Blood on Their Hands

by Lawrence Block

  The beauty of Manhattan’s luminous skyline on the other side of the East River did nothing for my frayed nerves. Wood planking creaked beneath my tires and abandoned warehouses formed dark shapes along the Brooklyn shoreline to my right and left. Wind buffeted my car. Aside from the two of us, the area was devoid of life. A condition I expected myself to be in if I didn’t do something quick. So I stomped the gas pedal and dived down, wedging my body between the seat and the dashboard.

  A roar rocked the car. I saw sparks above my head and an acrid smell filled the air. The windshield webbed while my front tires bounced over the lip of the pier. Another shot rang out and the windshield disintegrated as the car flipped over. The man behind me hit the roof with his head and shoulders, dropping his weapon as the Olds slapped water.

  Then he thrashed about, screaming wildly in fear of the river rushing in through the shot-out windshield below me. Knowing there was no bucking this icy torrent, I held my breath and waited. I was pounded repeatedly by a world that was cold and black and wet. When the force suddenly stopped, I heard the plunk of an escaping bubble and felt the car float downward.

  Clawing blindly, I found the steering wheel and pulled myself toward the missing windshield. I tasted salt water and crude oil as I shoved my torso through the gap and kicked my feet against the fender of the descending car to begin my desperate upward swim. The blazing red and green Christmas lighting that adorned the Empire State Building’s peak welcomed me to the surface from all the way across the river. I sucked in freezing air and paddled to a slimy piling. Somehow I managed to shin up that greasy pole and scramble onto the dock.

  I knew civilization wasn’t far off, but it seemed beyond my reach as I trudged forward on quivering legs. It was only three blocks, but the walk seemed to take forever because I had to stop several times to ease my burning lungs.

  Finally, I saw the kielbasa-laden window of a Polish delicatessen whose dim lights indicated the store was about to close. I staggered through the front door and said, “I need your phone.”

  The slender, blond-haired lady who was emptying the cash register muttered something I didn’t understand, then switched to English, addressing me with the Polish word for mister that sounded like, “Pon! What has happened to you?

  “Please...” My teeth were clicking. “Accident...almost drowned. Need a phone...”

  She led me through long red curtains to a back room, where an elderly gentleman with a white mustache eyeballed me curiously. The woman punctuated staccato sentences in Polish with agitated gestures. When she dropped her hands and inhaled deeply, he motioned me to a phone on the wall. I dialed a police captain named Crowley. Luckily, he was still in his office. I asked him to come and get me, and told him I’d explain why later.

  The Polish couple demanded I dry off and change clothes, and insisted I drink something hot. I thanked them for their kindness and promised I’d bring the clothes back freshly laundered. Then, while my hosts resumed closing, I sat at the kitchen table in their rear-store apartment, sipping a cup of tea and mulling over the events that led to this situation.

  There are some exes in my life. I’m an ex-husband to a woman named Amanda and I’m an ex-lieutenant, having retired from New York’s Finest after being shot, an experience that left me with an aversion to guns. What I am now is the owner and proprietor of Callahan’s Pub, an Irish-styled establishment in the largest Polish enclave on America’s East Coast.

  Now, like all good publicans, I follow the tavern keeper’s holiday custom of spreading Yuletide cheer in the bars and restaurants of my colleagues in the food and beverage business. I accomplish this by having a drink or two with each of the owners in their establishments and they reciprocate by visiting me in mine. I kicked off this season of good tidings by making my first stop at an out-of-the-way place called Connors’ Comer near the East River in Long Island City.

  Barry Connors usually made his daily bread through the lunch and early evening trade springing from the factories and warehouses surrounding his saloon. So I was surprised when I arrived there rather late one evening to see yuppies, hard rockers, punk rockers, and some people who looked like they were off their rockers milling about the bar and occupying all the tables along the wall. Two family tragedies within a year, coupled with my efforts to keep a heavily mortgaged business afloat, kept me from socializing, so I hadn’t kept up with the changes here.

