by Ed McBain
They got into the elevator with Wiggy, and all three men told the operator they wanted the fourth floor. The two Mexicans gave Wiggy a glance and then turned away. To Wiggy, they looked like spic hit men. He was beginning to regret having come here altogether. First two bulls in the elevator and now two big hitters. “Fourth floor,” the elevator operator said, and yanked open the door. Wiggy was looking out at the same reception room he’d seen half an hour ago, same fat white chick behind the desk. The two Latinos stepped out of the elevator ahead of him, no fuckin manners. They walked to the desk, Wiggy right behind them.
“We’re looking for a man who works here named Jerome Hoskins,” one of them said.
It came out, “We lookin for a man worrs here name Jerr-o Hosk.”
“Frank Holt,” the other one said.
The last name came out “Hote.”
Which was clear enough to Wiggy, who all at once began to think these two Spanish-American gentlemen were not two hitters but were instead two detectives from the Eight-Eight, investigating the murder of Frank Holt. He almost bolted for the elevator.
“I can’t understand what you’re saying,” the receptionist said, squinting.
“What’syour name?” the first man asked.
He made it sound like a threat, even though it came out with a Spanish accent as thick as guacamole.
“Charmaine,” she said.
“You know a man name Randoff Beegs?” he said. “In Texas?”
“Eagle Branch,” the other one said.
Wiggy was trying to remember if Frank Holt had told him he’d come up from Eagle Branch, Texas. All he could recall was him saying the hundred keys of cocaine had come up from Guenerando, Mexico. He wondered now if Guenerando was anywhere near Eagle Branch. He tried to appear as if he was not listening to the conversation between these two possible dicks and the fat chick behind the desk, but he was standing only three feet behind them, and it was impossible to appear small and insignificant when he weighed two hundred and ten pounds and stood an even six feet tall. He wondered if he should go sit on the bench against the wall, but then he’d miss this fascinating conversation about the man he’d shot in the head. So he stood where he was and pretended not to be eavesdropping. He would have whistled to show how nonchalant he was, but he thought that might only attract attention to him.
“What was that name again?” Charmaine asked. “In Texas?”
“Randolph Biggs,” the first man said.
It still came out “Randoff Beegs.”
“Oh. Yes,” she said, decoding the accent at last. “Let me see if our sales manager is free.” She lifted the receiver on her phone, pressed a button in its base, asked, “Whom shall I say is here?” and raised her eyes expectantly.
“Francisco Ortiz,” one of the men said.
“Cesar Villada,” the other one said.
Wiggy noticed that they did not flash gold badges or identify themselves as detectives. Maybe they were associated with Mr. Holt in some other way. Maybe they were from Eagle Branch, Texas. Maybe they were good old buddies of Frank Holt’s, here to inquire how come he was now dead. In which case, Wiggystill felt he ought to get out of here fast.
“Miss Andersen,” Charmaine said, “there are two gentlemen here inquiring about Mr. Biggs.” She listened, nodded, looked up at the two men again. “May I say what firm you’re with?” she asked.
“Villada and Ortiz,” Ortiz said.
“Villada and Ortiz,” Charmaine said. She listened again. “Is that a bookstore?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s a bookstore,” Villada said.
“In Eagle Branch,” Ortiz said. “Texas,” he said. “Villada and Ortiz, Booksellers.”
Charmaine relayed the information, listened again, put the phone receiver back on its cradle, rose, and said, “I’ll show you in.” She turned to Wiggy as she came around the desk, said, “I’ll be with you in a moment, sir, won’t you have a seat?” and walked off with the two men Wiggy now knew owned a bookstore in Eagle Branch, Texas, which sounded like total bullshit to him.
He went over to the wall on the left of the elevator doors, and sat on the bench there. He looked around the room at the posters hanging on the walls. He’d never heard of any of the books. In a minute or so, Charmaine came back. Instead of going to her desk, though, she walked over to where he was waiting, and sat beside him on the bench.
“So,” she said, and smiled. “How can I help you, sir?”
“On Christmas night,” Wiggy said, “somebody up here phoned for a limo. I want to talk to whoever that might’ve been.”
“That’s very fanciful,” Charmaine said, and smiled coquettishly.
“Are you a writer?”
“No, I’m a drug dealer,” Wiggy said, and grinned like a shark.
“I’ll bet,” Charmaine said.
“I run a posse up in Diamondback,” he said.
“Oh, sure,” she said.
“Who do I talk to about this limo was called for?”
“Ifanyonecalled for a limo, it would’ve been Douglas Good, our publicity director. But no one was here on Christmas night. We closed on Christmas Eve at three in the afternoon, and didn’t open again till the following Tuesday. But I’ll see if Mr. Good will talk to you.”
“Just tell him Mr.Bad is here,” Wiggy said, and grinned again.
KAREN ANDERSEN was telling the two Mexicans that Randolph Biggs did indeed work for them, and so had Jerry Hoskins. But she hadn’t seen Randy since their sales conference in September, and Jerry had been the victim of a fatal shooting on Christmas Eve. Was there anythingshe could do for the gentlemen?
