The death of Jimmy Cage closed the Carson's case as far as Chief Connor was
concerned. Not so Detective Hutchinson, who had one last point to clear up
on his personal agenda.
"This isn't over yet, Starsk." Hutch broached the subject the next morning. "Not until we take LeRoy Simpson out of the game too."
Starsky, who had quaffed rather more than his share of Scotch the night before, was more than ready to take his hangover out on somebody. "That bum's been working the girls for two years now and nobody's been able to pin anything on him yet," he sneered, "And now you wanna give it a try... ooh, my head." He dropped his face onto his crossed arms, giving up the attempt to start a quarrel. It just wasn't worth the trouble this morning. And beside, Hutch had that look on his face which meant that argument was useless anyway. Simpson was going to take a fail, with or without Starsky's help. He turned his head peeking up at his friend through one bloodshot eye. "All right, all right," he groaned, "Whadda'ya want to do about him?"
"I'm not sure." Hutch frowned. "What do we know about this guy?" He perched on the edge of Starsky*s desk, directing the question to the top of the bowed, curly head. "We know he's got a quick temper, likes to beat up on his girls."
"But none of them are going to testify against him," Starsky's muffled voice came back. "They're all too scared."
"Yeah. And the creep's been too slick to let us catch him collecting from them." Hutch thought again. "File says he got busted for trying to fence stolen property five years ago. No evidence he still does that, though." Save for a muffled grunt, there was no answer to that. Hutch went on thinking out loud. "That only leaves the drugs."
Starsky looked up at that. "Drugs?"
"Neil thinks Simpson's been dealing drugs on the side. He's never been caught with anything."
Starsky considered this, went to shake his head, then though better of it. He sank his head back down onto his arms, though angled so he could see his friend. "We'd have to catch him dealing quantity to put him away for any length of time, and he's not stupid enough to sell to one of us."
"We need someone else to make the buy then."
"But who? Simpson was born and raised here. He'd know anyone in town working with..." He broke off, a sly grin lighting his face. "Or maybe I do. Listen up. Hutch, I think I know a way to nail Simpson's mangy hide right to the wall..."
***
The sleek sportscar was parked in the same spot outside the tavern that it had occupied for the past three weeks. Passersby invariably paused to admire its sleek lines and racy contour. Such a car was an unusual sight here in the Bowery section, at least during early hours. Mostly the tourists kept to themselves in the ski resort area, rarely venturing into the poorer sections except at night, and then furtively, in search of a thrill or a woman. Here in the twilight of early evening the car attracted a great deal of attention from the inhabitants of the Bowery - and its driver no less so.
The driver would come every evening - a tall black man of indeterminate age, expensively dressed if a trifle outlandishly. He would visit several bars during the day, but usually ending up here at Bellfriar's Bar, where he would spend the rest of the evening drinking beer, eating candy bars, playing pool or talking to Tandy when she was between tricks.
Tandy had made sure to drum up an acquaintance with the well-dressed Afro- American the first time the man had pulled out his wallet. The roll of bills had nearly caused Tandy's eyes to pop out of her head - obviously money was no problem here. She made it a point to cozy up a bit. There was something quite irresistible about a full wallet, after all.
The black man responded to Tandy's charms with enthusiasm. They began to spend more and more time together, and could often be seen talking tete-a- tete in a dark corner or sometimes disappearing together for hours at a time. Tandy and the man - Abdul, by name - soon became quite an item among those in the Bowery interested in such things.
Usually the man was a pleasant, amiable sort, a bit high-strung perhaps, but in control. He made Tandy laugh, being supplied with an inexhaustible source of one-liners and anecdotes about any subject she could name. He was a gentle and considerate lover as well, giving Tandy as much pleasure as she gave him. Tandy almost regretted charging him. Almost.
Occasionally, however, his mood would switch. Abdul would become nervous, almost explosive in nature. At such times Tandy would remain very quiet, allowing the man to take his ill humor on anyone unfortunate enough to cross him.
Not being unacquainted with the ways of the streets, Tandy put two and two together without problem. One day, about three weeks after meeting him, Tandy brought the subject up over her fifth gin and tonic. "You know, Abdul, I like you."
"Oh, yeah?" The black crumpled up a candy wrapper and dropped it to the floor. It made a dull crinkling sound when it hit. "Well, I like you too, sweetie."
"No, I mean I really like you." The room was a bit blurry tonight. Business had been slow and Tandy had spent the last hour and a half drinking with Abdul.
"That's nice." The man reached for his beer with one hand and a cigarette with the other. "I'm sure that makes my week."
Smoke from his cigarette drifted across the table, tickling Tandy's nose. She sniffed. "Are... you angry with... with..." She sneezed explosively. "Excuse me. Are you angry with me?"
Abdul transferred his cigarette to the other hand, then stubbed it out with a sigh. "No, baby, I ain't angry with you. It's just... kind'a personal, ya know?"
Tandy moved her chair a little closer and ran one finger down the man's slender arm. "Maybe... I can help."
"Don't need that kind of help right now, babe."
"I didn't mean that!" she giggled. "I mean, I really can help."
The black regarded her narrowly. "Why don't you spell it out?"
Tandy stroked the man's chest lightly, forcing herself not to pause at the bulging wallet in his breast pocket. "It's not like a person can't tell you're... needing something." She smiled coyly. "Those chocolate bars are a dead giveaway, sugar. What is it? Coke? Smack?"
"Heroin," the man admitted reluctantly.
"Thought so. Connection gone sour?"
A grudging nod. The man fidgeted with his beer, then lit another cigarette, watching his hands shake slightly. "I have a little left - 'nuff for a day or so. After that..," He shrugged. "You say you can help?"
"I know where you can score something if you're interested. I can even get you quantity."
