Free Nice Place for a Murder by Bruce Jay Bloom Page A

out of the roll, his mouth stuffed with lobster salad. “I never get tired of these,” he said, “especially when you’re buying.” He wiped his hands on a paper napkin and extracted slaw from its cup with a fork. “So? Que pasa? Now you know who he is and where he lives, you could just wait till he shows up and grab him, shoot him, whatever.”
    I finished the remains of the clam chowder that was my lunch, tilting the bowl to get the last spoonful. “Maybe. Or maybe he won’t show up there anymore.”
    “The guy is a bayman. All he has in his miserable life is his shack and his boat. Can’t believe he’d just walk away from all he owns,” Wally said.
    “He has a truck, too, don’t forget. Guy like that, he could go anyplace, live anyplace. Live in his truck, if he had to. He knows I’m looking for him. And that I have a gun.”
    “Yeah, but he doesn’t know Lulu Lumpkin fingered him. And he still thinks you’re looking for a boat called Lulu.” Wally dispatched the last of his lobster roll, then raised his hand to summon our waitress away from the handsome bus boy she had cornered nearby. “A slice of that chocolate mud pie, and another iced tea,” he told her. Then to me, “You want dessert?”
    “No, but it’s thoughtful of you to ask,” I said. The waitress departed for the kitchen. “Look, Sosenko is plugged in out here. He could find out what we’ve learned. Don’t forget, Lulu knows, the fat lady at the bar knows. And the guy with the crutches, he knows, too.”
    “You think Sosenko’s smart enough to get the picture? People seem to detest him so much, they might not volunteer to tell him anything.” Wally said. “He could go back home figuring he’s OK there.”
    “But you just know there’s going to be a buzz about us poking around, asking questions. These low-lifes, they know each other, talk to each other,” I said. ”My guess is Sosenko knows how to make people talk, even if they’d rather not. Anyway, he may have a reason for what he’s doing that’s bigger than a shack and an old boat.”
    “Like what?”
    “I don’t know yet. Something.” I took out my cell phone. “I have to call Hector Alzarez.”
    “The guy who asked for you to go to Shelter?”
    I nodded. I dialed and waited. By the time I had Hector on the other end, Wally’s dessert and iced tea appeared. I watched him eye the chocolate concoction for a moment, anticipating the lusciousness of it all. It was almost with a sense of reverence, eyes closed, that he finally took a bite. It was worth paying for the pie just to watch him eat it.
    “Lisa Harper tell you about last night, about the shooting?” I said into the phone.
    “She told me. Awful story. You were right. Something major is going on,” Hector said. “Lisa told me you weren’t sure whether the shooter was after her or you,”
    “I still don’t know. But I found out who he is. And I’m sure he’s the same one killed Newalis.” Hector listened in silence as I gave him the whole story. “So I know the who, and the how, but not the why. Could be there’s a connection of some kind with Julian Communications. Let’s give it a shot. Run the name Sosenko through your computer, all your databases. Customers, employees, suppliers, wherever there are lists of names. He’s called Hick, but I can’t believe that’s a real name. Just try Sosenko.”
    “I’ll have that done right now,” Hector said. There was a pause that told me he was about to get into something awkward. “Look, I hate to ask you to do this.” Another pause.
    “But you’re not going to let that stand in your way,” I said.
    “I need you to come to New York. I know you’re trying to put the city behind you, but Arthur Brody wants to talk to you. In person, not over the phone,” Hector said. “I tried to keep him out of it. I’m not comfortable dealing with Ingo on one hand and Brody on the other. Not the way things are between them. But the news about Newalis is