by Ed McBain
“Your call, please.”
“Police department,” he said.
“Thank you.”
What the hell, he’d end it all, tell them where he was, have them pick him up. He waited while the phone rang.
“Sixteenth Precinct,” the bored voice said. “Sergeant Shanahan.”
“I—”
“Can’t hear you, sir.”
His throat was dry. This wasn’t the way. This wasn’t it. They’d peg him for everything in the book.
“Hello?” the voice said, irritated. Quickly, he hung up. He’d wait. At ten o’clock he’d see Babs, tell her everything. Well, tell her enough, anyway. Then he’d see.
Chapter Nine
He waited until ten-fifteen, giving her a little leeway, and then went to Barbara’s apartment. The elevator operator looked at him curiously on the way up, and he realized for the first time that he hadn’t shaved in two days, and that he probably looked like hell.
The motion of the elevator tugged at his stomach, and he thought he was going to be sick again. He held on grimly, his teeth clenched, until the doors flew open on the tenth floor. He nodded briefly, then, and stepped out into the carpeted hallway. He heard the doors slam shut behind him, hesitated for a moment while he got his bearings. He passed the potted palm on one side of the elevator bank, walked quickly to the apartment at the end of the hall.
Barbara Cole, the little white card said. He reached out and pressed the button over the card.
Muted chimes sounded from within the apartment, and he heard the sound of feet padding to the door. The peephole flew back, then clinked shut immediately. The door opened.
Babs held out both hands. “Ray. Come in.”
He took her hands and she led him into the apartment.
“You’re home,” he said in relief.
“I said I’d be. I never break a date.” He followed her into the dim comfort of the living room. She was wearing black slacks that clung to her. A short-sleeved cocoa-brown sweater molded the curve of her back and the high swell of her breasts.
“Hope you don’t mind,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “I made myself comfortable.”
“Not at all.” He felt stiffly formal, and he stood awkwardly in the center of the room. Babs plunked herself down on the sofa, resting one arm on its back, propping her legs up on the coffee table. He noticed that she was barefoot, her nails painted a bright crimson.
“Well, sit down,” she said. Her mouth was smiling, and her eyes regarded him with open interest.
“All right.” He sat, folded his hands in his lap.
“Get you a drink?”
“No, no, I want to talk to you.”
She nodded pertly. “All right, Ray. Talk.”
“Charlie Massine,” he said.
“What about Charlie?”.
“He’s dead.”
Her hand dropped from the back of the sofa, and the twin black brows climbed up onto her forehead. “What?”
He nodded dumbly. “Shot. A hole between his eyes.”
“Oh God,” she said. Her small teeth sank into her lower lip, and her eyes seemed to cloud over. “God, God.”
“He was in his room. Just sitting by the window. Dead.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. He’s dead.”
He realized suddenly that something was wrong. He couldn’t place it at first, and then he knew what it was. A policeman wouldn’t behave this way over a dead man. He was supposed to be a policeman as far as Babs was concerned. Yet she’d expressed no surprise at his behavior.
“You know, don’t you?” Their eyes locked, and she stared at him steadily.
“Yes,” she said. “I know.”
“Everything?”
“I know you’re Ray Stone. That’s all of it, isn’t it?”
“No, that’s not all,” he said fiercely. “I didn’t kill her.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“Well, it’s there in your eyes. You all think I killed her. Well, damn it, I didn’t. Do you understand?”
Her face was serious, her eyes warm, and sympathetic. “I understand.”
“I’ve done a lot of filthy things, but I’ve never killed anyone,” he went on.
“Nobody said you—”
“I’m an addict,” he said. He paused. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, addicts do funny things. I’ve done them all, every rotten, stinking, filthy one of them. All, you understand?” He paused again, then shouted defiantly. “You want to hear all the things I’ve done?”
“If you want to tell me.” Her voice was soft.
“I’ve rolled drunks in alleys, taken every cent they had. I even struck up conversations with them in bars, nursed them along until they were really looped and then picked their pockets. I’ve done the same with fairies. Led them on, made them think I was on the make, and then slugged them for their rolls.”
Babs sat still, one eyebrow raised, her feet out in front of her on the coffee table.
“I’ve pimped, too. I pimped for the professionals, and I pimped for kids who needed the stuff as much as I did. I’ve played the con game with more girls than I can remember, hocking the gifts they got from suckers, or just helping them spend the dough they got. We always spent it on the same thing: heroin. I’ve done a lot for heroin, even to stealing from my own father. I cashed in an insurance policy I took from my mother’s bureau drawer. I pawned a cameo she’d had since her wedding day.” He stopped, caught his breath. “I’ve done everything. But I’ve never killed anyone.”
“I see.”
He seemed to be carried on by his own momentum. “I’ve even forgotten some of the things I’ve done. I shoplifted every store in this city. I’ve got more clothes in hock than I could wear out in ten years. But I’ve never killed anyone.”
“I see,” she said again.
