Catch Me: Kill Me

by Hallahan, William H. ;

The woman at the Motor Vehicle Board pushed a form over the counter to him. “The State of New York can provide you with a duplicate of your lost license, but there’s a fee, and you have to fill out this form. It usually takes seven to ten days to get a duplicate. If it’s an emergency, I can get it for you in seventy-two hours.”

  Brewer nodded and filled out the request for a duplicate driver’s license—in the name of Charles McMurry. He checked the box marked “Emergency.”

  He asked the clerk in the Bureau of Vital Statistics for a copy of his birth certificate. Name: Charles McMurry. Date of Birth: April 2, 1924. A clerk went through the ledgers, filled out a form, squeezed the official seal onto it and collected three dollars. Brewer walked the sun-filled streets, with the birth certificate, rehearsing his name: Charles McMurry. Charles McMurry. Charles McMurry….

  In the coffee shop of the hotel, Brewer chewed his sandwich and waited. He glanced at his lunch partner, a career government cop with the Alien Agent Registration Section, Department of Justice.

  The man picked up his soup spoon and polished it with a paper napkin. “What’s happening with you, Brewer?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. I’m in the catbird seat. I got my pension and a nice pad and I’m doing a book.”

  “Yeah? For real? My wife’s always telling me to do a book. But that’s not my thing—I can’t write. I can’t even write checks. And the clearances I’d have to get—”

  “I’m the same,” said Brewer. “I tried writing it myself. But it’s like trying to play the piano with boxing gloves. So I’m going to work with a ghost writer.”

  “Yeah? For real? How about that! A ghost writer. Maybe that’s what I need. Still and all, those clearances—”

  “You know, I’ve got a lot of stories. I go back before you, back in the old days when spying was still a dirty word. Hell, I remember you when you first signed on, and I was an old stager even then. I’ll tell you one thing—if you ever write a book like mine, make sure you have a good lawyer, because when you start naming names and mentioning dates and places, you got to be very careful. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I know, Brewer. If half the stories, just half the stories I heard about you over the years are true, it’ll make a fantastic book.”

  “Yeah—but not all good, eh, buddy?”

  “Ha?”

  “Everything you heard about me wasn’t all that blue-eyed pure, was it?”

  “Well, hell, man, we all have our stories. Our memories.”

  “Yeah, well, for the record, I had some dillies. I drew some dirty details that no one else would touch, and I had to get out of some scrapes all alone with no help from anyone else. So …” Brewer smirked. “I took care of myself.”

  His lunch partner shrugged. “Everyone has situations like that, I suppose.”

  “But that doesn’t mean you approve, necessarily.”

  The man looked directly into Brewer’s eyes. “That’s right, Brewer. That don’t mean that necessarily I approve of the way you handled yourself out there in the arena. Not necessarily.”

  “Well, you’ll be able to judge better when you read my book. In fact, that’s why I wanted to see you today. I want to get some pictures together of people who are mentioned in the book. And I need a picture of Maksim Edemsky.”

  “You mean Maksim Edemsky? The Maksim Edemsky, the world’s most overqualified Soviet chauffeur?”

  “Yeah. The Colonel himself.”

  “I didn’t know you ever went up against him.”

  Brewer smirked. “Neither does he.”

  “Ohhhhhh.”

  “So, look, like I said. I need his picture.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. Picture. His picture.”

  “Oh. Picture. Oh. Ohhhhh. Well. Oh, no. No dice, Brewer. No can do.”

  “Come on, come on. You know there’s only one picture of him anywhere.”

  “But that’s the picture in the Alien Agent Registration file. It’s official. Top secret. I can’t take it out of there.”

  “Who’s to know? It’s done all the time. Ten minutes is all I need to make a copy of it. And when I get through retouching it, no one’ll ever know it came from the office files. I’ll put a new tie and a shirt on him, add some lines … who’ll know?”

  “Me. That’s who’ll know. What kind of a cuckoo do you think I am, Brewer? That’s why you were always in hot water. You were always cutting corners, violating regulations. You got your ass in a sling so many times, people lost count. Jesus.”

  “Come on. It’s no big thing.”

