Transcript

Chapter 11 · Bullet Proof

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Chapter eleven of bullet Proof by Frank Kine. This LibriVox recording is in the
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public domain. Read by Ben Tucker, chapter eleven, The file on Tony
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Seville proved disappointing. The batch of clippings dated no further back than five years,
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the earliest being an account of doctor Seville escorting one of that season's more
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publicized debs. He had apparently made no effort to get publicity of either nature.
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After the files had been returned to the metal drawers, Lidell leaned back
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stared morosely at the ceiling. I'm beginning to get a couple of ideas of
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what's been playing around here for the past couple of days. But it sounds
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so screwy even to me that I'm afraid to mention it. Muggsy Heey made
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an effort to erase her disappointment, but failed. Her full lips drooped,
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though she showed no signs of giving up. Think, harp, Pop,
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can't you tie this young doc in with Pete in any way? It can't
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just be coincidence. There's going to be a connection between them. The old
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man sucked noisily on his pipe, rattled the juice in the stack him.
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I can't say I do, Muggs. Matter of fact, I don't believe
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there was any Pete was the last guy in the world to have any truck
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with medics anyway, Why Pop scared to death of him? Always was?
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How come Pop Michaels chuckled deep in his throat, A good reason to be
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a guess. Doctor's always meant trouble for Pete. Back in the old days.
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He was always getting shot up, and every time he'd go to a
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dock for treatment, they'd turn him in. You'd think he'd have stayed away
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and taken his chances. The old man shook his head. H Pete,
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Muggs. He was scared to his kid brother Micky, died from an infected
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wound. He refused to have treated. Pete saw the kid die, and
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he had none holy fear of infection after that. Yet he knew, Saville,
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that's the only thread we've got, and we're hanging on to it.
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Let's take it from there, see where it goes. Try fill innocent on
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this little garage ambush, Pop Lightell prompted. The old man chewed his pipe
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stem ran his mind back over the story as he had covered it was a
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good yarn, he nodded. They backed my piece up with a centerfold of
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picks that when you saw, was one of em. He tapped the ashes
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out of the pipe started repacking it. They surprised Pete and five of his
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boys in a garage down on Monroe Street. Pete was the only one to
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walk away. Who did it? Word around was that it was the Mulligan
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boys. Always was bad blood between Ardy Mulligan and Pete ever since they were
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kids. Anyway, Pete clammed up and the case was never solved, not
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by the cops anyway. Lydell nodded, watched the old man light his pipe
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with a long wooden match. Pete shot up bad, pretty bad. But
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Pete always was a tough one to kill. We got to flash down at
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the Elizabeth station, got there before they loaded him into the ambulance. Real
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scared, Pete was that time, real scared. But you didn't know the
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intern Lydell persisted, like I say, those kids came and went, never
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paid them much mind. Pop shook his head. I never saw him before,
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can't recollect ever seeing him after that. How about Pete? The old
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man screwed up his forehead in concentration. No recall that I saw much of
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him after that either until they sent him up on the federal rap. No,
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wait a minute, I did. About a year later, he was
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up for questioning about the epidemic of lead poisoning. Already Mulligan and his boys
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suddenly contracted eight of him in two weeks. Nothing come of it. Bob
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Michaels shook his head, not in the courts, but the other Mulligans didn't
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take it lying down. Every so often you'd hear one or another of Pete's
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boys being found with a Mulligan trademark in his back, but not Pete.
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Lydel made some rapid computations. That was almost fifteen years ago. Pete's been
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inside for about three on the federal rap. You mean that in twelve years
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he never turned up. You saw his file. He's been up for questioning
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on a couple of killings and things. I guess Lydell nodded, but he
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never showed up with any bullet holes. Can't say that I ever remember Pete
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getting into a shooting scrape from that day to this. None of his boys
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either, now that you mention it, dead, yes, but not wounded.
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Lidel beat a noiseless tattoo on the table. With his finger tips,
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he stared at a framed picture on the wall above Pop Michael's head. After
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a moment, as though arriving at a decision, he stood up, caught
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Muggsy under the arm, lifted her to her feet. Thanks, Pop,
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that's about all we can learn around here, I guess. He pulled a
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roll of bills from his pocket, separated two fives, shoved them into the
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old man's hand. Have a beer on us. He caught Muggsy by the
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arm, led the way out of the morgue, down the corridor toward the
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advanced editorial offices. Ten bucks. You must really have an idea of vegetating
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under that spreading scalpy years. What is it, Johnny, Nothing, very
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definite, just an idea, Baby, Don't kid me, Johnny, this
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is Muggsy. The girl chided. You just aren't the type to go scattering
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five dollar bills in your patches because somebody gave you an idea. Something Pop
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said back, there rang a bell? What was it? You heard what
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he said? I heard, but to me it didn't mean anything. It
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did to you. Don't hold out on me, Johnny, she pleaded,
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I'll give you the whole thing when I'm sure that I'm on the right track.
