Staines had camped outside Pope's apartment all night and stiffly sat up when he saw him burst out the front doors and march toward the subway. Today, maybe today. He pet the Herbert Hoover bobble head stuck on his dashboard.
George had listened to the tap he'd placed on Pope's phone and guessed - correctly - he was paying a visit to the detective so he was comfortably in position when Staines arrived, and watched him go in after Harold came out.
"I'm not really open for business any more today." Gunther made busy motions with things on his desk.
Staines opened his wallet, flashing his investigator's badge. "Tops yours, eh, Gunther? Tell me all about Pope, and don't say who or I'll add to those bruises you didn't cover too well."
"Aah, Jesus . . ."
********
Harold changed into his coveralls, slammed the locker door and began loading boxes onto the skids by the shipping door.
"Good mornin' to you too, son." Syd stood watching, hands in his back pockets. "Bed only have a wrong side today?"
"Not in the mood, Syd." Harold dollied the skid to the loading platform.
"Well better get in it, boy, it's mail rounds time. I got it all sorted for you."
Harold looked at the cart then at Syd and slumped inside. "I'm sorry, man. Thanks, I'll do it now."
"Cheer up, son, they're havin' a bit of a celebration on the manager's floor. Maybe they'll invite you in."
"What about?"
"Somebody's anniversary."
Harold nodded and set off with his cart. How the hell does he know all these things, stuck down here?
Syd was right, it looked like all work had stopped and groups stood around different cubicles talking and laughing, enjoying the champagne that seemed in abundance.
He dropped the mail off at the different cubicles and when he came to the end at Della's desk, Tony Renesto saw him and marched over, looking indignant.
"What are you hanging around here for, Pope? This is a manager's floor party."
"I'm not, hanging around, I'm delivering the mail . . . Renesto, and you aren't a manager either."
"Yeah, well I work on this floor."
It sounded like a school yard rebuttal and Harold shook his head. "I have mail for Miss Walker."
"Della is with her boss so move along."
Harold moved around his cart and stood uncomfortably close to Tony, whispering softly, "How's the snapshot business, Karsh?"
He stepped back as Tony's jaw sagged and his eyes went out of focus. The hand holding his champagne glass shook so hard the drink spilled onto his suit.
"Oops, that'll leave a stain." Harold's expression was hard. "Was it something I said?" He stepped closer again. "I have something else to tell you . . . Renesto, but you're going need to sit down and maybe get another drink."
"Not here . . . please."
"Sure, I have a diner I like." Harold told him where and shook a finger as a warning not to stand him up.
There was a burst of laughter and Peter stepped out of his office, all happy face and then he froze. His eyes bugged like a cartoon character and he lurched back inside.
"Della! Psst, Della!" He beckoned her from the crowd in his office and steered her into a cubicle across the aisle.
"What are you doing? What's wrong"
"He's here! Pope! And he's with Tony!" He peeked out again to make sure and then pushed her to look.
"But-?"
"I'm going to have a talk with my detective, find out what's going on."
"What'll we do?"
"Nothing. We can't let on, just act normal . . . not normal . . .you know . . ."
"Again, Peter."
"Hey what's going on in here?" A face with a goofy grin and flushed cheeks leaned on the cubicle door frame.
"Just some business came up, Percy, go on back inside." Peter peeked to see if Pope or Tony had noticed.
"Monkey business, I'll bet!" The grin turned to a knowing smirk.
"Percy, if you don't want to be in charge of window washing you'll go back inside - now. And be quiet."
Percy vanished like mist.
"Let's wrap up the party, We have to get this business sorted."
Della took a breath, squared her shoulders, a move that emphasized an ample bosom, and strode back to the office calling for attention . . . which she immediately received from the male staff.
********
Gunther turned from his small mirror where he was applying concealer to his bruises.
"Aah, shit."
"That's what your name will be if I don't get an explanation, Morse."
"I uh- I was going to call," Gunther lied. "Let me explain what happened."
"It better be good. Pope wound up on my floor yesterday."
"Dead!"
"What- no, my office floor you twit. At work!"
"Aah . . . okay . . . here's what happened."
Peter listened, dumbstruck at first over the Keystone Kop fiasco, livid over the fact that he might have accidentally had the wrong man killed.
"Renesto! You are absolutely sure?"
"I can show you where the picture was in his cloud file."
"Jesus, now what do I do? I've hired the wrong guy - to kill himself!"
"Well obviously that won't happen."
"But the bartender knows both of us. What the hell am I going to do now?"
"We all make mista-" Gunther began, but the fist pounding his desk, sent several items to the floor, including his open tube of concealer. He moved his chair back and called for time with a hand signal.
"There's something else."
Peter slowly sat, his eyes never leaving Gunther's.
"An investigator from the DA's office braced me about Pope and I had to tell him that I had found a picture for you that was taken by Tony Renesto. He also knew Pope had picked up something from the bar. He was following him." Gunther coughed. "I never said anything about what you uh, planned, Mr. Braxton and I never said I called to set anything up at the bar."
Peter's nasal breathing sounded like a dragon ready to ignite, and his knuckles turned white as he clutched the edge of the desk.
"You told him about me." The statement came out in a rasp.
"I had to! He already knew-"
"About Pope and Renesto, yes you said." Peter stood and bent down to the floor. "Here, hold this." It was Gunther's concealer - something he needed more of - after Peter socked him, knocking him off his chair.
********
Staines was back at Clyde's in his favourite booth going over his notes, muttering to himself. Renesto snapped an incriminating shot of Braxton and his secretary - or whatever she is. Pope gets a message from the bartender at the Parkhurst. Is this the connection? Is this how he gets his contracts? I'm closing in, Pope.
He scratched a large check mark next to the last item, the bartender, finished his beer and left with one last glance at the dancer.
********
Tony downed his scotch in one gulp and looked at Harold like a Basset Hound with gas. Harold had related the events - the reason, the mix-up and the result as scribbled in the message from the bartender.
"I need another drink."
"They don't have a license here, that was a favour to me and you can't drink this away, Tony."
"But what can I do?"
"Go to Peter and fess up. Delete the picture from your file in front of him so he knows and then take your lumps."
"He'll fire me!"
"Down a notch from being assassinated wouldn't you say? Look, you're his star salesman at the moment. The guy that brought in the Betts account. Tell him if he fires you, you'll take it somewhere else."
"Where?"
Harold groaned and picked up the bill, leaving Tony in the booth. He paid, adding a decent tip for the scotch and her silence, then walked back, leaning both hands on the table.
"You know, Tony, if your name had been on that message and I was a contract killer, we wouldn't have enjoyed this little chat today."
Pitiful couldn't describe the bleak look that followed Harold out of the diner.
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