Abel Baker Charley

by John R. Maxim

  “Talk to me, Stanley.”

  “He wants to ask him.” He forced the words through his teeth. “He wants to ask Baker why he done his kid in the park is all.”

  “Then why, Stanley.” Harrigan moved still closer to watch what happened in Levy's eyes when he asked his next few questions. “Why wouldn't Dr. Sonnenberg ask him that? You do know Dr. Sonnenberg, don't you, Stanley?”

  Stanley blinked. “Sonnenberg?” His face had a faraway look in reaction to the name, like those looks that would cross Baker's face now and again. He half-expected Stanley to deny knowing Sonnenberg, but Stanley didn't bother. “Sonnenberg don't care nothin' about that,” he answered. “You want to know about Sonnenberg, ask Sonnenberg.”

  “Why don't I ask them both, Stanley? Why don't I ask them both at the same time?”

  The question troubled Levy. He blinked again, this time shaking his head as if confused. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came. Only a gagging sound. Again the head shook, more violently this time. One hand moved up and slapped hard against the side of his face. He stared, wide-eyed, past Connor Harrigan, with the look of a man waiting for a terrible stab of pain to pass.

  “Stanley?” Harrigan dropped to a squat, watching closely.

  “I'm okay.” Stanley swallowed. He held his left hand out, off to one side, as if inviting Harrigan to help him to his feet. Harrigan disdained the hand, but on reflex, his own gun hand swung in that direction. The buzz came. Too late, but it came. He saw his gun hand almost in slow motion as it reached the apogee of its loop and too slowly started its swing back again. He saw Stanley's knees come apart to reveal the silver thing that seemed to be exploding in Stanley's hand. A flash and a clap like a pistol shot had begun from the tips of Stanley's fingers, and a cloud of smoke was rushing toward his face. Harrigan's reflexes answered but too slowly. His arm flew up to cover his face, and he hurled his body backward to roll with the impact of the bullet he knew was coming. But there was no impact. Only the cloud of smoke and Stanley's body rising catlike behind it, his ice pick scooped off the floor where he'd dropped it, now in his fist. Harrigan's brain screamed at him for his stupidity, for not bothering to search a man he had been planning to shoot the minute he heard Tanner pass in the driveway. And now it was he who was shot except still there was no bullet. Only the cloud and Stanley's ice pick. Another part of his brain told him why. The smell that had reached it was not sulfur but almonds and locker rooms. Oh, damn you, Harrigan. Damn you for an ass. The little bastard has Katy's cyanide gun. Roll, Harrigan. Roll while there's still a whisper of life in you and rub your foolish face against the carpet. Rub, Harrigan. Push .. .

  Stanley, his ice pick poised and his eyes on the base of Harrigan's skull, suddenly staggered in midstride and fell back, snatching at a window drape. His mouth and eyes widened once in surprise and then clamped tight like a swimmer's under water. Gas, he realized. Not tear gas. The woman's thing had gas gas. Stanley tore away the drape and stumbled back into the corner where he'd been sitting. With the balled-up fabric held over his mouth and nose he watched, fascinated, as Harrigan writhed, furiously rubbing his face against the carpet's pile like a dog that had been sprayed by a skunk. And like a dog, Harrigan was kicking, using his legs to drive his face and body along the surface. But the kicking was feeble now, no longer able to find purchase along the rug. Finally, they only trembled and then were still.

  Stanley waited a moment longer to see if Harrigan moved again. Then, throwing the drapery fully over his face, he crawled blindly through the arched doorway into the living room. He stopped only when he struck a coffee table that he knew was half a room away from the poison in the hall. A fluttering sound startled him. He tore the cloth away and spun to face it. It was a bird, he realized. A parakeet, green and yellow. It had fallen to the floor of an antique brass cage near the archway and it too was staggering, unable to hold its perch, and slapping bits of gravel through the bars with its wings. Stanley stumbled to his feet and snatched up the cage. He ran with it toward the kitchen.

