Murder Miscalculated

by Andrew Macrae

  Cochran nodded. “I’m sorry, Kid. If I had known what a mess this would become, I would never have suggested your name to Talbot as the person to teach me how to pickpocket.”

  We drank our coffee in silence. Finally Cochran spoke up, and when he did it was with a subdued voice. “I’m not certain how much I should say to you, but I feel like I’ve got to tell you a few things about my boss, Mister Lawrence Talbot.” He swallowed and continued. “I called Riley last night. There are some things about this operation that bother me and, well, he’s kind of my mentor, you know.”

  I nodded but didn’t reply, not wanting to interrupt his flow.

  “Riley tells me that Talbot is straight, but,” his voice trailed off.

  “But?”

  “But he’s also very ambitious. In the Bureau you only have a few years to make a name for yourself, to get noticed by the higher-ups and tagged as someone who can work at the top levels. Talbot’s running out of time on that, and Riley thinks he may be pushing this operation a little too hard in order to get a big win.”

  “I’d say it’s more than a little.”

  “Yeah, it’s starting to look that way to me, too. The problem is there’s nothing you or I can do about it. So far everything he’s done has been within the rules.”

  “Including threatening Barbara with arrest and taking The Book Nook from Lynn and me?”

  Cochran motioned to me to keep my voice down. I did, but I was still pretty damned mad. “That guy comes in and forces me to go back on the street picking pockets. Lynn’s furious, and Barbara’s sick with worry. And you say that’s within the rules?”

  “Like it or not Kid, it is. Look, I said I was sorry, and I meant it.”

  I took a deep breath. I trusted Cochran and knew it wasn’t his fault. “So, did Riley have any advice?”

  “He suggested that we—you and I, that is—document everything so that if things blow up we don’t get burned.”

  “We? How would you get burned? You work for Talbot.”

  “Talbot’s got a reputation for pushing blame off onto those working for him.” Cochran gave a tight smile. “After I talked with Riley I spent a fair bit of time going over the emails I’ve had from Talbot. I noticed something.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “I noticed that he always words things so it looks like he’s advising caution, and I’m the one pushing the envelope. That way, if things go wrong, he can cite them to put the blame on me.”

  “And if things go well?”

  “He’s the one who will write the report.”

  “History is written by the victor,” I quoted.

  “That’s for certain.”

  “So where does that leave us?” I asked as I finished my coffee. Cochran drained the last of his, too, grimacing at the grounds at the bottom.

  “Kid, that leaves you and me,” then he added, “and Lynn and Barbara as pawns on a chessboard in a game where none of us have any say in what happens.”

  We took leave of each other after that. Cochran melted back into the shady world of the wharves while I made my way to a bus stop. I decided to work the plaza for another hour or two. As I rode back toward downtown and to Knickerbocker Lane, I had a vision of the city and the blocks I was traversing with each block a square on a chessboard and all of us simply pieces being moved by outside forces.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Any doubts I had about my return to a life of crime being believed were dispelled the next morning.

  I had settled into a routine of lifting a few wallets late every morning, heading to Sammie’s to get rid of them as quickly as possible, then heading home to The Book Nook and my real life of a respectable book store owner.

  That morning started the same as the others. Lynn and I woke, showered and dressed. We did this with our usual efficiency and with little competition for the shower and bathroom. After a year of marriage it still surprised me how easily we had settled into living together. We joined Barbara for breakfast downstairs about nine. It was my turn to cook that morning, so I scrambled some eggs in an old iron skillet, snipped some green onions with my kitchen scissors, sliced a few mushrooms and made toast in the oven. I’d given up on ever finding a toaster that actually toasts.

  Lynn, Barbara and I chatted about our plans for the day and the chores that needed doing. We traded ideas about dinner for the next few days with Barbara proposing a Mulligan stew for the next evening, the ingredients of which would depend on what she found at the farmers market that morning.

