Twospot

by Bill Pronzini

  Suddenly she wheeled on Canelli. “Get back against the wall,” she ordered. Her voice was harsh, her manner decisive. She’d made her decision. Instinctively, I knew she’d decide to cut her losses.

  “Move, you fat slob.” She gestured with the opener. “Now.”

  As he obeyed, Canelli’s soft brown eyes reproached her. Canelli was sensitive about his weight.

  She turned to me. “Come here,” she ordered. She pointed to a spot on the floor less than a yard from where she stood. “Stand there. I want to show you something.”

  Moving slowly and deliberately, careful not to startle her, I obeyed. She pointed down at the intersection of Polk and McAllister. The intersection was packed with people. During the past fifteen minutes the crowd-control officers had raised their rope barricades. Two mounted officers rode on smartly prancing horses, patrolling the barricades.

  “You were right about Mal Howard,” she said. “You were exactly right ”

  Staring straight into her eyes, I only nodded.

  “Howard made a bomb,” she said. “Two bombs.”

  Still I didn’t respond.

  “Look down there,” she ordered, pointing with her free right hand. “Do you see those two trash containers on either side of Polk Street? At the corner.”

  Following her gesture, I felt my stomach suddenly contact Two small boys were sitting on one of the big metal canisters. Across the street, a pretty teenage blond girl stood leaning against a matching canister. She held a sandwich in one hand and a poptop can of Coke in the other. She was squinting as she stared up Polk Street, trying to catch sight of the motorcade.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said. “You can’t do that. You’ll never sleep again if you do that.”

  Momentarily her eyes blazed. “You son of a bitch,” she whispered. “Shut up. Listen.”

  “But they’re children. They—”

  “Shut up!” Now her eyes were wild. Her free right hand was suddenly shaking violently. “I’m getting a half-million dollars for this. So listen.”

  Holding the opener, her left hand was shaking, too.

  She forced herself to speak slowly, choosing her words. “Those canisters,” she said huskily, “both contain explosives. The explosives are inside two four-inch steel pipes. The pipes are closed on one end and open on the other. The pipes are packed with dynamite and shrapnel. They’re like two mortars, pointing toward each other. We put the cans there last night, Leo and I. When Castro’s car gets between the canisters, I press the button. Then I—”

  “Shelly—Jesus. It won’t happen. He’s not coming this way. You —”

  “If he comes,” she said, speaking now in a low, deadly voice, “it’ll be in the next five minutes. I was going to blow the canisters from here and escape in the mess. Leo was going to pick me up, a block from here. But you changed that, you son of a bitch. So I’m leaving. I’m going to leave this office, and get on the elevator and go down to the street. I’ll blow the canisters from the street. And if you try to stop me any time between now and then, I’ll press the button. I’ll—”

  “But Castro’s not—”

  “If you come after me, I’ll press this button. Do you understand ? So if anyone dies, it’s your fault. Not mine. You’re the one who’ll kill them. It’s your decision.” Suddenly she stepped away from the desk, moving toward the office door.

  “Listen, lady—” Canelli stepped cautiously toward her. “I can tell you that—”

  “Shut up.” It was a low, half-strangled shriek. “And remember, stay inside, here. Stay in this office. If you don’t they’ll die. All of them, down there—they’ll all die. Because they’re my ticket out of here. Those kids. They’re my insurance.” In front of the door now, green eyes blazing, she looked at me for a last long, terrible moment.

  Then, while I watched, she transformed herself before stepping out on stage to play the part of a beautiful young matron, she drew a long, deep breath. She straightened her back, squared her shoulders, lifted her breasts. Magically, her face smoothed. She gave me a last small, smug smile—and stepped out into the hallway. Her shadowed shape lingered a moment on the frosted glass door, then disappeared.

  Instantly, I reached for my walkie-talkie-just as Canelli brushed past me, bounding desperately for the desk.

  “What—?”

  “Get to the door,” Canelli hissed. “Open it a crack. See when she gets on the elevator. Tell me when she’s in it.”