  He saw Jane Carey now where Vinnie had left her. But first the bird. Stanley carefully placed the cage inside the stainless steel sink and turned on the tap. He took the small rinsing hose in his hand and, after checking the temperature of the water, loosed a gentle spray upon the stricken bird. Still spraying, he reached across the sink and raised a window. It seemed to help. The bird was quieter now, and more steady. Stronger. He whispered to it reassuringly as he lifted the cage and placed it on the windowsill, where the morning sun could warm it. “Rest now,” he said. “I'm gonna help your mama now so she can come take care of you.”

  A troubled look crossed Stanley's face. What if she couldn't? he wondered. To the bird he made a staying motion with the palms of his hands, then he crossed the kitchen to where Jane Carey lay unconscious. He winced at the sight of her face. One eye flamed red and was swollen shut. Her nose was clearly broken, and a smear of blood covered her mouth and chin. The kitchen phone, torn from the wall, lay beside her. Stanley felt for a pulse at her throat. She moaned at his touch and her eyes flickered. Stanley nodded. Not so bad, he mumbled to himself. A terrible thing, but not so bad it won't get better. It won't seem so bad when she sees how he helped her bird. One more thing, he thought. One more thing he'll do so she won't feel so bad about what Vinnie done to her.

  Stanley found two kitchen towels and dampened them in the sink. He used one to dab away the blood on her face and then dropped it in the trash can under the sink. With the other, he covered his mouth and made his way back to the front hall.

  Harrigan had not moved. He lay still, his eyes partly open. Cuneo was conscious. Still dazed, but with the pain of his shattered face beginning to push through the anesthetic of shock, he was reeling to his knees, both hands against his cheekbone. His eyes, black with pain and fury, darted from Stanley to Harrigan and then to his knife, which lay open several feet away. Stanley crossed to the knife and picked it up.

  “It's your upbringing,” he said sadly. “One month with my mother and you wouldn't behave like this no more.”

  Now there was fear on Vinnie's face. Stanley was holding the knife like a schoolteacher wagging a finger.

  “Or my cousin Emma,” Stanley continued. ”I got this cousin Emma. She could have taught you. Emma, she don't even ever say nothing, and still she could have brought you up better than this. But your mother tried though, didn't she, Vinnie? I bet she tried until it broke her heart and put her in an early grave.” Stanley lowered the bobbing knife until it reached a point near Cuneo's breastbone. Vinnie's mind would not let him believe what was about to happen. Instead he roared in rage at Stanley: “Help me!” The words sprayed thickly from Vinnie's mouth. “Shut up about your fuckin' mother and ...” Vinnie's voice became a squeal as the knife found a space beneath his sternum and pushed slowly upward into his heart. Stanley watched his eyes while he died. There was only surprise. What is it about dying that they always look surprised, he wondered. Even Holmes was always finding dead guys that looked surprised. Stanley was reflecting on this when Tanner Burke pulled the Ford up behind the house.

  Stanley glanced once more at Connor Harrigan, then crossed through the living room into the kitchen. Jane Carey was conscious now and trying to rise. Outside he saw Tanner Burke, half-carrying and half-dragging the unconscious body of Tina Baker toward the car door she'd left open. Stanley quickly helped Mrs. Carey into a comfortable chair, chatting apologetically with her about Vinnie's behavior and the mess on her hall carpet. He thought of suggesting how to get it clean. Stanley knew about rug stains from a cat he'd had once. But Mrs. Carey did not look like she would have understood him. Anyway, she probably knew. She kept a nice house. He put his fingers to his lips at the sound of Tanner's footsteps and moved swiftly to the back door, his ice pick again in his hand.

  Harrigan could hear everything. He kept his breathing as shallow as the pain in his chest would permit and his eyes unblinking in a death stare, and he listened. He listene
d to the execution of Vinnie Cuneo and then some soft and unlikely words he thought had to do with carpets. He knew Tanner was coming back and that Stanley was waiting for her inside the door, but he also knew he could not help her. He had nothing left. Harrigan squeezed both fists to test his muscle control. It was no use. He could form the grip, but he could not hold it. He heard the back door open. Tanner's voice. Fear and surprise first, then defiance. Now Stanley's voice. Firm, polite, something about Tina and about driving. Stanley wanted her to drive. Something more about him. Tanner asking where he was, her voice rising. Almost crying. No, love. I'm not dead. It's that I can't help you now. Stanley will finish me for sure if I try, but I don't think he hurts women unless they try to hurt him. Go with him, girl. I'll find you. I'll find you and I'll find that little bastard again. I know where to start now.

