by Ed McBain
As Melissa picked up the jacks and opened her hand, dropping them onto the table top, Mullaney found himself praying that she would lose, the way he had prayed on the edge of too many dice tables in the past year—praying for the point when he was betting with the shooter, praying for a seven when he was betting the shooter wrong, praying that he, Andrew Mullaney, would win big just once, would pick up all the chips, all the cash, once, just once. With beads of sweat popping out on his brow, with his heart banging inside his chest, he prayed now that an eight-year-old girl would drop a jack, drop the ball, drop dead even, anything, so long as he won, so long as he won.
She scooped up eight jacks and caught the ball easily.
The remaining two jacks were spread rather far apart on the table top. Melissa eyed them with her same unblinking confidence, but he sensed she was in trouble because she was hesitating much longer than usual before bouncing the ball again. She was calculating the distance between the two jacks, he knew, the time it would take her to scoop up both of them before catching the descending ball. It would be a tight squeeze; she knew it, and Mullaney knew it, and he found himself smiling tightly for the first time since the game had begun.
“Go on,” he said, “play.”
Melissa nodded. Her tongue darted out (yes, she was most certainly a cobra, or at least a water moccasin), wetting her lips. The brown eyes looked from one jack to the other. She took a deep breath and threw the ball into the air. The ball bounced. Her hand shot out with dazzling speed, hitting one jack, sweeping it across the table top, pushing it ahead of her flat palm, the ball was coming down. She had shoved both jacks together now, her hand closed on them, she scooped them from the table top together, swung her hand to the left, clutched for the ball, and missed.
“You missed,” Mullaney whispered.
“I know,” she said.
“It’s your turn,” Frieda said.
“You’re for onesies,” Hilda said.
“And Melissa is still for eightsies.”
“I’m going to win,” Mullaney whispered.
“Like fun,” Frieda said.
“I am going to win, little girl,” he whispered. “For once in my life, I am going to win.”
“Play,” Melissa said.
He concentrated only on the jacks and on the red rubber ball. He ignored the malevolent stares of the little girls ranged around him at the sawed-off table, ignored the suffocating heat of the room and the discomfort of the tiny chair on which he sat, ignored too the knowledge that half a million dollars was at stake, concentrating only on the game, only on winning. He was a clumsy player. He seized the jacks too anxiously, clutched for the rubber ball too desperately, but he dropped neither jacks nor ball, and by the time he reached twosies, he was beginning to get the knack of the game. He did not allow his new confidence to intrude on his concentration. Twosies was the Daily Double, that was all, you picked the two nags most likely to win, and then you picked the next two, and the next two after that, and before you knew it there were only two left on the table, and you swept them up into your hand and reached clumsily for the falling rubber ball, but caught it, yes, clenched your fist around it, caught it, and were ready for threesies.
Threesies was merely picking the Win, Place, and Show horses in the proper order, three times in a row, and then there was only one jack left on the table, simple, bouncie bouncie ballie, scoop it up, catch the ball, there you are, my dears.
“I’m going to win,” he whispered.
“Play,” Melissa whispered.
He ignored their hard-eyed stares, their cruel silent devout wishes for his downfall, he ignored them and moved into foursies, it seemed to be getting easier all the time, all you had to do was scoop up four, and then four again, easy as pie, he closed his hand on the two remaining jacks, caught the ball, grinned at the little girls who were watching him now with open hatred, and said again, not whispering it this time, “I am going to win, my dears.”
“You are going to lose,” Melissa said flatly and coldly and unblinkingly.
“You heard her,” Frieda said.
“You are going to lose,” Hilda said.
“You are a loser,” Melissa said.
“Well see,” he said. “I’m for fivesies.”
“Play,” Melissa said.
He dropped the jacks onto the table. He scooped up five, and caught the ball, scooped up the remaining five and caught the ball again.
“Sixies,” he said.
He went through sixies in a breeze, feeling stronger and more confident all the time, not even noticing Melissa or her friends anymore, his full and complete concentration on the table top as he raced through sevensies, and eightsies, and ninesies, and then paused to catch his breath.
“Play,” Melissa said.
“This is the last one,” he said. “If I get through this one, I win.”
“That’s right,” Melissa said.
“But first you have to get through it,” Frieda said.
“First you have to win, mister.”
“The game isn’t over yet, mister.”
“You can still lose, mister.”
“Shut up!” he said.
The room went silent.
He picked up the jacks. I must win, he told himself. I must win. He dropped the jacks onto the table top. Nine of them fell miraculously together in a small cluster. The tenth jack rolled clear across the table, at least two feet away from the others.
“Too bad,” Melissa said. “You give up?”
“I can make it,” Mullaney said.
“It’s a harder shot than mine was,” Melissa said.
“I can make it.”
“Let’s see you,” she said.
“All right.”
The pile of nine first, he thought, then go for the one, and then catch the ball. No. The one first, sweep it toward the bigger pile using the flat of my hand, the way Melissa used hers, then scoop up all ten together and catch the …
No.
Wait a minute.
Yes.
Yes, that’s the only way to do it.
“Here goes,” he said.
