The Twenty-Year Death

by Ariel S. Winter

  22.

  I had to pass a few hours before I could go back to the hotel. I needed to kill them both within as short a time as possible or it wouldn’t look right. You can tell how long a body’s been dead, and even if the police wanted the same outcome I did, it might be hard to sell it to the press if there were glaring inconsistencies. At lunch, Browne had said he was going out to take care of business, so that meant he was probably coming back in the evening, which meant that I had to wait until early evening. At least that made the most sense, and I just had to stick to my plan and hope.

  I tried to pass the time with a book, but instead of being able to concentrate on the pages in front of me, my mind picked over little things, like whether I should take my duffel bag with me in case I needed to run, and what I’d do if Browne had gotten there before me. I decided the duffel bag would be unwieldy, and that I’d just call to make sure Browne was still out. There were dozens of other ways I started to second-guess myself, but then I’d think of the money and Clotilde and I’d be able to focus on the book I was reading for another half a page.

  It was just before six when I left Great Aunt Alice’s house. I didn’t let them know I was leaving. They would have to miss me at dinner. I walked the twenty minutes downtown to the Somerset. The humidity hadn’t let up, so it was hot even though the sun had sunk below the tall buildings. The streets were still crowded with the tail end of rush hour, and the people jostling me on either side made me feel as though I were taking a natural evening walk, as though it had nothing to do with murder. I was sweating, but it might just as well have been because of the heat.

  A block from the hotel, I went into a phone booth and called up to Suite 12-2. I wiped my forehead and the back of my neck with my handkerchief as I waited for the phone to be answered. At last Vee picked up.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey,” I said, talking into my hand to disguise my voice. “Mr. Browne there? It’s important.”

  “Nah, there’s no one here but me.”

  “Know when he’ll be back? It’s really important.”

  “Does he tell me anything? I’m just supposed to sit here, like always. Put the dame on ice.”

  “Okay,” I said, and hung up.

  I leaned against the wall of the phone booth. I could feel the blood throb in my neck, and I was sweating like crazy, my whole undershirt soaked, large dark patches under my arms, the back of the shirt sticking to me. And it wasn’t just because it was hot.

  I took a deep breath and pulled open the phone booth door, and with that I shut my mind right off. I was only concerned with the physical.

  I went by way of the back alley, just like Vee had taught me, and I walked the twelve flights of stairs too, which was just about enough to kill me, but somehow I made it, and the next thing I was standing outside Suite 12-2, lightheaded and with sweat running down my face. I slid the key into the lock, turned it, and opened the door.

  There was no sound coming from within. I stepped inside, and closed the door silently behind me, easing it into its frame with the door handle still turned, so that there was no click when the door closed all the way. I released the handle. There was no one in the living room or dining space. A bottle of champagne sat at the head of the dining room table closest to the door. I picked it up by instinct, thinking it would make a good weapon, and continued on, the weight of the bottle a comforting heft in my hand.

  The brief hall to the bedrooms—there were two—was dark, and there didn’t seem to be any light coming from either of the rooms. In the first, I could just make out two twin-sized beds fit tightly to either side of a nightstand, a setup that filled the whole room. That made the other bedroom Browne’s, which was where Vee had to be.

  I made a little sound, brushing against the wall, to give some indication that I was coming. That way she might come to greet me. It wouldn’t do to have her in the bed, if that’s where she was waiting.

  I stepped into the room. A blade of light came from the bathroom through the slightly cracked-open door. The bedroom it illuminated was almost indentical to the one we had had downstairs—bed, nightstand, armoire, vanity—except this room was twice the size, which left space for some reclining chairs, a couch, and a coffee table. Vee was in the bathroom, the water in the sink running.

  I hurried along to the other side of the bathroom door, where I pressed myself against the wall. I held the champagne bottle upside down by the neck, as though it were a club.

  The bathroom door opened. Vee strode out for the bed where I could see she’d left her purse—almost too perfect.

  I took one step towards her.

