7 Shot

by Parnell Hall

  Well, that made for a nice little picture. David Melrose picks up the money that night. Because Monday after work is when he’s gonna score. That’s what he’s doing from five till nine, when the police can’t account for his movements. He goes out, scores the dope, then calls on Melony Tune. By the time he’s done with her, it’s too late to make the delivery and he goes home. So now he’s home and he’s got the dope, and someone who knows he’s got the dope calls on him, kills him and rips it off.

  I had to admit there were holes in that theory, but of course there would be since I didn’t have all the facts yet. But I had enough to know all that had to add up to something. Hence the firm resolve.

  By nine o’clock, that resolve had begun to weaken. If you can’t understand that, try standing on a street corner some time doing absolutely nothing for four hours. At any rate, by nine o’clock the thrill of doing surveillance had greatly worn off, and I was rapidly coming to the opinion that I was wasting my time, that the theory I had was a lot of idle speculation that in reality added up to nothing, and my former client was almost undoubtedly guilty. I wasn’t entirely convinced of this, but I think a fair measure of my conviction long about nine o’clock would have been that if I’d still had diarrhea today, that would have tipped the scale and I’d have hung the whole thing up and gone home.

  It’s a good thing I didn’t, because at nine-thirty Charles Olsen came out the door large as life and scraggly looking as ever, and set off down the street. I followed him down to Canal, over to Broadway and into the subway. BMT, uptown side.

  Not that many people ride the BMT that time of night, but there aren’t many trains either, so there were about a dozen people in the station who had obviously been waiting for some time. That was good, because it made less chance of Olsen spotting me. Not that he was likely to anyway. He seemed to take no interest in his surroundings, just shuffled through the turnstile and leaned himself up against a pole. I must say, for an artist the guy wasn’t particularly observant. But it made my life easier.

  A train came by about ten minutes later and everybody got on. I got in the same car, opposite end, plunked down in a seat and sat back to enjoy the ride.

  He got off at 42nd Street and so did I, but there was nothing in that to make him suspicious of me. Times Square is the transfer point to about a dozen trains, and at least half the people got off.

  Olsen walked to the uptown end of the platform, shuffled up the long ramp there. I paced myself, managed to dawdle along behind. I followed him through the labyrinth of the Times Square station and eventually found myself on the platform of the Broadway uptown line.

  If you’re not from New York City, I know that makes no sense. I’d just gotten off of the Broadway line. But Broadway’s a funny street, twisting and curving and cutting across Manhattan as it wends its way downtown. The Broadway IRT follows Broadway downtown to 42nd Street, then continues straight on down Seventh Avenue while Broadway itself veers east. The Broadway BMT, originating in Queens, crosses Manhattan from the east, hits Broadway at 42nd, and then swings back to the east again and follows it on downtown. Don’t worry if you haven’t got that—there will be no quiz later. At any rate, I’d just transferred from one Broadway train, the uptown N, and was now waiting for another, the uptown 1, 2, or 3.

  It was the 3 we wanted. I knew that because the 1, the Broadway local, came and went. So did the 2, which is an express. So he either wanted the 3, or else Charles Olsen was a stone freak who liked to hang out in subway stations.

  He wanted the 3. It came, he got on, so did I, and up we rolled.

  The car was only about half full, most of the people who’d been on the platform having already opted for the 1 or the 2. But there was still no danger of Olsen spotting me. He sat down, leaned back, and actually closed his eyes.

  It was too good to be true. Jesus Christ, was this guy so smooth that he’d spotted me already and was attempting to lull me into a sense of false security before ditching me but good?

  Not at all. We stopped at 72nd Street, but he didn’t get off. No surprise there. If that’s where he was going, he could have taken the 2. Same thing with 96th. Ditto 125th.

  At that point I began to get alert. See, the subway map on the wall of the car had given me a clue. The 2 and the 3 run identical routes up to 135th Street. After that, the 2 hangs a right under the East River into the Bronx, while the 3 goes two more stops up Lenox Avenue to the end of the line. So with him passing up the 1 and the 2, I knew ever since I checked the map way back when we pulled out of the station at 42nd Street, that we were going to Harlem.

