Without Mercy by Len Levinson, Leonard Jordan Read Free Book Online Page B

wiped the murder weapon off on them.
    Rackman stood up and looked around. There were footprints of men’s shoes in the blood. He left the cubicle and walked to the main room of the bar where the employees were sitting. They watched him and quieted down as he approached. He took out his shield and showed it to them.
    “I’m Detective Rackman from Midtown North,’’ he said. “Did any of you see the killer?”
    They nodded their heads, raised their hands, or said yes. The girls looked as hard as granite and the men would mash in your face for a dime.
    “Who’s in charge here?” Rackman asked.
    “I am,” said one of the men, a gorilla with thinning black hair and a bruise on his mouth.
    “You saw the killer?”
    “Yeah.”
    “How close was he when you saw him?”
    “Close enough for him to tag me.” He pointed to the bruise on his mouth.
    “Come with me.”
    Rackman led him to one of the booths to the rear of the pool table and told him to sit down.
    “Can I smoke?” the man asked, settling himself in the chair.
    “Go ahead.” Rackman sat on the bench against the wall, took out his pack of Luckies, and offered one, but the man shook his head and took out a pack of Chesterfields.
    “What’s your name?” Rackman asked.
    “Albert Pancaldo.”
    “You’re the manager of this place?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Did you see the killer when he came in?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Where were you?”
    Pancaldo pointed to the front of the bar. “Sitting at one of those tables up there.”
    Rackman took out his notepad and pen. “What did he look like?”
    “He was a big guy, around six feet tall. Weighed maybe 250 pounds or more. He had a big gut and big arms.”
    “What color hair?”
    “Black.”
    “Curly or straight?”
    “Straight, I’d say.”
    “Not wavy?”
    “Straight.”
    “Eyes?”
    “Regular eyes.”
    “You see what color they were?”
    “I didn’t notice.”
    “He was a white man?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You ever see him before?”
    “Never.”
    “Did he know anybody who worked here?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “What makes you think not?”
    “Because nobody acted like they knew him.”
    “How about the dead woman?”
    “I don’t think she knew him either.”
    “Did they talk?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Where?”
    “At the bar.”
    “Where was she when she came in?”
    “At the bar.”
    “He sat next to her?”
    “Yeah.”
    ‘‘Did it appear that they knew each other?’’
    “I told you that I didn’t think she knew him.”
    “Was anyone near them while they were talking?”
    “The barmaid and a couple of other girls.”
    “What’s the barmaid’s name?”
    “Barbara Leary.”
    “What’s the victim’s name?”
    “Rene LeDoux.”
    Sirens howled in the distance as Rackman questioned Albert Pancaldo. Personnel arrived from the photo unit, the fingerprint unit, and the medical examiner’s office. Pancaldo didn’t appear happy to have his bar crawling with cops, as he continued answering Rackman’s questions. He told of how the killer came in, sat at the bar, and went to the back room with Rene.
    “And then all of a sudden the guy came out of the room,” Pancaldo said. “I thought something was wrong right off because the girls are supposed to come out first. Mackie went back to check on Rene while I tried to hold the guy up, but he sucker-punched me and ran outside. Then Mackie came back and said that Rene was dead. I told the barmaid to call the cops.”
    Rackman puffed his cigarette and ran Pancaldo’s story through his mind again. “This wasn’t some kind of rub-out, was it Pancaldo?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Maybe Rene LeDoux did something wrong and maybe you guys wiped her?”
    Pancaldo slitted his eyes. “If we wanted to wipe her, we wouldn’t have wiped her here.”
    “Did she have any enemies that you know of?”
    “I don’t know much about her personal life. She’s just been down from Montreal for about a month.”
    “Where does she live?”
    “I don’t