Night Life

by David C. Taylor

  “You heard him say that?” Crofoot’s voice rose with excitement.

  “Yeah, I heard him.”

  “What else? Did he show them to Werth?”

  “No. I don’t think so. If he did, I didn’t pick it up.”

  “How long were they in there?”

  “Ten, fifteen minutes. I don’t know.”

  “How much did you hear?”

  “Maybe half.”

  “Go see Werth. Find out everything they said. Call me when you’re done.”

  “Right.”

  “Wait. Bring him to the house on Thirty-fourth. We might need some uninterrupted time with him.”

  “Okay.”

  Fraker walked back to 84th Street. He watched the apartment building from outside until he saw the elevator indicator light show the car arriving at the lobby. He took a ring of keys from his pocket and waited until a boy wearing a baseball uniform and carrying an equipment bag bolted from the elevator and slammed out through the front doors. Fraker met him in the small outer lobby, the keys conspicuous in his hand as if he was about to put them in the lock. He said, “Thanks,” to the boy and went in before the inner door closed.

  Fraker took the elevator to the eighth floor. When the door opened, a man waiting there started to enter and then stepped back to allow Fraker out. He nodded the way neighbors do when they meet in the hall, went in, and the door closed behind him.

  Fraker stood outside Perry Werth’s apartment and listened. There was no sound from inside. He rang the doorbell and waited. No footsteps approached. No one called out. He rang the bell again. Silence. He examined the lock and then took a thin stiff piece of celluloid from his jacket pocket and slipped it between the doorjamb and the tongue of the lock. Get this done fast before someone comes home and finds the dead woman next door.

  He pushed the door open and went in. The runner in the short entry hall deadened his footsteps as he went to the living room.

  Perry Werth sat in a chair near the window. His blue-and-white-striped shirt was dark with blood. Someone had shot him once in the chest and once between the eyes. The smell of cordite still hung in the air.

  Fraker went back to the front door, opened it a crack, and listened. When he heard nothing, he went out quickly and shut the door, crossed to the stairwell, and ran down the seven flights. The lobby was empty. He went out onto the street, but the man who had gotten into the elevator was not there. Which way, west or east? He ran to the end of the block and looked along Columbus Avenue. The sidewalks were crowded. If the man was there, he was just another fish in the school.

  What did he look like? Medium height, medium build, an even-featured face of no distinction, brown hair, unmemorable clothes. Glasses? Maybe. A man you would pass on the street without remarking. He could be standing twenty feet away and Fraker would not recognize him. Very cool. Walk in. Shoot Werth. Walk out. Nod to Fraker as they passed at the elevator as if they might be neighbors. No muss, no fuss. You had to admire that.

  34

  Cassidy awoke in the night and knew someone was in the room. His gun was on the bureau fifteen feet away. The closest weapon to hand was the heavy iron lamp on the bedside table. There was movement near the door and the soft pad of a foot on the rug. He kept his breathing steady and slow. I’m asleep. I don’t know you’re there. I’m asleep. His right hand was outside the covers, and he eased it toward the lamp. Whoever was in the room took another step. Cassidy lay still. A figure was silhouetted for a moment against the lighter grid of the window, and Cassidy let his breath out with a rush.

  “Are you awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was trying to be quiet.” Dylan slipped into bed and pressed against him. She was naked. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “You didn’t. I was awake,” he lied.

  She hooked a leg over his waist and reached her arm across and put her palm flat on his chest and pulled closer. Her body was hot against him.

  “Are you sure I didn’t wake you?”

  “I don’t know. I just woke up, and there you were.”

  “Magic. Maybe you dreamed me up.” She ran her hand down his chest and over his belly. “An erotic dream.”

  “Hmm. Not yet.”

  “Give me a minute. I just got here.”

  He could not help smiling. He did not know where she had been or why she had gone, but he was happy she was here. Tomorrow would take care of itself.

  * * *

  In the morning she was up before he was, and he found her in the kitchen.

  “Hi. I woke up starving. I’m making eggs and bacon.” Her smile was bright, but her eyes were wary. “Sit down and I’ll feed you in a couple of minutes. The coffee’s ready.”

