Modern Masters of Noir

by Ed Gorman (ed)

Campbell glanced at him in obvious surprise. “We caught the guy, Simon, three days ago. Didn’t you see it in the paper?”

  “No, guess I must have missed it. I was reading about the Lancinelli hit, though.”

  “Lancinelli? Who’s that?”

  “In Kansas City.”

  Campbell took a bite of taco and chewed. “Kansas City, huh? Missouri or Kansas?”

  Simon frowned. “Gee . . . I don’t know. Better find out, I guess.”

  Campbell sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I have enough trouble keeping track of the murders here, buddy. I don’t spend a whole lot of time worrying about what happened halfway across the country.”

  “But this was my boy again, I’m sure of it. Same M.O.”

  “I suppose you’re going to Kansas City now?”

  Simon nodded, taking a swipe at his chin with a wadded paper napkin. “That’s why I wanted to see you. I don’t know a damned soul in that part of the country. Aren’t you from someplace around there?”

  “Nebraska.”

  “You know anybody in Kansas City?”

  “My second cousin.”

  Simon looked up hopefully. “He a cop?”

  Campbell shook his head. “No, not a cop. He runs a flower shop. But he’s a real nice guy.”

  Simon frowned his disappointment. “Nobody else?”

  “Nope.”

  “Damn. Well, guess I’ll just have to go in cold.”

  Campbell looked at his food, then shoved it away abruptly. “You’re taking this all the way, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t have any choice.” Simon wadded another napkin. “And no lecture, please. I’ve had enough good advice for one day.” It still hurt to think about what Siobahn had said. “You probably think I’m crazy, don’t you?” He laughed softly, bitterly. “Well, join the club. I just found out that even Mike thought I was a little flaky.”

  “But you’re still going after his killer?”

  A little smile flickered around the corners of Simon’s lips. “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  Simon picked up a taco. “Because the killer and I, we’re the only ones who still care.” He took a big bite of the taco. Campbell watched him for a moment, then returned to his own lunch.

  Chapter 11

  Life quickly fell into a pattern. He went to Kansas City, as he’d told Campbell he would, arriving just in time to be there when they pulled Day’s body from the river. Beyond his disappointment at being cheated out of talking to the man, Simon wasn’t the slightest bit interested in that murder. His boy didn’t go around blasting people with shotguns and then dumping their bodies.

  He left Kansas City and went to Memphis. Then to Atlanta. Milwaukee. Cleveland. One tip led to another, and although some of the hits were several years old, he followed them all up. He sometimes wondered how many people the blond had killed.

  Nearly six months after he’d left San Francisco, a hit went down in Boston that sounded good. He drove straight through from Philadelphia to follow up on it. He found a cheap motel and was all checked in, settled down to a dinner of cooling hamburgers, before he realized that he was home. He dumped the cheap meal into the wastebasket and headed for the car.

  His parents still lived in the same house where he’d grown up, and the lights in the dining room told him that the old rituals were still observed. Sabbath dinner was at seven.

  The black woman who answered his knock looked at him blankly. “Yessir?”

  “I’m Simon Hirsch. Can I come in?”

  She moved aside. “Of course. Dinner is about to be served.”

  He paused in the curved doorway of the oaklined dining room. The table was covered with a pristine white cloth. Tall ivory candles gave off tiny glows of light that danced off the polished silver and china. His parents were there, of course. Manny and his wife. A couple of teenagers who must have been Manny’s. Everyone was dressed up and he realized belatedly that he probably should have changed from his jeans and wind-breaker. “Hi,” he said after a moment.

  Everyone looked up. “Simon!” his mother said. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Yeah, it’s me.” He walked into the room, his tennis shoes silent against the thick rug. “Hi, Manny. Papa.” He thought for a moment. “Esther.” He nodded at the kids, not even trying to remember their names.

  Manny, fleshy and successful-looking, came around the table and clasped Simon by both arms. “Kid, it’s good to see you. Damn, we’ve been worried about you, wondering where the hell you were. Kim didn’t seem to have any idea.”

