Primed for Murder

by Jack Ewing

  Toby could scarcely believe he was being allowed to leave in one piece. “Thanks for the drinks.” The snap when he unlocked the door startled him like a gunshot. He made it into the hall, hands trembling, knees shaking, back cringing in anticipation of a bullet.

  Somehow, he managed to climb into his truck and pull away from the curb without running over anything. Toby drove around in a fog, trying to sort out everything that had just happened. He spotted a bank of pay phones at a supermarket and pulled over to call the police. French and Dixon were out, so he read phone numbers he’d collected from the Colangelo house to someone at the other end who had a problem confusing “five” and “nine.” The man kept saying he didn’t get what this was all about and did the detectives think he was their personal secretary, or what?

  Feeling the need to lighten his load before looking for a place to call home for the night, Toby dropped into an Onondaga Savings branch. He rented a medium-sized safe deposit box, into which he crammed the bric-a-brac from Mrs. Cratty and James Puterbaugh’s reconstituted manuscript. He left with yet another key to hang on his chain. It was getting crowded, with the truck ignition key, three to his old apartment and garage, others for Dezi’s home and the Buckley Road house.

  Nice place, that old house. Why should he give it up, scramble for a new bed, just because somebody had made a crank call? To hell with them! He was tired of all the moving he’d done the last couple of days. Tonight, he’d sleep where he pleased and damn the consequences.

  Having made up his mind, he treated himself to Chinese at a high-class restaurant on Erie Boulevard East, then headed north.

  In the mailbox at the Buckley Road house were an original and a carbon of a typewritten rental agreement. It allowed Toby to live there a month at a time and promised the return of his deposit if he didn’t destroy the place. A stick-on note, written in large, friendly letters and signed by Luci with a little heart over the “I,” advised him to sign and return one copy. A stamped, addressed envelope was provided.

  Inside, nothing had changed. No time bombs. No booby-traps. Nobody was waiting in a closet to spring out and pop him. Toby checked everywhere, tiptoeing from room to room with a hammer ready in one hand, a linoleum knife in the other. After finishing the top-to-bottom search without incident, he felt foolish. Better safe than sorry, though. He put his possessions where they belonged in the house, locked doors and windows, brushed his teeth and went to bed.

  He slept restlessly, writhing in the folds of sweat-dampened sheets and dreaming that snakes were coiled around his body.

  Chapter 22

  At nine o’clock next morning, after receiving no answer to his knock, Toby let himself into the Colangelo house and announced his presence. Nobody home—maybe Dezi had gone out of town as she’d suggested. Just as well: a man could resist only so much temptation.

  He used the opportunity to finish bugging the place. All rooms upstairs had plug-in outlets but not all had phones. The modern, multi-line desk unit in Artie’s office had different numbers than the TV room phone downstairs. The only other phone was part of a realistic-looking New York Giants football helmet behind the closed door of a sports-motif bedroom, obviously young Art’s. The phone wasn’t plugged in, but French had said to get them all. This one had yet another different number written beneath the handset. Gently working the blade of a tiny screwdriver back and forth in the crevice where the receiver’s plastic halves snapped together, Toby scanned the room. It had been half-prepared for painting. A welter of team pennants sat heaped atop a child-sized desk. A Jets wastebasket was stuffed with tennis balls, football, soccer ball and baseballs. Curled posters, formerly taped or tacked to walls, lay on the stripped single-bed mattress. Framed, autographed photos stood on the shelves of a small bookcase. Toby looked at the pictures: a high-scoring Rangers forward, a big-name Yankee, now retired, the Giants’ current quarterback and the Knicks’ All Star center. Somebody had pull.

  He called the police, using the office phone—damned if he’d duck out to perform this chore—to report new phone numbers he’d collected. Dixon and French were out again and a man who took the information didn’t know when they’d return.

  Toby went to the third-floor game room where he sanded mudded joints smooth, brushed walls free of dust and slapped on the first coat of paint. Then back down to the second floor where he set to work covering the beige walls of a large, square bedroom with primer. He worked steadily, pausing only for a brown-bag lunch he’d fixed, and by four o’clock had all but the office, the master bedroom and the two upstairs bathrooms ready for final coats.

  Quitting time.