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There's no use in both of us being confused Scout's honor. Lydell grinned
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chucked her under the chin. You know I never hold out on you,
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baby? Then what hit you so hard? Back there? She persisted.
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Lydell pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, held it out to the
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girl, who shook her head, hung one from the corner of his mouth.
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Quits, darling, Johnny, what hits you? A lot of things?
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I guess. For instance, what's a kid who was interning in a
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city hospital a few years ago doing with a fancy Park Avenue office and private
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sanitarium in Westchester? And Lydell shrugged? And how come Pete Vailey gets involved
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in a gang war with the Mulligins and yet neither he nor any of his
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boys ever showed up for treatment of gunshot wounds. You think there's a connection,
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could be, But first we've got to be sure that Ann Savellaro and
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Seville are both the same guy. Muggsy considered it, conceded that it was
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reasonable. How are you planning to go about that? I thought you might
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dig me up a press card for a couple of hours. What for,
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Lydell shrugged, just checking a hunch. I can do it without the card,
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but havin one'll make it a lot easier. Can he get one?
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I suppose so. Jim van Arsdale always keeps a couple of extras dashed away
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in the city side for when the space rate boys need one. She led
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the way to a frosted glass door labeled Advance Editorial employees only and parked him
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on the door. Still, she was back in a few minutes with a
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shilled shaped card in her hand. You're now Tom Terry of the Advance.
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Every guy on assignment who needs a card becomes Tom Terry on account of that's
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the name the card is made out to. Lydell stuck the card in his
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hat band, shoved the hat on the back of his head. Now,
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if only I had on my baggy pants and hadn't shaved, the disguise would
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be come. Ohhawa, look like Darrell Xanik's conception of a reporter. You
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think that's bad? Lydell countered Hurst never saw the day he could pay his
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reporters what Xanak pays his Where do we go from here. Lydell took the
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press cart from his hatband, slid it under the cellafane flap in his wallet.
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You go home and wait to hear from me. This is strictly a
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one man operation. Muggsy started to protest, permitted herself to be dragged to
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the street. Lydell flagged down a cab, pushed her into it, gave
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the cabby her address. I'll check on you as soon as I get this
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off my chest, he promised. How nice, I'll have some beer and
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cheese ready. Lydell was pleasantly surprised. Now you're making sense. I thought
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you were going to cut up. And how do you want your cheese?
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I'm bread or in a trap? The girl snapped, let's go. Driver.
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The cab charged away from the curb, leaving Lydell standing his mouth open.
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As it pulled away, he had a final view of Muggsy in the
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rear window. He waved, and she put her thumb up to her nose
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and waved back. A half hour later, Lydell loped up the steps of
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the drabbed stone building that housed the administrative offices of Governor Hospital. He walked
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down a poorly lighted hallway to a door marked information. Inside, a white
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haired woman sat behind a grilled counter making entries into a large ledger. She
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raised her eyes as Lydell walked in smiled. Can I help you? She
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asked. Lydell flashed the shield shaped press card. I'm Tom Terry of the
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Advance. I'm down here to do some feature pieces on famous doctors who have
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interned here. Who would I have to talk to? The woman was suitably
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impressed. I think you'd want to talk to mister Morrisey, our director.
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Will you come this way, sir? She opened the gate led him to
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a wooden door in the rear of the office. Would you wait here a
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moment, mister Terry. She disappeared into the office beyond was gone only a
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minute. Mister Morrisey, will see you now, mister Terry. Mister Morrisey
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had a thin, long, sad face, running up into a thatch of
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iron gray hair that matched the bushy eyebrows perched precariously over a pair of coal
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gray of praising eyes. His mouth was a thin, colorless split that formed
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the base of a triangle connecting with the long, pinched nose. He delicately
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removed a pince nez As. Lydell walked in. Good morning, mister Terry.