  A young lady bartender with long brown hair and what seemed to be two rockets stuffed into her sweater approached me, smiled, and said, “Hi.”

  “I will be,” I told her, “if I drink too much.”

  Her smile flashed brighter and was highlighted by a full, throaty laugh. Then she asked, “Now, what can I do to get you started?”

  “Scotch on the rocks is a good way to go.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “Is Barry around?”

  She shook her head and set up my drink. “Hasn’t been in yet.”

  I thanked her, sipped some scotch, and studied the crowd from a professional standpoint, what you might call an owner’s point of view. It wasn’t long before I spotted some strange goings-on. I noticed a tall, thin gentleman of olive complexion prancing in and out of the kitchen, which was located in a room to the side at the end of the bar. He brought out dishes of chips and pretzels, which the lady bartender distributed. He also made very frequent trips to the men’s room, which was next to the ladies’ room across the floor from the kitchen.

  During the course of an hour, I saw three new customers enter the bar. Within minutes of each arrival, Olive Skin would saunter into the gentlemen’s lavatory, stay briefly, then return to the kitchen. The recently arrived patron would soon make for the john himself. When he returned, Olive Skin would go back in.

  I slowly nursed another two drinks and noticed the same thing happen when two young females walked in. While they sipped their drinks at the bar, Olive Skin returned to the men’s room. When he came back, a young man sitting alone at a table went to the john, then came back and sat down. Minutes later, the young ladies at the bar waved to the loner and acted as if they were surprised to see him. He seemed just as astonished at their presence and motioned them to join him at the table. Meanwhile, Olive Skin went back to the can.

  So I got up, walked over to the pay phone located in the alcove between the bar’s double-door entrance, and dialed Barry Connors’s home number. When he didn’t answer, I returned to the bar, paid for my drinks and left.

  I phoned Barry several times over the next few days, and caught him at home the night before Christmas Eve. When he answered, I said, “Barry, I’ve got to talk to you about something very important. Are you free right now?”

  “Sure, Marty. Come on over.”

  Barry lived in a converted loft above a furniture storage warehouse in an industrial section of Astoria, Queens. Pressing the intercom, I exchanged greetings with him before he buzzed me into the hall. Then I climbed a long flight of wooden steps and found him waiting in his opened doorway. When we shook hands, I could see by his red-veined complexion that he was oversampling his most toxic in-house products. He had a bar in his apartment that was almost as long as the commercial one he made his living from. Thumbing me toward it, he said, “Come in. Let me fix you a drink.”

  “Sure.”

  “What’ll ya have?”

  “Beer’s fine.”

  I straddled a stool and made room on the bar by shoving some racing forms aside. Barry ambled behind and opened a frosted brown bottle from the refrigeration unit below, then handed it to me. He poured himself a double sour mash and raised a toast to the season. I clinked my bottle to his tumbler and said, “Merry Christmas.”

  “And a Happy New Year to you, Martin, my boy. Glad you’re out and about after all the family troubles.”

  “Life must go on.” I sipped my beer and he downed his Jack Daniel’s.

  “Very true. God’s will.”

  “I stopped by your place a couple of nights ago, B
arry. Joint was jumping.”

  “Trade’s picked up a lot since I hired Cynthia.

  “Is that the lady with the long brown hair?”

  Barry refilled his glass. “That’s Cynthia.”

  “Who’s the tail skinny guy with the olive complexion?”

  “You must mean Faro. He’s her boyfriend. Why?”

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, Barry, but he’s dealing drugs.”

  The glass in Barry’s hand never made it to his lips. “What?”

  “Cocaine, probably.”

  “Cocaine!”

  “You should pop in on your help when they don’t expect it, pal. Hell, you taught that rule to me.”

  Barry lowered his glass, compressed his lips into a tight line, and ran a set of pudgy fingers through his thinning white hair. “Marty, are you sure of this?”

  “Before I bought the pub, I was a detective, and I haven’t forgotten my training. You never lose your experience, you know.”

  “Guess you’re right about that.” Barry nodded and knocked back the drink.