  As he was cleaning up he heard the door open below. Voices of a man and woman filtered up. Footsteps sounded on stairs. A moment later, Dezi appeared in the doorway of the room where Toby was dunking brushes and rollers in thinner. She had on a lightweight off-white summer dress and her hair was up. “Hi, Toby,” she said coolly. “Done for the day, are you?”

  Over her shoulder appeared a good-looking guy with shaggy blond hair, a couple years younger than Toby. He wore a pastel-blue tank top that matched his eyes and showed off muscular chest and arms. He had a tattoo of a dragon on one biceps, a human skull wearing a crown of barbed wire on the other.

  “This is Mark.” Dezi gestured to the blond. “Mark, Toby.”

  Mark smiled and raised a callused hand in greeting. “Isn’t that little lisp the cutest thing you’ve ever heard?”

  Dezi smirked. “Oh, you.” She patted Mark’s well-padded pectoral. He made a big production out of pretending to be hurt.

  Toby said, “I’m done priming all the empty rooms on the upper floors. If the furniture’s cleared out of the office and master bedroom and the baths are emptied, I can start on those tomorrow while the first coat’s drying.”

  “I’ll try to get someone to handle it,” Dezi didn’t seem concerned.

  “I’m in the trades, too,” Mark volunteered. “Plumbing.”

  “Artie sent him over early this morning to take care of a leak in the master bath,” Dezi said. “I didn’t even know there was one.”

  So, Toby thought, Artie had gone with Plan B—same as Plan A, but with different personnel—and had rounded up a willing stud. For a second he considered informing Dezi of her estranged husband’s plot but kept his mouth shut: not his problem.

  Mark gazed around as if he could see hidden troubles. “These older houses have lousy wiring, bad plumbing, crappy sewers. You never know what’s going to crop up.”

  “We discussed details of the job over coffee.” Dezi gazed up at the man beside her. “Mark finally agreed to perform the work.” Out of the corner of his eye, Toby saw Mark spread a large hand over Dezi’s butt and squeeze. She didn’t pull away. “Let’s look at that pipe now, shall we?” Dezi walked out of sight, heading towards her bedroom. Her voice drifted back. “See you, Toby.”

  Mark lingered long enough to say, “I’d stay and talk shop but I got heavy plumbing to do.” He winked and flashed a broad grin, revealing what looked like a hundred perfect teeth, then whisked after Dezi.

  When Toby walked into the hallway minutes later, the master bedroom door was shut but he heard water running. He shook his head, daydreaming of missed opportunities, and slouched from the house.

  Somebody hissed at him as he exited the gate. Toby turned his head towards the sound. Artie Colangelo, in light-colored slacks and formfitting lime-colored short-sleeved knit shirt, beckoned from the corner of the garage. Toby thought of jumping into his truck and speeding away, but knew he’d be caught in a couple blocks if Artie were on to him. On the other hand, if Artie happened to be still in the dark, he’d only become suspicious if Toby took flight.

  It was a no-win situation. Toby swallowed a sigh and slumped to where Artie hid.

  Beside the ape-shaped man hulked a tall, skinny customer with dark, lanky hair, wearing sneakers, greasy black jeans, a faded T-shirt and sunglasses. The skinny man held an expensive-looking camera fitted with a
zoom lens. He adjusted the neck strap, peered through the viewfinder and fiddled with settings.

  “You see them, Tom?” Artie said. “Dezi and Mark?” He didn’t bother introducing the second man.

  “They just went into the master bathroom to check a leak.” Toby wanted to bite his tongue, feeling like he’d betrayed Dezi.

  “We’ll give them time to get comfy.” Artie’s gaze was glued to the house. “Then surprise!” He glanced at Toby, put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Could’ve been you in there, Tom, shagging Dezi for a pot of money. Least you can say you don’t come cheap. I bought Mark’s services for a measly five thou. Better him than you. You got principles, Tom, whatever they’re worth.”

  Artie studied the face of a gold watch circling his wrist. “Let’s go,” he snapped to the man with the camera. The skinny man nodded wordlessly and came out of the shadows to slink toward the front door. Artie gave Toby a polite shove. “Better blow, Tom. I don’t recommend sticking around for the fireworks.”