  “Yes it is, Brewer. It’s a hell of a big thing. It’s so big a thing that I could lose my job. My reputation. My whole career. And I don’t need early retirement. I’d never get work again anywhere. I don’t need to do it. I don’t want to do it. And I’m not going to do it. Furthermore—no, wait, wait till I say it.” He brushed a hand at Brewer’s finger. “Furthermore, I got to report it to my section head.”

  “Oh, come on! Don’t turn into a Boy Scout right before my eyes. Come on. Let’s forget the whole thing. What’s to report? I’m writing a book, is all. Let’s forget it, ha?” He reached over and picked up the lunch check.

  “No, no, no, Brewer. Dutch. Come on. Dutch. I pay my own.”

  “Nah. Nah. We’re old comrades in arms, you and me. You pick up the next one.”

  “No go.” The agent stood up and bounced some coins on the table and took his check. “I’ll see you around, Brewer.”

  “Hey. A favor, ha? Don’t mention this to anyone. Okay?”

  The man turned away without answering.

  Brewer watched him walk out, moving between the tables. He watched the man’s angry back.

  The son of a bitch. Up his. Brewer knew where he’d get the photograph.

  Brewer walked over to a theatrical supply house on East Forty-sixth Street to buy the paraphernalia he needed for a simple disguise that Graybill had taught him to use years ago. Then he walked back to his apartment in the Sports Complex to put it on.

  He began by putting the wig on over his bald head. “Build around the wig,” Graybill used to say. Brewer examined it in the bathroom mirror, then fitted several wads of bulk-putty between the upper gums and the cheeks to change the shape of his face. He applied the false mustache, a long RAF type, and the thick eyebrows with spirit gum. The false caps for his teeth were molded from a single flexible sheet of plastic and covered his irregular, brown-stained teeth with a perfect set of bright white ones, upper and lower. “Don’t eat anything with them on,” the clerk had told him. “They’re just for show. And don’t smoke around them. They have a low melting point.”

  To finish it off, he put on a pair of black-framed glasses.

  When Brewer examined himself in the mirror he felt a shock of recognition. Once, years ago, he’d used the disguise almost every day for several months. Now, it was like meeting an old acquaintance—and noting how he’d aged. Brewer longed to thump the man in the mirror on the back and buy him a drink, to talk over the old days and “to chase the shadows,” as Graybill used to say. Feeling suddenly lonely, Brewer left the building for his next two errands.

  Walking to the art-supply shop, Brewer felt that everyone was staring in stunned horror at him. At the art-supply store he bought several sheets of Prestype lettering, Cheltenham Bold, 18-point, 14-point and 8-point body text. He also bought a sheet of Prestype typewriter lettering in pica size, a sheet of thin white cardboard, rubber cement, an inked stamp pad and a rolled sheet of clear plastic. He felt that everyone in the store was staring at him, recognized him, and knew exactly what he was up to.

  Now, he walked over to the Times Square five-and-ten at Forty-third and strolled to the back. The sign said: INSTANT PORTRAITS IN FULL COLOR IN SECONDS! He Sat in the booth, put the coins in as directed and took four ID photographs of his disguise.

  Now he faced the acid test: He walked back to the Sports Complex, past the men on the corner and in the doorways. He strolled
up the stairs to the poolroom and peered around, seeming to look for someone. Abbott was sitting there, talking with Arty the rack man. He glanced at Brewer and looked away without any sign of recognition.

  Brewer felt better now. Not once over the years had anyone ever recognized him through the simple disguise. He walked up to his apartment and looked in his bathroom mirror at the old familiar face. He smiled and then chuckled at the piano-keyboard effect the brilliant white teeth made. He laughed heartily. The message was still on the mirror: I CAN FIND HIM. I CAN SPRING HIM.

  “Don’t be dead, you bastard,” he said aloud. “Don’t be dead.”

  He glanced at his watch. He grunted and dialed a number, then asked for Mr. Morse. “This is Plummer. I left a credit check with you this morning on—yeah, that’s the guy. McMurry.” He nodded at the phone. “Shoot.” Brewer made notes as he listened. “Great. Okay. I’ll call you for the rest of it later.”