  “Faro’s action’s slick enough to fool the untrained eye, but when something’s shady, I spot it.”

  After I explained Faro’s routine, he said, “No wonder business has been so good lately.”

  “Barry, a little over a year ago, drug dealers killed my nephew with their crap, although—” I swallowed hard and forced myself to tell the truth, “—nobody forced him to indulge. Still, I hate these drug-dealing slimebags. Look, I can help you with this. Remember Captain Crowley?”

  Creases formed on Barry’s forehead. “That detective friend of yours?”

  “More like a close acquaintance. When I was on the job, I helped him crack an insurance fraud case that spanned his precinct in Queens and mine in Manhattan South. So he feels he owes me. I could have him stake your place out and bust this operation.”

  “The scandal would ruin my business.” Barry sighed and shook his head. “Who else knows about this, Marty?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Not even your girlfriend?”

  No. Tammy’s in Florida. Visiting her aunt. Comes home tomorrow night. I’m picking her up at LaGuardia. Nine p.m. flight.”

  “Look, don’t tell her—or anyone. I’ll take care of this myself.”

  “Are you sure—”

  “I’m sure.” Barry blinked thoughtfully. “Just leave it to me.”

  “Okay. But if you need help, call. You showed me the ropes when I opened my business, and I don’t forget favors.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that, Marty.” Barry reached out and shook my hand. “I know what a memory you have.”

  The sound of Captain Crowley’s voice out front snapped me out of my reverie. When he walked into the kitchen, I greeted him wearing a sweat suit, wool robe, and fur-lined slippers. He looked me up and down, then said, “Where’s the brandy and cigars?”

  “Forgive me if I don’t see the humor in that, Captain,” I answered, biting back a chuckle in spite of my condition. “I’ll explain everything while you drive me home.’

  I told Captain Crowley about Tammy’s incoming flight, so he radioed for a patrol car to meet her at the airport, then drove away from the curb saying, “Okay, let’s hear it.

  Tammy walked into my apartment mortified at having been picked up by two uniformed police officers at LaGuardia. She thought it was my idea of a stupid joke. But when I told her about my chariot drop into the brine, her wide brown eyes stared at me without blinking. Captain Crowley settled his long lean frame onto my sofa and stared at me as well. His gaze seemed to say, “Are you going to tell her the rest of it?”

  I nodded to him and I told her my thoughts.

  I buzzed Barry Connors and announced my unexpected visit over his intercom. I explained I had placed an order for bar goods with my Queens supplier and thought I’d stop by since I was in the neighborhood anyway. When I walked through his door, he pumped my right hand and said, “I’m glad you’re all right, Marty.”

  The tabloids had picked up the story of my ordeal from Captain Crowley. I spoke to a couple of reporters as well. Now the word on the street was that nobody carjacks Marty Callahan and gets away with it. I reinforced that idea by saying to Barry, “That lowlife, whoever he is, won’t rob anyone anymore.”

  Barry waved me toward the bar. “Some way to die.”

  “Better him than me.”

  “You’re a hard man, Callahan,” Barry laughed. “I read he had no identification on him. That right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Beer?”

  “I think a scotch will do me tonight.”

  “Scotch for you. Jack Daniel’s for me.” Barry poured the drinks, handed me a tumbler, and touched his to mine. “Wish you told me you were stopping by tonight.”

  I emptied the glass, then asked, “Why?”

  “Would’ve thrown a party to celebrate the fact that you’re alive.” He grinned. “Guess we’ll have to party alone.”

  “Wish my nephew Rodney could be here to party with us.”

  “Ah, yes. Your nephew was a good kid. Smart kid. I mean, became a Wall Street broker, no less.” Barry shook his head sadly. “God rest him.”

  “And one of your best customers when he wasn’t mastering the financial world, if I remember right.”

  “True. We talked a lot. He thought the world of you, Marty. He said he’d always owe you for helping put him through school.”

  “My brother-in-law David had died of a massive heart attack when Rod was a baby. Dave owned a flower shop that was just getting off the ground on borrowed money. Left nothing but bills behind. So, I had to help. Rod and my sister Loretta were the only relatives I had left. When she lost Rod, Loretta fell into a depression and never really recovered.”

