by Ed McBain
“Whiskey sours should have cherries and orange peels,” she said, when she came back.
“We can forego both,” I told her. I lifted the glass and waited. “Here’s to finding Del’s murderer.”
“And Lydia’s,” she added.
“And Lydia’s.” We touched glasses and took a sip. Gail mixed one hell of a strong sour.
“And here’s to the movie deal,” I said.
“Here’s to it.” We drank again. “Does it look good?” she asked.
“Very good. They don’t know which way to turn now, Gail. I’m sure they’ll come across.”
“Good.” She drank more of her sour and then said, “Do you think there’s a tie-in? Between the movie deal and the murders, I mean?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so, too. Apparently, Di Luca doesn’t.”
“No, I know that.”
“He’s a frank man, isn’t he?”
“How so?”
“He asked me if I knew Del was shacking with Lydia. That’s just the way he put it.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“I said I didn’t know anything about it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to get involved in this, Josh. It’s bad enough that I hated the bastard. With a cop like Di Luca sniffing around, anything might happen. I’ll be damned if I’m going to wind up paying for a double murder.”
“Di Luca will probably find out, anyway.”
“Well, if he does, I’ll lie again. Truthfully, I don’t give a damn if the murderer never gets caught—so long as my hands are clean.”
“Well…”
“You think I’m a bitch, don’t you? You think I should go around weeping all over the place, pretending I’m sorry. Well, I’m not sorry. I’m glad he got it, and I’m glad he’s dead.” She looked at me significantly. “And I’m glad I’m free now.”
“Gail, the guy was killed only yesterday. I don’t care how you felt about him, but…”
“I’m cold-hearted, is that what you think? You think I’m cold right down to my toes. No, Josh. I’m just godawful glad, that’s all. Glad to be rid of him. He was a lying, conniving, thieving cheat. I’m glad he’s dead.”
I stood up and walked across the room, wondering what I could say to that. I supposed she had reason enough to be delighted, but it still seemed strange to hear someone talk like that. There was something almost abnormal about it. Like…like dancing on a coffin.
I heard Gail put her glass down on the coffee table, and then she padded across the room silently, barefoot, and stood behind me.
“Josh,” she said softly.
I turned, saw the look in her eyes, and quickly put my glass to my mouth. I drained the sour and then asked, “Any more of these?”
Gail eyed me curiously. “In the kitchen.”
I picked up her empty glass on the way, walked into the kitchen, and found the shaker on the top shelf of the refrigerator. I took it out, closed the door, gave it a few hearty shakes, and then filled both glasses. I was heading back to the living room when Gail came into the kitchen after me.
I handed her the sour, and she leaned back against the door jamb, blocking the exit.
She sipped a little of her drink, looked at me over the edge of the glass, and said, “What are you afraid of, Josh?”
“Me? Nothing.”
She smiled. “Oh, but you are.”
“Honey…”
“Don’t use words like that. Honey, or darling, or anything like that. I don’t want to hear them.”
“Look, hon…”
“Don’t, I said!” She threw off the drink in one hasty gulp, and then slammed it down on the sink top, almost breaking the glass.
“All right, Gail, what do you want?”
“You know what I want. You know damn well what I want!”
“This is very flattering, Gail, but…”
“Oh, shut your goddamned mouth!”
“Gail…”
“You think it has to be you, you egotistical ape?” She seemed about to say more. Then she changed her mind, shook her head, and snapped, “Oh, get the hell out of here. Run along. Go play agency.”
“Sure,” I said. I put down my drink and started through the door. Gail sucked in her stomach to let me by, and then as I passed her, she threw her arms around my neck.
“Take this with you,” she said almost viciously.
She rammed her mouth against mine, brought her whole body close. Her mouth moved furiously, and her tongue pushed against my closed lips.
I shoved her away. “Gail, for Christ’s sake!”
Her eyes sparked, and her chest heaved.
Del was dead, and I was romping around with a movie deal. And Gail was behaving like a mare in heat, only I wasn’t having any, thanks.
She backed out of the doorway, her hands tight, her eyes still flashing. There was hatred in those eyes.
“He’s dead,” I said lamely. “He’s only just…”
“You are, too,” she shouted. “Get the hell out of here! Get out before…”
“Gail, be sensible. I’m only…”
“Get out!” she screamed. “Get out! Get out, get out!”
I left.
9.
A mild breeze blew in over the river that night. It swept over from LaGuardia Airport, swerved past Riker’s Island, smacked North Brother Island, and then swung downtown past Hell Gate and the Triboro Bridge, followed the river, and then rustled through the young trees lining the East River Drive.
When it poured through my open window, it was still fresh. It blew the curtains high, and I smiled and sighed heavily. It was a rain wind, and the city needed rain. The city needed a lot of rain to wash the heat out of the pavements. And the blood.
There had been a lot of blood, so far. Too much.
I sniffed of the mild breeze, and I listened to the curtains flapping against the wall, and I dressed very carefully.
I didn’t know whether or not the party was going to be a formal one. I wasn’t taking any chances, though. The press would be there, and if I intended setting them on their ears, a tux was as good a costume for the occasion as any—especially if everyone else wore one.