  He sat at the counter and watched while she poured a mug of coffee. She knew he was watching, and it made her edgy. When she handed him the mug, it ticked the edge of the counter and coffee slopped over the rim. “Sorry. Clumsy.” She mopped the spill with a dishcloth.

  “It’s okay.” He sipped the coffee. The phone rang on the table between the two windows. He answered it in the middle of the third ring.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s me,” Orso said.

  “What’s up?”

  “I picked up that guy, Ribera, about half an hour ago. I’ve got Hanratty and Thomaselli working it with me. He put us over some jumps, did a nifty in the Fourteenth Street subway station, on and off a train, but we’re still on him.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Union Square. He’s in that coffee shop on the corner, the one where they put the peppers in the hash browns. Looks like he’s settled in for a while. Makes me hungry to watch him. What do you want me to do?”

  “Yeah, stick with that. See where it goes.”

  “Huh? Oh, I got it. She’s there.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Okay. Check your messages at the house. I’ll check mine. I’ll let you know where he goes to ground.”

  “Later.” He hung up.

  “Who was that?”

  “Tony Orso.”

  “Is it something important? Do you have to go?”

  “No. An old case. A guy who used to rob up around Times Square. He used to work for Con Ed. Tony’s over there checking to see if he’s back with them. You’d be surprised at how many guys just drift back into their old patterns. They do the crime, they run for a minute, then they come back and it’s as if they want to get caught.”

  “Nobody wants to get caught.”

  She turned back to the stove and banged the frying pans around like they were enemies.

  “Don’t watch me. I don’t like being watched while I cook.”

  “Sure.”

  She clattered plates and silverware onto the counter, dumped eggs and bacon onto the plates, and shoved Cassidy’s across. She watched him take his first bite and then sat opposite him with the counter between them and ate as if starved. She finished before he did and pushed her plate aside. She leaned forward with her palms flat on the countertop as if to brace herself.

  “You’re angry at me.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I don’t have to tell you where I’m going.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I don’t have to say when I’ll be back.”

  “No.” That’s what she thought it was?

  “I don’t explain. I do what I want.”

  “Okay.”

  “If you can’t take it…”

  “I can take it.” He finished eating while she struggled with it.

  “I’m not much good with this. Not much practice, I guess.” Her voice was softer.

  “Good with what?”

  “With this. Being with someone.”

  “Are you?”

  “What?”

  “With me?”

  “Yes.” She looked stricken.

  “You do fine.”

  “I can’t help who I am.”

  “Have you heard me complain?”

&
nbsp; She looked at him carefully to read his face. She started to say something more, and then stopped and shook her head. “I’ve got to go. I told Ribera I’d be in early. We’ve got a lot to do today.”

  “He’s waiting for you at the studio?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t I walk over with you? I’d like to say hello to him, see what he’s doing.”

  “No. Not today. We’re doing something really complicated. I have to think about it while I walk. I need to concentrate.”

  A small test she failed.

  “Are you sure? I won’t say a word. I’ll just carry your schoolbooks.”

  She forced a smile. “Another day. Okay?”

  A moment later the door closed, and she was gone.

  * * *

  By the time Cassidy got to the roof, Dylan was starting down the block. There was almost no foot traffic this far west, so he knew he could not follow her on the street without being spotted. From up here he had a clear view, and it was unlikely that she would look up. He had lived on this block for more than four years, and as far as he could remember, the buildings were separated from each other only by air shafts. How wide were the shafts? Not wide, he thought, but he had never studied it. He was about to find out.

  Cassidy jogged east. The parapet of his building was higher than the one of the building next door, and the air shaft between them was eight feet wide, an easy jump. He crossed the next roof, dodging radio antennas and clotheslines. The next building was attached to the one he was on, and he went up and over the parapets and then ran to the street side and looked down. Dylan was walking slowly. He was ahead by twenty yards.

  The gap to the next building was wider, ten feet, maybe more, enough to make him cautious. He checked his run-up for pebbles, guy wires, torn roofing, anything that could trip him. He tested the parapet for loose bricks and studied the landing area of the other side to see if he could spot other dangers. All right. Go. Ten, eleven feet. Nothing at all. If you were jumping it on the sidewalk you wouldn’t even think about it.