  “But—”

  “Do it, Lieutenant. I was an electrician. Tell me when she’s in the elevator.” At the desk now, he snatched up potted plant and emptied the plant and dirt on the floor.

  “Listen, Canelli. You—”

  “Shut up, Lieutenant. Just do it.” Moving soundlessly, he sprang to the door of the lavatory and jerked it open. Now filling the pot with water, he turned to me, pleading: “Please, Lieutenant. Do like I say. I can stop her. Once she’s in the elevator, the opener won’t work. She’ll be surrounded by steel and concrete. The signal won’t carry three feet. Honest.”

  Three strides took me to the office door. One cautious millimeter at a time, I cracked the door until I could see her standing in front of the elevators. Above her head, a white plastic arrow lit up. One of the two elevators was coming up. She glanced impatiently at the arrow, then looked quickly back toward me. I held the door motionless, open just a fraction of an inch. I knew she couldn’t see me watching her.

  Behind me, I heard water furiously runing—then diminishing, finally stopping. Footsteps approached as Canelli came to stand close beside me.

  “What’s happening?” he whispered.

  “Nothing. She’s waiting for the elevator.” As I spoke, I saw a red arrow flashing, pointing down. Gripping the opener in her left hand, holding the alligator bag with her right hand, she was tensed for escape. I heard the elevator doors come open. She threw a last glance in my direction, then stepped forward—gone.

  “She’s in the elevator.”

  Beside me, Canelli drew the office door slowly open. The moment the elevator doors thudded shut, he leaped into the hallway. “Come on, Lieutenant. Quick.” Hugging the planter pot filled with water close to his bulging stomach, with his muffler trailing behind, he was running awkwardly for the two small twin doors: one to the cleaning closet, the other to the electrical panel. Holding the planter pot out to me, he ordered, “Put your finger in the drainage hole.”

  Like characters in a comedy sketch, each trying to staunch the flow of water from the bottom of the pot with a clumsy finger, we juggled the planter between us. Finally, with his hands free, Canelli drew his revolver. “Watch the goddamn floor indicator,” he said.

  Holding the heavy water-filled pot, I stepped back. Over the elevator she’d taken, numbers were flashing as she descended from the sixth floor to the fifth.

  Beside me, a shot crashed. Another. And another. Throwing down his revolver, Canelli was struggling with the door to the electrical panel, his fingers jammed between the door and the frame. I saw blood on his fingernails.

  Above the elevator, the number “3” Bashed—and remained lit. The elevator had stopped for passengers.

  The door splintered and came open. Frantically, Canelli grabbed for his pistol, aimed at a locked metal panel inside, fired twice. As the panel door came open, the “3” blinked out.

  “The water.” Canelli held out his hands.

  Number “2” winked on.

  I handed Canelli the planter, saw him throw the water on the exposed bank of switches and relays. Instantly, electricity sizzled, sparks showered down on the floor around us.

  The number “2” winked out.

  But the “1” was out, too.

  The elevator was stopped between the first and second floors.

  “Whew.” Shaking his head, Canelli stooped to retrieve his revolver. Still shaking his head—exhaling loudly—he holstered his revolver. Beneath the stocking cap, his face was sweat-streaked.

  “I’m sorry I yelle
d at you, Lieutenant,” he said earnestly. “See, I used to be an electrician, like I said. So I knew that—”

  “Wait, Canelli.” I raised my hand—and saw my fingers trembling. “Wait. Be quiet. Listen to me.” My voice, I knew, was hardly more than whisper.

  Gulping for breath, mopping his face with the end of his stadium-style scarf, he silently nodded.

  “You’ve got to get the second-floor elevator door open,” I said. “You’ve got to make sure she doesn’t get out through the escape door in the ceiling of the elevator. And I’ve got to get the bomb squad out here. I’ll send some men to help you. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant. That’s clear.”

  As I watched him lumbering toward the stairway door, I wondered whether the bomb squad would find the two small boys still sitting on the trash canister.