  Brewer studied the credit check on Charles McMurry. He scratched his wig thoughtfully. According to the credit report, Charles McMurry had a five-star credit rating, with charge accounts in fifteen retail establishments, but used few credit cards. Brewer noted down the names of three major credit cards that McMurry didn’t have, then lifted the phone book from a desk drawer and looked up the number of the first credit card.

  He dialed the number.

  “I want to apply for a credit card.” The operator passed him along to a clerk. “How fast can I get a credit card from you people? I’m going to Europe in a few days. Okay. That’s fine. I’ll give you the information right now and you mail the card to me at my home. Okay.”

  Brewer read to the clerk the information he’d gotten on McMurry. “That’s my list of credit references,” he said. “What else can I tell you? Nothing? Okay. Thanks.” He hung up.

  Now he prepared the material for his government ID card. He sat awhile, considering various names, and finally settled for Special Agent, Resident Aliens Bureau, Department of Justice, United States of America.

  With a ruler and a pencil he drew a square on the card board the size of a wallet ID card. Then he took out the press-down lettering: a transparent sheet of acetate on the back of which adhered letters made from a soft and very thin black plastic film. He laid the acetate sheet over the cardboard and positioned it. Then he rubbed a capital S with a stylus. When he lifted the clear plastic sheet, the letter remained stuck to the cardboard. Next, he selected a lower-case p, positioned it next to the S and rubbed it with the stylus. He lifted the acetate sheet away; the p remained stuck to the cardboard. Sp, it said. Now he moved faster. In a few moments he’d spelled Special Agent. He continued with the other words.

  When he had finished, the card looked as though it had been printed. Now he pasted down one of the five-and-ten photographs of himself with the full head of hair and mustache. Adjacent to that, he outlined a black box, using black lines from the plastic typesheet. In this he affixed a thumbprint after inking his thumb in the stamp pad. Next to that he made more black lines. Now, using the typewriter typeface sheet, he methodically printed the name, CHARLES MCMURRY, and a fictitious registration number. It looked as if it had been done with a typewriter. Under that he indicated the bureau chiefs name and signed it in ink. He studied the card critically, then cut it from the sheet with a pair of scissors.

  He removed the roll of thermosetting plastic sheeting from the bag and walked down the dark hallway to the chambermaid’s closet. There was an ironing board and an iron there. He put the forged card into a fold of plastic and ironed it, sealing the card in its own plastic shield. He carried the card back to his room and trimmed the edge of the plastic with his scissors.

  He examined the card. Some of the letters were slightly out of line or slightly tilted but not enough to be challenged. In a few days he would have Charles McMurry’s new credit card, plus his driver’s license, library card and birth certificate. He hadn’t bothered with the Social Security card. That might not arrive for weeks, long after he expected to be finished.

  He walked into the bathroom and looked into the mirror and held up the ID card. New face, new identity papers. “Hi there, I’m Charles McMurry.”

  He saw the note, water-spotted and beginning to curl now: I CAN FIND HIM. I CAN SPRING HIM, and he felt that twinge in his gut again. “I can—if he’s still alive.” He had work to do, so he left the apartment and walked down to West Thirty-eighth Street. If Kotlikoff was dead, both of them were dead.

  Emden Harra, publisher of Cassandra Magazine for people who want to be right in their thinking, was in every aspect of his life addicted to overkill. He lived in an aura of his own aftershave scent that overpowered the air of his expensive office. It oozed from the pores of the walls and furniture. It came off his form in waves. It existed like a fog. Even from their brief handshake, Brewer would still be able to smell it on his hand the next day.

  And, like his relentless scent, Emden Harra’s door-to-door sales technique was overly persistent: three times he’d closed in for the kill and three times he’d been beaten off. Brewer was getting a little testy; he wanted what Harra had in the brown envelope and he wanted to leave.

  Harra closed in once more. “Look, Mr. McMurry, I scratch your back, you scratch mine. Deal?”

  “I don’t need a deal, Harra.”

  “You fill my ear and I’ll pay you well.”

  “Okay. I said I’d think about it.”

  “What you’re thinking about is that waiver you signed in Washington, renouncing all rights to publication.”