  Simon shrugged. “I move around a lot.”

  The maid reappeared. “Shall I set another place, sir?”

  Everyone looked at the rabbi, who nodded. “My son will join us.”

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  He took the empty chair at one end of the table. His mother was watching him. “You look bad, son.”

  “I’m fine, Mama, really.”

  “Too thin.”

  He made no response, and the ritual of the meal began. Simon concentrated on the food, both because he was hungry and because he hoped that would forestall any conversation.

  At the end of the formalized meal, the two teenagers hurriedly excused themselves. A few moments later, the two women left. The Rabbi and his two sons stayed at the table, not talking until the dishes were cleared and each had a glass of wine in front of him.

  “So,” Manny said. “What’s going on with you anyway?”

  “Not much.”

  The rabbi leaned forward. “You leave your home, your family, your job, to run all over the country, and that’s not much?”

  “Papa, you never liked my job anyway, remember? And you weren’t all that crazy about my shiksa wife, either.”

  “I should like you better as a bum?”

  Simon’s shoulders hunched forward. “I’m just doing what I have to do.” His fingers twisted around the slender stem of the wine glass.

  His father snorted. “So now you sound like John Wayne.”

  “With this nose?” Simon mumbled.

  Manny held up a conciliatory hand, and Simon suddenly realized that his brother had spent a lot of time over the years trying to negotiate peace. “Let’s just talk, shall we?” he said quietly. “Simon, we’ve been very worried about you. Even before you left home, Kim had called me several times. She was afraid for your emotional health.”

  “She thought I was crazy,” Simon said flatly. “So did a lot of people.”

  “She was only worried because she cared. A lot of people care.”

  “Right, Manny, right.” He sighed and took a slow sip of wine.

  “Why are you in town?” his father asked.

  “The Flynn hit.”

  “What?”

  “Robert Flynn was gunned down three days ago. He was a prime pusher, controlled almost half the city. I think my boy did the job. By this time, I can recognize his work a mile off.” He gave a grin of helpless admiration. “Damn, he’s good.”

  The rabbi shook his head. “How long will this go on?”

  “Until I find him, Papa.”

  Manny was staring at Simon’s face. “And then what?”

  “Huh?”

  “What happens after you catch this killer? What will you do then?”

  Simon took another drink, then licked wine from his lips. “Hell, you know,” he mumbled.

  “You don’t have any plans, do you?”

  They were quiet for a moment. “Your wife is suing for divorce,” his father said.

  “Is she?” He thought about that for a moment. “Well, okay, if that’s what she wants.”

  The old man stood. “I must go. Will I see you again, Simon?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know, Papa. Depends.”

  He and Manny watched as their father slowly left the room. “He does care, kid, you know.”

  “Does he?” Simon smiled a little. “I upset people, Manny. I make them uncomfortable. They don’t want me around.”
r />   “Even the Lone Ranger had Tonto, right?” Manny said.

  “Yeah.”

  Manny studied him. “Don’t you ever get lonely, Simon?”

  He lifted a shoulder helplessly. “Sure. Don’t you?”

  Manny looked a little startled, then nodded. “But I have my family. My work.”

  “I have my work, too.” He could have told Manny more. That he never really felt alone, because the guy was always with him. Funny, although he still didn’t know what the killer looked like, he felt like he knew him very well. Better than he’d ever known anyone. Sometimes now if he opened his wallet and saw the picture of Mike, it took him just a moment to place the face in his memory. The blond guy . . . he was always there. But Manny wouldn’t understand that. “My work is finding the man,” was all he said aloud.

  “An eye for an eye?”

  I guess.

  “Will you kill him, Simon? Or turn him over to the authorities?”

  Again he shrugged.

  Manny poured them each more wine. “So much hatred hurts you far more than it hurts him.”

  Simon was surprised. “I don’t hate him, Manny,” he said. “I don’t hate him at all. I just . . . want to find him.” He drained the glass and got to his feet. “I gotta go. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.”