  Epilogue

  The Private Detective

  At ten past seven that Monday night Frank Hastings and I were sitting in a back booth in Marlowe’s, a tavern on Bryant Street across from the Hall of Justice where cops and police reporters and bail bondsmen congregated. I had been there for fifteen minutes, nursing a beer, and Hastings had just come in.

  He ordered a glass of tonic water from the waitress—for reasons of his own he did not drink anything alcoholic—and ran a hand heavily over his stubbled cheeks. He looked about the way I felt: tired, emotionally drained, in need of a dozen hours of uninterrupted sleep. I had spent all of last night and most of this morning answering police and FBI questions at the winery, and even though I had taken a four-hour nap after returning to San Francisco, it was going to be a while before my internal clock was functioning properly again.

  “We just finished interrogating Shelly Jackson,” he said.

  “She gave us most of the story, on advice from an expensive attorney.” His mouth quirked. “She’s going to cop a plea.”

  “That figures,” I said.

  “Right. Everybody plea-bargains these days—except for fanatics like Rosten and Leo Cappellani.”

  “You didn’t get anything from Leo?”

  “Not a word. As soon as we arrested him and told him Shelly was in custody and Castro was safe, he shut up tight. Just name, rank and serial number.”

  I nodded.

  “But like I said, we got most of the story from Shelly. Apparently both Leo and Rosten have been active in right-wing paramilitary politics for years—quietly and secretly. They were both recruited, if that’s the right word, by Frank Cappellani when he was alive.”

  The waitress came back with Hastings’s drink, and while she was setting it out I thought about Rosa. She had told us last night that she suspected Leo had followed in his father’s political footsteps, but that he would never discuss the matter with her; neither would Rosten, who she knew was a disciple of her late husband. Whatever her feelings about Leo’s involvement in the attempted Castro assassination, she had hidden them behind a fresh cloak of imperiousness. But I got the impression that, despite appearances, Alex had always been her favorite son and that she would not stand by Leo; his political fanaticism might be forgiven, his murder of Booker might be forgiven, but the attempts on Alex’s life could never be.

  Even with all the adversity I thought she would find a way to salvage her life and the winery both. With Alex’s help, maybe. A man who has faced death three times and survived either learns to be strong or falls apart completely, and last night and today Alex had shown signs of a new maturity in his behavior with the police and the FBI.

  When the waitress moved away, Hastings said, “Anyhow, everything with the Cappellanis went down about the way you reasoned it out. If it hadn’t been for Leo’s obsessive hatred for his brother, the whole damned assassination might have gone off as planned. And Castro and Chirst knows how many innocent people would be dead right now.”

  “Where does Shelly fit in, exactly?” I asked him. “Is she another zealot that Leo brought in?”

  “No. It’s the other way around: she’s the one who recruited Leo, under orders from Miami. She pretended to be a zealot for Leo’s benefit, but actually she’s a mercenary—a Mafia enforcer.”

  I stared at him. “Mafia? The Mafia’s behind it all?”

  “That’s the way it looks. They’ve had a vendetta against Castro ever since he threw them out of Havana when he took over; he cost them millions in gambling and other illegal revenue.” Hastings sipped some of his tonic water. “Shelly wouldn’t tell us who gave her her orders; she’s too smart for that. She wants to keep on living while she’s in prison and when she finally gets out, and she wouldn’t stand a chance if she started naming names.”

  “How would a woman like her get mixed up with the Mafia?”

  Hastings shrugged. “She wouldn’t tell us that either. Blood relations in the organization, maybe. There are other ways too, if you’re greedy enough and amoral enough.”

  Christ, I thought the Mafia—a Mafia enforcer. And I had liked her and considered having a relationship with her, and all the time she had been setting Castro’s death for the powers behind organized crime. I had been wrong about people before, but never more than I had been about Shelly Jackson. Just thinking about it made me feel cold inside.

