Known Devil by Matthew Hughes Page B

McDorman, and let him deal with it. But one of the parties in the transaction I’d witnessed was a supe, which meant that the drug for sale had almost certainly been Slide. And that made it my business. The only question was what I was going to do about it.
    It didn’t take me long to make up my mind.
     
    Manny Wohlstein can usually be found in his office at the back of the restaurant, but I decided against paying him a visit. The busboy might see me and ask somebody who was in there talking to his boss. All of Manny’s daughters knew me by sight, and I didn’t want one of them putting the busboy on his guard by telling him that Manny was talking to a cop.
    I finished my sandwich, paid the check, and went out to my car. The Yellow Pages app on my phone gave me the deli’s number, and I called it.
    “Wohlstein’s Deli,” a cheerful female voice said. “How can I help you?”
    “I’d like to speak to Mister Wohlstein, please.”
    “Can I say who’s calling?”
    I was pretty sure the voice belonged to Naomi Wohlstein, and I didn’t want her saying my name where the busboy might overhear it.
    “This is Lou Pastorelli,” I told her. “From Mid-Atlantic Produce Distribution.”
    “Just a minute, Mister Pastorelli.”
    Then Manny’s voice was saying in my ear, “This is Manny Wohlstein. What can I do for you?”
    “Manny, it’s Stan Markowski. I’m sorry for giving Naomi a false name, but I didn’t want her saying my right name out loud. I’d rather you didn’t say it, either.”
    “Why do you want me to do that?” His voice sounded wary.
    “I’m calling to ask about one of your employees, who’s still in the building. I didn’t want him to hear you say my name, in case he’s heard it before. I don’t want him to start wondering why you’re talking to a cop.”
    “You said ‘him’, so this isn’t one of my girls you’re asking about.”
    “No, of course not.”
    “Alright, then.” Manny’s voice relaxed a little, and I could hear that old desk chair of his creak as he leaned back. “So how can I help you, Mister… Pastorelli?”
    “We can drop the charade as long as he’s not close enough to overhear you.”
    “And who would that be?” Manny asked.
    “You’ve got a busboy, early twenties, red-haired, tattoo on the inside of one arm.”
    “Oh, sure, that’s Roger Gillespe. Not to worry, Stan. He never comes back here, except to pick up his check, and that’s on Friday. He couldn’t overhear us even if he had ears on him like an elephant.”
    “Great,” I said. “How long has this Gillespe worked for you?”
    “He’s been with us over a year, I know that. Could be as long as eighteen months. You want I should look it up?”
    “No, that’s OK; it doesn’t make much difference. But what I would like you to look up is his schedule, and whether he’s gonna be working tomorrow.”
    “That I can do.” I heard the chair creak again, then the sound of a file drawer opening. “This busboy of mine – he’s in some kind of trouble, Stan?”
    “Not necessarily,” I lied. “That’s something I’m still trying to find out. Could be he’s just an innocent bystander who might be a useful witness in a case I’m working.”
    Manny’s got a temper, and I knew he’d have trouble controlling it if I told him his busboy was dealing drugs right there in the restaurant. Even if he didn’t fire the kid – or break both his arms and then fire him, which was more likely – he’d act differently toward Gillespe, which might spook the redhead into a disappearing act. And that bastard wasn’t going anywhere until we’d had some conversation.
    Manny came back on the line. “Stan? Roger works six in the morning till two in the afternoon. His days off are Monday and Tuesday, which means he should be here tomorrow – unless he calls in sick, which he doesn’t do often, it looks like.”
    “Have you got a home address for him?”
    I listened to papers rustle for a second or two.