  Don’t look down.

  He stepped away, rocked back and forth, and then took off. He had to chop his stride at the end to hit the ledge with his lead foot, and he went out over the six-story gap with his arms windmilling.

  His left foot landed at the far edge of the parapet, and the momentum carried him forward onto the roof and he took two lunging steps for balance, lost it, and started to go down. He tucked his left shoulder under and let the momentum roll him to his feet. He came up with his hands raised defensively. They slammed against the door of a rooftop shed and stopped his rush. He waited there for a moment until his heart stopped tripping and then walked across the roof and looked across at the last building on the block.

  The gap was about twelve feet, not much more than the one he had just jumped, but the far parapet was three feet higher. He was pretty sure he could jump the twelve feet, but not the twelve feet and the added three feet of height. He looked over the parapet to the alley below and contemplated how far a man of his size might bounce. The door he had banged into led to stairs down from the roof. It was sheathed in metal. There was no exterior keyhole, and a square of steel extended out from the door to cover the crack between the door and the jamb. He was locked out. If he went back a building he might have better luck with the stairs, but by that time Dylan would be at the corner and he would not know which way she turned. Okay. Let it go. Wait for another opportunity. Tomorrow. The next day. This wasn’t over yet.

  He found a wooden ladder lying on the tar beside the shed. Was it long enough? He dragged it to the air shaft. A length of rope was knotted to a rung near one end. He braced the other end against a standpipe and used the rope to pull the ladder upright, then walked it to the parapet and let the far end fall. It bounced twice on the ledge of the next building and then settled. He pushed it out until there was about two feet of overlap at either end. It was long enough. Was it strong enough? It was not a new ladder, but the rails looked solid, and none of the rungs was broken. How much weight could a ladder support? Plenty, right? There were guys who weighed a hundred pounds more than he did who used ladders. Just go. Don’t think about it. Go.

  He stepped up on the parapet, got down on all fours, and crawled out on the ladder. He kept his weight on the rails and went forward one rung at a time. Don’t look down. Look up. Look at the far end of the ladder. It’s not so far away. Okay, right hand forward, left hand forward. Now right knee forward, left knee forward. Do it again. That wasn’t so bad. The rungs dug into his knees. Right forward, left forward. Again. Hot air rose from the alley floor. Don’t think about how far down it is. Just do it again, right, left, right, left. Halfway there now. No problem.

  The far end of the ladder shifted on the parapet. He heard the scrape of wood on brick and felt the shift. The ladder moved backward about an inch.

  Jesus.

  Shut up. Ignore it. Keep going.

  Right hand, left hand, right knee, left knee. The ladder shifted again. The high end slipped toward the drop. That was more than an inch. Okay. Don’t panic. Slow and smooth. Careful, careful. Easy. But it did not matter how careful he was, every time he moved forward, the ladder slipped. What if he retreated? That’s it. Go back. He went back one rung. The ladder slipped. Stop. It’s too far to go back. Go forward. How many rungs left to reach the end? Six. About six feet. Six feet is nothing. How much of the ladder was still left on the parapet? About a foot, and he was losing at least a couple of inches every time he moved. The math was against him. He wasn’t going to make it.

  What if he moved forward two rungs at a time? Use the same caution and care. One hand and then the other. One knee and then the other. Slip, scrape. How much of the ladder was left on the parapet? Don’t think about that. There’s nothing to do about that. Just go. Four feet more to go. Reach out. Do it again. Move the knees up. That’s it. Did the ladder move? Yes. But not as much. Breathe. Breathe. He looked up. The ends of the ladder rails were rounded. The last straight inch of each rail was still on the ledge of the parapet. One inch, and then the curve, and when the curve got to the edge, the ladder would fall.

  Two feet to go. Reach for it with your hands. Don’t worry about the knees. Reach. Keep balanced. Don’t rock the ladder. Rocking the ladder makes it slip. Reach. Do it now. Not for the ladder rail, reach for the brick. The brick won’t move. The fingers of his right hand felt the rough grit of the bricks of the roof ledge. Okay. Reach with the other. Shit. Shit. Stop. Stop. Just the small shift of weight moved the ladder. Come on. Go. You have to do it. Go. You can’t stay here for the rest of your life. The rest of your life? How long? Reach for it. His left hand touched the brick. He inched both hands farther onto the ledge. Okay, take some weight off the ladder. Now, move your knees. First the right one …

  The ladder slipped off the ledge and fell away from under him.