  Toby didn’t have to be told twice. He beat a hasty retreat to his truck parked in front of the Colangelo house. As he started the engine, he couldn’t resist a last glimpse. The two men tiptoed across the porch, one short and broad, the other tall and skinny. Artie used a key, swung open the door and waved the skinny cameraman inside. The door closed and Toby hit the accelerator, nearly creaming a passing Cadillac. He burst into sweat as he began driving fast in no particular direction. His hands felt numb on the wheel. It was tough to concentrate on the road.

  He wondered what would happen. After snapping compromising photos of the faithless wife and her lover to show his father-in-law, Artie the practiced murderer, might change the script and shoot Dezi dead. Would Artie try to hide his crime or claim he’d done it in a fit of jealous passion? He’d have to kill Mark, too, to make it look good. And maybe knock off the cameraman as well, once pictures were developed, to make sure no witnesses talked. According to the police, he was good at that sort of thing. Whatever happened, Toby was well out of it.

  He thought of relaying his suspicions to the cops. But what could they do? It was probably too late to save Dezi and the others if Artie had homicide in mind. He felt depressed at his helplessness, his cowardice. The only cure for that was good food and drink.

  On the way home, still in coveralls, he stopped at an Italian restaurant to linger over dinner: antipasto, tossed salad, lasagna and garlic bread, all lovingly prepared and leisurely presented by courses as if time meant nothing. Over a three-hour period, he sopped up a bottle of Chianti and topped off the satisfying meal with a dish of spumoni.

  That did the trick. Wiped everything right away.

  No Colangelos.

  No Puterbaughs.

  No Giambis.

  No cops or robbers, no mobsters or murderers or manuscripts.

  Feeling full, content and pleasantly high, Toby considered taking in a movie. There were several blockbuster action pictures playing around town. He’d see how alert he felt once he’d had a shower.

  It was 8:30 by the time Toby left the restaurant and cruised north up Old Liverpool Road. On his left, the low hanging sun, huge and hazy behind smog, turned Onondaga Lake’s polluted waters to gold. Shadows of trees zebra-striped the ground as Toby parked in front of the garage at his Buckley Road residence. He keyed the front door lock and walked inside, flicking a switch to light up the dark house.

  As the bulb illuminated the living room, his heart stalled and breath caught in his throat. Artie, dressed as he’d been a few hours earlier, waited on the couch. He lifted the long barrel of a silenced pistol as Toby came in.

  Toby stood as though paralyzed, considering options. There were none. “What are you doing here? How’d you find me?”

  Artie stood and glided nearer, the gun bore pointed steadily at Toby’s stomach. His dark eyes glittered. “Turn around. Grab the wall.”

  Toby did as ordered. The gun jabbed his spine. “What’s this about?”

  “You know what it’s about.” Artie patted Toby’s pockets.

  “No, I—” A painful prod shut him up.

  “You lied to me. Your name’s not Tom Smith. It’s Toby Rew.”

  There went his keys, his wallet. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Dezi told me.” Great: another woman had betrayed him.

  His driver’s license, with the photo in which Toby scowled like a drugged-out career criminal, was thrust in front of his face. “Doesn’t matter who you are,” Artie said.

  “All that matters is that you’re the guy saw me kill that Mexican.”

  “I didn’t really see you, Artie, just someone with your general build.”

  “I hear you called me stocky.”

  “I said the man appeared stocky. Could have been anyone.”

  “Could’ve been anybody, but it happened to be me.”

  “Don’t tell me! I’ll forget about it.”

  “No, you won’t. I won’t, either.” Artie studied Toby’s license photo again and pocketed the wallet.

  Another change of subject was called for, and quick. “What happened to Dezi?” Toby asked.

  “What do you think happened?”

  “You killed her?”

  Artie craned to peer into Toby’s face. He looked genuinely puzzled. “Are you nuts? Why would I do a stupid thing like that? Dezi’s old man would go ballistic. Probably chop me into little pieces and feed me to his pet fishes.” The hard barrel found his backbone again. “I did smack her around a little where it wouldn’t show, to make it look good. She’s plenty mad at me for busting in on her and Mark. I got the photos I need to balance the scales with her dad. Shutterbug and lover-boy have been paid off. They’ll keep their mouths buttoned.”

