Ice Blues

"It sounds like an eye-opening way to spend an evening, but I'm afraid Timmy would become disillusioned and never watch Undertaker Uggams again. There's nobody from Masterpiece Theatre out here acting like that, I hope."
"Oh, sure. Even Wall Street Week in Review. Especially Wall Street Week in
Review."
"Don't tell me, I don't want to know."
"Travel is sometimes unavoidably broadening," Toot said.
Timmy looked glum. "I'd really like to get a glimpse of it. Just once. My life in Albany is so glitzless."
"I thought you preferred it that way. Quiet evenings by the picture of the fire, building snowmen in the park on a Sunday afternoon."
"I just want to see it, that's all. So I can go home feeling morally superior."
"You can't manage that on your own? You live in Albany, for chrissakes.
And, of course, you've got me for that too."
"Would you mind a whole lot if I stayed over until Sunday? I could be back home early Sunday night. You won't need me for anything, will you?"
"Well, naturally I'll need you for something. I always need you for something."
"You're envious. You want to stay too."
"There is that, yes."
"Kyle was telling me about this good production he heard about of Krapp's
Last Tape at a storefront Chicano Theater in East LA. I'd like to go with him to see it."
"Hispanic Beckett? You once told me you didn't even like it when Pearl Bailey went into Hello, Dolly! You said there wouldn't have been any black Jews in Yonkers in 1912. You're the most neurotically purist theatergoer I've ever known."
"Well, I'm in LA now, where the biggest service industry after movie-making, drug pushing and prostitution is the human-potential movement.
Come on, Don, give me a break. It's no big deal for us to be out of each other's company for a couple of days. We've done it before. We're friends and lovers, not Siamese twins."
"He can stay at my place," Toot said, "and I'll be careful to keep him out of harm's way. I'll keep him on the sidelines as it boogies by."
I was a little worried about Timmy showing up in the barrio in the company of a man wearing a lavender T-shirt that said BORN TO RAISE ORCHIDS, but if that's what he wanted to do, who was I to keep him from widening his cultural horizons? The main truth was, I just wanted him with me for the next few days back in Albany. The more I thought about it, the more Joan Lenihan's story of unnamed dope dealers losing two and a half million in cash-actually three and a quarter million-to Jack Lenihan, and then fumbling and bumbling around trying to get it back, sounded screwy. There were too many holes in it, too much that was only shakily and superficially plausible. Still, I didn't know who or what I would run into back in Albany, and I was apprehensive-scared-and would have liked Timmy nearby. If I had told him that, he would have come with me without a second thought.
Out of habit and dumb pride, I didn't say it.
I said, "I'm deeply envious, but it's up to you. You'd just better have some good stories to dine out on when you get back."
He grinned. "You mean I can relax and have fun without worrying that you're being a pain in the neck about it?"
"I'm not your mother, am I? And you're well past fourteen. God knows."
"Look, be careful back there. If you get the urge to do anything foolhardy, call me first."
"Right. Dial-a-Jesuit."
"And don't mess with any dopers, okay? When you find out what the story is-and I don't doubt that you will-pass the damned information on to the cops, will you? The two and a half million is lost now anyway. It's evidence in a criminal proceeding. It properly belongs to the state of New York."
"Sure. If that's the way it works out, sure. You know me, Timothy. I may use poor judgment from time to time, but I am not a crook."
Time was running out, so I got him packing his shopping bag while I placed my calls. I tracked down my LA investigator friend at home and asked him to come up with a list of toll calls made from Joan Lenihan's number from Tuesday, the day my earlier list ended, up to the present time. He said he couldn't do it that night at all, that it would be tough on a Saturday, that it would cost me, but he'd see what he could do in the morning. I said I'd check back with him at noon on Saturday LA time.
I phoned my service in Albany and was told that there had been no calls for me from Hankie-mouth or anyone else. That could have meant that Joan Lenihan had quieted Hankie-mouth by assuring him of the money's imminent safe return to him, or it could have meant something else. I was unable to figure out what.
Finally I phoned the airline and made reservations for Timmy, LA to Albany, on Sunday afternoon, and for me, LA to JFK, where we'd left a rental car, at 10:15 that night.
Ten minutes later I bade farewell to the Golden Grapefruit. Timmy and Kyle watched me stuff my face at a taco joint on Wilshire before I drove them over to Funston Lane.
A big Buick with a rental agency insignia was parked in front of Toot's little house, and Ned Bowman was standing on the lawnlet peering in a front window.
I cruised on by, parked down the block, and explained to Toot who was waiting for him. "Tell Bowman about Jack's using Al as a conduit to launder the two and a half million. He'll check up on Piatek's financial situation and figure it out anyway. But don't tell him more than that-Joan Lenihan's story about dopers, or anything else that came from her. She wants it that way for her own reasons, which are still unclear to me, but she doesn't need Bowman going at her with a rubber hose right now. He'll probably recognize Timmy and deduce that I'm in LA, but don't tell him I've gone back to Albany. Tell him-tell him I've driven down to check out a lead in the mountains of central Mexico."
Timmy said, "He'll never believe that."
Toot had a better idea. "I'll tell him you'll be showing up later at the Compost Heap and maybe he'd like to meet us there."
I said I thought that was a lovely idea and I was almost tempted to hang around just to watch Bowman's face when he walked in and realized there were places that made Albany's Central Avenue look like an evening in Patagonia? Not that, I guessed.
 FOURTEEN 
The DC-10 toured the storm-cloud layer above Long Island for an hour and twenty minutes before we banged down an electronic chute and onto the snowy runway. The Kennedy terminal buildings were not visible through the blizzard, though after a while the pilot found them. I had hoped to be back in Albany by ten Saturday morning, but by the time I'd crawled up the snow-clogged Thruway and fishtailed down the exit ramp, it was after noon. I drove directly to the Air Freight office at Albany County Airport.
"I have some bags coming in from LA. They were shipped from there late yesterday afternoon. Any idea when they might arrive?"
"They should have gone out first thing this morning, but they'd be coming through O'Hare, and it's closed. Chicago's completely socked in, so I don't know what to tell you. Tonight, tomorrow morning-it's hard to say. It's touch and go anyway. We might be shutting down ourselves. Why don't you leave your name and somebody can give you a call when the stuff comes in?"
"No, that's okay, I won't be near a phone, but I'll check back later."
"Were the bags for delivery or pickup here?"
Mumble, mumble.
"I beg your pardon, sir?" He was squinting so he could hear me better, but by then I had turned and sped off. So, now what?