“Bad luck,” the three girls said together, and he threw the ball into the air.
His hand seemed to move out so terribly slowly, hitting the single lonely jack across the table and sweeping it toward the larger pile, the ball was dropping so very quickly, he would never make it, the pile of ten was now beneath his grasping fingers, he closed his hand, his eyes swung over to the dropping ball, he scooped up the jacks, the ball bounced, slid his closed hand across the table and, without lifting it from the wooden surface, flipped it over, opened the fingers, spread the hand wide, caught the ball and was closing his hand again when he felt the ball slipping from his grasp.
No, he thought, no!
He tightened his hand so suddenly and so fiercely that he thought he would break his fingers. He tightened it around the ball as though he were grasping for life itself, crushing the ball and the jacks into his palm, holding them securely, his hand in mid-air, and then slowly bringing his fist down onto the table.
“I win,” he said without opening his hand.
“You bastid,” Melissa said, and threw the shopping bag onto the table top. She rose from her tiny chair, tossed her dark hair, and walked swiftly out of the room.
“You bastid,” Frieda said.
“You bastid,” Hilda said, and they followed Melissa out.
He sat exhausted at the small table, his head hanging between his knees, his hand still clutched tightly around the jacks and the rubber ball. At last, he opened his hand and let the jacks spill onto the table, allowed the rubber ball to roll to the edge and fall to the concrete floor, bouncing away across the basement.
The room was very still.
He turned over the Judy Bond shopping bag and shook the black burial jacket onto the table top. He fingered the large buttons at the front, and the smaller buttons on the sleeves, and then he picked up one of the jacks and move
d it toward the center front button. Using the point of the jack, he scraped at the button. A peeling ribbon of black followed the tip of the jack. Flakes of black paint sprinkled onto the table top. He smiled and scratched at the button more vigorously, thinking There are three buttons down the front of the jacket (each about ten carats, Bozzaris had said), ten, eleven, and nine, in that order, scratching at the button, chipping away the paint; and there are four smaller buttons on each sleeve, eight at five to six carats each, I am a rich man. Mullaney thought, I am in possession of half a million dollars’ worth of diamonds.
He had scraped all the paint off the middle button now.
He grasped the button between his thumb and forefinger, lifted it and the jacket to which it was fastened toward the hanging light bulb. It caught the incandescent rays, reflected them back in a dazzling glitter. This must be the eleven-carat beauty, he thought, it’s slightly larger than the other two, I am a rich man, he thought, I am at last a winner.
“Hand it over,” the voice behind him said.
He turned.
K and Purcell were standing in the doorway to the room. Mullaney had no intention of handing over the jacket, but it didn’t matter because Purcell immediately walked over to him and hit him full in the face with the butt of a revolver.
14. IRENE
The sound of furies howling in the cemetery beyond, am I dreaming or am I dead, voices mumbling, K’s and Purcell’s, “should have made sure he was dead before you started for the airport.”
“We thought he would suffocate in the closed coffin.”
“He didn’t.”
“Nor did we expect the coffin to be hijacked and opened.”
“You should have been more careful.”
“Are you in charge here, or am I?”
“You are, but …”
“Then keep quiet.”
“Here’re the new trousers.” Another voice, McReady’s. He dared not open his eyes, were they in McReady’s cottage again? Proximity to cemeteries makes me somewhat ill, Mullaney thought, or perhaps it’s only getting hit on the head so often.
“We wouldn’t have to be doing this twice if you’d done it right the first time,” Purcell said.
“We got the diamonds back,” McReady said, “so what difference does it make?”
“This time we’ll make sure he’s dead,” K said.
“Take off his shoes,” McReady said.
“Why?”
“So we can get these pants on him.”
“Is he still out?”
“Yeah.”
“Drag him over here, near the coffin.”
Someone’s hands clutched at his ankles. He felt the floor scraping beneath his shoulders and back, heard the rasping sound of cloth catching at splintered wood. They had not bound him, his hands and feet were free, he could still fight or run.
He wondered how they had located him in the basement room, and then remembered he had left the cab sitting at the curb outside the building, that had been a mistake, a terrible oversight; I have been making a lot of mistakes these past two days, he thought, and I am very tired. Kill me and put me in the goddamn coffin, get it over with.
“Take off his pants,” McReady said.
Purcell pulled at the pants he was wearing. It was cold on the floor of the cottage. He could feel the wind seeping under the front door, Why is it always so cold on the edge of cemeteries? he wondered.
“Polka-dot shorts,” Purcell said, and laughed. “That kills me.”
“Here,” McReady said.
Purcell pulled the new set of trousers over Mullaney’s feet and ankles, up over his legs.
“Doesn’t he need a belt?”
“No, the jacket will cover the trouser loops.”
“We’re lucky the buttons are still on it,” Purcell said.
“They’er fastened securely,” McReady said.
“We had a hole drilled through the pavilion of each diamond …”
“The what?”
“The pavilion,” K said. “The part below the mounting. Doesn’t he need a different tie?”
“A black one,” Purcell said. “You could have cracked those stones, you know.”