  We were. 145th Street, he opens his eyes, gets up and gets off the train. So did I and so did half a dozen other people, none of them white. That seemed like a good reason for him to spot me, but, as I say, he wasn’t spotting anything. He just plodded up the stairs through the turnstile and out to the street.

  The street light on the corner was out and it was dark on Lenox Avenue. And by now it was after ten. I don’t know about you, but walking around Harlem alone at night is not my idea of a good time. It didn’t faze Olsen any. He just plodded ahead, looking neither left nor right. If he did this often, why he hadn’t been mugged by now was beyond me.

  He just kept walking and I kept tagging along behind. It would have made a strange picture to anybody watching, him in his tattered T-shirt, sneakers and no socks and me in my suit.

  The thought occurred to me about then, maybe the guy never gets mugged because he doesn’t look like he has any money.

  And I do.

  That thought did not sit well.

  I followed him two blocks up Lenox Avenue, where he hung a left on 147th Street. That didn’t cheer me either. The street was much darker than the avenue and virtually deserted. Not the sort of place I’d like to hang out.

  He walked about halfway down the block and went into a tenement. It was a large building, twice as wide as the other buildings on the block. It would have a lot of apartments. That was bad—it would make it twice as hard to figure out where he went. Because, of course, I couldn’t walk into the building right on his heels. And I couldn’t let him get too far out of sight either. Not that I wanted to go in at all. The lobby was dark and foreboding.

  There must have been a staircase in the back and off to the left because that’s the direction he went, but I couldn’t see it from the street. I counted one, two, three from the time he left my line of sight, gritted my teeth and stepped in the front door.

  Damn. A short, narrow hallway. Alcove off to the left. Probably for mailboxes, though it was too dark to tell. The perfect place for someone to hide in, if that was their want. Not a happy thought. Worse, in that I couldn’t see where he went until I walked down the hall.

  I did, not liking it a bit, and reached the end where the lobby widened out. Again poorly lit, but that shadow in the far corner must be a stairwell. I went over, discovered it was. I stopped, listened for footsteps. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I heard a faint tread overhead. Of course the guy was wearing sneakers, which didn’t help—why couldn’t he be clompin’ along in army boots? The thought flashed through my mind, you’re not getting paid for this, as I took a breath and started up the stairs.

  Nothing on the first landing. A long, narrow hallway with several doors. None open. Light under the cracks of half of them. Muffled sounds of talking, music, TVs. Could he have knocked on one of those doors and gone in before I got there? Not likely. Any sound of footsteps going up the stairs? Impossible to tell with the noise from the hall.

  I hesitated. Schmuck. The longer you wait, the bigger the lead.

  I turned and headed up the stairs.

  Next landing, same thing. No sign of Charles Olsen, no open door. Quick decision time here. Move on, pick up ground.

  Next landing, pay dirt. An open doorway halfway down the hall. A rectangle of light spilling out across the floor. Son of a bitch. Got him.

  I’d just had time to think that when a young black kid came g
iggling out, slammed the door, jerked open the door on the other side of the hall and went in, slamming that door too and leaving the hallway in darkness. Shit. Wrong again, and lost some time.

  I went up the next stairs fast, reached another hallway of closed doors. By now I couldn’t be sure if Olsen had had time to get into one of them. There were no immediate clues, nothing to go by. The easiest choice to make was up.

  I climbed a flight and discovered I’d reached the top floor. That narrowed my choices. Another hallway, just like the rest. And, once again, no open door.

  But this hallway was a little better lit than the others. A bare bulb in the ceiling at the far end was on. And it showed me something I hadn’t seen before. The end of the hallway wasn’t the end of the hallway. There was another hallway off it at right angles to the left.

