Hire a Hangman

by Collin Wilcox

  After checking for traffic, Frazer stepped off the curb. Across the four-lane street, he saw the slight, scarecrow-ragged figure of a street person, loitering on the sidewalk in front of the parking garage. Frazer made the slight correction that would allow him to angle past the beggar with a six-foot margin before he resumed his progress toward the parking garage.

  In America, the population of street people—derelicts—was increasing every year. One solution, someone at the club had said, was to get them hooked on heroin, then restrict the supply of needles. Ergo: AIDS, the final solution. Johnny Lynd had said it. And he hadn’t been joking.

  Almost at the far curb, in his peripheral vision, he saw the beggar move, coming closer.

  Yes, Johnny Lynd’s solution had merit. It—

  “Tony.”

  With his right foot on the curb, his left foot still in the gutter, he faltered. Tony, the beggar had said.

  Tony?

  The light was bad. The beggar was stooped and wore a shapeless hat that shadowed his face.

  Was it a joke? A tasteless practical joke, see Tony run?

  Aware of a sudden flutter of fright, an instant’s regression to childhood’s earliest fears, he was momentarily immobilized, his eyes fixed on the shape of the face beneath the hat.

  “This is for you, Tony.”

  The voice. The memory, stirring. The hate, hidden so long. Yes, it was—

  From the folds of the coat a shape gleamed: a metallic cylinder.

  From the cylinder a small tongue of bright-yellow flame exploded. Something struck him in the solar plexus. He staggered back, regained his balance, raised both hands, a supplication. But a second explosion followed the first. The explosions were muted, strangely muffled. Was he falling? Yes, his knees had struck the concrete sidewalk, the position of prayer, of supplication. Had he torn his suit? Kneeling, had he forgotten his prayers? Had he …?

  The third shot exploded inches in front of his eyes. Everything shattered, all of it gone.

  Except for the void descending.

  2

  HE MUST WALK, NOT run. He must not look back. At the corner of the parking garage, as he’d planned so carefully, so meticulously, he must turn to his left—here. Allowing himself, therefore, a glance to his left, as he’d also planned. Yes, two people—men—were bending over the body. One man was looking down at Frazer. The other man’s head was up. He was looking. Searching. Probing. Now, as another pedestrian ventured closer, the second man raised his arm, pointed.

  “Police,” the second man shouted. “Call the police!”

  Three steps took him to the corner of the three-story garage. Another step and he was liberated, invisible to those who clustered around the body now. A narrow walkway separated the garage from the building next to it, a large warehouse, storage for new cars arriving from Japan. The walkway was about fifty feet long, with a gate at the far end. The gate was secured by a padlock and chain. The first phase of his plan had included cutting the chain with bolt cutters. The bolt cutters, he was surprised to learn, had cost more than two hundred dollars. But, the clerk had assured him, the tool was the best of its kind available. Japanese, of course. Makita.

  The pistol, made long and cumbersome by the silencer, was still in his hand. Without breaking stride he verified that, yes, he’d set the automatic’s safety catch, one precaution he’d most particularly rehearsed. Now, with his left hand, he drew open the shapeless beggar’s overcoat. With his right hand, he slipped the pistol into the long leather sheath slung beneath his left arm. The gate was coming closer—closer. The chain was draped over the latch, as if it were locked. He removed the chain, lowered it gently clinking to the concrete walkway. Cautiously he swung the gate open. Yes, the car was still there, parked a half block away. In the backseat, he’d left the garment bag. The garment bag was ready to receive the beggar’s clothing—and the executioner’s gun. The leather sheath would remain beneath his sports jacket until he was home, safe.

  As he walked toward the car, he felt it beginning: his body responding. Was it terror? Ecstasy? Had he come alive—finally come alive? When would he begin to feel, to know?