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His voice was deep, funereal, always glad to meet with members of
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the press. His eyes rolled sideways to the white haired woman. That will
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be all, miss Dennis, he said coldly. Johnny Lydell pulled a wooden
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arm chair close to the desk, dropped into it, found an old envelope
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in an inside pocket. We're thinking of doing a series on famous doctors who
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got their start here at Governor mister Morsey. I hope you have no objection,
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of course not. We'll be glad to co operate. Did you have
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any particular person in mind to start with or did you wish suggestions? Lydell
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shook his head when he thought we'd do it alphabetically, just to avoid ruffling
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any feelings, you understand. He consulted the scribbled notes on the back of
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his envelope. I thought we'd tee off with a sketch of on doctor and
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Sevolaro. The long sour face of the director seemed to lengthen as he sucked
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on his lower lip. And Sevilaro, you say, Lydell looked up interned
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here, didn't he? Yes? And Silviolaro was with us for a few
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years. But don't you think there are others, possibly more distinguished men among
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our alumni. He started to tabulate on long, bony fingers. There was
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Ryebeck, the chest man, the Steckler brothers Cove who did all the research
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on vitamins, and Lydell interrupted with a wave of his pencil. Good men,
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but they have no oomph. The heavy eyebrows of the director arched upwards,
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corrugating his brow with ridges. Umph reader interest, Lydell explained circulation appeal,
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and Sevalaro's a glamor boy, a society doctor. The stinnows would eat
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up a story about him. Of course, if you say no, Morrisey
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shrugged his shoulders, attempt at a smile that only succeeded and making him look
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as though he tasted something sour, then laced his fingers on top of the
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desk. Certainly not. We're only too glad to co operate in any way.
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You say, exactly what can we do? You can sketch out the
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background for me, and then, if possible, I'd like to talk to
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some one who has worked closely with him for the details and color. He
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held his breath mentally crossed his fingers. There is somebody around that he worked
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with or who knew him as an intern. Morrisy japped at a button.
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I can tell you better when I've refreshed my memory of what services he was
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on. The whitehead of the clerk appeared in the doorway. Let me have
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the personnel file for nineteen thirty eight, Miss Dennis. The woman nodded,
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closed the door behind her, was back in a moment with a large,
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loosely folder. She laid it on the desk walked back to the outer office.
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The thin man flipped through the pages of the binder until he came to
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one headed and Savalaro Anthony j His long, bony fingers ran through the short
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paragraph that followed the name. I'm sorry, I won't be able to be
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of much help with his background, Doctor and Siviolearo gave us very few facts
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concerning himself. Dell nodded, I can get that material direct if I need
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it. Just give me some of his educational background. His college, City
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College, then Bellevue on a scholarship. Lydell scribbled the information on the back
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of the envelope. When did he finish his internship in nineteen forty. The
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director closed the loose leaf book leaned back directly. Upon completion of his internship,
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he left governeur, and we have no record of him since he replaced
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the pens nez on the high bridge of his nose. That accounts for my
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surprise at yours selection of doctor An Sivilaro as one of our outstanding alumni.
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There was a faint gleam of suspicion in his cold gray eyes. Johnny Lydell
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pulled his wallet from his breast pocket, extracted a clipping, passed it over
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to Morrissey. Then you probably don't know that he's changed his name to Saville.
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The director's eyebrows arched in surprise. He took the clip, studied it.
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That's doctor A. Sibilaro, all right, you say he's doing well
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as doctor Seville, very well. For the past five years, he's been
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society's number one madisone man. You must have seen his name in the papers
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at some time or other. Morrissey continued to stare at the picture. Yes,
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of course, I guess I never associated the two, though I did
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hear something about him. It's nice to know he's doing so well. Lydell
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took back the clipping, replaced it in his wallet. Now about someone who
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knew him while he was here. The thin man took off his Pensnaz tapped
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them thoughtfully against the palm of his hand. Almost twelve years ago, eh,
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he mused, of course, there would be many changes in that time,
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not among the charge nurses. Perhaps, he considered the possibility for a
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moment, shook his head. I doubt if they'd remember him, a retiring
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young man. I think I mentioned Lydell nodded anybody else. The thin man
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sucked on his lower lip. The labman or the X ray technician might possibly
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remember him. Most of the interns spend a lot of time in the lab
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doing their own work ups. Suddenly his face cleared. Of course, why
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didn't I think of him before? Vinnie? He'd be sure to remember ant
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Savolarov, anyone did, Vinnie. He drives the bus ambulance. You know,
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he's been here for about twenty years and is the unofficial father confessor to
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most of the interns. He japped at the desk button again. The whitehead
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of the clerk popped in the open doorway. Miss Dennis, will you call
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the garage and tell Vinnie that I'm sending over mister. He fumbled for the
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name, turned to Lydell for help. Terry Tom Terry Lydell filled in,
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I'm sending mister Terry of the Advance over to talk to him, ask him
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to give mister Terry any assistance he can. The white head in the doorway
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nodded, was withdrawn. I am certain Vinnie would have the kind of information
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you want, mister Terry. Lydell nodded, pulled himself out of his chair.
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Thanks for the left, mister Morrisey. I'll keep in touch. End
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of Chapter eleven