  That knocked all my previous deductions into a cocked hat. Charles Olsen probably wouldn’t have had time to knock on a door and get admitted before I came up the stairs. But he would have had plenty of time to walk down the hallway and turn left out of sight before I got there.

  And he could have done it on any fucking floor.

  That was enough to piss off the Good Humor man. So what the hell did I do now?

  Well, I could go floor by floor around the bend in the hallway and try to listen for the sound of voices. But what would I listen for? I’d never heard Charles Olsen’s voice.

  Schmuck.

  He’s white.

  Shouldn’t be too hard to distinguish.

  I didn’t want to do it. But it was either do it, leave, or stand there like a schmuck.

  Anything beat standing there like a schmuck. I went down the hall, turned the corner.

  A short hallway with four doors. Could be worse. I listened at them. TV, stereos, and the rumble of voices, none white.

  Down to the next. Same thing. No obvious honky.

  Next floor, same thing again. Except one door produced a sound that could only be a couple making love. That was all I needed to make me feel truly foolish. Unless that was Charles Olsen. Which was more than my brain could handle on the one hand, and would not have helped my investigation one whit on the other.

  No go on any of the other floors, and suddenly I’m back in the dimly lit lobby feeling somewhat like a schmuck. Also feeling somewhat relieved that I’d gone up and down without incident.

  So what the hell did I do now?

  Well, one thing for sure. I wasn’t going back up again.

  I crossed the lobby, went out the front door. The street was deserted, or at least appeared to be—it was dark and hard to tell. I crossed the street, stood behind a parked car, looked back at the door.

  I also looked at my watch. It said ten fifty-three, which meant it was ten forty-five. I’d been inside for some time, what with checking all the floors. If Charles Olsen had gone to a lower floor, he could easily have been in and out again. One more persuasive reason for opting for the depressing prospect of giving it up.

  Well, what the hell, I’d come this far. I decided to give him half an hour.

  It passed. So did several black men, most of whom looked at me kind of funny. After the first few I found myself crossing the street every time I saw someone coming so they wouldn’t pass right by. It was like a chess game—the black knight would threaten the white king, who would move across the street out of check. I ought to patent it. Three-dimensional, Harlem Paranoid Chess.

  I’d just moved white king to queen’s bishop three, when Charles Olsen came out the front door. That was bad, because queen’s bishop three was on his side of the street. Fortunately, he walked the other way. And fortunately, once again he plodded ahead without appearing to notice anything.

  The white king conceded the game. The hell with chess. Too intellectually taxing. Let’s try follow the leader.

  And there was a point to the game. Because the leader was carrying a small package. A paper bag. Just about large enough to hold a kilo.

  I have to tell you, if that’s what it was, Charles Olsen had to be the coolest character I ever knew. To be walking through Harlem in the dead of night, alone, unarmed, carrying a kilo of dope.

  Wait a minute. Unarmed. Did I know that? That dirty T-shirt hanging down over the front of the jeans. Was there room there for a gun to be stuffed in the front of the pants? I couldn’t tell from this angle. I’m not sure I could tell from any angle. I hadn’t thought to look before. And even if he had a gun, what the hell difference could it make if he wasn’t looking around for anyone to use it on? They could mug him and take his dope before the poor schmuck even knew anyone was there.

  No one did. He walked over to Lenox Avenue, down to the subway station and down the stairs on the downtown side. So did I, and this time it was a little hairier. There was only one other person in the station, an old black man sleeping on a bench. I bought my token, then hung back, not wanting to go through the turnstile and find myself on the platform, virtually alone with Charles Olsen. I figured that would make the token clerk suspicious, but he didn’t seem to be. Then I realized, at this time of night it was only natural for a white man in a suit and tie to wait by the relative protection of the token booth until the train came.

  Which is what I did. When the train came into the station ten minutes later, I stepped smoothly through the turnstile and got on board.

  The train was nearly deserted, so this time, Charles Olsen’s apparent indifference notwithstanding, I didn’t risk the same car. I got in the car behind and kept watch on him through the window.

