Goodey's Last Stand: A Hard Boiled Mystery (Joe Goodey) Read Free Page A

divorce. She’d been back in New York with her family for almost a year now. I’d long ago packed everything that was hers, including the wedding pho tographs and an ashtray full of her cigarette butts, and shipped it— collect—to her. That was last winter, right after my flying trip to New York had been such a disaster. After I’d harangued her for days, Pat had gone into hiding. Her father, the very rich Solomon Berkowitz— who for reasons I can’t fathom likes to be called Sonny—had seen that I was put on the plane back here by two polite but very determined plainclothes cops. They didn’t want to believe that I, too, was a detective. Once I’d convinced them, they’d been very sympathetic. But they’d still put me on the plane.
    “I can t do it, Chub,” I told him. “I’ve got too much on my mind right now to deal with such small matters. It looks as though I’m going to have a lot of time to do some heavy thinking. Maybe I’ll come to the conclusion that Pat can have her divorce and marry that jerk.” On going back to New York, Pat, who was calling herself Pat Berkowitz again, had taken a job with a big advertising agency. Now it seemed that she wanted to marry some up-and-coming vice president of the agency. The one I’d tried to punch in the mouth last January.
    “Where are you going, Joe?”
    “I don’t know exactly. South. Somebody I know recommends Mexico highly. I’ll lie on the beach and get tan.”
    “That sounds expensive,” he said. “How are you going to manage it? You’re not exactly flush these days.”
    “No,” I agreed. “How much have I got in the bank, exactly?” Chub peeked into a small black-leather notebook. “$142.76 in the checking and $760.09 in the savings account. That’s not very much to go on, and I assume you’re not going to have your police salary anymore.”
    “I’ve got a week and a half’s pay coming,” I said.
    “Okay, but that’s still only a little over a thousand dollars altogether. Look Joe, I’m sure that Mr. Berkowitz would authorize a loan—a substantial loan—if…”
    “If is right,” I said, finishing my second cup of coffee. “Sonny Berkowitz would be glad to lend me a finger if he was sure of get ting an arm back. No deal. No divorce. I’ll get along somehow.” I wished I could believe that myself. “Look, I’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
    “Do you mind if I make a telephone call?” Kroll asked.
    “Go ahead,” I said. “I’ll be packing.”
    As I walked toward the bedroom, I heard him begin: “Hello, Op erator, I want to make a credit-card call to New York City…”
    I was barely back in the bedroom when the doorbell gave two raspy bleats. Chub was still murmuring into the mouthpiece when I opened the door and found myself looking at a spot just over the head of a neatly dressed Chinese in his early twenties. The blue wool suit was sincere, and the white shirt front and collar were practically blinding. A black knit tie was transfixed by a tiny gold crucifix. His smooth, oval face was pleasant, even if the mouth hinted of primness.
    “You’re the nephew.”
    “That’s right, Mr. Goodey,” he said, holding out a short-fingered hand. “My name is Gabriel Fong. May I come in?”
    I gave him what I hoped passed for a welcoming handshake and stepped backward into the living room.
    “Sure. Have a look around.”
    I had a look around myself and suddenly realized just how bare and anonymous the place was without Pat’s things. It could have been a rather shabby hotel room.
    Just then Kroll stopped talking and put his hand over the receiver. “Joe,” he said, “could you spare a moment? Mr. Berkowitz would like to speak to you.”
    “No,” I said, feeling surly, “I’ve got to get packed and out of the city”—I looked at my watch—“in less than an hour. Tell Sonny I’ll write him a letter—with a bomb in it.”
    Kroll held the receiver up in front of him in an imploring gesture. His small,