  After breakfast I gave Lynn a kiss and headed out to pick some pockets, feeling like the husband from a 1950s sitcom going off to the office. As I left I wondered how I would look in a fedora.

  By midmorning that day I had grabbed two wallets and a wristwatch from prosperous pedestrians. I was working Fremont Plaza in the heart of the financial district, named for that rogue John C. Fremont and a favorite stalking ground of mine in the old days.

  The sun had burned off all trace of morning fog and warmed the air. The sound of car and bus engines competed with raucous music from an impromptu band of street buskers. I recognized Molly, a street vendor setting up her cart of warm cinnamon buns, and in spite of my large breakfast, I went over to buy one.

  Molly was in her mid-sixties, and her weathered face testified to years of working on the street. When I was a young teen, hustling hard to survive, Molly used to let me have one or two of her leftovers for free at the end of her day. There were nights when they’d been all that kept me from going to bed hungry.

  Molly’s face lit up when she saw me. “Kid! How are you doing? I haven’t seen you in like forever!” She beamed a gap-toothed smile at me.

  “Hello, Molly. How’s business?” This was no idle question. Molly paid close attention to what she picked up from her customers’ conversations, and if the stories were true, she had built a comfortable nest egg for herself by acting on that information.

  Molly checked to see if anyone was within earshot before answering and pitched her voice low. “There’s going to be a take-over attempt on Trinity Corporation next week. Get some shares before Friday, and you could do well.”

  I shook my head. “Too rich a game for my blood, Molly, but I will buy one of those buns.” I reached into my pocket for some change.

  Molly smiled. “On the house, Kid, for old time’s sake.” She looked over my shoulder, and her eyes narrowed. “Are you expecting company?”

  I looked and caught sight of someone making a beeline for me. It was Chad. I hadn’t particularly enjoyed our encounter at the book fair, and from the look on his face I wasn’t going to enjoy this one either.

  As I turned back to face Molly and her cart, I caught sight of two more young men, both dressed in that preppy look like Chad, closing in on me from both sides.

  “Guess I’d better skip the bun, Molly, but thanks.”

  She frowned. “Trouble?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” I answered with a bravado I didn’t feel. “I’ll come back soon for that bun.” I left Molly and walked toward Chad. His companions altered their paths to match mine.

  “Hey, Kid,” Chad said, as the three arrived and bracketed me.

  I took my time answering, studying and trying to take a measure of how much trouble they might cause. Chad stood with his fists on his hips. The guy on my right cracked his knuckles. The guy on my left snapped some chewing gum. All three were dressed in the style demanded by Doris Whitaker of those in her gang. Just what I didn’t need, three young thugs looking for mischief. “What’s up, Chad?”

  “Mrs. Whitaker wants to talk with you.”

  “Yeah,” said the one with the chewing gum. “She said we should invite you to have lunch with her.” I looked up at the sun, then at Chad.

  “That’s very nice of Doris,” I replied. Chad’s face darkened at my presumptuous use of his boss’s first name. “But it’s a bit early for me. Maybe later today?”

  The guy on my right cracked his knuckles agai
n. “She told us you might take some persuading.”

  I admit it. I’m not a fighter. I like to think I keep in shape, but I have no experience in street fighting, nor do I want any. I gave an exaggerated shrug. “Fine, I’m persuaded. Where to?” The knuckle cracker looked disappointed.

  Chad, obviously the leader, answered my question.

  “Mrs. Whitaker,” he emphasized her title for me, “is waiting for you at The Empire Room. We’ll take you there.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Empire Room was a relic, a holdover from a time when men wore ties even when casually dressed, women wore gloves to go grocery shopping, and no man or woman would be seen in public without a hat. A columnist once wrote that anything a person needed to know about how the city was being run could be learned in the taproom of The Empire, and a woman’s social position could be made or broken by where the maître d’ seated her in the dining room.

  Those days are gone from our city, lost to decades of change, but the past lingered on inside The Empire Room in the rich décor, tall chandeliers, and the snootiness of the clientele.