  “Let us know before you leave town.”

  “I will,” Simon said.

  Manny handed him a roll of bills, which Simon shoved into his pocket.

  But he forgot to let them know. He spent two days in Boston and then drove to New York. Pete Rossi, a high school classmate, was on the D.A.’s staff, and Simon went to see him. It took about twenty minutes for him to lay out what he wanted. When he was finished, Rossi frowned thoughtfully. “Look,” he said finally, “I know a cop, one of the best. You go talk to him, okay?”

  “Sure, Pete, I appreciate this.”

  The cop’s name was Mazzeretti and he looked more like a successful pimp than a homicide dick. His suit was obviously tailor-made and his hairstyle probably cost more than all the clothes Simon was wearing. He tapped a gold ballpoint against the desk and listened as Simon talked. When Simon pulled out the pencil sketch of Mac, Mazzeretti leaned forward and stared at it for a long time. He finally glanced up and Simon caught something flickering through the black eyes. “You know the guy?” he asked eagerly.

  “Not sure. Hell, I see so many punks. He got a name?”

  “Mac.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah. He works with the blond guy. No name on him yet.”

  Mazzeretti leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. The room was quiet for a long time, before he sat up and nodded. “Yeah, that’s the guy, all right.”

  Simon felt a lurching in his gut. “You know him?”

  “Yeah. Hell, must be eight years ago. At least. Had a guy in here on an attempted burglary rap.”

  “Him?”

  “No, no. A blond guy.” Mazzeretti dropped the pen and fumbled for a gold lighter. “You know how some cases just stick in your mind? A face, something that has hold of your memory, and won’t let go?”

  “Yeah.” He knew.

  “That’s the way it is with this. The blond guy was a real nutcase. A Viet vet. I wanted to send him over to Bellevue, but this guy, this Mac, asked me not to. Then the owner of the store or whatever the hell it was showed up, and dropped the charges.” He shrugged elegantly. “So we let the kid go.”

  “Kid?”

  Mazzeretti frowned. “Well, he wasn’t that young, really, but he was weird. Very spacey. Wouldn’t even talk until this Mac showed up.” He shook his head. “I knew he was strange. Didn’t seem like a killer, though.”

  “You have a name?”

  “Hold on.” He made a couple of phone calls, and in a surprisingly short time, a policewoman came in and dropped a file on the desk. Mazzeretti opened it and grinned. “John Paul Griffith.” He shoved the file toward Simon. “That’s him.”

  Simon stared at the mug shot. He gripped the edge of the desk to keep his hands from shaking. The face in the picture looked scared. “John Paul Griffith,” he whispered. It was almost like a greeting.

  Mazzeretti was still shuffling through some handwritten notes from the file. “I did a follow-up on the other guy, too,” he said. “Just to satisfy my own curiosity. One Alexander McCarthy. A known gambler, and not a very lucky one, either. Also served in Nam.”

  Simon was still staring at John Griffith and only half-listening, but he nodded. “Could I have a copy of this picture?”

  “Well, it’s not really kosher, but okay. Give me a few minutes.” He left, taking the file with him.

  Simon leaned back, releasing his breath in a long sigh. He didn’t really need a copy of the photo. The image of that scared, childlike face was burned into his memory. Closing his eyes now, he could still see it clearly. “John Paul Griffith,” he whispered again. “John.” He smiled. “I’m getting close, Johnny. It’s just a matter of time now. Do you know that, Johnny? Can you feel me getting close?”

  Yeah, he thought, Johnny knew.

  He went to the address in the police report. There had once been a pizza place on the first floor, but it was boarded up and empty now. Simon climbed to the second floor and tapped at a door.

  A very tiny old lady opened the door. “Yes?” she chirped.

  “Sorry to bother you, ma’m,” he said, “but could I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “Oh, is this one of those surveys? I’m all the time reading about them, but nobody ever asked me anything before.”

  Simon smiled. “Well, this isn’t exactly like that. How long have you lived here?”