  She heard me and turned, and I slammed the bottle into the side of her face, right where the bruise from Browne’s attack was fading. She staggered, and gave almost a skip hop, reaching out to steady herself on the bed, which she missed, but managed to continue standing. The sound the bottle had made was almost the same as the thud of Joe’s head hitting the cabinet, but with a metallic ring to it as well. Before I could get my head around the idea that this was Vee, the woman I had slept with for more nights than not in the past year and a half—but I was a pimp; and she was a whore—I brought the bottle back up into her face, breaking her nose, and she tripped backwards now, falling against the bed, but sliding down to the floor.

  The sound of bubbles escaped her with each breath, like sipping up the final bit of soda through a straw. “Whh... Shhh... Wh...” They were noises, but it was unclear if it was a voluntary attempt at speech. I was heaving, and I dropped the bottle to the floor. Then Vee started to move, to try to get up. She shot one foot out and dragged it along as though trying to catch at something. I knew I needed to finish her before she could get her senses in order, and it had to be with my hands.

  There was blood on her face. I took a moment to roll up my sleeves. Then I gripped her around the neck. It was so small, so easy to get my hands around, so soft, pliable, and I made myself squeeze, leaning my whole weight into her, forcing her head back against the bed, which gave me a support to push her against. Her legs jerked again, and her hands reached up trying to get at me, but in that position, she couldn’t even reach as far as my shoulders. The sound coming from her faded into a staccato cough. I felt something hard give way in her throat. She stopped moving, but I kept leaning on her throat, unable to raise myself. I was certain already that I’d made a mistake. That Joe had been bad enough. That I didn’t need anything more than Joe on me. And this was worse, much worse. There was all that time, and the sounds she was making, and her neck giving way. This was more than I could bear.

  I was able to get myself to let go eventually, and I leaned against the bed, trying to bring my breathing back to a normal rate, ignoring as best I could the throbbing pain in my head. Still leaning over, I grabbed Vee’s handbag. It was heavy, like it should be. That was good. I unzipped it and pulled out the gun. I’d never fired a live round, but I’d been taught to shoot blanks by an effects man out in Hollywood, so I knew the basics of how the thing worked. I dropped the bag, trying to approximate where Vee would have dropped it if she’d grabbed it while being strangled.

  I stepped aside so the light from the bathroom could show me the scene. She was in almost the same position that Joe had been in. I smudged the champagne bottle as much as I could in case of fingerprints. There really wasn’t much blood on my hands or wrists. The fact that I was considering that almost made me retch. I couldn’t stand anymore, which was good, because I needed to shoot Browne as though I were in Vee’s position. This was going to be much trickier than Vee had been, because he’d no doubt see me before I could shoot him. I was counting on him coming after me.

  I sank to the floor beside Vee, rested my head against the bed, and waited. After five minutes, the air conditioning dried the sweat on my body, making me feel sticky and cold. I shivered, and found I couldn’t stop. So I sat there, gun in hand, shivering.

  23.

  I waited for ten thousand hours, although really it w
as less than an hour. I stopped crying after about ten minutes, and even the muscle memory of the jolt the bottle gave when it connected with Vee’s head began to fade, so that I couldn’t tell if I was still feeling it or if I was just imagining I was feeling it. The gun heated up in my hand where it rested on my lap.

  You may think I’m crazy when I tell you that I started to talk to Vee then, out loud. I know it seems crazy, but just wait until you’re in my position and see how crazy it is. So I started talking on any old thing, about how Quinn and I had fallen in love, about how we had fallen in hate, and all of the violence of that nonviolent confrontation. I talked about Clotilde. Talking about Clotilde, I almost cried again, but I didn’t. I’d promised her so much and I had failed at everything every step of the way. I still loved her more than anything, which is maybe why I stayed away from her as much as possible. That’s what I told Vee, at least, although I don’t know if it was true. I reminded myself that all of Quinn’s money was going to provide for Clotilde, that that was what really mattered. (You see, I wasn’t crazy. I knew exactly what I was doing.)

