When One Man Dies. Dave White

found two mugs behind the counter and blew into them. “Best way to get the dust out,” Gerry used to say. Artie poured some steaming coffee, went digging. Came up with some half and half and sugar. “Nonspecific credible threats.”

      “The government at work. Damn fine as usual.”

      Artie found a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. Poured some into one of the half-full mugs and nodded at me. “Want a nip?”

      I shook my head.

      “Suit yourself.” He pushed my mug toward me.

      “So, you gonna tell me why you spent last night with the Madison cops? Did it have to do with Gerry?” Artie took a sip, flinched, tasting the bitter end of the whiskey.

      I looked around. “Tracy didn’t show up?”

      “She’ll be here.”

      I tapped a rhythm on the bar top. “You really want to know about last night?”

      Artie nodded. I told him about the Hanovers, the body in the carpet, and my interrogation. Then I told him about staying up and drinking scotch with Hanover’s wife. Artie stopped me there.

      “You took another job?”

      “It’s how I make a living.”

      “Fuck that. What about your friend? Your dead friend?”

      “What’s the problem here, Artie?”

      Artie downed the rest of his drink. The bar had a mist to it. The smell of musk and wood chips was thick, and it seemed like they had a physical form as dust motes floated between Artie and me, making his image cloudy.

      “The problem is you spent last night in a police station caught up in a murder investigation. You should be trying to find out what happened to Gerry. Your friend and my friend.”

      I finished my coffee, rested the mug on the bar. “I intend to do both.”

      “Yeah? How do you ‘intend’ to do that?” The words melted from his mouth. “You’ll spend all your time searching for someone who’s missing. Meanwhile your friend is dead, and it doesn’t matter who killed him.”

      “Did you drink before I got here, Artie?”

      “Fuck you. I can be pissed without drinking.” He threw the towel he used to clean the bar at me. “Asshole.”

      I leaned across the bar, grabbed Artie by the shirt, and pulled him close to me. We were nose to nose. “Don’t ever tell me that I don’t care about Gerry. I’ll find out what happened to him. But Bill Martin’s watching my ass and he’ll make it hard for me to do anything. If I’m working two cases, it’ll give me some leeway. Now, Mr. Bartender, maybe you need to lay off the booze.”

      I pushed Artie away from me. He stumbled and then gained his balance. Coughed into his hand and seemed to regain some of his composure. “I remember when I used to have to tell you that,” he said. His words slurred a little, but at least he was thinking straight.

      Behind me, sunlight flooded into the place. I turned to see a woman in the doorway. She moved carefully, as if she was working a crime scene and didn’t want to disturb anything. She crossed the room to the bar and had a seat on the stool next to me. Dropped a copy of the Star-Ledger on the table.

      She gave both of us a tight smile. “I’m interrupting something?” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder. “I can come back.”

      “Nah,” Artie said. “You’re fine. Jackson, you remember Tracy Boland.”

      I said yes. “Cool.”

      “You want anything?” he asked. “This early?”

      “Have something. Make Artie useful.”

      “He speaks,” she said. “How are you, Jackson?”

      “I’ve been better,” I said.

      “Well, you look a lot better than the last time I saw you.”

      Last time she saw me, I was coked out of my mind. So was she. “Thanks,” I said. “Have you started making the arrangements for Gerry?”

      Artie put a cup in front of her. I hoped it wasn’t filled with Jack. “Working on it,” she said. “I’m hoping to have the wake on Wednesday.”

      “Where?”

      “Place on Milltown Road in East Brunswick. What was the name of that home, Artie?”

      Artie laughed. “Why? It’s not like he’ll show up.”

      I kept quiet, let Artie have his moment. Tracy arched her eyebrows at me. I ignored her and flipped the paper open. There was an article about last night’s murder. According to the third paragraph, the dead woman’s name was Diane Peterson.

      Artie must have rethought what he said, because he opened his mouth again. His voice was sullen. “Rinaldi’s Funeral Home.”

      “That’s right. Rinaldi’s. I have an appointment with the funeral director this afternoon,” Tracy said.

      “What time?”

      “Four o’clock.”

      I checked my watch. It was nearing noon. If I headed back to my office to make some phone calls regarding the Hanovers, I could be done in time to give Tracy a ride.

      “Artie, you opening the bar tonight?” He nodded.

      “Cool. Tracy, do you want me to give you a ride to the home?”

      “Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”

      “It’s a date, then,” I said. “Yeah.” She laughed. “A date.”

      “Sounds good. Meet you at Gerry’s quarter after three?”

      “I’ll see you then.”

Chapter 12

      My office was as organized as it could be. There was a filing cabinet with alphabetized copies of the contracts of my former clients pushed into the corner near the window. There were two chairs facing the desk, high wooden backs to the door with the glass window. To the left of the desk, pushed against the far wall was an end table on top of which was the all-important coffeemaker, filters, Styrofoam cups, and sugar. Next to that was a minifridge where I kept cream, milk, and a few beers for special occasions or boredom.

      Early afternoon, sitting behind the desk, I flipped through Hanover’s address book. Best to go in alphabetical order. While dialing I half listened to classic rock on the radio. The first two numbers turned up answering machines, and I left polite messages explaining who had hired me and what I was doing. The police had probably already been to a few of these, if Jen Hanover had given them some of the same information, and if that was the case, I didn’t have to worry about being discreet. If Jen hadn’t given them the numbers, the cops wouldn’t track down these people for a while.

      My guess was the cops would talk to all the bouncers at Hanover’s bar, see what they could come up with. They’d also identify the corpse and talk to the people close to the dead girl. I would do the same thing if I could find out who the girl was. What I wanted was a hit, someone who had talked to Hanover, someone who had seen him just after the murder. It was like building a pyramid or a house, you start with the foundation and keep adding. With any luck, I’d get to the top, finish it off, and end up with Hanover’s location.

      The third call was an actual voice. The address book said Michael Burgess. The voice was gruff, like someone who had spent the morning yelling. The moment I identified myself, he hung up. So much for Mr. Burgess. I’d have to take some time and visit him personally if nothing else clicked. Then again, there was only a phone number in the book. No address.

      I tried four more numbers. All answering machines. That didn’t surprise me. It was midafternoon and most