by Nick Carter
He ignored me.
I tried another gambit. "Does your mother know she raised a heroin addict, Larry? She must be proud of herself. How many other mothers can say their sons turned out to be dope addicts who spend most of their lives pushing around a fat old man in a wheelchair? I'll bet she talks about you all the time, you know: 'My son the doctor, 'My son the lawyer, then your old lady pops up with 'My son the addict'…"
It was childish and it was hardly throwing him into an insane rage. But it did annoy him, if only because my voice was interrupting his junk-shrouded thinking.
"Shut up!" he ordered calmly enough. He took a half step out of the chair he was sitting on and almost casually smashed at me with the side of the Luger.
But this time I was ready.
I twisted my head to the right to avoid the blow and on the same instant flicked my left hand upward and outward, catching his wrist with a jarring karate chop that should have caused him to drop the gun, but didn't.
I rolled left on the bed, catching his wrist in my grip and pressing it palm-up against the white sheets, then lowering my shoulder over my upper arm to apply maximum pressure. His other arm circled my waist, trying to pull me back off the pinned hand.
He had my right arm immobilized against my own body. I made a quick, convulsive move, arching my back and getting one knee underneath me for leverage, and was able to free my arm. Now I had both hands free to work on his gun hand, the left one pressing his wrist flat in the tightest grip I could manage, the right one clawing at his fingers, trying to bend them back away from the gun.
I pried one finger loose and began bending it back slowly, inexorably. His fingers were fantastically strong. The pressure around my waist suddenly eased. Then his free hand snaked over my shoulder, and long bony fingers clawed at my face, hooking under my jawbone and yanking my head back, trying to break my neck.
We struggled silently, grunting with the effort. I worked on that gun finger, striving for leverage, while at the same time using every bit of my will power and muscles to keep my head down.
I gained an eighth of an inch with the finger, but at the same time I could feel my head being forced back. Spelman's fingers dug deep into my throat under my jaw, pressing my mouth grotesquely out of shape, his palm flattening my nose. In a moment, with the carotid artery cut off, I would lose consciousness.
A pink haze clouded my eyes and white streaks of pain flashed through my brain.
I opened my mouth and bit down hard on one of Spelman's fingers, feeling my teeth slicing into it like it was a piece of barbecued rib. Hot blood welled into my mouth as my teeth ground into his knuckle, seeking the joint's weakness, then slashing through the tendons, crushing the delicate bone.
He screamed and jerked his hand free, but my head went with it, cocked into his finger by my teeth. I ripped at it savagely, like a dog with a bone, feeling the blood smear ray lips and face. At the same time I increased the pressure on his gun hand. His finger was bending now, and I only had to snap it backward.
But my aching jaws were weakening and I started losing my grip on his finger. With a sudden wrench, he tore free, but simultaneously, the fingers of his other hand loosened their grip on Wilhelmina and the Luger fell to the floor next to the bed.
Locked in each other's arms, we writhed on the bed in straining agony. His fingernails sought my eyeballs but I buried my head in his shoulder for protection and grabbed for his groin. He twisted his hips to protect himself and we rolled off the bed, onto the floor.
Something sharp and unyielding jammed into the side of my head and I realized that I had hit the corner of the bedtable. Now Spelman was on top, his sharp-featured face inches from mine, his teeth bared in a maniacal grin. One fist slammed into the side of my face, while the other hand pressed against my throat in a choke hold, weakened by his savaged finger.
I tucked my chin into my neck the best I could and stabbed at his eyes with extended fingers, but he twisted his head at the last minute to protect them, shutting them tightly.
I grasped one big ear and jerked savagely, twisting. His head snapped back around and I slammed the palm of my hand into his beaky nose. I could feel the cartilage snap loose under the force of the blow, and blood spurted out over my face, blinding me.
Spelman let out an agonized cry as I pulled loose from his grasp and rolled free. For a moment we faced each other on all fours, panting, gasping for breath, blood-smeared, two wounded animals in a confrontation.