I’d shaved close, showered, put on a fresh set of underwear, and was pulling on my trousers now, standing in my black-stockinged feet. I zipped up the fly, buttoned the top button, and then slipped the suspenders over my shoulders. I noticed I didn’t have a shirt on, dropped the suspenders, slipped into the shirt and then adjusted the suspenders again. The breeze was still cool, but it was more hurried now, and I knew it would rain soon.
I pulled on my shoes and laced them, and then went to the dresser for my cuff links and studs. I found the studs, but no cuff links. I shrugged, tied my black tie, and then walked to the back of the apartment. The living room and kitchen ran the length of the rear wall, their windows opening on the low apartment building across the areaway. I rummaged around in the cigarette boxes in the living room, I’d left cuff links in strange places in my day. They were nowhere to be found. I swore a little, mildly, because the breeze was such a relief, and started looking in earnest. I went through the drop-leaf desk in the living room. No cuff links. I went through the bar, searching in the shot glasses. No cuff links.
I walked into the kitchen and started nosing around there. I looked in the sugar bowl, and in the toaster, and in the silverware drawer, I was beginning to feel a little warm, and then I realized the kitchen window was closed, and I fairly blew my lid.
I walked to the window with my shirt sleeves flapping, and threw open the blind. I reached for the window, ready to snap it open.
The shots came then.
Two in a row, fast, so fast that they sounded almost like a single explosion. Like backfire in the street below.
Except that the window shattered into a thousand flying fragments. I dropped instantly, below the sill, hugging the floor, waiting for more shooting.
I waited for ten minutes
, but nothing more came. I lifted my head cautiously then, and peered over the edge of the sill. The roof of the building across the areaway was almost level with my window. It didn’t take much deep contemplation to figure where the shots had come from.
There was no one on the roof now.
I looked down into the areaway at the lighted windows of the building opposite. Not one head was looking out of any window. A backfire, they’d probably figured.
I swallowed hard and turned away from the window. My hands were trembling as I got the foxtail and dustpan from the broom closet. I began sweeping up the shards of glass, and my hands kept trembling.
I swept up all the glass, deposited it in the step-on can, and then walked back to the window. The roof opposite was almost level, but not quite. It was a little higher than, my window, which meant the marksman had shot down at me. I backed away from the window, remembering the way the glass had suddenly shattered.
I moved to the far wall of the room, searched the wall near the floorboard, and found the two slugs imbedded in the plaster where they’d knocked big chunks out of the wall.
A .45?
Maybe. My hands started shaking again, and the rain came at that moment.
It swept from the sky like an avenger, lashing the roof opposite. It was a noisy rain, like a wave lashing a beach. It came hard, and it came steadily, and I ran around the apartment closing windows. When I reached the smashed kitchen window, I drew the blind tight, and hoped the floor wouldn’t get too wet.
Lightning flashed in the sky, and the belated bellow of thunder rocked the house. It was a wonderful evening for a party, all right.
I wiped my face, and started searching for my cuff links again. I finally found them in a small cup without a handle. The cup contained two wrapped toothpicks, some ticket stubs, and the cuff links.
Why me? I thought abruptly.
Why the hell me?
Stupid, I told myself. You’re the guy who’s going to upset the applecart. You’re the guy who’s going to that party, and you’re going to scare off Becker’s backers. That’s why you. You’ve been elected target of the year. The only other people who knew anything about the Cam Stewart deal have already been killed, and you can’t kill the dead. There’s only one other joker who knows about that agreement, and that, my friend, is you. Y-O-U.
Simple motives, Di Luca had said. Well, there is something sinisterly simple about a goddamned slug from a .45. Very simple, pal. It leaves a big hole, and big things are simple. It also leaves a clean hole.
And it also leaves you dead, and that’s the ultimate in simplicity.
Can it, I told myself. I finished dressing, and then I went down for the car.
* * *
It was still raining. I hadn’t minded it when I thought it would be a short summer storm. It was more than that now. It was something fierce. I backed the car out of the garage, and the rain lashed at the windshield. I had the wipers going full blast, but it was hell seeing, and I drove slowly and began thinking about the party and hoping I wouldn’t be too late. It would be a hell of a thing to get there after the announcement had been made. I wanted to be there before the press got the story. I wanted to squelch it before it was released, so the backers would back off, leaving Becker with an empty sack.
But I drove slowly. If someone at the party had taken a shot at me, or hired someone to shoot at me, maybe they thought the bullets had scored. In which case, they were in no hurry. The party would proceed along normal channels, building to a nice climax, at which point Cam would affix her signature to the contracts, the band would play a neat flourish, and the reporters’ pencils would begin scribbling. Besides, the road was slippery and wet, and whether you’re killed by a .45 or another car, the difference is the same. I didn’t feel like spending the night with Saint Peter.
There was very little traffic heading for Connecticut, and the road was as black as a witch’s heart. Most of the traffic was headed for New York, which made matters dandy. I kept squinting against the bright lights that flashed across the rain-soaked windshield. It was ginger-peachy driving, pleasant on the nerves. There was just a long tunnel of blackness, and then wham! a pair of lights stabbing out of that tunnel, blinding the hell out of you.
