A Ticket to the Boneyard

by Lawrence Block

Page 27

 

  I sat on a chair across from her and put my cup down on the coffee table. The flowers were gone. She had tossed them shortly after Id left Sunday, not long after his phone call. It seemed to me, though, that I could still feel their presence in the room.

  I said, "You wont leave town. "

  "No. "

  "You might be safer out of the country. "

  "Maybe. I dont want to go. "

  "If he can get into the building-"

  "I told you, I spoke to them. Theyre keeping the service entrance bolted from inside. Its to be opened only when one of the porters or doormen is present, and itll be refastened after each use. "

  That was fine, if they stuck to it. But you couldnt count on it, and there were just too many ways to get into an apartment building, even a well-staffed one like hers.

  She said, "What about you, Matt?"

  "What about me?"

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I dont know," I said. "I came pretty close to throwing a fit in Durkins office. He as much as accused me of- well, I told you all that. "

  "Yes. "

  "I went there intending to accomplish two things. I was going to swear out a complaint against Motley. The son of a bitch worked me over pretty good last night. Thats what youre supposed to do, isnt it? If youre a private citizen? Somebody assaults you, youre supposed to go to the police and report it. "

  "Thats what they taught us in tenth-grade civics. "

  "They told me the same thing. They didnt tell me how pointless it would turn out to be. "

  I went to the bathroom and there was blood in my urine again, and my kidney throbbed as I returned to the living room. Something must have shown in my face, because she asked what was the matter.

  "I was just thinking," I said. "The other thing I wanted from Durkin was for him to help me fill out an application for a pistol permit and rush it through. After the routine he gave me I didnt even bother mentioning it. " I shrugged. "It probably wouldnt have done any good. They wouldnt issue me a carry permit, and I cant keep a loaded gun in my top dresser drawer and hope the bastard comes over for tea. "

  "Youre afraid, arent you?"

  "I suppose so. I dont feel it but it has to be there. The fear. "

  "Uh-huh. "

  "I fear for other peoples safety. You, Anita, Jan. It stands to reason that Im at least as much afraid of getting killed myself, but Im not really aware of it. Theres this book Ive been trying to read, the private thoughts of a Roman emperor. One of the themes he keeps coming back to is that death is nothing to be afraid of. The point he makes is that since its inevitable sooner or later, and since youre just as dead no matter how old you are when you die, then it doesnt really matter how long you live. "

  "What does matter?"

  "How you live. How you face up to life- and to death, as far as that goes. Thats what Im really afraid of. "

  "What?"

  "That Ill screw up. That Ill do what I shouldnt, or fail to do what I should. That one way or another Ill turn out to be a day late and a dollar short and not quite good enough. "

  * * *

  The sun was down when I left her apartment, and the sky was darkening. I set out intending to walk back to my hotel, but I was breathing heavily before Id covered two blocks. I walked over to the curb and held up a hand for a cab.

  I hadnt eaten anything all day aside from a hard roll for breakfast and a slice of pizza for lunch. I walked into a deli to pick up something for dinner but walked out again before it was my turn to order. I didnt have any appetite and the smell of food turned my stomach. I went up to my room and got there just in time to throw up. I wouldnt have thought Id have had enough in my stomach to manage it, but evidently I did.

  The process was painful, involving muscles that were sore from the night before. When I was done heaving a wave of dizziness took me and I had to cling to the doorjamb for support. When it passed I walked to my bed, moving with the deliberate mincing steps of an old man walking the deck of a storm-tossed ship. I threw myself down on the bed, breathing like a beached whale, and I wasnt there for more than a minute or two before I had to get up and stagger back into the bathroom to pee. I stood there swaying and watched the bowl fill up with red.

  Afraid hed kill me? Jesus, hed be doing me a favor.

  The phone rang an hour or so later. It was Jan Keane.

  "Hello," she said. "If I remember correctly, you dont want to know where Im calling from. "

  "Just so its out of town. "

  "Its that, all right. I almost didnt go. "

  "Oh?"

  "It all seemed overly dramatic, can you understand that? When I drank I was always addicted to that kind of high drama. Jump up, grab a toothbrush, call a taxi, and grab the next plane to San Diego. Thats not where I am, by the way. "

  "Good. "

  "I was in the cab, heading for the airport, and the whole thing seemed bizarre and out of proportion. I almost told the driver to turn the cab around. "

  "But you didnt. "

  "No. "

  "Good. "

  "Its not just drama, is it? Its real. "

  "Im afraid so. "

  "Well, I needed a vacation anyway. I can always look at it that way. Are you all right?"

  "Im fine," I said.

  "You sound, I dont know. Exhausted. "

  "Its been an exhausting day. "

  "Well, dont push yourself too hard, all right? Ill call every few days, if thats all right. "

  "Thats fine. "

  "Is around now a good time to call? I thought I could have a good chance of finding you in before you left to go to a meeting. "

  "Its usually a good time," I said. "Of course my schedules a little erratic right now. "

  "I can imagine. "

  Could she? "But call every few days," I said, "and Ill let you know if things clear up. "

  "You mean when they clear up, dont you?"