  He draped the garment bag over the back of a lounge chair and went to the hallway door. Yes, the door was double locked, and bolted. And, yes, the drapes were tightly drawn. He turned to the garment bag, unzipped it, took out the pistol wrapped in a large towel. A year ago he’d known nothing about guns, had never fired one, never handled one. Now, with assurance, he released the clip, placed it on the towel beside the pistol. Of course, a cartridge remained in the pistol’s chamber, the safety penalty the gas-operated automatic weapon exacted. Carefully he drew back the slide, tracked the ejected cartridge as it spun to the carpet at his feet.

  Then, about to retrieve the cartridge, he felt himself go rigid, suddenly immobilized.

  The shell casings.

  Three ejected shell casings.

  Just as most bullets bore distinctive marks from a weapon’s rifling, so did brass shell casings bear telltale marks from a gun’s receiver and its ejector.

  As he bent to pick up the unfired cartridge, he was conscious of the effort required, as if his muscles were locking, resisting his will to move. It was, he knew, the hand of fear.

  This, then, was the beginning, the first test. Leaving the scene, walking to his car, taking off the beggar’s overcoat and hat, putting everything in the garment bag, thus transforming himself into a member of the establishment, then driving the two miles to his home, all this had been accomplished according to plan, according to foot-by-foot, minute-to-minute rehearsal. During the time—fifteen minutes, no more—he’d felt as if he were apart from himself, as if he were disembodied, a random bit of flotsam adrift on the sea of his own consciousness. He’d expected to feel terror, or desperation, or even ecstasy. He’d expected either complete control or complete confusion, abject helplessness, no more, no less. Instead, he’d felt nothing.

  Until now, staring down at the cartridge cupped in the palm of his hand, he’d felt nothing.

  But now it was beginning.

  Soon he would know. As only those who crossed over from life to death knew what lay on the other side, so would he know fate’s design. Whatever was stirring deep beneath the surface of his consciousness, whatever emerged, he was either its master or its slave. Terror or triumph. Soon he would know.

  Some were slaves of the law—perpetual servants. Fear was their master, subservience their fate.

  But some men mastered fear. First they mastered themselves, then they mastered fear. For these men—this handful of superior beings scattered across the face of history—law was their servant, their handmaiden. While the goddess held her scales extended, these men ripped open her bodice to expose her breasts.

  At the thought, even with the cartridge in his hand, he felt himself begin to smile. Later, in bed, he would allow his thoughts to linger on the lady with her breasts exposed, the blushing goddess of justice.

  His goddess, this night.

  3

  GRIMLY, HASTINGS SHOOK HIS head. “The crazy son of a bitch. For a couple of hundred dollars, he’d take me to court?”

  “It isn’t the money,” Ann said. “You know that, Frank. We’ve talked about it. You’ve threatened his manhood. You’ve always threatened his manhood.”

  “I hit his goddam Porsche with the flat of my bare hand. And he says I’m harassing him. His lawyer—what were they, college roommates? He’ll work up the case for a twenty-five-dollar lunch. It’ll cost me twenty-five hundred.”

  “To be fair,” she answered, her voice measured, “you did damage the car door. You said yourself that the stop broke and the door hit the side of the car.”

  He grinned conspiratorially. “No comment.”

  “It’s ten-thirty,” Ann said. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “Will you comfort me, if we go to bed?”

  She smiled—that special smile. “I’ll sure give it a shot.” She rose from the couch, went to him,
stood before him. She wore jeans and a much-worn fisherman’s sweater; her thick tawny hair fell loose to her shoulders. As he rose from his favorite armchair, she lifted her head to him, solemnly joined her eyes with his. Deliberately she moistened her lips with the tip of a small pink tongue. For tonight, then, their long-running struggle with Ann’s ex-husband would be forgotten.

  He put his hands on her waist, drawing her slowly, steadily close.

  Just as, in the hallway, the telephone warbled.

  Touching him with the full length of her body now, beginning to move with him, a promise, her violet eyes gone gravely muzzy, she whispered, “Do you have the duty?”

  “Afraid so. My tour started yesterday. I forgot to tell you.” He kissed her, felt her deep, urgent response. “Think positive,” he whispered. “It could be a salesman.”

  “Mmmm.” As the phone’s second ringing concluded, she kissed him again. Boldly.