The man's eyes lit up. "Keep talking, baby. 0l' Abdul is all ears."
***
"This isn't over yet, Starsk." Hutch broached the subject the next morning. "Not until we take LeRoy Simpson out of the game too."
Starsky, who had quaffed rather more than his share of Scotch the night before, was more than ready to take his hangover out on somebody. "That bum's been working the girls for two years now and nobody's been able to pin anything on him yet," he sneered, "And now you wanna give it a try... ooh, my head." He dropped his face onto his crossed arms, giving up the attempt to start a quarrel. It just wasn't worth the trouble this morning. And beside, Hutch had that look on his face which meant that argument was useless anyway. Simpson was going to take a fail, with or without Starsky's help. He turned his head peeking up at his friend through one bloodshot eye. "All right, all right," he groaned, "Whadda'ya want to do about him?"
"I'm not sure." Hutch frowned. "What do we know about this guy?" He perched on the edge of Starsky*s desk, directing the question to the top of the bowed, curly head. "We know he's got a quick temper, likes to beat up on his girls."
"But none of them are going to testify against him," Starsky's muffled voice came back. "They're all too scared."
"Yeah. And the creep's been too slick to let us catch him collecting from them." Hutch thought again. "File says he got busted for trying to fence stolen property five years ago. No evidence he still does that, though." Save for a muffled grunt, there was no answer to that. Hutch went on thinking out loud. "That only leaves the drugs."
Starsky looked up at that. "Drugs?"
"Neil thinks Simpson's been dealing drugs on the side. He's never been caught with anything."
Starsky considered this, went to shake his head, then though better of it. He sank his head back down onto his arms, though angled so he could see his friend. "We'd have to catch him dealing quantity to put him away for any length of time, and he's not stupid enough to sell to one of us."
"We need someone else to make the buy then."
"But who? Simpson was born and raised here. He'd know anyone in town working with..." He broke off, a sly grin lighting his face. "Or maybe I do. Listen up. Hutch, I think I know a way to nail Simpson's mangy hide right to the wall..."
***
The sleek sportscar was parked in the same spot outside the tavern that it had occupied for the past three weeks. Passersby invariably paused to admire its sleek lines and racy contour. Such a car was an unusual sight here in the Bowery section, at least during early hours. Mostly the tourists kept to themselves in the ski resort area, rarely venturing into the poorer sections except at night, and then furtively, in search of a thrill or a woman. Here in the twilight of early evening the car attracted a great deal of attention from the inhabitants of the Bowery - and its driver no less so.
The driver would come every evening - a tall black man of indeterminate age, expensively dressed if a trifle outlandishly. He would visit several bars during the day, but usually ending up here at Bellfriar's Bar, where he would spend the rest of the evening drinking beer, eating candy bars, playing pool or talking to Tandy when she was between tricks.
Tandy had made sure to drum up an acquaintance with the well-dressed Afro- American the first time the man had pulled out his wallet. The roll of bills had nearly caused Tandy's eyes to pop out of her head - obviously money was no problem here. She made it a point to cozy up a bit. There was something quite irresistible about a full wallet, after all.
The black man responded to Tandy's charms with enthusiasm. They began to spend more and more time together, and could often be seen talking tete-a- tete in a dark corner or sometimes disappearing together for hours at a time. Tandy and the man - Abdul, by name - soon became quite an item among those in the Bowery interested in such things.
Usually the man was a pleasant, amiable sort, a bit high-strung perhaps, but in control. He made Tandy laugh, being supplied with an inexhaustible source of one-liners and anecdotes about any subject she could name. He was a gentle and considerate lover as well, giving Tandy as much pleasure as she gave him. Tandy almost regretted charging him. Almost.
Occasionally, however, his mood would switch. Abdul would become nervous, almost explosive in nature. At such times Tandy would remain very quiet, allowing the man to take his ill humor on anyone unfortunate enough to cross him.
Not being unacquainted with the ways of the streets, Tandy put two and two together without problem. One day, about three weeks after meeting him, Tandy brought the subject up over her fifth gin and tonic. "You know, Abdul, I like you."
"Oh, yeah?" The black crumpled up a candy wrapper and dropped it to the floor. It made a dull crinkling sound when it hit. "Well, I like you too, sweetie."
"No, I mean I really like you." The room was a bit blurry tonight. Business had been slow and Tandy had spent the last hour and a half drinking with Abdul.
"That's nice." The man reached for his beer with one hand and a cigarette with the other. "I'm sure that makes my week."
Smoke from his cigarette drifted across the table, tickling Tandy's nose. She sniffed. "Are... you angry with... with..." She sneezed explosively. "Excuse me. Are you angry with me?"
Abdul transferred his cigarette to the other hand, then stubbed it out with a sigh. "No, baby, I ain't angry with you. It's just... kind'a personal, ya know?"
Tandy moved her chair a little closer and ran one finger down the man's slender arm. "Maybe... I can help."
"Don't need that kind of help right now, babe."
"I didn't mean that!" she giggled. "I mean, I really can help."
The black regarded her narrowly. "Why don't you spell it out?"
Tandy stroked the man's chest lightly, forcing herself not to pause at the bulging wallet in his breast pocket. "It's not like a person can't tell you're... needing something." She smiled coyly. "Those chocolate bars are a dead giveaway, sugar. What is it? Coke? Smack?"
"Heroin," the man admitted reluctantly.
"Thought so. Connection gone sour?"
A grudging nod. The man fidgeted with his beer, then lit another cigarette, watching his hands shake slightly. "I have a little left - 'nuff for a day or so. After that..," He shrugged. "You say you can help?"
"I know where you can score something if you're interested. I can even get you quantity."
The man's eyes lit up. "Keep talking, baby. 0l' Abdul is all ears."
***