I kept driving slowly, turning my eyes to the white curbing on the road whenever one of the bright-lights maniacs sped past. I didn’t notice the lights behind me for quite some time, and even when I did notice them, I figured them for just another car and that was all.
But I was traveling at a snail’s pace, and the city-bound traffic was really moving at a fast clip. There are guys who’ll burn up the road, even when it’s wet, but a skid is one thing I really fear. Any other kind of trouble, you can work your way out of—except no brakes, of course. A skid is just the same as no brakes, only worse. It’s the one time you completely lose control of the car. You tug at the wheel, and you try to follow all the directions you had about turning your nose into the skid, but you can’t get away from the fact that the car isn’t yours anymore. There’s someone else at the wheel, and he’s got a skull-bare head, and he’s grinning evilly, and if he wants the car, he’ll take it. You haven’t anything to say about it once the skid grabs you. He’s at the wheel, and it’s his car, and you just sit back and grit your teeth and wait.
That’s why I drove slowly, and I was surprised to see the lights behind me creeping along at the same pace.
I mentally tagged the driver as another careful Joe, not paying him a hell of a lot of mind. The traffic heading for New York began to thin out, leaving just the black tunnel with my own lights pushing through it. And, of course, the car behind me.
I kept my eyes on the road, mostly. But occasionally, I glanced into the rear-view mirror and saw the lights of the other car. I guess they were comforting, in a way. When you’re driving on a black road, you feel as though you’re on the edge of the universe, and that you may pitch off into nothingness within the next few feet.
I turned on the radio, trying to get some music. I got a lot of static instead. I cursed the lightning, snapped off the radio, and continued driving slowly.
The car behind me, matching my speed, kept a good thirty feet between us. And then the lights swung out, and I realized the guy was tired of the pace and was ready to pass me. I hugged the side of the road as the car pulled alongside. He kept abreast of me for a few moments, and then stepped on the gas. I still didn’t look to my left. When a guy is passing, he’s passing. What the hell, it’s a simple maneuver.
But this guy made it difficult.
He passed and then cut over sharply, bringing his car directly in front of my own.
I shouted, “Hey!” to no one, and then jammed on the brakes. The big Buick’s tires tried to grip the road, but it was too slippery. They held for an instant, and then the rear end shrieked and went into the skid, and the skull-faced character took the wheel while I waited. The car swung around, and I gritted my teeth and held the wheel tight. It stopped about an inch short of the other car, and I sighed in relief until I saw both doors of the other car snap open.
It came fast and clear then. It hadn’t been an accident. The guy had deliberately cut me short, had intentionally caused me to stop. There were two of them, and they came toward the car quickly, I figured my chances rapidly. My car was twisted at a curious angle that made backing off an impossibility. I couldn’t go forward because their car was blocking the road.
I had no choice. I locked the doors and waited, watching the two men advance through the driving rain.
One came around to the driver’s seat and tried the door there. When he found it was locked, he reached in under his coat, wasting no time. I saw the glint of a gun in his hand, and I ducked because I expected him to fire. Instead, he swung the gun butt-up, smashed it against the window, and then stuck his hand inside, opening the door.
“Out,” he said.
“What is this?”
“Out. Come on.”
“Look…”
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br /> “Jesus, Mac, it’s raining. Let’s move.”
I looked at the gun in his hand, and the bore seemed like an unusually big one. I pulled up the collar of my trench coat and stepped out of the car. The rain soaked me the instant I hit the road.
“What is this?” I asked again.
“This guy must like the rain, Charlie,” the first man said. “Come on, we’ll talk in the car.”
They led me to their car, a new Olds, and I squeezed into the front seat between them.
The one called Charlie stepped on the gas, and I turned my head and said, “Hey, what about my car?”
“You can pick it up in the morning,” Charlie said. “It’ll be okay.”
“Listen…”
“It’ll be okay,” Charlie repeated. “Radio says the rain’ll stop soon.”
“The window…” I started.
“I’m sorry about the window,” the first guy said.
“You shouldn’t have broken the window, Ed,” Charlie told him.
“Yeah,” Ed said sorrowfully. “I’m sorry, believe me.”
I sighed and looked back at the car. Charlie had left the parking lights on, to avoid any collision, I supposed. Still, the battery…
“This is one hell of a thing,” I said. “What the hell is going on?”
“It’s a bitch, I know,” Ed said cheerfully. “Well, what the hell are you going to do? That’s life.”
“Suppose you let me in on it,” I said bitterly.
“Sure,” Ed said, still cheerfully. “We’re having a party.”
“I wasn’t invited,” I said.
“You are now. We’re inviting you. Personally.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve got a previous engagement.”
“We know. That’s why we’re having this party.”
“Oh, I get it,” I said.
“Good,” Charlie answered. “It’s a pleasure to deal with someone who’s intelligent.” He kept his foot pressed to the accelerator. He wasn’t driving fast. He kept the car at a steady 50 mph, but on a slippery road, that was too fast for me.
“Another beating, huh?” I asked. “Another football match. You bat me around a little, and then drop me in a ditch. Fine.”