  “Where the Mafia made their big mistake,” Hastings said, “was in using amateurs for the job instead of people from their own ranks. I suppose they did it to throw the blame on Leo’s right-wing group in case something went wrong—only they didn’t figure on the whole operation coming apart the way it did.” He shook his head. “The next time, if there is a next time, they won’t make the same mistake.”

  “You think they’ll go after Castro again?”

  “If they want him badly enough. And I think they want him that badly. Someday, somewhere, Castro will leave himself vulnerable again and they’ll put out another contract on him.”

  “That’s a nice prospect.”

  Hastings said wryly, “I just hope they don’t pick San Francisco again.”

  We were silent for a time, thinking our own thoughts. Just a couple of cops, one public and the other private, one in his forties and one just past fifty—working too hard, trying too hard, accomplishing a little but never quite enough. Little cogs in the big system, not unlike the cops and the private eyes in the pulps. Well, in one sense that was exactly what we were: a pulp cop and a pulp private eye. But in another sense we were both in better and in worse shape than those boys.

  We could think in much broader terms and we could feel much more deeply—and we knew that when you deal with pain and death and human corruption, there are never any happy endings because there are never really any endings at all.

  The Police Lieutenant

  I watched Bill raise his glass of beer. He drank briefly and returned the glass to the table before him, thoughtfully rotating the glass on the wet formica. Even in the dim light of Marlowe’s, I could see fatigue etched deep in the lines of his face. I wondered how much he’d charged the Cappellanis for risking his life to save Alex. Did his fee schedule include a multiplier for mortal danger? To myself, I wearily smiled. Because I knew there were no guarantees for this big, serious man. If someone caught him with a sucker punch, or a broken bottle laid open his face, there wouldn’t be a partner to help him, or a dozen cars dispatched to run down the assailant. He wouldn’t get hazard pay or sick leave. He’d never get a departmental citation. If he died a gaudy death, the story would make the back pages of the newspapers. But there would be no white-gloved policemen drawn up beside his grave—no volley of shots—no sound of taps.

  That, then, was my edge over the private detective. If I got injured in the line of duty, it would be a front-page story. If I got killed, there’d be a parade at the graveyard.

  I knew he hadn’t charged the Cappellanis enough. And he knew it, too. Some men had an affinity for money, and a knack for acquiring it.

  But not Bill.

  And not me, either.

  Even as a second-string fullback for the Detroit Lions, I’d
made a good money during the four years I’d played professional football. But cars and taxes and a year’s love affair with an heiress had taken most of the money—and a surgeon’s bills for three knee operations had taken the rest. When football was finished with me, I’d make the mistake of marrying the girl—and compounded the mistake by taking a make-work PR job from my father-in-law. The money in the executive suite had been good, but it all went for country club dues I couldn’t afford and interior decorators I didn’t like. So I began spending too much money for too many drinks in too many bars—alone. A divorce lawyer had taken the final share, and I’d escaped to San Francisco, where I was born. A tough, jug-eared captain named Krieger got me into the Police Academy. I’d known Krieger since kindergarten; after our first fight, we’d been friends for life.

  I was the oldest rookie in my class at the academy. On the obstacle course, the pain in my knees brought tears to my eyes. I’d felt tired and lonely and defeated. I missed my two children, in Detroit, but I knew I couldn’t exist in the same town with my ex-wife and her father, both my enemies. So, during the days, I learned to be a policeman. At night, by myself in my apartment, I drank. At the end of every month, so my children would remember me kindly, I sent their mother child-support payments she didn’t need. Then I borrowed money to get through the next month.

  “You look tired,” Bill was saying.

  “So do you.”

  He smiled, nodded and sipped the beer. “I’m beginning to think it’s a chronic condition.”

  “You, too?”

  He nodded again. “Me, too.”

  I finished the last of my tonic water and looked reflectively at the empty glass. After I’d made patrolman, Krieger had knocked on my door one night and told me that if I didn’t quit drinking our friendship was finished—and my career, too. He’d stayed in my apartment less than thirty seconds; he hadn’t even bothered to close the door behind him. But, that night, I poured the last of my bourbon down the toilet.