it stayed a block behind me up Pearl. On the snowy roadway I fishtailed into the maze of old colonial streets downhill from the capitol and lost them in ninety seconds.
Back in my room at the Hilton I reread Lenihan's letter, laid it and my notes out on the desk, and studied what I had. I concluded that the people who murdered Jack Lenihan were either very smart or very dumb, were certainly very desperate, and were to be avoided for as long as was necessary, but not a split second longer than that.
 SIX 
I had Timmy on the line.
"Is it okay to go back to the house yet? I'm bored and I need my toothbrush."
"Timothy, you're so easily entertained. No, don't go back there at all. I've arranged to confuse Hankie-mouth, and for the house not to get firebombed, but either of us showing up on Crow Street might still be risky.
Come on over to the Hilton and watch the soaps, pick up a bellhop, brush your teeth, whatever amuses you. Enjoy your day of character-building winter."
"Are you going to be there?"
"I have to go out for a while."
"Maybe I'll take the bus out to Macy's and shop around for a few things.
When are you getting your car back?"
"Tomorrow, I think, but I wouldn't drive either yours or mine around Albany for a few days. I'm picking up a rental and maybe you should too."
"Don, this is getting expensive. Who's going to finance all this anyway?
Your sort-of-client is dead, and I'm willing to bet you're not in his will."
"US bank notes are going to turn up soon. I can feel them getting closer and closer. Money is not going to be the problem, I think."
"What is?"
"Keeping it."
"But it's not yours. This has been pointed out."
"It's Jack Lenihan's money and should be disposed of as he would have liked."
"Except he obviously stole it from God-knows-who, and anyway you don't know what he would have liked. What he would have liked died with him."
"I don't think so."
"What do you know that you're not telling me? Spit it out."
"Not much. I'll know more by the end of the day-I thmk."
"Well, I'm going out to charge some underwear and socks and find something to read."
"You aren't enjoying Nanook?" He hung up.
I reached Warren Slonski at Schenectady General Electric and set up a meeting with him. He also provided me with the name and address of Jack Lenihan's sister in the North End. I phoned my service and was informed that the three pols who had tried to reach me earlier had been calling repeatedly and were becoming a nuisance. I left instructions on when and where they could meet me that evening.
Hankie-mouth had phoned, the service operator told me, but had declined to leave a number. I said if he called again to tell him yes, okay, I'd meet him that night at midnight at Clinton and Pearl. One other message had been left for me. The Greyhound station had called to notify me that my bags had arrived from Los Angeles and I could pick them up anytime. I rented a Hertz car and drove it south just four blocks.
The Greyhound station was the usual winter wonderland of wet footprints, cold drafts, college kids with backpacks, bag ladies dozing, and garbled announcements-"Bah number ploot now boarding at gay nake for Nansimer, Bumppo, Pootiton and Garkfark"-causing travelers throughout the waiting room to crane their necks and squint at the disembodied sounds futilely.
I showed my driver's license as an ID to the clerk at the freight window, and he called for a young lackey who trundled out five good-sized suitcases.