“An expert did the job. Don’t we have a black tie, McReady?”
“If you’d cracked the big ones …”
“I know.”
“… the value would have gone all the way down.”
“I’ll look in the other room.”
“We can’t put him in the coffin with a striped tie,” K said.
“How much did you say they’re worth?” Purcell asked.
“The three big ones?”
“Yeah.”
“Nine thousand dollars a carat.”
“And the smaller ones?”
“Five thousand a carat.”
“That doesn’t come to half a million, does it?”
“No one ever said it did.”
“You said it did.”
“I said four hundred and ninety thousand dollars.”
“You said half a million.”
“I said not quite half a million.”
“Are you getting that tie, McReady?”
“I could only find a black bow tie,” McReady said.
“Do they bury people in bow ties?”
“Why not?”
“This is a nice bow tie,” McReady said.
“I wonder what happened to his yellow shirt.”
“Jasmine,” McReady said, and chuckled.
“Jasmine,” K repeated, and chuckled with him.
“Let’s get the tie on him,” Purcell said.
“We’ll have to shoot him in the back of the head,” K said. “Otherwise it’ll show.”
“Yeah,” Purcell agreed. “I still say you should have done that in the beginning.”
“I told you we didn’t know the coffin would be hijacked.”
“You should have figured it might have been.”
“Why?” McReady said. “Gouda thought we’d already fenced the stuff and been paid for it.”
“How do you fasten this tie?” K asked.
“Isn’t there a clip or something?”
“No. Oh, wait a minute, is this it?”
“Yes, that’s it,” McReady said.
“I’ve never seen anyone buried in a bow tie,” Purcell said. “Bow ties are for weddings.”
“It’ll have to do,” K said. “You complain an awful lot, did you know that, Purcell?”
“I hate sloppy jobs.”
“Gouda used to complain a lot, too,” McReady said.
“Yeah, but I’m not working for Kruger.”
“We hope not,” McReady said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Calm down,” K said.
“Well, tell him not to make those kind of remarks.”
“Don’t make those kind of remarks,” K said.
“It’s not my fault you were careless,” Purcell said.
“We were not careless.”
“We wanted Gouda to think we’d received payment.”
“We wanted him to steal the money.”
“We wanted him to think we were innocently shipping half a million dollars in paper scraps to Rome.”
“Yeah,” Purcell said sourly, “the only trouble is it didn’t work.”
“It almost worked.”
“Almost ain’t quite,” Purcell said. “The way four hundred and ninety thousand dollars ain’t quite half a million.”
“We had no idea Kruger would tip.”
“The counterfeit bills were very good,” K said.
“Excellent,” McReady said.
“They were so good, I hated to part with them.”
“Where’d you get them?” Purcell asked.
“Ladro’s New York people supplied them.”
“He was furious when I spoke to him,” McReady said.
“Well, he’ll be happy tomorrow morning,” K said. “Let’s get the jacket on him.”
&
nbsp; “Let’s shoot him first,” Purcell said.
“You think so?”
“Sure. Otherwise we’ll get blood on the jacket.”
“What do you think, McReady?”
“Either way, let’s get it over with.”
Well, how about it? Mullaney thought, and would have made his move right then, but something still was bothering him, the same elusive something that had begun nagging him back in the Brooklyn basement before he’d started gambling with Melissa, the same something that was eluding him now. You had better move, Mullaney, he told himself, you had better move now and fast and figure out what’s bothering you later because if you don’t you’re going to be figuring it out in a coffin, dead this time, and I am told getting shot in the head is not a very pleasant death. Grandma told me that, however, and she has been proven notoriously wrong about a great many things.
“Lift him,” K said.
“Why?” McReady asked.
“So Purcell can get to the back of his head.”
“Oh,” McReady said. “Yes.”
McReady tugged at his hands, pulling him up into a sitting position. He could hear Purcell walking around behind him.
“Watch the angle now,” K said.
“What do you mean?”
“Make sure you don’t send the bullet through his head and into me.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Point the gun up toward the ceiling.”
“Right,” Purcell said.
With his eyes still closed, Mullaney felt something hard and cold against the back of his skull.
“No, tilt it more,” K said.
“Like this?”
“Can’t you tilt it?”
“Not without crouching down.”
“Then crouch down.”
“You’re behaving like an amateur,” McReady said.
“Tell him to stop making those kind of remarks,” Purcell said.
“Stop making those kind of remarks,” K said.
The gun moved away from Mullaney’s head. In that instant, he yanked his hands free of McReady’s loose grip, and, swung around in time to catch Purcell just as he was going into his crouch, knocking him back on his heels. There was a silencer on the gun, he saw, making it easier to grab, but rendering it none the less deadly. They can kill me here in this cottage as easily as whispering in church, he thought, and reached for the gun, missing. There was a short puffing explosion. A window shattered across the room. He clutched at Purcell’s wrist, grasped it tightly in both hands, and slammed Purcell’s knuckles against the floor, knocking the gun loose. He lunged for the gun, straddling Purcell as he did so, and then nimbly stepped over him and whirled to face all three men, the gun level in his hand.