Bloody London by Reggie Nadelson Page A

in my pocket for gum and flashed him a smile. “Not even for you.”
    He headed to the locker room. “I hear you. Uptown case like this, Art, there’s a wall of lawyers, a lot of people don’t feel compelled to talk to us. I can’t ask some cop makes fifty, sixty grand a year and puts himself in the way of a bullet to interest himself objectively in people that make a hundred times as much for doing nothing. I can’t trust Mrs Pascoe to some idiot out of a precinct. These people ain’t scared of some two-bit detective. You I can trust. Billy I can trust, but he’s in China on other business. You saw her. If it was me, I’d take Mrs Pascoe in right now. But I can’t do that. I want you on this.”
    â€œHow old you figure her for, Sonny?”
    â€œI don’t know. Hard to read. Fifty? Forty-five? Why, you got a hard-on for her?”
    â€œI want a look inside that building.”
    Sonny leaned over a sink, put his head under a tap,gulped some water. “Art, man, listen to me. They got a division on the building, OK? Probably the FBI. For all I know, being as how Thomas Pascoe was a foreign national, they got the CIA, MI6, Scotland Yard and the British Prime Minister. Just find me who wanted a place up there at the Middlemarch, the wannabes, the hopeless, the desirous, OK, please.” He gave his version of a dirty chuckle. “Stay on the women.”
    On his way to the showers, Sonny peered at me. “What’s that bruise on your forehead?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œAll right, man, but take it easy, OK. These co-op boards got huge power. There’s no oversight. One building I heard of, man, they threatened a guy with eviction if he did not stop his dog barking.”
    â€œYeah? So?”
    â€œSo he had the dog’s voice box surgically removed.”

5
    The babe in black carried a dog the size and color of a corn muffin, and the doorman who held the door for her, hat and coat loaded with gold braid, resembled a footman in a Disney flick. I was surprised when he asked her in Russian if she wanted a cab. She shook her head, gave him a faint imperious smile, took the pup and left.
    The building was on the west side of Sutton Place, up near the bridge. What I could see of it from the street, it was twenty-five stories of marble, brass and glass. A chandelier in the middle of the lobby dripped crystal.
    Salvatore Castle leaned against the hood of his black Range Rover, watched the woman and dog cross the street and said, “I’ve something fabulous for you here.”
    â€œYou got a lot of Russians up here, Sal?”
    â€œThis building, this side of Sutton, yes, some.” He was uneasy. “Very nice people, of course, very high class, real aristocrats some of them. Is it a problem?” He was anxious to please. “Several princesses and at least one count!”
    Castle was an uptown realtor, a chubby man, blackhair, face shaved so close his skin was soft and naked, like fruit. He was all smooth accommodation in the gray Zegna suit, orange Sulka tie, tasselled loafers. I showed him the newspaper ad again; it featured a full-length photograph of Castle himself standing in front of the Manhattan skyline, as if he were its agent.
    I said I was only interested in the Middlemarch. He looked uncomfortable. “There’s never anything there.”
    â€œYou advertised. You put your picture on the page, Sal.”
    â€œIt was a mistake. Let me show you this one.”
    â€œNo thanks.”
    â€œHow about next door?” He gestured at a half-finished building, scaffolding still in place.
    Castle had an aspirant face. He looked up at the building like a man who always looks up. “Fabulous, this one, when it’s finished, like the old days on Sutton Place. Look at the detail on the limestone. Libraries, billiard rooms, wine cellars. Servants’ quarters too, for an extra four hundred grand. I’ve got a