Brass Go-Between by Ross Thomas Page A

his.”
    “Where can I find Spellacy?” I said.
    “In the phone book. Manhattan.”
    “What’s he do?”
    “You mean for a living?”
    “For a living.”
    Shippo shrugged. “What does anybody do? Me, I think of myself as an art dealer who provides a service for lonely people and believe me, they’re a lot of lonely people around. But you know what those creeps from the post office said I was? They said I was a hard-core pornographer. So I said to hell with them. I don’t use the post office no more. I send everything out by messenger if it’s close by, and Railway Express if it ain’t.”
    “They must have hated to lose your business,” I said.
    “You mean the post office?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Nah. They got so much business they can’t take care of it now.”
    “You don’t have any idea of what Spellacy does?”
    “He dabbles in this and that.”
    “Such as?”
    “Well, five or six years ago he was running a securities firm.”
    “You mean a boiler room.”
    “You call it a boiler room. Me and Spellacy called it a securities firm. I was helping out in the afternoons and we were doing pretty good until there was a misunderstanding and, well, Spellacy had to liquidate. I didn’t hear nothing about him for a couple of years. I think he was out of town.”
    “He must have drawn a short sentence.”
    “His lawyer wasn’t too hot,” Shippo said. “You gotta have a top lawyer if you wanta survive in the business world which, when you come right down to it, ain’t nothing but a jungle, like Jimmy Hoffa said. Now there’s probably one of the most unappreciated men in the country. And look what they done to him.”
    “History will justify him,” I said. “But let’s get back to Spellacy. You don’t have any idea of what he’s doing?”
    “He did mention something about real estate, come to think of it. He said he’s got some big development going out in Arizona.”
    I got up. “Thanks for the information.”
    Shippo didn’t stir, other than to wave his hand. “Glad to oblige.”
    I was heading for the door when he called me back. “Hey, your pictures.”
    I went back to the desk and picked up the envelope. “You’re right,” I said. “It’s what I really came for.”
    On the way to the elevator I looked at the photographs. They were the usual assortment of duets and threesomes and, if I’d had more time, I might have grown interested. When the elevator came with its ancient pilot, I got on and stood at the back.
    “You like dirty pictures?” I said.
    “Who don’t?” the old man said.
    “Here,” I said, and handed him the envelope.
    He accepted the envelope, slipped out the first picture, and cackled. Then he placed them under his stool. “I’ll save ’em till I get off,” he said. “How come you don’t want ’em?”
    I tapped myself on the chest. “Bad heart.”
    The old man turned and grinned at me evilly. Then he ducked down for the envelope, took another peek, and shook his head in admiration. “You’re right about one thing, rube.”
    “What?”
    “They’re sure as hell dirty.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    T HE TALL BLACK YOUNG man who leaned casually against the front fender of the Chrysler that was illegally parked in front of the George Building wasn’t trying to be inconspicuous. Not with a lemon-colored suit and a shirt the shade of a ripe tangerine. When it came to the selection of a tie, he had deserted the citrus family for neckwear that had the luster and sheen of dark purple grapes. The oyster-white raincoat that was draped over his right forearm also helped to set him apart from the rest of the pedestrians, most of them in shirt sleeves. And then, too, it hadn’t rained in New York for almost three weeks.
    I gave him only a glance as I came out of the building and turned left, headed for a bar or a drugstore and a phone book to look up the number and address of Frank Spellacy. I had taken just five steps when he caught up with me on the left, the raincoat still