  Then somebody banged on the front door and my thoughts froze. They banged again, with more violence.

  It had to be Browne. He’d given Vee his key and I had the other. If I had to let him in, it would ruin my plan. I could still frame him for Vee’s murder; he’d be the number one suspect. But he had the police in his pocket, and he probably knew how to dispose of a body without it ever getting to the police. If I wanted to protect Clotilde’s money, it had to be both of them.

  I stumbled to my feet, as he pounded again, shouting this time, “Vee, you better open up.”

  I approached the door, the gun lowered in my right hand.

  “I’m going to beat your ass black and blue if you don’t open this door this second!”

  This was good, I thought. People would be able to say they’d heard him threatening her. I stepped up to the door and put my eye to the spy hole.

  Browne was very close, his face distorted by the fisheye lens into a bulbous cheek with retreating features. Another man stood behind him, squat and overweight, bald except for a bushy hedge along the sides of his skull. Two people was no good. What was I going to do with two people?

  They talked, and then Browne yelled one last time, “You better be ready for the beating of a lifetime, woman!” and the two of them stalked off.

  I stood there, my eye still to the spy hole, calculating, trying to decide if I should go after them, or wait, or disappear altogether. My chest felt tight and I gripped the gun in my fist so tightly that my fingernails dug into my palm.

  Before I’d reached any decision, the two men were back. Browne had a key in his hand, and was reaching for the doorknob.

  I jumped back, and hurried into the bedroom, resuming my position crouched to the far side of Vee’s body. All I could do was stick to the plan and improvise along the way.

  The door banged open, rattling the mirrored closet doors, and Browne called from the living room. “Vee! You better have been taking a shower—” He cut off. “Where’s the champagne?”

  I could hear him moving around, but the sound was muffled. Perhaps he was in the kitchen.

  “Vee! Get your ass out here. You better not have taken my champagne.”

  I waited. My heart was pounding again, the pulse rising from my stomach right through my neck, and with each beat the pain in my head swelled. I had the safety off, and the gun cocked.

  “I’m going to kill you...” He trailed off as he flipped the light switch and came in. I’d been sitting in the path of the light from the bathroom, so fortunately the overhead light didn’t blind me. “What the—?” Browne said, and took a fast step towards me, his hand going for the holster under his arm.

  I knew I wouldn’t have two chances, so I shot him, right in the gut, because that’s where Vee would have shot him. The blood spread on his shirt immediately, and I shot him again in the same place, and then a third time.

  He still staggered towards me but his hand never found his gun. I hurried to my feet, standing stock straight, still awaiting an attack, waiting for the other man to come in from the living room.

  Browne tripped past me, and leaned over Vee. “What in the hell?” He looked down at himself. Some of his blood was spilling onto the carpet, some even onto Vee’s legs. “Bastard.” His voice was strained, not at all the strong man he had been at lunch, or even a minute ago. The room smelled. It could have been feces, or it could have been rotting meat, and of course there was the gunsmoke.

  The other man still hadn’t come in. There was no sound in the suite.

  I watched Browne with no words. I needed to be certain he was dead, and I needed to get out of there. Even if his bodyguard hadn’t responded, I didn’t want to push my luck that the shots hadn’t alerted somebody else.

  He sank to a knee. There was still no response. I’d have to take my chance. I wiped the gun on Vee’s blouse, stooped, and set it against her hand.

  Browne watched me do it. He was completely white. I stood up, and as I did, he fell onto his side next to Vee. His eyes looked at the ceiling, but focused on nothing. The wounds in his stomach were still oozing, and there was a sucking sound there as the blood spread on the carpet, pooling under Vee’s hand closest to him. His breathing was shallow, and I was satisfied.

  I walked away without looking back, and into the living room, my hands empty, unprotected. There was no one there.

  I crossed to the door, and stepped into the hall. I looked back in the direction of the elevators, and there, halfway down the hall, was the squat bald man. His face crumpled into a question and he paused mid-stride, before he started to run towards me.