  "That must be what I mean," I said.

  I didnt get to a meeting. I thought about it, but when I stood up I realized I didnt want to go anywhere. I got back into bed and closed my eyes.

  I opened them a little while later to the sound of sirens outside my window. It was the Rescue Squad, and I watched idly as they hauled someone out of the building across the street on a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance. They sped off, heading for Roosevelt or St. Clares, running with the throttle and the siren both wide open.

  If theyd been readers of Marcus Aurelius they might have relaxed and taken it easy, knowing that it didnt make any real difference if they got there on time or not. After all, the poor clown on the stretcher was going to die sooner or later, and everything always happened just the way it was supposed to, so why knock yourself out?

  I got into bed again and dozed off. I think I may have been running a fever, because this time I slept fitfully and came awake drenched in sweat, clawing my way out of some shapeless nightmare. I got up and drew a tub of water, as hot as I could stand it, and I lay gratefully in it, feeling it draw the misery out of me.

  I was in the tub when the phone rang, and I let it ring. When I got out I called down to the desk to see if the caller had left a message, but he hadnt, and the genius on duty couldnt remember if it had been a man or a woman.

  I suppose it must have been him, but Ill never know for sure. I didnt notice what time it was. It could have been anybody, really. Id passed out my business cards all over town, and any of a thousand people could have been moved to call me.

  And if it was him, and if Id been there to take the call, it wouldnt have changed a thing.

  When the phone rang again I was already awake. The sky was light outside my window and Id opened my eyes ten or fifteen minutes ago. Any minute now Id get up and go to the bathroom and find out what color urine I was producing today.

  I picked up the phone and he said, "Good morning, Scudder," and it was chalk on a blackboard again, and an arctic chill that went right throug
h me.

  I dont remember what I said. I must have said something, but maybe not. Maybe I just sat there holding the goddamned phone.

  He said, "I had a busy night. I suppose youve already read about it. "

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Im talking about blood. "

  "I dont understand. "

  "No, evidently you dont. Blood, Scudder. Not the kind you spill, although Im afraid that did happen. But theres no sense crying over spilled blood, is there?"

  My grip tightened on the telephone. I felt the anger and impatience rising in me, but I kept a lid on it, refusing to give him the response he seemed to want. I made myself take a breath, and I didnt say anything.

  "Blood as in blood ties," he said. "You lost someone near and dear to you. My sympathies. "

  "What do you-"

  "Read the paper," he said shortly, and he broke the connection.

  I called Anita. While the phone rang I felt as though an iron band was tightening around my chest, but when I heard her voice on the other end of the line I couldnt think of a thing to say to her. I just sat there as wordless as a heavy breather until she got tired of saying "hello?" and hung up on me.

  A blood tie, someone near and dear to me. Elaine? Did he know that she was my honorary cousin Frances? It didnt make sense but I called anyway. The line was busy. I decided he must have killed her and left her phone off the hook, and I got an operator to check and make sure. She did, and reported that the phone was in use. Id identified myself as a police officer, so she cooperatively offered to break into the call if it was an emergency. I told her not to bother. It might or might not be an emergency, but I didnt want to talk to Elaine any more than Id wanted to talk to Anita. I just wanted to assure myself that she was alive.

  My sons?

  I was looking in my book for phone numbers before the unlikelihood of that struck me. Even if hed managed to find one of them and chase across the country after him, how could it have made todays paper? And why didnt I quit wasting time and go out and buy the paper and read about it, whatever it was?

  I threw some clothes on, went downstairs and picked up the News and the Post. They both had the same story headlined on the front page. The Venezuelan family, it turned out, had been killed by mistake. They werent drug dealers after all. The Colombians across the street were drug dealers, and the killers had evidently gone to the wrong house.

  Nice.

  I went to the Flame and sat at the counter and ordered coffee. I opened one of the papers and started going through it without knowing what I was looking for.

  I found it right away. It would have been hard to miss. It was spread all over page 3.

  A young woman had been killed in a particularly brutal fashion by a killer or killers who had invaded her home early the previous evening. She was a financial analyst employed by an investment-management corporation headquartered on Wall Street, and she had lived just below Gramercy Park on Irving Place, where shed occupied the fourth floor of a brownstone.

  Two photos ran with the article. One showed an attractive girl with a long face and a high forehead, her expression serious, her gaze level. The other showed the entrance to her building, with police personnel carrying her out in a body bag. The accompanying text stated that the well-appointed apartment had been ransacked by the killer or killers, and that the woman had been subjected to repeated sexual assault and unspecified sadistic mistreatment. The police were withholding details, as was customary in such cases, but the news story did mention that the victim had been decapitated, and one sensed that this was not the only surgery that had been performed.