Then I spotted Wilhelmina off to the side and near the bed table. From my hands and knees I went into a headlong dive, sliding forward on my stomach as I hit the floor, arms outstretched, fingers grasping for the gun. My fingernail scratched against the butt of the pistol and I lunged again. I felt a great exultation as my palm came flat down on the grip and my fingers circled it familiarly.
I had the gun, but like some big bony cat, Spelman was on top of me, his big hand pinning my outstretched arm, his other fist slamming like a piston into my ribs. I twisted onto my back, rolling my shoulder from left to right and pulling up my knees so that my legs were doubled against my chest.
Then I shoved violently outward with my feet, like an uncoiling spring. One foot caught Spelman in the stomach, the other in the chest, and he flew backward, breaking his grip on my wrist. He landed on his butt, the momentum carrying him over on his back. Then he rolled to the right, twisting his head down and under and came up on all fours, facing me.
He shifted to his knees, hands raised, slightly cupped, ready to attack. His face was a mess of blood from his broken nose. But single-minded bestiality glared from the pale blue eyes.
I shot him full in the face, at a range of about eight inches. His features seemed to collapse inward but he remained upright on his knees, his body swaying.
He was already dead but instinctively my finger moved twice more on the trigger, pouring two more bullets into that battered face.
Then the body toppled forward and lay inert on the carpet before me, one lifeless arm flopping across my leg. I stayed where I was, gasping for breath, my chest heaving. The side of my head throbbed from the blow by the gun butt and it felt as if at least two or three ribs had been cracked. It was five minutes before I could finally stagger to my feet, and then I had to hold onto the bed table to keep from falling.
At first, I was afraid the sound of three shots would bring someone running, but in my befogged state I couldn't think of what I could do about it if anyone did, so I just stood there stupidly, trying to put my battered senses back together. In any other city in the world, the police would have been knocking on my door within minutes. I had forgotten I was in New York, where few cared and where no one got involved if he could help it.
At last I stepped over Spelman's body and staggered into the bathroom. Ten minutes in a steaming hot shower followed by a couple of minutes of biting cold did wonders for my bruised body and helped clear my mind.
From what Spelman had said, I was pretty sure he hadn't gone to anyone else with his information, once he had figured out who I was. I tracked back in my head. He had said, specifically in fact, something about "when Popeye Franzini finds out." Good enough. I was clear on that score, then, at least for the moment. Or at least I could hope I was.
I still faced a problem right at the moment. Being found in the same room with the battered corpse of Larry Spelman was entirely out of the question. There was no way such a situation could be an asset in my relations with the Franzini family. And I certainly didn't want any interference from the police. I'd have to get rid of him.
And I'd have to get rid of him in a way that he wouldn't be found for a while.
The Franzinis would be upset about Larry Spelman's absence, they would be in a rage if he turned up dead. And a rage can start people thinking: I'd showed up in Beirut one day, and four days later the Mafia's best penman in the Middle East was dead, along with their borrowed Chinese agent. Then, less than twenty-four hours after my arrival in New York, one of Franzi
ni's top lieutenants was killed. It was a trend I didn't want the Franzinis to ponder. Larry Spelman couldn't be found just yet.
I thought about it while I dressed. What do you do with six feet five inches of dead and battered gangster? I couldn't exactly take him down to the lobby and hail a cab.
In my head, I ran through what I knew about the hotel, from the time I had come in the lobby with Louie, Manitti and Locallo, until the moment I had awakened with Wilhelmina's muzzle staring at me. There wasn't much, just a vague impression of heavy red carpets, gilt-framed mirrors, red-jacketed bellhops pushing buttons on self-service elevators, antiseptic hallways, a laundry room a few doors from my room.
Nothing much helped. I looked around my room. I had slept in it for several hours, almost died in it, in fact, but I hadn't really looked at it. It was pretty standard, a little mussed up at the moment, but standard. Standard! That was the key! Virtually every New York hotel room has a not-too-evident connecting door leading to the room next to it. The door was always securely locked, and they never gave you the key unless you had ordered connecting rooms. Nonetheless, that door was always or almost always, there.
