by Ken Bruen
Kenneth asked the woman at the reception desk whether the couple came to the hotel frequently. The woman shrugged, then said, “I don’t think so. At least not during my shift.”
The woman told Kenneth that the couple had registered at the hotel under the name Brown and that they were planning to stay overnight.
Kenneth thought, Brown? Are they kidding?
About forty-five minutes later, the white woman with the big hair came out of an elevator and headed toward the Seventh Avenue exit. Kenneth considered stopping her and speaking to her, but decided it might be more valuable to follow her, see where she was going. Who knows? Maybe Fisher had met her in the hotel room to give her the money, and now she was on her way to make a final payoff to the hit man. Or maybe she was the hit man, or hit woman.
On Seventh, the woman hailed a cab going downtown. Kenneth didn’t have time to get his car so he hailed another cab, presented his badge, and ordered the driver to follow the other car. It went across town to First Avenue and stopped on the corner of East Twenty-fifth Street. The woman got out and walked quickly up the block, toward Second. Kenneth followed her on the opposite side of the street, jogging to keep up with her.
About midway down the block, the woman went up the stoop into the vestibule of a tenement. Out of breath, Kenneth hurried up the stoop and followed her into the building. The woman turned around, startled. Kenneth was used to this reaction from white women in vestibules and elevators.
She was reaching into her purse – maybe for pepper spray – when Kenneth said, “It’s all right, I’m a Detective – NYPD.” He showed his badge. He always got a rush out of that.
“Jesus Christ,” the woman said. She was breathing heavily now too. “You just scared the bejaysus out of me.”
Kenneth registered the brogue and had a fleeting thought about the murder weapon’s possible connection to the Boyos.
Kenneth said, “You mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Questions about what?”
“Do you live in this building?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Can I have your name please?”
“What’s this all about?”
“Can you tell me your name, please?”
The woman, still breathing heavily, said, “Angela. Angela Petrakos.”
“I saw you at Hotel Pennsylvania before. You went into a room with Max Fisher, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“There’s no use lying about it – I saw both of you. Is he your boss?”
Angela didn’t answer so Kenneth asked the question again.
“Yeah, he’s my boss.”
“How long have you two been seeing each other?”
“We’re not seeing each other.”
“You realize his wife and niece were murdered last week. Now I’m not saying you had anything to do with that, but you’re gonna have to answer these questions sooner or later. We could either do this here or down at the precinct. Take your pick. I could be wrong but a nice lady like you, I don’t think you’d like the Precinct, it’s a bit… rough.”
Angela waited a few seconds, looking scared as hell, and Kenneth almost fell sorry for her. She was good looking, with that blond hair and that great rack, and Kenneth wondered how she got mixed up with Fisher, what she saw in that sleazebag.
“Can we go inside and talk?” she said. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind using your bathroom myself,” Kenneth said. “If you don’t mind.”
Following her upstairs he was thinking, Love that brogue, but what’s with the Greek name? Then, watching her swing her hips back and forth, he thought, And she has a fine ass, that’s for damn sure. Kenneth was faithful to his wife, had never cheated on her in eight years of marriage, but that didn’t stop him from looking. And he’d heard cops talk about Irish girls in the locker room at the precinct. Word was they were like banshees in the sack.
The building was a typical tenement – the paint on the walls was peeling, there was a faint ammonia odor. Two floors up she stopped in front of apartment 5. She opened the door, said, “I still don’t understand what you think I have to do with those people getting killed, this is really crazy,” and then went ahead into the kitchen area. The lights in the apartment were on. Kenneth stepped inside and took a look around. It was a small place – a studio.
Angela said, “Can I get you something to drink?” and Kenneth said, “No, that’s all right.”
Then Kenneth noticed the shut door at the end of the apartment and the crack of light underneath. He was about to ask Angela if she lived alone when the door sprung open and a thin, pasty guy with long gray hair came out firing a handgun. Kenneth recognized the man as fitting the description of the suspect who’d hocked Deirdre Fisher’s jewelry in Chinatown. Falling backward, he tried to reach into his holster for his own piece, but it was too late. He was already down.