  Not that there was much to watch. He just sat there, oblivious, the paper bag resting casually on his lap, just as if it held a couple of pounds of sugar.

  We clanked back through Harlem, stop by stop. No one got on my car or his. A few people got on at 96th and a few more at 72nd. As we rolled into 42nd I got ready to move, figuring he’d switch back to the BMT again.

  But he didn’t. At 42nd Street he just sat there while the doors opened and closed and the train pulled out. Well, that was something. We were going somewhere else. Unless the guy had just fallen asleep and missed his stop. From my vantage point it was impossible to tell. I glanced at the sign on the wall. The Number 3 to Flatbush Avenue. Shit. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the ass, to ride this train to the end of the line in Brooklyn ’cause the guy I was tailing fell asleep.

  Not to fear. 14th Street he stands up and gets off. I get off too, and so do a bunch of other people. 14th Street Manhattan is racially mixed and there’s not a chance of him spotting me now.

  When we came out on the street I realized I was only a couple of blocks away from Rosenberg and Stone. Right here on 14th Street was where I usually parked my car at a meter when I went there. We were headed in that direction now, and it occurred to me wouldn’t that be the ultimate irony if that’s where Olsen was going. Not that Rosenberg and Stone was open at that hour, of course, but if he went into that building, I was going to think the gods were fucking with my mind.

  He didn’t, of course. Instead he walked to an apartment building on West 13th Street and went inside.

  Which presented a whole different problem from the tenement in Harlem. Here was a well-lit lobby with an elevator and a doorman. How the hell was I gonna get past him?

  From my vantage point on the street I could see Charles Olsen confer with the doorman, who nodded and stepped to a phone and a series of buttons on the wall. He pushed what appeared to be the third button down on the left, then talked into the phone, after which he waved Charles Olsen up.

  All right. Cold, hard facts.

  I took out my notebook, wrote down the address of the building plus third button down on the left.

  All right. Now, did I risk the doorman?

  I thought it over and decided not. Third button down on the left would always be third button down on the left. There’s no reason taking the shot and risking blowing it now. And there wasn’t a chance the doorman was gonna let me go up, so there really was nothing to gain.


  I stood on the street and waited. It was now after eleven, so I hoped I wouldn’t be waiting long.

  I wasn’t. He was down at eleven-twenty by my watch, or eleven-twelve Eastern Daylight-Saving Time.

  And he didn’t have the package.

  A pickup and a delivery.

  Jackpot.

  I figured I had what I wanted, but I followed him just the same. He walked back up to 14th Street and headed east. I figured he was heading for the subway, and I figured right. He walked over to Broadway to the BMT line.

  I knew he was going home and there was no reason for me to follow him anymore, only I needed to pick up my car which I’d left downtown on Grand Street. So I caught the BMT too. I was real careful doing it. It would have been a real kick in the ass to have followed him successfully all night all over town, and then have him spot me after I’d actually given it up.

  He didn’t, though. He walked straight home and into his loft building without even a backward glance.

  Fine with me. I got in my car, switched off the code alarm that had kept it safely there all night, and drove home.

  I must say I felt pretty good. I hadn’t pinned down either of the people Charles Olsen had called on, but I had both of the addresses, and in one case I had a potential apartment number. It wasn’t much, but in this business you don’t usually get much. Nothing, would be the more likely outcome. So all things considered, I had to admit I’d really done a hell of a job.

  18.

  POINDEXTER WASN’T IMPRESSED.

  “So?” he said.

  I stared at him. “What do you mean, so? The man has a record of drug arrests. He made a pickup and delivery last night.”

  “I fail to see what that has to do with the present case.”

  “You don’t? David Melrose was involved with this man. He made pickups and deliveries for him or from him. Now he’s dead, and the man is making pickups and deliveries himself.”

  “So you say.”

  “I saw it with my own eyes. A pickup in Harlem and a delivery downtown. There is every reason to believe David Melrose worked that route himself. If he did and it was drugs, his getting shot could be a natural consequence.”