Chapter 6

My short excursion into the world of behind the scene activities at a Broadway theater was not a complete waste of time because I did discover the first names of the other two seat holders at the game the afternoon before John Doe’s untimely demise.

The hit tune “Whatever Lola Wants, Lola Gets” kept running though my brain housing group like a runaway phonograph on speed and I decided to stop off at the nearest drinking establishment to drown my sorrows in a draft with lots of head.

This one was just off Thirty-ninth Street dangerously close to a fire hydrant but just outside the required distance. My old black jalopy looked out of place surrounded by the shiny post-war models like some relic of the past sitting squat and ugly with one wheel in a deep pot-hole that must have been there a few winters to have gotten that big. This was one of the streets that they had just left the cobblestones in and covered the whole thing with a deep gob of black tar that melted under the hot summer sun like ice cream inside a sugar cone.

Alistair was nice enough to look up the Lynch babe’s address on the “cattle call” contact logs for me and I finished off my ice-cold brew not leaving a single drop at the bottom. I had recognized a few of the patrons as former clients of mine as I attempted to police the area around Broadway in compliance with the new Mayor’s directives.

Maggie Lynch lived in a Jewish area of the Bronx right off the Grand Concourse that seemed to have a competition for supremacy of walkers or baby carriages. Some of the dames pushing the baby carriages didn’t seem old enough to be past the age of consent but the younger generation was doing its best to catch up to the baby boomers already on a fast track into high school. They were like hordes of highly motivated consumers determined to boost the American economy to new heights of production. All this as General Eisenhower was out playing golf somewhere oblivious to the rapid deterioration of the moral culture of the newly hatched fledgling’s traditional values. The transition into the sixties was truly a loss of the age of innocence into the murky depths of drugs, free love and cultural implosion ever thought possible in 1776. I felt like a bystander watching an accident about to happen and not being able to do anything about it. The uncertainty I had about where I stood made me frozen into silence and unsure about my own sense of values because I had definitely gotten the short end of the stick more than once since the day I went through that domestic disturbance door that changed my life in more ways than one.

I parked on one of the side drives on the Concourse just before the stripe on the curb that signaled the “no parking” zone for a bus stop and partially rolled down the driver’s window to keep the heat from building up inside the car. I knew no thief in their right mind would attempt to steal my car because it was ready for the last trip to the junkyard sometime in the very near future.

A pair of oldsters were playing chess in the shade of the rain-starved trees placed by the city to give the impression of something green in the midst of the concrete jungle. They never looked up from the board even when the bus pulled up and discharged a bunch of yelling high school students that scattered like roaches discovered by the “Termite Man”.

I looked at the teenaged girls and felt more like an old man then ever before because the only thought on my mind was that it was inappropriate for the skirts to keep getting shorter every year.

I exited the car not bothering to lock the door in the hopes that someone might steal it and I would at least get the insurance money to put down on something a bit more modern. The heat from the recently tarred street was enough to start a sweat under my color and I was tempted to yank the tie off and let the sultry breeze hit my neck.

I decided it was not a good idea because I needed to look as official as possible in this questioning of young Maggie Lynch because she might have possibly been the last person to talk to the victim before his unfortunate demise.

There was a bleached blonde with chopped off hair messing around with the garbage cans down below the stoop of the entrance. She looked up at me and I saw that she had a nice smile and good teeth that offset the impression of her hairdo. She had tight-fitting blue jeans on her butt that looked really inviting to me but I was on a mission and had to stay focused on my objective just like back in the Army.

The exterior door to the lobby was locked but it had one of those keypad things that you needed to know the combination to in order to get inside.

The broad down below shouted up at me.

“Hold on, I will be up in a second and help you out.”

I figured right away she was either the superintendent or the spouse of the guy that took care of the building.

I relaxed sitting down on the cool slate steps and lit up a Lucky waiting patiently for her to finish her chores down below with the garbage cans.

Less than a minute later, she showed up with her crazy looking chopped hair and sweet smile and asked me,

“Who are you visiting, mister? Don’t believe I have seen you here before.”

It was a fair question under the circumstances, so I broke out my private investigator badge and told her that I was there to talk to Miss Lynch in apartment 313.

“I hope that pretty little thing didn’t get into any trouble.”

I had to smile at the subtle interrogation being conducted by the lady building caretaker.

“Can I bum a smoke from you, Mister Malone?”

“No need for formalities ma’am, please call me Mike like everybody else.”

“Well, Mike, my friends call me Liz, short for Elizabeth.”

“Are you helping out your husband with the building, Liz?”

She puffed on the Lucky Strike before answering,

“My Ralph got the big “C” and ain’t with us any longer.”

I expressed my condolences and she pointed down the alley next to the building and told me,

“I live in the basement apartment all by my lonesome, big guy, and could use the company if you got some time after talking to Maggie.”