Twelve
Of course it all went to shit. I should have known better.
VICTOR GISCHLER, Gun Monkeys
Dillon was watching The Flintstones on the Cartoon Network. It was one of his favorite episodes, with the Great Gazoo, and he was laughing like he’d been on the weed for a week. He’d had a wee dram of Jameson too, nothing lethal, when he heard voices in the hallway. It sounded like Angela talking to some guy, but he didn’t think she was stupid enough to bring someone back to the apartment with her.
Dillon turned off the TV, hearing Angela say, “I still don’t understand what you think I have to do with those people getting killed, this is really crazy.”
Shite, Dillon thought, she brought home a Guard.
Cursing to himself, he took his gun out of his dresser drawer and went into the bathroom. The apartment door opened and Angela said, “Can I get you something to drink?” The guy said, “That’s all right,” and Dillon swung open the door and shot the feckin’ cop two times in the chest, watching the fat bollix fall back, hit his head on the refrigerator, and land on the kitchen floor. If he wasn’t so angry at Angela for bringing the cop home – what was the feckin’ cunt thinking? – Dillon might’ve thought it was funny.
Angela was covering her mouth, trying not to scream. Dillon told her not to make a fecking sound. He didn’t want the neighbors coming over, banging on the door. But then a minute went by, and another, and no neighbors showed up. Maybe they thought the shots came from TV or something. Angela was sitting on the bed, crying. The cop was in the puddle of blood on the kitchen floor. Dillon noticed a shiny gold pin on the wanker’s lapel. He reached down, removed it, and pinned it on his own self.
Dillon knew he had to do something – get rid of this bollix fast. He couldn’t carry the body down himself without breaking his back. Besides, where would he take it? Then he had a great idea. He heard this shite on TV once, or read it or some fuck. A guy was fighting with his wife or something and he hit her so hard she died. He didn’t want the police to find out so he put her in the bathtub and poured battery acid all over her – covered her with it. When she dissolved, he just washed her down the drain.
Dillon had never tried that shite himself, but he thought that putting battery acid on the cop would be a great way to get rid of him – keep the gig nice and clean anyway. The only feckin’ problem was he didn’t know where he was going to get battery acid. He thought about it for a little while longer, then wondered, If battery acid could dissolve people, could Drano do the trick too? He didn’t see why not. But he’d probably need a lot of Drano to get the job done and he couldn’t go to the store now. Somebody might’ve heard those shots and by the time he came back cops could be raiding the feckin’ place.
Angela was still crying like a Brit. Dillon went in the bathroom to take a leak and think, admired the way the pin caught the light when he tousled his hair in the mirror. He asked his own self, “Do I look like I just killed a cop?” The tinker’s curse crossed his mind, but he shook himself free of it and said, “You look a poet me man.”
/> When he came out, Angela was staring down at the cop, her eyes getting wider. Dillon looked over and said, “Jaysus, fuck me.”
The cop’s eyes were open and blood was dripping out of his mouth. He was trying to talk.
Dillon went into the drawer in the kitchen cabinet and took out a big butcher knife. He came back and jabbed the knife into the cop’s chest. The cop’s shirt turned redder, and the blood puddle grew, but his eyes closed for good. Dillon nearly admired the way the fooker had clung on to life, had tried to hang in there. But a butcher’s knife, it doesn’t do argument.
Angela was still crying, making noise now. Dillon slapped her in the face and said, “Shut up, yah hoor’s ghost,” and then went into the bathroom and washed his hands.
Dillon didn’t know how things had gotten so fucked. After he sold the jewelry he’d taken to that Chinaman, he was planning to leave Angela and New York City. He’d always heard Miami was nice. He saw himself chilling out down there, smoking dope, lying on the beach and writing poems all feckin’ day. To hell with moving into that rich fellah’s house uptown. It was a stupid plan anyway – never would have worked. He was just going to hang out with Angela a little longer, till things cooled down, then it was slan, alanna. But, now, the stupid woman had fucked everything up – bringing home a cop right into her kitchen. Now, all of a sudden, Miami was in jeopardy.