  He didn't know how much more time had passed. Only that there were no more voices. Perhaps he'd heard the car backing out of the driveway. He wasn't sure. Harrigan squeezed both fists again. This time they held. Slowly he rolled onto his stomach and, one at a time, brought his knees up under him. More time passed before he was upright and able to stand without the help of a wall. He stumbled into the living room toward the chair where Jane Carey sat staring dazedly at him. Damn, he thought. I wish it were myself who put out the lights of the bum who did this to you. Harrigan knelt at her side.

  “Tina?” Jane Carey managed through swollen lips.

  “I'll find her, lass,” Connor told her. “I'll call you when I do.”

  There was nothing more to do for her. Comfortingly, he touched her uninjured cheek and turned away. He would call the police once away from here. If he could walk the two blocks to his car. He had to concentrate to remember where that was. There was Mrs. Carey's Volvo, of course, much closer and easier. But no. Enough had been done to her. Harrigan retraced his steps toward the front door, pausing to pick up the revolver Stanley hadn't bothered to take away, then staggered like a drunken man onto the lawn and off in the direction of the blue Oldsmobile.

  He found the car on a winding street called Oval Terrace. Harrigan started the car with effort and stalled it twice before his feet found the rhythm of the brake and accelerator. Disoriented, he swung the car in a direction that he thought would lead to the main road out, knocking over a mailbox in the process and driving off to the shouts of a woman in blue jeans. Harrigan promptly became lost. There was a road, he knew, a straight one that passed the commuter station and led directly to the Connecticut Turnpike. For ten minutes he wove through the tree-lined streets until he came upon it. Harrigan waited at a stop sign until two incoming cars passed and then a van. He could not see the driver of the van. But the man in the passenger seat was a nervous young man named Michael Biaggi.

  “Ah, Michael,” he muttered to himself. “And what shame have you brought upon your own dear mother this day?”

  Harrigan stopped at the public phone of the first gas station he saw and called the police emergency number. He'd been jogging, he told them, in order to explain his labored breathing. He'd been jogging when he saw a van pull up to the Carey house on Spruce Street. And when the men went in, he'd heard a woman screaming.

  15

  Baker moved away from the hotel slowly. In the doorway of F. A. O. Schwarz, on Fifth Avenue, he stopped and waited, ignoring Abel's sulking over his refusal to stand and fight. Baker listened. He thought he could hear one voice, two perhaps, but neither of them clearly. But he could hear anger. Blame being placed. Baker nodded, satisfied. The recriminations had to mean that Harrigan and Tanner were safely away. Nor could he feel their presence.

  Baker stepped from the doorway into the moving throng on the sidewalk and made his way to a Hertz office near Third Avenue. There, he rented an inconspicuous midsize under the name of Harold Mailander. He returned with the car to Central Park South. The Oldsmobile, he confirmed, was gone. It was quiet now. No voices at all that he could hear. Baker looked for a vacant meter near the St. Moritz and, seeing none, elected to double-park long enough to call Tina from the lobby. He stopped the car and climbed out, but a policeman on the sidewalk looked at him and shook his head. Baker slid back behind the wheel and pulled away. He would find a phone closer to the highway. But soon. Harrigan had been gone for at least forty minutes. He would be approaching the Connecticut line by now.

  Baker found a telephone kiosk near the Sixty-second Street entrance to the FDR Drive. He parked, once more illegally, and dialed Jane Carey's number. Busy. Damn. Better move on. He would try it again from the next phone he saw.

  By the time he reached the Bruckner Expressway and the first enameled signs for Connecticut, Baker's relief was giving way to worry. He should have listened longer, he thought. He should have asked Charley to listen instead of trying to pick through the street noises and random spoken voices himself. Charley would know what they intended next. Where they would look for him next. Not that he didn't know very well what they'd do. Harrigan was right. They'd cover the house where Tina lived and they'd cover Sonnenberg. No other action made any sense. But first they'd have some housekeeping to do. The one handcuffed in the stairwell would need attention. And Harrigan. Harrigan would have to dispose of the dead man in his car. And Tanner would have to see another body. Baker shook his head sadly. She would think Abel did it, he thought. As if she wasn't disgusted enough by him already, she would think that Abel had killed again.