  “Stay there.” He moved her back, steadied her firmly. “Hold the thought.” Aware that, yes, he was aroused, deeply aroused, he stepped quickly into the hallway, lifted the phone. With his free hand, covertly, he arranged himself more comfortably inside his trousers.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Canelli, Lieutenant.”

  “Ah—” As he spoke, he turned toward Ann. Apologetically. Ruefully. Then, speaking into the phone: “What can I do for you, Canelli?”

  “Well, jeez, Lieutenant, we’ve got one dead on Franklin Street, corner of Geary. It happened about an hour and a half ago—a little before nine o’clock. I called the lab and the coroner, and both of them got here maybe ten minutes ago. Geary and Franklin, that corner is pretty heavily traveled, you know. Although because the weather’s so cold and wet, there were only about three witnesses. But one of them is a parking attendant at the garage where it looks like the victim was going when he got shot. Chris, that’s his name. The attendant, I mean. Chris Jeffrey. Nice kid, with one of those baby faces. He’s a law student, it turns out. So he was real—you know—interested. So anyhow—” As Canelli paused for breath, always a feature of his reports from the field, Hastings sighed. His partial erection had subsided. From the kitchen, he heard water running. Also resigned, Ann was tidying up the kitchen after the disorder always left when her two sons washed dishes. One more night of love had been left in limbo, the homicide detective’s fate.

  “So anyhow,” Canelli was saying, “this kid Chris saw the whole thing. The victim had just crossed Franklin in the crosswalk and was apparently making for the garage to get his car. The entrance to the garage is on Franklin, maybe fifty feet, give or take, from the Geary intersection. So then, from the opposite direction, on the same side of the street, there’s this bum coming. And they meet when the victim’s maybe twenty-five feet from the entrance to the garage. Well, naturally—” Another deep breath. “Naturally, the victim was going to ignore the bum, take evasive action, you might say. That’s when the bum must’ve said something.”

  “Did this kid—Chris—hear what was said?”

  “No,” Canelli answered. “At least, I don’t think he did. But he wasn’t close enough to hear anything. He saw the whole thing, though, and the bum acted like he was saying something.”

  “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “Well, anyhow, whatever the bum said, it must’ve rung a bell. Because the victim hesitated and turned. I guess words were exchanged. But, anyhow, whether or not words were exchanged, Chris said he saw something shiny in the bum’s hand. And he thought he heard the sound of shots, even though there was a lot of traffic on Franklin right then. And the shots, Chris said, sounded real muffled. But, whatever, the victim falls. First he falls to his knees, and then he falls forward, on his face. So then the bum, calm as anything, according to Chris, walks back the way he came. Chris, meantime, went to the victim and turned him over. And that’s when he saw the blood. The victim, it looks like to me, must’ve been shot in the head, maybe the forehead. There’s so much blood it’s hard to tell.”

  “So what’d you think? Should I come out there?” In the shading of the question, Hastings tried to convey his reluctance. As, in the kitchen, Ann was turning off the water. The kitchen light went out, and Ann came into the hallway. They exchanged a shrug, both of them sadly shaking their heads, resigned.

  But if he got the job done quickly, he could return in an hour or two. He would get into bed, stroke her, bring her sensuously awake.

  “Well,” Canelli was saying, “the thing is, Lieutenant, Chris knew the victim. And it turns out the guy is Tony Frazer.”

  Canelli waited expectantly.

  Tony Frazer …

  The fragmentary images began to coalesce: the society column clips, pictures of the beautiful people at opera openings. Money. Money. Money.

  “A society guy,” Hastings said.

  “You got it, Lieutenant,” Canelli said cheerfully. “And it just so happened that there was a big article about him and his wife in last Sunday’s paper. Did you see it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, reading between the lines, it’s pretty clear that Frazer was one of these real good-looking guys who live off their wives, who’s always older than the guy, and real rich. You know, parties all the time. So then, maybe a year ago, Frazer decides he’s going to open a restaurant. The restaurant doesn’t make any money—loses money, probably, if you read between the lines. But who cares? Not Tony Frazer. See, he’s got a place to hang out. That’s why he bought the restaurant. He’s got—had—his own private table put on a kind of a raised platform, I remember that part from the article. You know, like a king or something, sitting on a throne.”

