by Ed McBain
“It is now post time,” he said, and grinned.
“Give me that gun, Mullaney,” K said.
“Ha-ha,” Mullaney said, “you are very comical.”
“Give me the gun.”
“No. You give me the jacket.” He extended his left hand.
“The jacket is ours,” K said.
“Correct. Give it to me anyway.”
“The diamonds are ours, too,” K said.
“No, the diamonds belong to a jewelry firm on Forty-seventh Street,” Mullaney said, and suddenly realized what had been bothering him in the basement, what had continued to bother him all along. The diamonds were neither K’s nor his. The diamonds had been stolen.
He frowned.
“I …”
And hesitated.
“I want that jacket,” he said.
“Are you ready to kill for it?” K asked.
“What?”
“Because that’s what you’ll have to do,” K said. “You’ll have to kill all three of us.”
He thought This isn’t fair. He thought There’s half a million dollars’ worth of diamonds sewn to that jacket, what do I care whether or not they were stolen? I knew that all along, didn’t I? These men are thugs, these men are hoods, these men are killers. I knew that all along, and it didn’t stop me from making plans for Monte Carlo or London or Jakarta, why should I care now? Kill them, they’re enemies of society, he thought, kill them and get out of here with the loot, who cares? You are a winner, Mullaney, you are holding the winning hand at last.
He was sweating now, the gun in his right hand was trembling. He could see the jacket draped loosely over K’s arm, the middle button repainted black, an innocuous-looking burial garment that would be sent to Rome in exchange for four hundred and ninety thousand dollars, enough for a million and one Arabian nights, kill them, he thought, take the jacket, win!
Yes, Mullaney, he thought, kill them. You have done enough for possession of that jacket in these past two days, you have done enough over this past year, all of it part of the gamble, you have begged, you have borrowed, you have lied, you have cheated, you have stolen, you have Used, you have Taken, you have Grabbed, so what difference will it make if you perform one last slightly less than honorable act before you catch a plane out of the country, what the hell difference will it make?
Kill them, he thought.
Finders, keepers, winner take all, kill them.
He could not squeeze the trigger.
He stood facing them, knowing that he did not want to lose yet another time, but knowing he had already lost because he could not squeeze the trigger, he could not for the life of him commit this act that would finalize the gamble.
“No,” he said.
“What?” K said.
“Keep the jacket.”
“What?” Purcell said.
“But find yourself another corpse.”
“What?” McReady said.
He felt like crying, but he did not want to cry in the presence of these international people with high connections in Rome and God knew where else, did not want them to realize he was truly a loser. So he kept his mouth very tightly compressed, a trick he had learned as a boy when his grandmother told him frightening stories, it was easier not to cry when your lips were compressed that way. He backed toward the door of the cottage, keeping the gun trained on the three men, opening the door with one hand thrust behind him, fumbling for the knob, feeling the cemetery wind as it rushed into the room. “I would appreciate it,” he said, trying to sound calm and detached and debonair while knowing he had lost the final gamble, knowing he was a loser, “I would appreciate it,” he said, “if you would drop the burglary charge against me.”
K studied him solemnly for a moment. Then he said, “We’ll see, Mullaney.”
“Ciao,” Mullaney said, and went out of the cottage.
He threw the gun into a sewer outside the cemetery and then began walking slowly, the first time he had walked slowly in the past two days, it seemed, slowly and calmly, hoping they would not follow him, and really not caring whether they did or not. He thought his parting shot had been a very good one, “Ciao,” he had said, losing the gamble, but showing what a sport he was anyway, a tip of the hat, a wave of the hand, “Ciao,” and it was all over. “Ciao,” and out the window went the past year, out the window went everything he had thought important, “Ciao,” goodbye to Monaco and Monte Carlo, goodbye to London and Epsom Downs, goodbye to Indonesia and Jakarta, where he had told the cab driver they ran cockroach races, though not at all sure they did. I’ll have to look it up, he thought, and remembered that he had been locked out of his room, and wondered where he would spend the night now that the gamble was over, wondered where he would spend all the rest of his nights now that he was definitely a loser. Well, he thought, at least Irene will get a kick out of this, Irene will grin all over that Irish phizz of hers if she ever finds out her former husband has blown it all in little more than a year; she will certainly have a few laughs telling her new and doubtless winning suitors that her husband was a fool, and a loser to boot.
No, he thought.
Not Irene.
Perhaps she wouldn’t do it on Ferris wheels, but he knew for certain she wouldn’t laugh at him, either, would instead allow him to weep if he wanted to, which he felt like doing right now, but did not do, his lips still compressed. I’ll bet any amount of money, he thought, I’ll give you twenty to one, a hundred to one that Irene would not be happy about this, Irene would say, “Well, Andy, that’s too bad, I’m terribly sorry to hear that.”