“You don’t see!” he shouted. “You’re sitting there like a smug little Buddha thinking what a low, contemptible—”
“Oh, shut up!” she said, her voice suddenly harsh. She swung her legs off the coffee table, stood up abruptly. He stopped short in the center of the room, stopped pacing to look at her. She walked toward him slowly and deliberately.
She lifted her face and said, “I don’t give a damn what you’ve done, Ray Stone.”
There was something new in her voice now. At first he didn’t recognize it, and when he did he thought, What’s the use? He looked down at her, saw her wet her lips with her tongue. Her eyes had narrowed, and the single lamp on the end table lighted their brown depths with fierce intensity.
She was standing, very close to him now, and she reached up with one hand, not speaking, and cupped the back of his neck. And then she raised herself on her toes, her breasts yielding to the hardness of his chest, her mouth seeking his. Her lips touched his gently at first, so gently, the passing of a mild breeze over a grove of willows. And then, with sudden wildness, she crushed her mouth against his own. Her mouth was alive with movement, her tongue an arrow of fire. His arms went around her, and his hands discovered the rich warmth of her body. Suddenly she was out of his arms, and he felt empty and cold. He followed her to the couch, surprised by his own response, alert to every subtle pang of this reawakening of desire.
He undressed her slowly, savoring the slow revelation of her body, marveling at contrast of ivory and shadow, smooth flesh and crisp hollows. When she kissed him again, his hand cupped her breast, and she went into his arms. Her body was warm, and her eyes were pleading, and once again she whispered, “I don’t care what you’ve done, Ray Stone,” and then he lost himself in her mouth and her arms and her warmth.
* * *
He lay back exhausted, her head cradled in his lap. The red coals of their cigarettes glowed in the darkness. He felt strangely content, happier than he’d felt in a long time.
She drew in on her cigarette, and the glow lighted her nose for an instant, hung in the pl
anes of her finely sculptured face, ignited her eyes with pinpoints of fire.
“Has it been very bad for you?” she asked, her lips dribbling smoke.
“The drug, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty bad,” he said.
She was silent for a while.
“Did—did I make you forget it?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation.
“Really?”
“Yes, you made me forget it.”
“Good.”
They smoked silently, the sound of the street far below them, the medley of horns, and far across the city the wail of a fire siren, and the tooting of the boats on the river.
“What about Massine?” she asked.
“What about him?”
“Will the cops blame you?”
“I don’t think so. They’ve no reason to.”
“That’s good.” She sounded relieved.
“Did you know Massine well?”
“Pretty well. He introduced me to Kramer.”
“Oh.”
“You see, Eileen wanted to get on the Scat Lewis combo. When I found out about it, I asked Charlie to introduce me to Kramer. I sounded Kramer out about the switch, made the arrangement with Scat, and that was it.”
“Then you knew Massine before you went on the Kramer band.”
“Yes,” she said. She drew in on her cigarette. “You know, I’d been on a few bands before, met Charlie around.”
“I wonder if Massine was shacking with Eileen?” Ray said.
“Possibly. I imagine so.”
“He said he wasn’t.”
“Well, he should know.”
“You’d think Kramer would get angry about it. Or at least a little excited.”
Babs sat up. She handed him her cigarette. “Put this out, will you?”
He took the cigarette, squashed it in the ashtray. “You’d think a husband would at least pretend to care.”
“Kramer’s no angel,” Babs said flatly.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s been playing around, too.”
“Sound like the ideal married couple.”
“Liberal thinking,” she said shrugging. “You know how it is.”
“Sure,” Ray agreed.
“Kramer’s been coming on quite strong for Rusty lately. I suspect she’s his latest.”
“Who’s Rusty?”
“Rusty O’Donnell. She wiggles her hips at the Trade Winds. They bill her as an artistic dancer. That means strip artist in English.”
“He likes her, huh?”
“She’s quite something. You’d probably like her, too.”
Her fingers were running idly over the muscles of his arm. His hand rested on her, and he could feel the even spacing of her breathing. She picked her head up suddenly, kissed him on the mouth. Her hand dropped, and she pulled away from him, her eyes wide, a playful smile on her lips.
“Why, honey,” she said, “did you want something?”
* * *
He woke in the middle of the night. A breeze lifted the curtains at the window, and the dim reflection of the streetlights below were hazy in the darkness.
Babs lay curled beside him, the ivory of her thigh smooth and shining in the darkness.
He cradled his head in his hands. There was an incessant throbbing at his temples, a throbbing that threatened to shake his head to pieces. He wondered what time it was.
His eyes roamed the room, rested on a small clock on the dresser. Three-twenty.
He was sweating now, and he knew what he needed. He was foolish to think he could shake it. He’d never shake it. It would stay with him as long as he lived.
“Babs,” he whispered.
He heard her even breathing, saw the rise and fall of her breasts.
“Babs,” he said a little louder.
She stirred, rolled over.
“Ray?” Her voice was small and full of sleep.
“Babs, honey, listen to me.”
“I’m listening, Ray.” Her eyes were still closed.
“Babs, I’ve got to go.”
“Go? Go where?”
“I’ve just got to take a walk. I’ve got to get outside.”