  “Charley?”

  “yes.”

  “Who killed the man in Harrigan's car? Do we know that?”

  Charley didn't answer.

  “Yes or no, Charley”

  “whateveryou think”

  “I'm asking you, Charley.”

  “you don't need me. you're hearing stuff now. you don't even like me.”

  The answer surprised Baker. He lightened his foot and allowed the car to drift into a slower lane. It had never occurred to him that Charley thought in terms of being liked.

  ”I do need you, Charley. Today more than ever.”

  “you need me just today, you just want to get tina and go away and not have abel and charley anymore, you 're going now to find out how to do that and you want me to help even when you don't like me and don't want me.”

  Charley's rebuke softened Baker more than it alarmed him. It was true that he had treated Charley badly, like an unwelcome guest, almost from the beginning.

  “It’ys not true that I don 't want you, Charley. You're a part of me, and that won't change. It's just that I don't want you to be separate anymore. That's just as hard for you sometimes as it is for me.”

  “you like me?”

  “I'm learning to understand you better”

  “that's not liking.”

  “There are things about myself I don't like either, Charley. I don't like Baker when I'm stupid or thoughtless. I haven't been very nice to you, Charley, and I'm sorry.”

  “you like me?”

  “Yes, Charley. I like you.”

  ”i like tina, you know.”

  “That's good, Charley.”

  ”i like her just as much as you. in some ways we're even better friends than you and her. it's me who talks to tina. you think it's you using me, but it's me too, sometimes you think about her and she knows it because i tell her.”

  ”I don't understand, Charley. Tina knows about you? And Abel?”

  “just me, and only sort of if she knew for sure, i bet she 'd like me.”

  “Come to think of it, she probably would, Charley.” Baker smiled. Lots of kids Tina's age had an imaginary friend, he thought. At least a doll or stuffed animal they talked to. Imagine having an honest to gosh friend like Charley.

  “you're sure you like me better now?”

  “Yes, Charley. I like you better.”

  “i'll tell you some stuff then, the soldier did it.”

  “What soldier did what?”

  “you asked who hurt the man in harrigan's blue car. the soldier fixed him so he couldn't hurt you.”
r />   “What soldier?”

  ”sonnenberg's soldier, the one who digs for old things and didn't go to notre dame.”

  Hershey. Baker realized! Roger Hershey. He'd never met Hershey, but he'd seen his file in Sonnenberg's basement room. Now he understood what had confused him when he was making his way toward the street.

  “Charley, there was a woman by the elevator. She saw Abel, but she wasn't afraid of him.”

  “she was a little afraid, she just wasn't surprised.”

  “She's one of Sonnenberg’s people?”

  “melanie.”

  Melanie Laver. Baker nodded.

  “Sonnenberg sent them to help me? How did he even know I was here?”

  “harrigan knew, then biaggi knew, then biaggi told everybody, he told peck and he told tortora. tortora knew so sonnenberg knew.”

  “Biaggi may have told Peck. But he didn't tell anyone else, Charley.”

  “did too.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “it's what harrigan thought, he thought biaggi had too many masters, and i heard biaggi in the park, he was scared of peck and scared of harrigan if they found out he was also tortora’s little bird.”

  “Why didn't you tell me this before, Charley?”

  “you didn't ask me then, you didn't like me then either.”

  Baker shook his head wearily. It all made sense to him now. At least the parts that mattered. Ahead of him, off the Westchester Avenue exit, he saw the crowned hamburger of a Burger King restaurant. He'd try Tina again from there. Some food in his system wouldn't be a bad idea either. Being Abel twice in twenty-four hours must have melted five pounds off him. Baker turned onto the off ramp.

  Tortora and Sonnenberg. Sonnenberg and Peck. Peck and Biaggi. Biaggi and Harrigan. Baker said their names as if he were spitting them out of his system. And I'm the plaything in the middle. The toy. The subject. You're manipulating me even now, aren't you, Dr. Sonnenberg. Come on, Charley. Baker parked the car under the hum of the highway. Let's all of us get something to eat.