Free The Judgment by William J. Coughlin Page A

about, pushing their walkers before them.
    I half hoped the Mouse wouldn’t agree to see me. The place made me feel uncomfortable.
    The Whitehall still had a hotel-style desk, but no one was there. I rang a bell and waited.
    “Don’t move.” The voice came from behind me. Expert hands ran up and down my body, searching for a weapon.
    “Okay,” the voice said, “you can move now.”
    I turned and faced a young man dressed in running togs. He looked as out of place among the white-headed residents as a preacher in a house of ill fame. But that didn’t seem to bother him.
    “Charles Sloan,” I said. “I’ve come to talk to Smerka.”
    “I’m Patrolman Jenkins. I saw you in court. How did you find out we were here?”
    “Friends,” I said, echoing Conroy’s explanation.
    “Pretty sharp friends. Do you have a court order, or something from the prosecutor?”
    “No.”
    “Then you can’t see him. Orders,” he added, smiling.
    “You can check with the prosecutor,” I said.
    He paused. “Well, even if I got his okay, maybe the Mouse might have some objections.”
    “Check with him, too.”
    He thought that over. “Okay, I’ll do both. Have a seat over there. I’ll be back.”
    I sat in a high-backed chair, the kind all hotels used to have in their lobbies.
    An old man, wearing two sweaters, limped up. He had an aluminum cane.
    He must have been close to ninety.
    “This is a nice place,” he said.
    “Looks that way.”
    “Food’s not bad. Most of these places load you up with cheese and potatoes, but this place is pretty liberal with meat and chicken. It makes a difference.”
    “I suppose it does.”
    “The women, too.” He cackled. “Lots of ’em, mostly widows and lonely, if you get my drift.”
    I couldn’t help smiling.
    “It’s a little chilly, that’s my only complaint.”
    “I take it you’d recommend it?” I presumed he thought I was looking the place over for a parent or some other relative.
    “Sure would.” He winked at me and leered. “You’ll love it here.”
    Jenkins returned before I got into any other conversations.
    He was smiling. He seemed to be smiling all the time.
    “The prosecutor says you can have five minutes, but one of us has to be present.”
    “Fine by me.”
    “The Mouse didn’t want to talk with you, but finally he said he would. I don’t think he likes you much.”
    “I run into that a lot.”
    Jenkins laughed. “I bet you do.”
    They had the mouse in a suite. I was surprised that the Whitehall still provided such elegant residences.
    He was sitting at a table playing solitaire.
    Jenkins stayed, although two other young policemen left.
    “You got five minutes,” Jenkins said. “Not a second more.”
    “What do you want, Sloan?” the Mouse growled.
    “I want to know why you’re testifying against Conroy. You’ve been lifelong friends.”
    “Because he’s a prick,” he said, placing a card down on one of the stacks. “A crooked prick. He was setting me up. He’s a user, that one. Be careful, Sloan. He’ll use you, too.”
    “Maybe. But why the sudden change after all these years? If he’s a prick and a thief, it sure took you a long time to find that out.”
    “He’s clever,” he said.
    “Do you think he was making you the fall guy for the W-91 Fund?”
    “Sure. If anything went wrong, he’d point at me and say I was the only one handling the money.”
    “When did you realize all this?”
    “Not long ago. I’m a cop, too, and a good one. One morning I woke up and realized what was happening. I was probably the closest friend he ever had, yet here he was putting a noose around my neck if he ever needed it to save his own. He uses people, then throws them away.”
    He laid down another card. “But not this time.”
    “You realize that without you there’s no case.”
    He nodded.
    “Did you go to the prosecutor, or did they come to you?”
    He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not even supposed to be talking to you. But I went to