  Artie ground the gun to emphasize his next words. “Now it’s just you to worry about.”

  “You don’t have to worry.” Toby’s voice fluted. “I won’t say jack.”

  “Too late. You already blabbed to the cops.”

  “What are you going to do?” Toby tensed for the bullet, already tasting copper in his mouth. He hoped he wouldn’t feel the slug.

  “What do you think I should do?” There was a metallic quality in Artie’s voice.

  “Let me go?” Toby’s voice broke.

  “Can’t do that.” Artie’s manner softened. “You seem like a right guy. But wrong place, wrong time—too bad.” The steel finger at his back slid up to the base of Toby’s skull. “I’ll make it quick.”

  “Wait! Think, Artie.” Toby clutched at a glimmering thought. “Who told your wife to hire me?”

  “Who cares?” The click of a hammer being pulled back sounded as loud and as final as a crypt door slamming shut.

  “You should. Don’t you think it’s strange the guy who saw you kill that man at the Puterbaugh’s ends up painting your house?”

  “Puterbaugh’s wife probably told Dezi about you. They’re old buddies.” He patted Toby’s shoulder with his free hand. “Nice try.”

  “But what if it was somebody else? Like your father-in-law?”

  Artie didn’t say anything for what seemed like an eternity. “Won’t sweat it, now I got the photos I need. Bye, pal.”

  “Before you shoot, one thing you ought to know.” Toby played his next-to-last last card. “Cops have your home phones bugged. I know: I did the bugging.”

  Artie kept quiet for a half-minute. “Office phone, too?”

  Another few precious seconds of life gained. “Right. So if you’ve done business over the line lately, they know about it.”

  Artie fell silent, thinking. “Nope, I’ve only used throwaway cell phones the last few weeks. I’ll mention it to Mr. G, though, and maybe that will keep me in good with him. Thanks for the info.”

  Toby tossed out his final trump. “While you’re at it, better tell Mr. Giambi I have evidence stashed away about the stolen manuscript the Puterbaughs brought him from Mexico. Anything happens to me, the cops get it and he’ll be in trouble.”

  An
other long moment of silence, another brief bonus period of existence, divided into individual nanoseconds of acute awareness. “You know,” Artie said, with a brassy edge to his voice, “you’re becoming a real pain in the ass, buddy.”

  A million stars suddenly went supernova inside Toby’s head.

  Brilliant colors flared in all directions and raced away at the speed of light, leaving only blackness behind.

  Chapter 23

  I’m dead, Toby thought.

  His eyes were open. Everything was inky dark. Was he in a coffin? They must be carrying his body to the cemetery. He felt movement. Odd: he’d always believed you couldn’t feel anything once you were dead. So why did he have a splitting headache?

  Toby realized he was lying on his side, wrists behind him, knees bent: a funny way to lay somebody in a casket. The top of his throbbing head rested against something hard, but with give to it. He straightened his legs and his feet contacted with a dull thud against metal. His arms, tied, wouldn’t budge. He smelled rubber, gas fumes and dust. He heard the thrum of tires against pavement. He wasn’t dead after all, just waking up after an involuntary snooze: how long had he been out? He wasn’t in a coffin but in the trunk of a moving car—Artie’s or someone else’s? Taking him where?

  As they drove and Toby regained his senses, he used elbows, knees and feet to explore the trunk’s interior. A spare tire rested in a shallow well at his head. Coarse carpeting flowed under his body. Something clanked at his toes.

  The car slowed, idled for a moment, then turned left. Thirty seconds later it drew to a halt and the engine was shut down. A car door slammed. Toby heard footsteps receding. As soon as the sounds faded, Toby attempted to use his feet to extract a jack nestled in a recessed compartment at his feet. Maybe he could use it or the tire iron beside it to free his wrists, pry his way out of the trunk and escape.

  It took supreme effort, working in the dark by the clumsy touch of his booted feet, to free the steel bar from its prongs. Now the angled iron was pinched awkwardly between his ankles. If he could just worm forward, bend his legs and bring his feet up close to his butt, he might be able to grab the iron. He almost had it. Cold metal brushed tantalizingly against his fingertips as he contorted his lanky body within the cramped confines of the trunk.