سالن کوکتل فرانکی

Chapter seven

Frankies Cocktail Lounge

The plan was that Joe and I would pay a visit to Van Zandt and see if he could lead us to O’Neill. Meanwhile, Mrs. O’Neill would come back to the office that afternoon and stay with Stella.

Joe Blaney arrived in his car soon after midday. He’s in his middle-sixties, but he’s tall and slim with a full head of white hair. Although he’s probably twenty years older than me, I’d say he looks younger. Some guys have all the luck.

In the car, Joe pulled his jacket to one side to show me the gun. “Let’s hope we don’t have to use this, boss,” he said. We drove downtown on Second Avenue toward 4th Street. The traffic wasn’t too heavy and we soon arrived in the East Village. We went straight along 4th Street to Avenue A. Frankie’s Cocktail Lounge was on 5th Street, between Avenues A and B.

Joe stopped the car. Above the double doors, I could read the words: “Frankie’s - Cold Drinks, Warm People, Hot Sounds”.

“Let’s do it,” I said.

We went into Frankie’s and sat at a table. At first, it seemed almost dark, but soon I could see better. It was a comfortable room with armchairs, sofas, red carpets and the sound of jazz guitar music. We needed clear heads so we ordered two coffees, not the Cocktail Specials. There were no customers at the bar, so I had a look at who was working behind it. A couple of bartenders and someone who I guessed must be the boss. He was medium height with a short black beard, but without a single hair on his head.

“I think we’ve found Van Zandt,” I said, looking toward the bar. “We’ll try and have a little talk.”

I walked over to the bar with Joe. Van Zandt looked up from some papers he was checking.

“Would you be Mr. Van Zandt?” I asked.

“That’s me,” he replied. “What can I do for you?”

“Could I talk to you about Patrick O’Neill?” I asked.

“Who are you?” Van Zandt asked carefully and gave me a cold, hard look.

“Nat Marley, licensed private investigator,” I said. “I spoke to you on the phone yesterday. I believe you know O’Neill. His wife’s very worried about him and I think you could help.”

“I don’t have to talk to you!” he said angrily.

Suddenly a big strong bartender was standing in front of me.

“You got a problem, boss?” he asked Van Zandt.

“It’s OK,” I said quietly. “We’re not looking for trouble. Look, take my cellphone and press ‘Call’. You’ll get my office. Ask to talk with O’Neill’s wife.”

Van Zandt did as I said and spent a couple of minutes checking facts with Mrs. O’Neill. After a while he returned the cellphone and said, “OK. What do you want?” He waved the bartender away and led us to a room behind the bar. Inside, the air didn’t smell too fresh - old cigarette smoke. Van Zandt found chairs and sat us at a round table. I introduced Joe, then began questioning Van Zandt.

“I believe that O’Neill has paid you a lot of money?” I asked. “You’re not stealing from him, I hope.”

“It’s not robbery,” replied Van Zandt. “That’s what I won fairly in a poker game. It works both ways. Patrick’s an excellent player and I’ve paid him thousands when I lost. We’re old friends. I’ve known him since we were both kids, working nights at a 24/7 store.”

“So explain this,” I continued. “Why does a Wall Street accountant come to a back room in the East Village to play poker?”

“I’ve met several guys like Patrick - hard-working family men who earn good money. But they want a little more from life. Maybe they’re just bored so I give them a good time. I know organizing back-room poker games is a crime, but I’m not hurting anybody. These guys have the money - like Patrick’s boss, Steinmann. I’m just offering them a service.”

“So O’Neill brought Steinmann here?” I asked Van Zandt in surprise.

“Yeah. Once or twice. I don’t think Patrick really wanted to, but I guess he couldn’t refuse. One night we all lost heavily to Steinmann. He played like poker was his second profession. I had to ask Patrick not to bring him again. It would hurt my bank account too much.”

Van Zandt had answered two questions - why O’Neill had made payments to both himself and Steinmann.

“OK. Let’s forget the money,” I said. “I’m really interested in finding O’Neill. You know he’s in some kind of trouble?”

“After reading about Steinmann’s murder in the morning papers, I had a good idea what the trouble could be,” replied Van Zandt. “Patrick got here soon after midnight, Sunday morning. He said he was in danger, but he wouldn’t talk about it. He needed to hide someplace for a few days and was going to check into a hotel around here. He also told me to keep quiet if anyone came asking questions. And one last thing - he told me to expect a letter from his firm. He said it was really important and I should keep it for him.”

“If it’s arrived, could we take a look?” I asked.

“I guess I could show you,” he said.

It was a thick envelope with the address written in O’Neill’s handwriting. I took out my pocket knife and cut it open. Inside, I found some papers - probably about twenty pages. At the top of each page I could see the words “Ocean Star Finance” in red and gold letters. On every page, there were lines of numbers.

“You know what this is?” asked Van Zandt.

“I guess some sort of accounts from Ocean Star,” I said. “Another guess - this information may have something to do with Steinmann’s murder. Mr. Van Zandt, I’d like to thank you for your help. We may be able to reach O’Neill in time. I don’t think anyone else knows these papers are here, so could you keep them in a safe place?”

Before Joe and I started searching the East Village, I called Stella to tell her what we’d discovered so far. When I’d finished, Stella said, “Mrs. O’Neill wants to speak with you.”

“Mr. Marley, thank you,” said Mrs. O’Neill. “You’re getting close to Patrick, I can feel it. Please find him and make the police believe that my husband is no killer.”