The gentlemen explained to her—in halting English which she nonetheless understood—that Jerry Hoskins, who until recently they had known only as Frank Holt, had purchased from them a hundred keys of excellent cocaine …
“I beg your pardon,” Karen said, looking astonished.
… for which they had been paid in hundred-dollar bills…
“Gentlemen, I’m sorry,” she said, “but …”
“Yes, we’re sorry, too,” Villada said.
“Because the money was bad,” Ortiz said.
DOUGLAS GOOD was a black man who did not appreciate brothers who looked or sounded like Walter Wiggins.
“Two girls named Sheryl and Toni,” Wiggins was telling him.
“Yes?” Douglas said.
“West Side Limo,” Wiggins said. “The Starlight Bar.”
“Mr. Wiggins …”
“Somebody here called a limo from West Side to take two girls named Sheryl and Toni uptown to a bar named the Starlight on St. Sab’s and Boyle on Christmas night,” Wiggins said. “St. Sebastian’s,” he explained.
“Somebody from Wadsworth andDodds called a limo …”
“Is the information I have.”
“… for two girls named Sheryl and Toni?”
“That’s they names. The ladies owe me some money, bro.”
Douglas didn’t like black men who looked or sounded like Walter Wiggins to call him “bro.”
“Mr. Wiggins,” he said, “we don’t have any women named Sheryl and Toni working for us.”
“Two very tall blond ladies,” Wiggins said.
“I’m sorry.”
“This was a limo from West Side,” Wiggins explained again, patiently. “Black Lincoln Town Car with a chauffeur same color as the car. The blonde named Toni was sittin in it, and she picked up me and the blonde named Sheryl outside the Starlight and drove me to my office on Decatur Av, where they relieved me of a certain amount of money, at gun point, on Christmas night.”
“No one was here on Christmas night,” Douglas said.
“The Taxi and Limousine Commission seems to believe otherwise, bro.”
“The Taxi and Limousine Commission made a mistake,” Douglas said.
“I don’t think so,” Wiggins said.
“Let me ask Mr. Halloway to come in,” Douglas said.
“Who’s Mr. Halloway?”
He went to the desk phone, picked up the receiver, and hit Halloway’s extension button.
“Halloway.”
“Richard, it’s Douglas.”
“Yes, Douglas.”
“I have a man with me who thinks we sent a limo up to Diamondback on Christmas night. His name is Walter Wiggins.”
“He should’ve left well enough alone,” Halloway said.
“I thought you might like to meet him.”
“I’ll be right in,” Halloway said.
Douglas put the receiver back on the cradle, smiled at Wiggins, and said, “He’s on his way.”
KAREN ANDERSEN was still trying to bluff her way out of this.
“Bad money?” she said.
“Counterfeit,” Ortiz said. “We wass paid with queer money.”
“One million seven hun’red t’ousan dollars of it,” Villada said.
Karen smiled.
“We don’t think it’s so funny, Miss,” Ortiz said.
“In any case,” Karen said, “Jerry Hoskins is dead.”
“In any case,” Ortiz said, “so is Randolph Biggs.”
Karen looked at them.
“He met with an electrical accident in Piedras Rosas, Mexico,” Villada said, and nodded.
“We want our money,” Ortiz said.
“Gentlemen, I have absolutelyno idea what you’re talking about,” Karen said.
“We are talking about one million seven hun’red t’ousan dollars two people who worr for you company focked us out of in Mehico,” Villada said.
Or something like that.
Which Karen Andersen all at once understood clearly because Ortiz suddenly seemed to be holding a gun in his hand.
DOUGLAS GOOD didn’t want to say anything further to Mr. Wiggins here until Halloway joined them. Wiggins had obviously done a little research, first locating West Side’s name and next tracing them back to the offices here. Douglas figured the man was here to get his money back, which wasn’t his money at all since he should have paid it to Jerry Hoskins after the cocaine had been turned over. Wiggins’s oversight had resulted in a visit from “The Weird Sisters,” as Sheryl and Toni were affectionately called even though they were not related. W&D’s oversight—or rather Halloway’s—had been in not dispatching the man the moment the money was in their hands. Halloway had ruled out such an action, partially because he had no real evidence that Wiggins had been responsible for the murder of one of their best people, secondly because black-white relationships were touchy enough in Diamondback without giving the drug people up there a reason to distrust future commerce with Whitey. In any case, Wiggins should have left well enough alone. Instead, here he was, the fool.
“You know why I’m here, don’t you?” Wiggins asked, and smiled wisely.
“I have no idea,” Douglas said.
“No, huh? Then why’d you ax your boss to come in?”
Douglas had called Halloway because he was the only person sanctioned to order Wiggins’s death—as he should have done on Christmas night. If Wiggins had anything incriminating to say, he wanted Halloway to hear it first hand. So that maybe he’d give the goddamn correct orders this time around.
“I’m here for my money,” Wiggins said.