  I was glad I had opted for a suit coat and tie that day as we entered and so avoided the embarrassment of being offered ill-fitting loaners to wear before venturing farther.

  Two of my escorts peeled off and disappeared into the Tap Room Bar, leaving Chad to do the honors of escorting me into the dining room. Once through the heavy double doors of the main dining room, the air tasted of leather and well-polished brass mixed with the scent of fine roasted coffee. The room was mostly empty of customers as it was long past breakfast and too early for lunch. A waitress laid out table settings while another ran a quiet carpet sweeper under the tables.

  The waitresses at The Empire Room were also a throwback to the days of the gentlemen’s clubs. They all wore the same uniform of fishnet stockings, shoes with stiletto heels, a very short black skirt and a starched white dress shirt, full sleeved and fully buttoned with a red bow tie at the neck. Even their hair was anachronistic, worn in a high, puffy bouffant.

  Chad led me to a booth at the other end of the long dining room where cream-colored sheer curtains allowed only rarified light to illuminate the august furnishings. A woman, finely dressed and with expensively styled blue-tinted hair, sat in the center of a curved booth. She sipped from a thin china cup and held one delicate and manicured little finger out straight. She watched as we progressed across the room and set the cup down in its matching saucer as we arrived.

  “Hello, Kid. It’s nice to see you again.”

  “Hello, Doris,” I replied. “Nice to see you doing so well.” I surveyed the dining room. “Business must be good.” Doris Whitaker motioned with her hand.

  “Please, sit down. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  I sat across the table from her. Chad sat close by on my right. I had seen the look in his eye when I addressed his boss by her first name. He either resented my violation of protocol, or perhaps he was jealous, not that I cared.

  We studied each other for a minute. Like The Empire Room where she holds court each day, Doris Whitaker is a holdover from an earlier time. Her dress, her hairstyle, the string of pearls around her neck—all were like an illustration from Life Magazine in the late1950s. Thick pancake makeup masked the lines that age had etched in her face, but I knew her outward appearance covered a criminal cunning that kept her alive and in business.

  Our mutual inspection over, Doris got straight to the point. “Kid, I hear you’re back in business.”

  “You heard right.”

  “Yet only days ago you told Chad that you were done with working as a dip.”

  “Yes, well after I saw how poor the competition was these days, I decided it was time to show how it’s really done.”

  Chad made a slight hissing noise. Doris waved him quiet. “The point of my questions, Kid, is to let you know that things have changed in the year since you quit the street.”

  “Have they?” I tried to look innocent.

  “Yes, Kid, they have.” Doris picked up a butter knife from a small plate near her. It was silver, like the other tableware, and beautifully polished. I watched Doris turn the knife in her hands, and the light from the chandeliers reflected on its small, blunt blade. I had no reason to fear it, but a shiver went down my spine nonetheless.

  “You see, Kid,” Doris continued as she played with the knife. “I’ve taken over the pickpocketing business in town. All the dips work for me now, and I take care of them.” She tried to look maternal, but she wasn’t any better at it than I was at looking innocent. “It’s a rough world out on the street these days, Kid. You’ll find you will appreciate working for me.”

  I acted like I was mulling it over. “That’s an awfully nice offer, Doris, but I’m afraid I have to turn you down. I don’t think I would make a good employee.”

  The butter knife struck the plate as Doris dropped it. A waitress laying out silverware at a nearby table turned at the sound and looked at us.

  Doris’ eyes shot daggers at me.

  “I don’t think you understood me, Kid. I wasn’t making you an offer. I was telling you how it is. I run the pickpockets in this town, and if you want to work the street and stay healthy, you won’t fight me on this.”

  I reached across the table and picked up the butter knife, then leaned back in my chair. I gazed at Doris as if considering what she said, but all the time I was flipping that stupid, dull knife around my fingers.

  Both Doris and her young thug Chad couldn’t help watching. I let the knife weave between my fingers, its blade catching the light again and again. I gave a little flip to my hand and the knife jumped to my other hand where I continued its dance between my fingers. At the right moment I slapped it onto the table and stood up, catching both Doris and Chad by surprise.