He came out of the bathroom, went to the closet and took out two bed sheets. He tucked one of the sheets under the cop’s fat body and then rolled the body onto the rest of it. Then he put the second sheet around the same way and went to the phone and called Sean, one of the other Prov-eens that hung around the boyos. Luckily, Sean was home. Sean was second generation Irish – thus more Irish than the real thing, used to be in the FDNY – and now he drove a livery cab. He said he’d definitely come to the city from Queens to help Dillon out, saying with his stutter, “N-n-nothing to pray about.”
“Is the trunk of yah cab empty, Sean?” Dillon asked.
“W-w-why?”
“You’ll find out me man.”
After Dillon hung up he got two blankets out of the closet and he took the blanket and the sheet off the bed. Blood was soaking through the sheets that were currently wrapping the cop. Grabbing the cop by the feet, he dragged the body into the bedroom area, out of the blood puddle. He wrapped the body up the best he could. It didn’t look very neat, but at least the blood wasn’t leaking through anymore. Next, he got the mop and started mopping, wringing out the red water into the kitchen sink. He could mop like the best of them, prison taught you that. He got rid of most of it, but there was still a big red stain on the floor.
Dillon had nothing to do except wait for Sean, so he watched more Flintstones and some Bugs Bunny – American cartoons were feckin’ mighty – then had another wee dram of Jameson. Well, you would, wouldn’t you, after killing a Guard? After Bugs Bunny he watched some of the Knicks. He was gradually teaching himself about American sport, mainly to fill in the hours. He had learned that when you lose a game you choke. Jaysus, he loved that, you choke. And even better, if you lost a game, they said, Y ou got your arse handed to you.
He glanced at the trussed body and said, “You got yer arse handed to yah, fellah.”
Finally Angela stopped crying. She went into the bathroom and came out, wiping her face with a towel. She sat down next to Dillon, held his hand, and said, “I’m sorry – I really, really am. I didn’t mean to do any of this. He followed me home – I had no choice. It’ll be all right, won’t it? I mean nobody’s come to the door so maybe nobody heard the bloody shots. If they did, maybe they didn’t know what it was. Maybe they just thought it was a car backfiring or firecrackers or some shite. I mean the plan’s still gonna work, right? We’ll still get married, won’t we? And we’ll still get all of my boss’s money too. You’ll see. It’s just gonna take a few months, right?”
He vaguely wondered why, all of a sudden she was speaking like an Irish version of Tony Soprano’s wife.
“Whatever,” Dillon said. He knew none of this was going to happen, but he never saw the point in telling a woman what he was thinking.
During the Knicks post-game show, the buzzer rang. First Dillon made sure it was Sean, then he buzzed to let him up.
Sean was like a caricature mick, red hair, skinny as a rail and with that death-white skin and freckles. He spoke with a stammer, especially when he was drunk, which was most of the time. He drank Guinness like water and spiced it up with Jameson. In the bag, he’d pick the hottest woman in any pub, sidle up to her, and go, “I-I-I d-d-d-dr-drive a c-c-cab. W-w-will you g-g-go ou-ou-out wif me?” Then the left side of his face would begin to twitch, ensuring that any dim hope went right down the toilet. But he had a streak of ruthlessness that rivaled Dillon’s own. It was rumored he’d killed a priest, the worst sin of them all, and said, “I’m going to hell, going to have me own self a time first. The priest will be waiting for me, keep the fire nice and toasty.”
At the door Dillon said, “You leave your cab double-parked like I told you to?”
“Y-y-y-yes,” Sean said. Then he noticed the body on the floor. He said, “Ih-ih-ih-is it a nun?”
“No, tis nothing,” Dillon said. “Just a rent collector.”
You want an Irish guy on yer side, kill a snitch or a rent collector, and you have their undying loyalty.
“G-g-good on yah,” Sean said.
Angela was scrubbing the stains off the kitchen floor with a sponge and Mr. Clean. She said hello to Sean. Dillon said, “Sean, say hello to Angela.”
Sean said, “I d-d-drive a c-c-cab. Will you g-g-g-go ou-ou-out wif me?”