Big surprise, Douglas thought, and Halloway walked in without knocking. “Hello, Mr. Wiggins,” he said, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you.” The men shook hands. Their eyes met. Douglas figured Wiggins should have known in that single meeting of eyes that he was a dead man. But maybe he was stupid.
“Are you authorized to make a payout?” he asked Halloway. “Cause what I need fum you is one million nine hundred thousand dollars in cash.”
IN ALL HER YEARS with W&D, Karen Andersen had never before looked down the barrel of a gun or into the eyes of a person who would have no qualms about pulling the trigger of that gun. She wondered briefly what Halloway would do in similar circumstances. She had seen him perform admirably in comparably challenging situations, but those had been when they were in bed together, and always during the window of opportunity Viagra presented. She was surprised now to discover that she was not at all frightened. Calmly, coolly, she said, “Please don’t force me to call the police.”
Villada laughed.
Karen reached for the phone on her desk, intending not to call the police but to summon Halloway for help. Ortiz slammed the butt of his revolver down on her hand. She pulled it back, winced, held the throbbing fingers to her breasts. Her lip was quivering, but she did not scream.
“We’ll be back,” Ortiz said. There was blood on the butt of the pistol. He yanked a tissue from the box on Karen’s desk, wiped the butt clean, and tossed the stained tissue into an ashtray. “Get the fockin money,” he said.“Real money this time,comprende?”
“Or we’ll kill every fockin one of you who works here,” Villada said.
Not if we kill you first, Karen thought.
“I HAVE NO IDEA what money you mean,” Halloway said.
“The money your two blond ladies took from me,” Wiggins said.
“I don’t know which ladies you mean.”
“Sheryl and Toni. With the long legs and the AK-47.”
“We have no such employees. Mr. Wiggins,” Halloway said, slowly and distinctly, “you are making a terrible mistake here.”
Their eyes met again.
This time Wiggins read the meaning in them.
Which was perhaps why he drew a pistol from a holster under his jacket. He pointed the gun first at Halloway, and then swung it around toward Douglas, as if to emphasize that his enmity was large enough to include both of them. The gun looked like a snub-nosed .38. Douglas didn’t think the man was foolish enough to kill them here in their own offices, especially since he was here to negotiate the return of money he felt was his. But who knew with these street thugs?
Halloway had been in hairier situations than this one. Not for nothing was he in charge here. He looked at the gun in Wiggins’s hand, and then raised his eyes to meet Wiggins’s again. His eyes seemed to sayThis is only about money, friend. Do you really want to die for it? But would Wiggins have pulled a gun on them if he didn’t realize he was already a dead man?
“You don’t want to do this,” Halloway said.
“I’ve done it before,” Wiggins said.
“Not with the consequences this would bring.”
Douglas knew this was bullshit. If Wiggins had in fact killed Jerry Hoskins, there had been no consequences at all. Wiggins must have realized this, too. He had blown one of them away, and the only thing that had happened was The Wierd Sisters coming to call. Douglas wondered if, in retrospect, Halloway was thinking he should have given the termination order back then on Christmas night. A bit late now, though.
“Tell you what,” Wiggins said. “I realize you don’t have that kind of money juss layin aroun in cash. But go get it, okay? I’ll come see you sometime soon,” he said, and backed away toward the door.
Sometime soon, you’ll be dead, Douglas thought. Bro.
Wiggins stepped out into the hallway.
THE THREE MEN reached the elevator at about the same time. One of the two Mexicans pressed the bell button set in the wall.
“How’d it go?” Wiggy asked them.
“Fockin people still owe us money,” Ortiz said.
Which was how a rather strange triumvirate was founded.
IT WAS STILL THURSDAY on what was shaping up to be the longest day of the year, never mind what the almanac said. Sitting at his desk at a quarter to five that evening, the squadroom almost deserted, Carella tried to make some sense of this bewildering case that seemed to focus entirely on money, real or largely imagined. Theimaginedcash appeared to originate in Iran, where billions of dollars in so-called super-bills were being printed on intaglio presses with plates provided by the good old U.S. of A., talk about payback time.
Carella knew some things for certain. The rest he could only guess at. He knew that C
ass Ridley had made four trips to Mexico with a certain amount of money she’d exchanged for some kind of controlled substance, and had been paid $200,000 in cash for her efforts. This money was real, if the lady at First Federal could be trusted, whatever her name was. But Cass Ridley had also been given a ten-grand tip by the pair of Mexicans involved in the transaction, whoeverthey were, andthat money was fake. Poor Will Struthers, trying to spend the cash he’d pilfered, had twice been nailed passing phony hundreds. According to the lady at First Federal, Antonia Lugosi or something, twenty billion dollars in counterfeit hundreds were floating around out there, enough bogus bills to concern the Treasury Department, who had relieved Struthers of the phonies he’d stolen and given him real cash in exchange—but that was only a guess. Belandres! AntoniaBelandres! Hence the Lugosi association, forBela Lugosi, the best Dracula there ever was, the mind worked in curious ways its wonders to reveal.