Once I had thought of it, it was right there staring me in the face. The door next to the closet, of course. It just blended into the woodwork so nicely that you never really noticed it. I tried the handle perfunctorily, but of course it was locked.
That was no problem. I turned the lights all out in my room and put my eye to the crack between the floor and the bottom edge of the door. There was no light coming from the other side. That meant it was either empty or the occupant was asleep. At that hour, probably asleep, but it was worth checking.
My room was 634. I dialed 636 and held my breath. I was in luck. I let it ring ten times and then hung up. I turned the lights back on and selected two steel picks from the set of six which I always carry in my toilet kit. After another moment, the connecting door was unlocked.
Opening it, I moved quickly to the other wall and turned on the light; it was unoccupied.
Back in my room, I stripped Spelman's body and neatly folded his clothes, putting them in the bottom of my own suitcase. Then I dragged him into the neighboring room. Completely naked, his face a gory mess, he would not be immediately identifiable. And, as far as I could remember, he had never been arrested, so his prints were not on file, and his identification would be even further delayed.
I left Spelman's body inside the shower, with the frosted glass doors shut, and returned to my room to dress.
Downstairs at the front desk, I interrupted the young, red-jacketed clerk. He didn't like being taken away from his paperwork, but he tried not to show it too much. "Yes, sir?"
"I'm in room six-thirty-four, and if six thirty-six, next to me is empty, I'd like to take it for a friend of mine. She's… uh… he's coming in later."
He grinned at me knowingly. "Sure thing, sir. Just register here for your friend." He spun the register pad at me.
Smart ass kid! I signed Irving Fein's name and an address I made up, and paid twenty-three dollars for the first night's rent.
Then I took the key and went back upstairs. I went into 636, took the "Do Not Disturb" sign, and hung it outside the door. I figured that three or four days could pass with that sign on the door before anyone made more than a cursory check.
I went back to my own room and looked at my watch. Four a.m. It had been just an hour since Spelraan woke me up. I yawned and stretched. Then I took off my clothes again and hung them neatly over one of the chairs. This time, I made sure that Wilhelmina was tucked under my pillow before I climbed into bed.
Then I turned out the light. There wasn't much else to do in New York at four o'clock in the morning.
I fell asleep almost instantly.
Chapter 9
The next morning I checked out of "Manny's place" by nine o'clock. Spelman's clothes were packed along with mine in the suitcase, along with one of the sheets and a pillowcase, which had been smeared with blood.
From the Chalfont Plaza, I grabbed a cab heading downtown on Lexington and went to the Chelsea Hotel on Twenty-third Street just off Seventh Avenue. It's kind of a beat up old hotel these days and attracts a lot of odd characters. It had its days of glory, however. Dylan Thomas stayed there, and Arthur Miller and Jeff Berryman. My main reason for moving in there was far from literary nostalgia: Larry Spelman's body wasn't next door.
The first thing I did was to send out for some brown wrapping paper and a ball of twine. Then I carefully wrapped up Spelman's clothes, the sheet and the pillowcase, and took the package over to the post office.
I mailed the package to Popeye Franzini. The return address read "Gaetano Ruggiero, 157 Thompson Street, New York, N.Y. 10011." The longer Spelman's body remained undiscovered the better, but once it was found, I wanted suspicion directed away from me. I didn't know of any specific bad blood between the Ruggieros and Franzinis at the moment, but once that package arrived, there would be.
The current postal system is such that I could depend — with reasonable assurance — on the fact that a third-class package mailed from Twenty-third Street to Prince Street, a distance of about thirty blocks, would take at least a week.
I went into the Angry Squire, a pleasant little bar on Seventh Avenue around the corner from the hotel, and had a leisurely lunch washed down with two mugs of that good Watney's ale. Then I called Louie at his Village apartment.
Louie was ecstatic, as usual. "Hey, Nick! What's up, man? I tried to call you up at Manny's Place, but they said you'd checked out."
"Yeah. Too plastic for me. I moved down to the Chelsea."