Dillon shook his head, said to Angela, “We’re just going to drive uptown, dump it somewhere, and that’s it.” And to Sean, “You’ll be back home in like a half hour.”
Then Dillon and Sean picked the body up – Dillon lifting from the head, Sean from the feet. The body wasn’t as stiff or as heavy as Dillon expected.
“W-w-w-w-what if s-somebody sees us?” Sean asked.
“We have to be quiet, that’s all,” Dillon said. And then, remembering Lauren Bacall, he said, “You can be quiet, can’t yah, you just put your lips together and shit the fook up.”
Jesus, he loved that broad, Bacall, she was a real dame, a ball-buster and with serious edge. Dillon wondered if she had any Irish in her. If not, he’d have been glad to supply some.
Dillon opened the door and listened closely to make sure nobody was in the hallway or coming up or down the stairs. Then he said, “Let’s go.”
They went down the two flights of stairs like they were carrying a piece of furniture. At the bottom of the stairs Sean walked too fast and the cop’s head banged into the wall.
“Jaysus, yah bollix,” Dillon said. “Take it easy, will yeh?”
They opened the first door into the vestibule then Sean stopped suddenly – his eyes staring ahead. Dillon turned around and saw a man coming up the steps into the building. There was no time to go back upstairs. They just had to move to the side of the vestibule and let the man pass.
Dillon had seen the guy in the building before. He was a typical nancy white guy – wore a suit every morning, going to work. He’d never said a word to Dillon before, but this time he smiled and said, “Moving out?”
He looked drunk and he smelled like alcohol. He was wearing one of his suits, but the tie was on loose.
“No,” Dillon said. “Just tossin’ away me old rug.”
“Cool,” the man said.
He passed by Sean and disappeared up the stairs.
Sean said, “L-l-l-l-l-let’s just g-g-g-g-g-”
“Just shut yer stammerin’ mouth and start movin’,” Dillon said.
They carried the body out to the street. There was no one passing by and no cars were coming. Moving fast, they stuffed the body into the trunk and got inside the car, a dark blue Chevy Caprice. As they were driving up First Avenue, Sean went, “W-w-w-what if that guy c-c-calls the c-c-c-c-c
ops?”
“No, he was fucked up and he’s a pillow biter, they don’t do cops, if you follow me drift?” Dillon said. “He saw fooking nuthin.”
“Nobody’s s-s-s-s-stupid enough to think that w-w-w-was a rug.”
“Just move it along, yah arsehole,” Dillon snapped.
Cursing to himself and shaking his head, Sean continued to drive uptown. Dillon couldn’t stand the quiet anymore and turned the radio on to a good local Irish station and cranked the volume. When they got to Eighty-sixth Street, Sean said, “Where are we headed?”
“Harlem,” Dillon said. “St. Nicholas Avenue.”
Dillon had used his idle time to walk around Manhattan and he already knew the city as well as a native. At 125th, they cut over to St. Nicholas and continued uptown.
At 144th, he said, “All right, this looks about right. Slow down.”
They turned on 144th and stopped in front of an empty lot of rubble. The streetlights were burnt out on the entire side of the street.
“Come on,” Dillon said. “Let’s do this fast as we can.”
Sean opened the trunk and they lifted the body out. It was so quiet they couldn’t even hear the traffic noise from St. Nicholas Avenue. There were only the sounds of a dog barking and some kids screaming, maybe a block or two away.
Stepping over the garbage and rubble, they continued walking into the darkness. A few times Dillon, going Fookin thing, slipped and almost fell. Sean was beginning to whine, asked, “How m-m-much farther?”
“Shut yer trap,” Dillon said. Then, when he thought they were far enough away from the street, he said, “All right, right here. Drop it.”
They let the body fall, then they started covering it with whatever garbage was lying around. It was impossible to see anything, but Dillon picked up what felt like wood, paint cans, dirt, whatever. When it seemed like the body was covered he said, “That’s all right. They’ll never look for a dead Guard here anyway.”
“A dead w-w-w-what?” Sean gasped. He was almost out of breath. “Are you d-d-d-d-demented?”