  “Sorry, Doris,” I said, “but the answer’s still no.”

  Chad tried to get to his feet, but when he tried to push his chair back he found I had placed one foot firmly on the rung across its base and instead, he just rocked back and forth looking foolish. Anger clouded Doris’ face.

  “See you later,” I said and walked away. I was worried Chad might give chase, but I heard Doris tell him to let me go. As I left the dining room, I gave one of the high-heeled waitresses a wave, and she smiled in return. Those shoes may be murder to wear, but I guess I they don’t ruin a sense of humor.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cochran called me around midnight that night to let me know that Wolfe’s courier had arrived and had checked into his hotel. Tomorrow I’d take his wallet.

  The night went slowly, and it was a relief when morning finally came.

  I dressed and slipped out, avoiding the strained scene that breakfast with Lynn and Barbara would have been. I walked the six blocks from tiny and forgotten Knickerbocker Lane, with its brick and brownstone buildings, to Market Street, where The Meridian Hotel and its twelve stories of chrome and glass lobby presided over the bustle of the morning traffic.

  I arrived fifteen minutes early and pushed through the revolving doors. The Meridian Hotel was familiar and fertile ground to me. At this time of the morning the large lobby was always busy with people in a hurry, their footsteps sounding and resounding on the marble floor. Great glass elevators whisked guests from floor to floor with pneumatic sighs. The robotic keys of a grand piano in the far corner tinkled a cheerful tune that competed with the drone of dozens of conversations.

  A steady stream of men and women clad in business suits walked past me from the direction of the front desk, stuffing receipts and wallets back into their coat pockets and purses. As I had told Cochran, the easiest way to lift a wallet is to let the mark show you where it’s kept.

  I crossed the lobby to the gift shop, where I bought a newspaper. As I returned to the front of the hotel I spotted Talbot and Cochran camped out in a pair of easy chairs. After one more look around I went back outside and waited on the sidewalk.

  The
plan was pretty simple. In a few minutes Joey would pull up in the Town Car, having called Zager, the courier, to let him know he was almost there. Zager would leave his room, come down in an elevator and head for the revolving doors and outside. I would go into the lobby, bump into him, take his wallet, keep walking over to the interior door to the hotel garage and make my escape. Nice and simple.

  I hate simple plans.

  There was no reason for anyone to give me a second look as I stood on the sidewalk outside the hotel. To a casual observer I was simply another man in a business suit reading a newspaper, waiting to meet someone. The only ones who took notice of me were a couple of taxi drivers who slowed, checking to see if I needed a ride.

  At nine o’clock a sleek, black car pulled up in front, and I recognized Joey behind the wheel. It was time.

  I pushed through the revolving doors and entered the hotel. Just as planned, Zager was walking toward me. I held my newspaper up to my face and walked right into my target, too quickly for him to step out of the way.

  Piece of cake and smooth as silk I thought to myself as I reached into his coat and let my fingers grasp his wallet. But as I did, I heard a sound from behind him. It was an insistent, metallic sound, like a stack of quarters being dropped an inch onto a tabletop. The sound repeated half a second later, and then again. A quizzical look came to Zager’s face. Then his eyes rolled up, his knees sagged, and he fell against me.

  A tall, thin, almost cadaverous man walked toward me. Though he looked to be in his fifties and was dressed conservatively, he had long, gray hair tied in a tight ponytail. He carried an overcoat over his right hand and forearm. In a second he had passed by.

  I laid Zager on the marble floor. He was gasping for breath. I doubted he had long to live. I slipped his wallet into my own pocket and hoped no one noticed. The concierge arrived and knelt down on the other side of Zager. I got back up and began walking away toward the garage entrance. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Talbot and Cochran heading toward where Zager lay. I quickened my pace and reached the door, pushed it open and went through. I held the door as it closed and watched the scene in the lobby through a narrow crack.