He wondered if she had ever told anyone that sometimes he was a fool.
He went into a phone booth on the corner sidewalk, took a dime from his pocket and dialed Irene’s number. At first he thought it might be too late to be making a phone call, but there were still lights on in the private houses bordering the cemetery, so he guessed …
“Hello?” she said.
“Hello, Irene?” he said.
“Yes?”
“This is Andy,” he said.
“Andy?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, hello, Andy,” she said.
“I didn’t wake you or anything, did I?”
“No, I was watching television,” Irene said.
“What time is it?”
“About ten-thirty,” she said.
“Oh.”
“What is it, Andy? Why are you calling?”
“Well,” he said, “you were right.”
“About what?”
“Well,” he said, “I blew it all, Irene. It took me a year, Irene, but I blew it all. I’ve got five cents in my pocket after this phone call, and that’s it. I’m stone broke after that, though I’ve got to tell you I almost had half a million dollars just a few minutes ago.”
“Really, Andy?” she said. “Half a million?”
“Yes, I could have had it, Irene, I really could have …” He stopped. “Irene,” he said, “I never came close to having it.”
“Well, Andy,” she said, “That’s too bad, I’m terribly sorry to hear that.”
“I knew you would say that, Irene.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
The line went silent.
“Irene?” he said.
“Yes,” she said, “I’m here.”
“Irene, did you ever tell anybody about the time with the hat?”
“No,” she said.
“Do you know which time I mean?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Irene …” he said.
“Yes?”
“Irene, do you remember the night we got caught in the rain on Fire Island?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Do you remember the time we were cleaning out cockroaches …”
“Yes, yes …”
“… and found the Cache?”
“Yes, and got drunk.”
“Yes,” he said.
“And tried
to make love.”
“Yes.” He paused. “Irene, would you do it on a Ferris wheel?”
“No,” she said.
“Irene?”
“Yes?”
“Neither would I.”
The line went silent again.
“Well,” he said, and sighed.
“Well … well, what are you going to do now?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you have any plans?”
“No. I thought …” He hesitated. “I don’t know what I thought.”
“What did you think, Andy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did you call, Andy?”
“I guess to …”
“Yes?”
“To ask, Irene, if you would be willing to … to …”
“Yes?”
“Take a gamble.”
“A gambler.”
“On me.”
He said the words so softly that she did not hear him.
“What?” she said.
“On me,” he repeated.
“Oh.”
She’ll say no, he thought. She’ll say no, and I’ll walk off into the night with a nickel in my pocket, fifteen cents less than I started with yesterday morning. Please don’t say no, he thought. Irene, please don’t say no.
“Irene?” he said.
“What is it, Andy?”
“Please don’t say no. I know I’m a fool, I know I’m …”
“No, no,” she said. “You’re …”
“Irene, did you ever tell anybody I was a fool?”
“Andy, I don’t think you’re a fool.”
“I am, Irene, I am.”
“No, Andy.” She paused. Her voice was very low when she spoke again. “Andy, you’re a very nice person,” she said, “if only you would grow up.”
“Irene …” he said.
“Yes?”
“Gamble.”
“I’m not a gambler, Andy.”
“Neither am I,” he said, and the line went silent. For a moment, he thought she had hung up. He waited for her to speak again, and then said, “Irene? Irene, are you …?”
“I’m … I’m here,” she said.
“Listen … listen, you’re not crying, are you? Irene …”
“Andy, Andy,” she said.
“Should … should I come there?”
She did not answer.
“Say yes, Irene.”
Still, she did not answer.
“Irene? Say yes. Please.”
He heard her sigh.
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m crazy.”
“I love you,” he said.
“All right,” she said.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” he said.
“All right,” she said.
“Well, not in a minute, because all I have is a nickel. It may take some time.”
“Time we have,” she said.
“Yes,” he answered. “Time we have.”
“But hurry, anyway,” she said, and hung up.
He put the phone back onto the hook, and sat unmoving in the booth, feeling the April breeze that swept through the open doors, watching the eddying paper scraps on the floor. He sat that way for a long time, with the paper scraps dancing at his feet, and he thought about the gamble he had taken and lost, and he still wanted to weep. And then he thought about the gamble he was about to take, the biggest gamble of them all perhaps, and he simply nodded, and rose at last, and went out of the booth and began walking back to Manhattan.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ed McBain is one of the many pen names of legendary author Evan Hunter (1926–2005). Named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, Hunter is best known for creating the long-running 87th Precinct series, which followed an ensemble cast of police officers in the fictional city of Isola. A pioneer of the police procedural, he remains one of the best-loved mystery novelists of the twentieth century. Hunter also wrote under the pseudonyms Richard Marsten, Hunt Collins, John Abbott, Ezra Hannon, Curt Cannon, and others.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1967 by Ed McBain
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3927-7
This 2016 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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