"Great! Great! I know the place. Hey, look, Nick. Uncle Joe wants to see us this afternoon. Okay with you?"
I wondered if I had much of a choice. "Sure, why not."
"Okay, then. About two o'clock. At Uncle Joe's office."
"Okay," I reassured him. "I'll see you then."
It was a pleasant day and I walked, taking my time. I hadn't really seen much of New York in years. It had changed a lot in some respects, in others it looked exactly as I remembered, probably exactly as it had fifty or a hundred years before.
I walked to Sixth Avenue, then headed downtown. Sixth Avenue down to Fourteenth Street still looked the same, but it had changed, and for a moment I couldn't put my finger on it. Then it hit me, and I smiled to myself. I was getting so cosmopolitan I didn't notice some things any more. Sixth Avenue from Twenty-third Street to Fourteenth was almost entirely Puerto Rican. The conversations I heard around me were, for the most part, in Spanish.
The bars were in the same places, but now they bore Spanish names; EI Grotto, El Cerrado, El Portoqueno. The old Italian delicatessens were still there as I had remembered, but now they were bodegas, with more fruit and fewer vegetables. If anything, Sixth Avenue was cleaner than it ever had been and the round-hipped, vivacious Latin girls clacking by on their high heels were a big improvement over the slow-moving eddies of elderly ladies with their shopping bags who used to fill the neighborhood.
Fourteenth Street looked more like Calle Catorce in San Juan, but there was an abrupt change from there southward to Third Street. Here, it was much as it had always been, the small-business part of the Village, hardware stores, drugstores, grocery stores, delicatessens, ten-cent stores, coffee shops. There never had been any particular ethnic identity to this stretch of the avenue and there wasn't now.
It was a polyglot crowd; neatly suited business men with attaché cases, strolling hippies with shoulder-length hair and blue jeans, chic housewives pushing black plastic baby carriages, hobbling old ladies with gnarled features and vacant eyes, kids armed with baseball gloves, a beggar on crutches. There were more mixed couples than I had remembered.
At Third Street, I turned east past MacDougal and Sullivan, then went south again on Thompson Street, a big grin of reminiscence on my face. Thompson Street never changes. All the way down to Prince Street, it is the old Italian Village: quiet tree-lined streets
bordered with solid rows of brownstones, each with its series of steps running up to heavy oaken front doors, each one fronted by an iron railing designed to keep the unwary from falling onto the steep row of concrete steps leading to the cellar. For some reason, when the Village was built up in the late 1880s the cellar doors were always put in the front instead of the back.
Here, the pace is different than anywhere else in the city. The noise seems suffused, the action slower. Old men stand in clusters of two and three, never sitting on the stoop, just standing, talking their dotage away; fat-breasted housewives lean from upper windows to chat with neighbors standing on the sidewalk below.
On the fenced-in playground of St. Theresa's Junior High School, the neighborhood's young Italian bucks, long out of school, mingle with the kids in a perpetual softball game. On the sidewalks, the black-eyed, black-haired Italian girls walk sturdily, eyes straight ahead, if they are alone. If they are with a group of girls, they squirm and dawdle, talking constantly, darting their eyes up and down the street, making it ring with their laughter.
There are few businesses on Thompson Street, an occasional candy store, inevitably dark green with a faded, half-slashed awning sheltering the newspaper stand; a delicatessen or two, with huge salamis hanging in the windows; here and there a drugstore, almost always on the corner. What Thompson does have, however, is funeral parlors — three of them. You go to one if you are a friend of the Ruggieros, another if you are a friend of the Franzinis, the third one if you have no connections with either family or, if you do, don't want them known.
Also on Thompson, between Houston Street and Spring, there are five restaurants, good Italian restaurants, with neatly checkered tableclothes, a candle on each table, a small bar along one wall of the adjoining room. The people of the neighborhood often drink at the bars, but they never eat at the tables. They eat at home every night, every meal. Yet somehow the restaurants are full every evening, though they never advertise — they just seem to draw couples, each of whom has somehow discovered their own little Italian restaurant.