  One moment it was there. The next it was gone. All his weight went to his hands on the ledge. His feet swung in and banged the building as the ladder fell away and clattered down the air shaft crashing against first one wall and then the other. He hung there with his weight dragging on his hands, with the edge of the parapet digging in. Move. Move. He pulled himself up and got one elbow and then the other on the brick surface and heaved himself higher. He got a leg onto the ledge, levered himself up and over, and rolled off the other side to lie on the soft tar of the roof looking up at the sky. When he caught his breath and his heart slowed, he got up and went to the stairs.

  * * *

  Dylan crossed Washington Street headed east. Cassidy watched her from the shadows of a truck that rumbled coal down a chute into the basement of the corner house. Halfway up the block, Dylan turned abruptly and walked back to the corner. Cassidy moved around the truck to keep it between them. She turned north at the corner and walked up the block and then stopped and stooped to retie her shoelace while she checked her back trail. Then she turned south again. Checking for tails.

  Good t
echnique for a girl from a small Pennsylvania town, he thought bitterly.

  She kept going south, turned the corner, and went east on West 11th Street. Cassidy took the chance that she was really headed east now and ran along Bank Street to Greenwich Avenue. He stood at the corner and watched until she appeared a block south. She looked back along 11th Street and saw nothing that alarmed her. She raised a hand, and a taxi slewed across the street and stopped for her. The door slammed and the cab started up and Cassidy stepped into a doorway and watched it go north. As it passed, he pulled the cab number.

  A cab was stopped at a red light two blocks away. When the light changed, Cassidy raised his hand and the cab pulled to the curb. The driver was a young man with two days’ growth of beard and a Brooklyn Dodgers hat.

  “There’s a Checker headed north on Greenwich. Number 3B202. There’s a sawbuck in it if you find it and follow it.”

  “You’re kiddin’.” The cigarette in his mouth bobbed when he spoke.

  Cassidy dangled his shield where the driver could see it.

  “Okay, you’re not kiddin’. Let’s go.”

  They picked up Dylan’s cab as it waited at a red light to make a right at 14th Street. He could see her head in the rear window as she turned to light a cigarette. The light changed. Dylan’s cab went east along 14th. The traffic was light.

  “Don’t get too close,” Cassidy warned his driver.

  “Hey, don’t worry. I’m all over this. I’ve been waitin’ for someone to get in and say follow that car since I took up hackin’.”

  Dylan’s cab pulled to the curb at the subway station at Seventh Avenue.

  “I better drop you here, or she’ll make you,” Cassidy’s driver said as he pulled to the curb thirty yards back.

  Cassidy dropped money over the seat back and got out, and lost himself in the crowd on the street. Ahead of him, Dylan went down the stairs into the subway station.

  Cassidy followed her down the stairs behind a group of workmen dressed in stained white overalls. She was going through a turnstile when he reached the lobby. He followed her to the IRT line headed uptown on Seventh and let her go along the platform while he sifted into a group of people waiting for the train. A puff of warm electric air announced the train, and moments later the uptown local rattled and squealed into the station. Dylan got on. He remembered what Orso had said about Ribera’s dodge in the subway, and so he hung by the door. Across the platform, the uptown express shrieked to a stop. The doors of the local started to close. Dylan came out of the car and darted toward the express. Other people ran for the faster train, and Cassidy went with them. He got in the car behind Dylan’s and found a place among the straphangers where he could watch her through the connecting door without being seen. The train swayed and rocked its way north, and the people standing swayed and rocked with it, and through the gaps in the moving people Cassidy could see the copper shine of Dylan’s hair. She stared straight ahead at the window in front of her and passing lights flashed on her face. Once she turned toward the glass that separated them, and Cassidy turned away and let the motion of the train pull him behind the bulk of a tall Orthodox Jew wearing a black fedora. When he looked again, she was staring out the window.