  “Seems I remember you taking her to therapy.”

  “Yeah. It seemed to work—for a while. Then one night, she swallowed a bottle of pills...”

  “Sadly, I remember. Didn’t know her well. But your nephew always ran errands for me until he went off to college.” Barry laughed. “I kept him employed as a kid just like you asked me to.”

  “That’s right. I introduced him to you, and he liked you and trusted you, and it was probably your coke that blew out the blood vessels in his head.”

  My host continued pouring a new round, but his bushy white eyebrows knitted together. “What are you saying?”

  “You’re running drugs.” I thrust my forefinger so close to his face I damn near poked his eye. “And you put a hit on me.”

  “That car dive—” Barry rolled his eyes, “—must have rattled your brain.”

  “Why’d you go into the drug business? Are you addicted?”

  “Addicted!” Barry spat the answer out. “Sure!”

  “Gambling debts, then? Are you in over your head?” I gestured toward the racing forms. “Sure looks like it.”

  “Why...after all I’ve done for you!” Barry’s rising voice was filled with indignation. “Get the hell out of here! Go, or I’ll call the cops!”

  “No need. You’ll be seeing plenty of cops in the future.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m going to ask my NYPD colleague Captain Crowley to send you some business. Nothing official. Just some off-duty officers who like to drink and hang around and watch things.”

  “You mean you haven’t asked him already?”

  “No. Because I wasn’t sure about your complicity before.”

  “But you’re sure now?”

  “Dead certain.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “That gunman who took me for a ride looked familiar. And the reason he looked familiar has been haunting me until just now, when you poured my drink. It just dawned on me that he was one of the yuppies I had seen in your bar.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “Captain Crowley won’t think it’s nonsense. His watchdogs will either put you in jail or—”

  Barry
leaned forward, his right hand disappearing under the bar. “Or what?”

  “Or you’ll clean up your act and I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I ruined your dirty little business.”

  All right. If you must know, it was my cocaine that did your nephew in, Marty.” Barry’s hand came up clutching a snub-nosed. 38. “Seems his blood pressure couldn’t handle it. But like you said yourself, nobody forced him to take it. He even brought me Wall Street trade.”

  “If I had known, Barry, I would have straightened him out, and my sister would be alive today.”

  “No way would you’ve straightened him out. Success made your nephew cocky. But I’m going to straighten you out.”

  “By shooting me with that revolver?”

  “Why not? Must protect my enterprise, Marty. This area’s deserted at night. My friends will make you disappear later. And who’ll be the wiser?”

  “The police. I’m wired.”

  “Wired?” The color drained between the whiskey lines in his face. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Look!” I yanked up my shirt and showed him the bug taped to my side. “The truth about your half-assed hit man really dawned on me right after I went for that nerve-racking ride. I thought about how that gunman frisked me for a weapon and called me by name. Then I remembered seeing him in your bar. After that, I knew you set me up for a carjacking gone awry. Cops would be chasing teenage stickup artists and never connect it to the drug trade. Very neat.”

  We were both startled by the crash of the vestibule door downstairs. When the intercom buzzed as well, Barry closed his eyes and sighed. The sight of my forty-eight-year-old sister laid out in her casket just months ago flashed through my mind. Something twisted in my stomach as I said, “Your ship is sinking, pal. What was the first Titanic movie? A Night to Remember? Well, this is another night to remember.”

  That remark wrenched Barry. His eyes snapped open and a shiver ran through him. I seized his gun hand, and as I bent it away from me, one of my fingers slipped through the trigger guard. The roar plugged my eardrums and the flash stung my eyes.

  Barry fell from my grasp. I squinted several times, swallowed hard, and shook my head. Once I refocused, I saw him lying, blood spattered, behind the bar. Footsteps pounded up the stairs and two uniformed cops, guns drawn, burst in. Captain Crowley was right behind them. He looked about, then said, “What happened?”