  Brewer grunted, and Harra read the flash of surprise. “Of course I know about such things, Mr. McMurry.” He beamed his most professional smirk. “But you don’t have to worry about that. It’s strictly illegal. It’s not worth the paper—”

  “I’ve heard that before. You tell me not to worry, then you publish my papers, and I wind up baking bread from eight to ten. Thanks, but I’ll do it my way.”

  “Mr. McMurry, how else can I tell you I love you? I’m very hungry for your book on the CIA, and I can take care of all the business details, legal clearance, lawsuits, distribution in book stores, royalties, the whole thing. Tell me, Mr. McMurry, where do you live? Where can I reach you?”

  “You can’t. I’ll call you. Okay?”

  “At least a phone number.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “When?”

  “When I’m ready to talk.”

  “No. Tell you what. You want what’s in this envelope, you promise to call me. Deal? Next week. Deal? Let’s see. Here. On Tuesday at ten of next week. I want to talk to you some more. You and I can do business. You work with me and I’ll put my entire magazine filing system at your disposal.” He waved an arm vaguely in the air. “I’ve got the finest file in the world on the Communist conspiracy—outside the federal government, that is. Here. Tuesday at ten. Deal?”

  “Deal,” said Brewer. He got up and walked out of the fog bank of scent through the editorial offices and out into the hallway by the elevators. He slipped the photographic print out of the envelope. Paydirt. There he was in all his pristine glory—the dirtiest groin kicker in the history of espionage. Colonel Maksim Edemsky.

  Brewer caught up with Patrolman Harry Gelb at a few minutes after four. He flashed his forged ID at him. “Ready?”

  “Yeah, ready,” said Gelb. He watched Brewer slip the photograph out of the envelope and hold it up.

  “Can you do a make on this guy?”

  “That’s him! That’s the bastard! ‘Too much tippling, officer.’ Who is he? Where do I find him?”

  “We got him. Right in the crossed hairs. Don’t say a word. Just sit tight and all things will come to pass.”

  Brewer was pleased.

  It was a good day’s work. He’d gotten a new face and new identity card, he’d gotten a positive make on Edemsky as the chief body snatcher—which narrowed down the area of search enormously—and, to put the cork in the bottle, they were rerunning one of his favorite c
owboy movies on television.

  While he watched it, he carefully removed his disguise and stored it in a small case. Then he got a can of cold beer and sat drinking it. He puffed happily on a cigar. They were coming to the famous gunfight in the saloon.

  Flo opened the door without knocking. She wore her waitress’s black uniform with the huge lace handkerchief in a spray at her left shoulder. Her hair was piled like a blond turban on her head. “Damn,” she said. “I forgot to feed the goddam canary. Remind me when I leave. Remind me. How are you, honey?”

  Brewer suffered her to hug him from behind and slide a hand down his open shirt.

  “How about a quick one?” she said. “I got to get right back.”

  Brewer opened the map of the city and spread it carefully over his papers. He yawned and stretched and watched Flo walk over to the bed and pull back the covers.

  Brewer asked, “Where’s Rudy?”

  “Oh, out. Like a light. In Cahill’s back room. He won’t sleep it off for hours.” Flo frowned thoughtfully at the floor as she unbuttoned the front of her uniform to the hem. She slipped out of it and shimmied out of a half slip. She strained her hands up into the middle of her back and unsnapped her brassiere. She sat down on the bed, untied her shoes, removed them, wriggled out of her pantyhose and panties and turned.

  Brewer was yawning and taking off his pants.

  She watched him approach the bed as she lay back. “Those shoes will make the sheets black.”

  “That’s the laundry’s problem.”

  Brewer put his shod feet under the sheet and blanket and lay back. He reached his cigar out to an ashtray by the bed and cast an eye at the cowboy movie, then turned to Flo.

  He’d be finished before the famous gunfight in the saloon started.

  Part Five

  LEARY

  Geller arrived in a taxi.

  Leary, inside the lobby of the courthouse, watched him step out of the cab in a crouch, followed by two men, broad and very tall. No one was going to lump Geller in a subway phone booth: he looked like a bowling ball between two stout pins.