“All right, Ray.”
She rolled over again, one arm folded across her breasts.
“Babs?”
“Ummm?”
“Babs, please listen to me.”
She turned, opened her eyes. She wore no makeup, and she looked young, protected by the sleepy veil that clung to her features. She smiled, squeezing her eyes shut tightly. “Hello, Ray darling.”
She lifted her arm, rested it on his shoulder.
“Babs, I’m going out for a walk. I’ve got to take a walk.”
She was wide awake instantly. She sat up abruptly. “What?”
“I’m going downstairs. I feel trapped here. I’ve got to walk a little.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, walked to the chair and began dressing. She pulled her knees up against her chest, folded her arms around them, sat watching him silently as he dressed.
“Is it very bad?” she asked at length.
“Yes. It’s very bad.”
“Poor baby.”
“It’ll pass,” he said tersely. “Until the next time.”
“How does it feel, Ray?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”
“I’m sorry, honey. I just thought I might be able to help.”
“No, there’s nothing you can do. Not unless you’ve got a deck of heroin with you.”
“I’m sorry, darling.”
“Don’t worry about it, for Christ’s sake.” He was beginning to be annoyed by her voice, and by the silly things she was saying. She was starting to sound the way Jeannie did long ago, the same half-pitying, half-criticizing quality in her voice.
She got off the bed and came to him as he pulled on his shirt. She stood very close to him.
“Are you sure I can’t help?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” He buttoned the shirt. If he didn’t get out of here soon he was going to bust wide open.
Her voice lowered. “Are you really sure?”
Viciously, he pushed her aside.
“Leave me alone!” he shouted.
“Ray!” She drew back as if he’d slapped her, and he saw the sudden hurt look in her eyes.
“Just leave me alone. There are some things that even a woman can’t solve!”
She walked to the window while he finished dressing, the lights from the street below casting a red and green glow on her body.
He didn’t bother with his tie. He pulled on his jacket and stuffed the wrinkled tie into one of the pockets. He left his collar unbuttoned. He was shivering now, even though he felt warm all over.
“I’m going,” he said.
She turned. “You’ll be back,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“Do you want me to come back?”
“Yes. Oh yes, yes.”
“All right,” he said. He wondered if he should go over and kiss her. A spasm shivered up his back, and his hands started trembling.
He walked out of the bedroom, through the foyer, and out of the apartment.
When he reached the street, it hit him in the gut with the force of a sledge hammer. He doubled over on top of a garbage can, waiting, praying that the pain would subside.
When it passed, he was breathing hard, and his face was bathed in sweat. He struggled to his feet, breathed deeply, the restlessness stirring deep within him.
He began walking then.
Chapter Ten
The rain began at four-twelve. It was a light drizzle at first, fine and cutting, driven by a strong wind. It lashed into his face as he walked, leaving his cheeks raw and cold, It penetrated his jacket, seeped into the collar of his shirt. The streets were almost empty, and they grew slick with the fine spray of the rain.
And then it began in earnest. Jagged streaks of lightning ripped their way across the sky, glari
ng white against the blackness. The thunder roared its hollow song, and the rain came down in huge drops, pelting the street, pattering on the pavements in furious accolade.
He lifted the back of his collar, dug his hands into his pockets. Tilting his head against the onslaught of water, he kept walking.
There was a fury to the sudden storm that matched the restless seething within him. Each thunderous boom found a responsive echo in his chest. Each twisted crackle of lightning tore through his nerves. He walked, and the thunder rolled overhead, and the lightning flashed in the sky. His shoes were sodden, and his clothes were plastered to his body. The water streamed down his face in rivulets, spilled onto his neck, rolled down his back.
In the distance, he saw two yellow eyes glaring into the night, heard the rumble of a motor. He squinted his eyes against the rain, saw the white top and the green body of a police car. The car turned the corner, headlights reaching out into the darkness.
He ducked his head, walked quickly into an alleyway, flattened himself against a door.
He heard a faint movement on his right, and then a tired voice asked, “Bad night. Want some fun, mister?”
He turned, startled. The girl wore a tight silk dress. Her eyes were cloaked in shadow, and her mouth was tilted upward in an inviting smile, a false smile that betrayed her profession. He faced her, ready to answer, and then he saw the fright jump into her eyes.
“Holy—Jesus!” she said. She looked at his face hard. He saw her wet her lips, and then step out into the rain. He watched the rapid swing of her buttocks in the clinging dress. Her high heels clicked against the asphalt as she hurried down the alley away from him. She looked back once, anxiously, then quickened her step. He listened to her footsteps die away, then shrugged his shoulders.
Did he look that bad? Sure, he needed a shave, but…
Quickly, he passed his hand over the stubble on his chin. It was rough, certainly, but not so bad that it would send a hooker scurrying away. Aimlessly, he looked at his open hand.
The palm was streaked with black.
What? How the hell…
It came to him all at once, and he lifted his hand to his hair, ran his fingers through it. When he pulled his hand away, the fingers were pitch-black.
The shoe polish! God damn it, the shoe polish was running in the rain.