  Hastings turned to a fresh sheet in the notepad that was always beside the phone. Since he’d come to live with Ann and her two sons, one of his few demands was that there always be a notepad beside the phone, along with a drinking glass containing an assortment of pens and pencils.

  “Do you have names and addresses?” Hastings asked.

  “Yessir, I do.” There was a rustle of paper. Then: “The name of the wife is Constance Frazer. The restaurant is Anthony’s. It’s on Van Ness, right near—”

  “I know where it is.”

  “Yeah. Well, by the time I got here—maybe a half hour after the event—there were a lot of people on the scene. Including a guy from Anthony’s, I guess he was the manager, who gave me Frazer’s home address—” Canelli read off the address. “That’s in Pacific Heights, where else?”

  “So someone from Anthony’s sure as hell notified Constance Frazer.” Signifying by-the-book admonishment, Hastings’s voice was flat. According to departmental guidelines, a homicide victim’s next of kin, if nearby, was always notified in person, preferably by a homicide detective. As the homicide officer in charge, notification had been Canelli’s responsibility.

  “Yeah—well—” Canelli cleared his throat apologetically. Hastings could visualize Canelli’s broad, swarthy, amiable face, now registering deepest chagrin. Never had Hastings known a policeman more sensitive to criticism than Canelli. “Well, I’m afraid that’s right, Lieutenant. See, people from Anthony’s got here before the uniforms did. Two, three minutes after the shooting, no more. So, by the time I got here, everyone who worked at Anthony’s knew what happened. And, in fact, there was a real hysteria, I guess you’d say, at Anthony’s. Lots of Frazer’s society buddies were there, and they all left their meals and went out to see for themselves. And about half the staff, too. It was a real mob scene. But the uniforms, they did a great job, I’m not knocking them. It’s just that there wasn’t any way we could put a lid on things.”

  “So we’re assuming that Constance Frazer knows. But we aren’t sure.”

  “That’s about it, Lieutenant.”

  “And the witnesses—do they all agree on what happened?”

  “They sure do. That’s the good news, you might say.”

  “This Chris, the parking attendant. You say he thought he heard shots. How close was he to the victim when the victim
went down?”

  “About forty feet, give or take.”

  “And he only thought he heard shots?”

  “Yeah, well, that occurred to me, too. Except that there’s always a lot of traffic on Franklin, you know.”

  “No bullets found? No shell casings?”

  “No, sir. The casings could be lying in the gutter, maybe, in a bunch of debris. But I sure didn’t see them. We’ve got floodlights now, though. And I passed the word that Frazer was a heavy-duty socialite who gets his name in the papers. So everyone’s on full alert, you might say.”

  “No one heard shots but Chris. Is that right?”

  “Yessir, that’s right.”

  “Okay …” As he spoke, Hastings heard the sound of the shower, from the rear of the flat. Since the first days of her marriage, even before she’d had her children, Ann had lived in the same large, long, three-bedroom Victorian flat. The ceilings were wonderfully high and coved, the turn-of-the-century detailing of the woodwork was superb, and the location was vintage San Francisco. But there was only a bath and a half. So, after some discussion, it was decided that Hastings would shower in the morning and Ann at night. Result: she always smelled wonderful when she came to bed.

  “Okay,” he repeated. “The guy lived about ten minutes from here. So I think I’ll talk to the widow, then go on down to the scene.”

  “Shall I hold the body until you get here?” In the question, Hastings could hear the predictable faint note of hope. Occasionally, increasingly more often as the years passed, he allowed Canelli to take full charge at the scene of a homicide, signing off the body to the coroner and securing the scene after the lab crew was finished.

  “Don’t bother to hold the body,” Hastings decided to say. “You close out at the scene. Your responsibility. Okay?”

  “Well, jeez, sure, Lieutenant. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll see you in an hour, probably.”

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