were out on the street, hurrying to get to this place or that. The contrast with the abandoned Hollows was striking.
“You know Little Lisbon, uptown?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. Head up there.”
“You got an address?”
“Just get me up there.”
Enrique Dotel would be known in Little Lisbon. Poole prayed that Carla was with Enrique. If not, he feared she was in custody, and that brought with it a whole different set of problems that would be difficult to negotiate.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
The Palace did not open until five, so Frings and Floyd sat at the mahogany bar while the early shift set tables and swept and prepped for the evening. It seemed like a different place with the houselights turned up and the air free of smoke. With the essential elements of atmosphere missing, the club lost its glamour and instead looked merely like a big room.
Floyd drank whiskey on the rocks while Frings choked down a cup of muddy black coffee.
“Cuban,” Floyd said.
“It’s pretty goddamn strong.”
“You need it, bo.”
Frings wasn’t going to argue that point. “You know how you said you were lousy with reefer these days?”
“You’re out already?”
“No. That’s not it. When you say ‘these days,’ you mean that it used to be harder?”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much it. I could usually get what I needed, because of the club and all. But there was less to go around. Wasn’t just there for the asking. You had to plan a little and there were times when most people couldn’t get anything at all. Dry times.”
“But not anymore.”
“Not for a while, Frankie. It’s just not an issue. You get what you want when you want it. No problems.”
“When did this embarrassment of riches begin?”
Floyd squinted his eyes a little in concentration and took a long sip of the whiskey. “You know, maybe five years ago. Something like that.”
“Five years ago. You sure?”
“Yeah,” Floyd said, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I think that’s about right.”
“So about a year or so after Henry became mayor.”
“Sounds good. What are you trying to get at here, Frank?”
“Floyd, who do you buy from? I need to talk to him.”
Floyd winced. “Where are you going with this?”
“Look, trust me. I’m not trying to take anybody down here.” Frings corrected himself. “That’s not true. I am trying to take someone down, but you know it’s not you and it’s not the guy who sells you your dope.”
“You’re going to have to give me more than that.”
“Okay. You heard of a guy named Otto Samuelson?”
“Bad gee, right? Sent up the river a while back?”
“Yeah, well, that’s the thing. It’s not the river you’re probably thinking of.”
“Don’t get all inscrutable with me, Frank.”
“I’m saying I just got back from visiting him out in a place called Freeman’s Gap.”
“He’s already out?”
“Never went in.”
“Shit,” Floyd said. “Why the hell not?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure.”
“You think talking to my guy is going to help you out?”
“That’s right.”
“Connect the dots for me, Frank. I don’t follow.”
“When I was out there with Otto Samuelson, we went for a little walk in the woods, and you’ll never believe what’s growing back there.”
“No,” Floyd said, eyes widening.
“More than you can imagine.”
“So instead of going to jail, he moves out to the sticks and grows reefer?”
“That’s exactly right. And he’s not the only one. You know that story you told me about Whiskers?”
Floyd nodded slowly. “I see what you’re saying.”
“So I want to find out from your guy who he gets his reefer from. I’ll bet it’s from a guy named Smith who has it brought into the City by some other ginks from a decade back or so. Maybe even Whiskers.”
“Jesus, Frank, you sure you want to go here?”
Frings nodded and sipped his coffee.
Floyd sighed. “I’ll be back.” He walked off, shaking his head a little.
“Where you going?”
“I can’t just bring you to my guy. You can imagine that he’d be a little nervous talking to the famous Frankie Frings. I’ve got to get him used to the idea and hopefully drag him back here to talk to you.”
“I hate to say this, with you doing me a favor and all, but I don’t have a lot of time.”
“I know, Frank. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Floyd’s well-earned reputation for discretion paid off and Frings was only kept waiting for the better part of an hour. Floyd’s man was dressed in expensive silk slacks—black with light blue pinstripes—suspenders, and a white undershirt. His arms were strong and scarred, his hair matted together into little nubs. Underneath his beard, his obsidian face was