  “Close to twenty years now.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to remember a man who used to live here by the name of John Griffith?”

  “John? Of course I remember him. A nice boy.” Her face turned anxious. “I hope he’s not in trouble?”

  “I hope not. He lived here with another man, right?”

  “Yes, that would be Mr. McCarthy. I didn’t know him so well, but I think he must have been a good man.”

  Simon was leaning against the wall. He lit a cigarette. “Why do you think so?”

  “Because John thought so highly of him. Every other word from that boy was ‘Mac says this’ or ‘Mac says that.’ ” She frowned a little. “I hope John is all right. He was such a sweet boy.”

  Sweet?

  The old lady didn’t know any more than that. He thanked her and walked back down to the sidewalk.

  Simon was feeling very good. He whistled a little as he got into his car. Won’t be long now, Johnny, he thought cheerfully. I can almost touch you now.

  Do you feel me getting close, babe?

  BOOK III

  Chapter 1

  Waking up.

  There was, as always, that first terrifying moment, that initial instant of consciousness during which the fear still held him captive. Slowly the scene and its comfortable familiarity penetrated the sleep-fogged edges of his mind. The car was barreling down the highway into the darkness; Mac was driving; everything was okay. Johnny relaxed against the seat.

  “Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty,” Mac said. “Christ, I thought you’d died.”

  “Was I sleeping a long time?”

  “Couple hours.”

  “I’m sorry.” He felt guilty, knowing that Mac liked company as he drove. “I won’t sleep anymore.” Reaching for a cigarette with one hand, he punched the lighter in with the other.

  Mac glanced over. “Thought you were gonna quit that,” he said sourly.

  Johnny pulled the lighter out and touched the glowing orange filament to the end of his cigarette. “You’re a fine one to talk. You smoke like a chimney.”

  “I have a lot of bad habits, but that doesn’t mean you should have them, too.”

  “I don’t want the rest of them,” Johnny said mildly. “Just this one.”

  Mac swung the car out of the lane to pass a slow-mov
ing eighteen-wheeler. “Well, it’s your life.”

  “Right.” They smiled at one another. The next few minutes passed in silence as Mac watched the traffic and Johnny concentrated on the smoke curling up toward the roof of the car. “Where are we going anyway?” he asked after a moment of thought.

  “L.A.” There was a sharp edge of irritation in Mac’s voice. “You know that, Johnny. I already told you twice that we’re going to Los Angeles.”

  Johnny flinched away from the tone. “I forgot,” he said in a whisper.

  “Well, for chrissake try to remember things like that, will you?”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad.” Johnny felt the familiar chill begin inside. His hand reached out, but stopped before it touched Mac, resting instead on the back of the seat.

  Mac rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m not mad, Johnny. I just wish . . .” He broke off. “Light one of those for me, willya?”

  “Sure.” Pleased to be of some use, Johnny devoted his full attention to the task, and not until the cigarette was stuck between Mac’s lips did he speak again. “What do you wish, Mac?”

  “I don’t know.” Now his voice just sounded tired. “I need some coffee,” he said abruptly. “There’s a truck stop.”

  It was late and there were only a few customers in the diner. The interior was all white formica and the waitress looked like she’d been on her feet since early morning. After they’d ordered, Johnny dug some coins out of his pocket and went over to the jukebox. He punched up several selections, then came back to the booth, sliding in across from Mac. They didn’t talk much until the waitress had delivered Mac’s coffee and Johnny’s lemon meringue pie and Coke. “I’m really sorry that I forgot where we’re going,” Johnny finally said, watching as his fork penetrated the stiff white meringue.

  A Billy Joel song was playing in the background. “It doesn’t matter, kid,” Mac replied.

  But Johnny wanted to explain. “I try to remember things, but they just seem to get lost in my head sometimes.”

  “I know, Johnny. Don’t worry about it.”

  He ate the pie slowly, aware that Mac was watching him. After a few more moments, a new song began on the jukebox. Delighted with his surprise, Johnny grinned. “There.”