  I turned, and crashed through the fire door, as he yelled behind me, “Wait!”

  I took the stairs so fast that I tripped halfway down to the next landing, skidding down several steps without falling. I hurried on, already at the eleventh floor landing before I heard the fire door open above me.

  “Hey! You!”

  I kept going, my steps echoing in the enclosed space.

  At the next landing I looked up, but there was no one above me. I pushed on, not even wondering where the bald man had gone.

  I burst into the heat of the night, which felt, if anything, hotter than the stairwell. My chest burned, my throat was dry, and my knee kept shooting spikes of pain up and down my leg with every step. I needed to get away fast, which meant a cab, and the only guarantee for a cab was the cabstand at the front of the hotel. I didn’t think about an alibi or witnesses or anything at all other than the need to get away, to run for my life.

  I rounded the corner, and ran towards the doorman, waving at him as I approached, and then I recognized the car idling in front of the hotel as Browne’s, the one Vee and I had used to go back to Joe’s house and set it on fire.

  “Good,” I said, between breaths, going right for the driver’s side door. “Mr. Browne said the car would be ready.”

  I got in before the doorman could respond, and as I turned the key, the bald man pushed his way out of the revolving door. He’d decided he couldn’t handle the stairs and taken the elevator.

  “Hey! Hey!”

  The engine turned over, and I pulled away with a jerk before getting into gear, rounding the corner just as the light changed, taking George Street uptown.

  Most of the downtown traffic was gone. I raced up to Washington Hill, but I knew I couldn’t go to Great Aunt Alice’s—they would know how to find me then—so I continued on past the monument, all the way up past the university, past even Underwood where Quinn and Joe had lived, and was almost at the city line when my mind slowed down enough to realize I couldn’t leave the city just yet. I still hadn’t met with Palmer, and I needed to be certain that the money was going in the right direction.

  I’d have to wait until morning.

  24.

  I spent the night in the car, parked in the lot of a combination garage and gas station, where an unfamilia
r vehicle wouldn’t look out of place. I didn’t sleep much. I knew that Browne’s entire criminal organization would be after me, and that had a way of making it hard to sleep.

  When the sun came up, I closed myself into the phone booth at the side of the station and got Palmer Sr.’s number out of the book. His voice was strong when he answered. I hadn’t woken him.

  “Mr. Palmer, it’s Shem Rosenkrantz.”

  “Shem. Is everything all right?”

  “Can you meet me at your office this morning?”

  “It’s Saturday, son.”

  “I need to get out of town.”

  “It can’t wait until Monday?”

  “No, sir.” I didn’t offer any more explanation and he didn’t ask.

  There was a pensive silence, and for a moment I thought he wasn’t even there, that he’d hung up. “I’ll be down there right away,” he said at last.

  “Thank you.”

  He hung up.

  I got to the Key Building before he did. Downtown seemed surprisingly empty even for a Saturday, and I felt terribly exposed waiting in front of the locked building. A dejection, a sinking feeling that it wasn’t going to work, none of it was going to work, settled over me. Browne’s men would find me and kill me, and the money would get tied up in probate for years, and Clotilde would end up in a state hospital, and the whole thing made me tired, so tired...

  I don’t know what I would have done if Palmer hadn’t appeared just then. “Good morning,” he said, his key already out.

  “Good morning,” I said. He let us into the building, and we went up to his office without another word.

  The elevator opened onto the dark offices of Palmer, Palmer, and Crick. Palmer stepped out ahead of me and flipped a switch, and the overhead fluorescent lights started to flicker to life, revealing the waiting room I had last been in what felt like a lifetime ago. He led me back past the dark conference room, into his office, where the outside light lit the space but he turned on the overhead lights anyway. The office was dominated by an enormous desk with neat stacks of papers along its edges, and more bookcases filled with uniform leather volumes, a continuation of the law library I’d seen in the conference room at the reading of Quinn’s will.