by Parnell Hall
We kept it up until Thirty-fourth Street, when we reached Penn Station. Was that our destination? It seemed unlikely, since it takes up the whole block. Seventh Avenue and Thirty-fourth Street would have been Penn Station, too. If we were going there, why had we crossed to Eighth?
I was speculating on a lot of things that didn't really matter. It occurred to me the reason I was speculating on a lot of things that didn't really matter was I was pissed off on the one hand and scared shitless on the other. A veritable crazy quilt of excremental functions.
Where the hell were we going?
Kessler stopped at the southeast corner of Thirty-fourth and Eighth. In front of us was a taxi stand with a row of cabs waiting to pick up passengers coming from the trains. Diagonally to the left was the entrance to Penn Station and an escalator down to Amtrak. Would he go in there? If he did, no problem. But I can't go in unless he does and I don't know if he's going to. Why the hell is he so damn indecisive? Jesus Christ, it's like tailing Hamlet.
I walked a little ways down Thirty-fourth Street. I was heading back toward Seventh Avenue, which made no sense, but nothing I was doing made any sense. At least I could see which way Kessler went. If he chose the door to Penn Station, I could wheel around and follow. Likewise, if he continued down Eighth. Basically, it was a good vantage point from which to double back.
I didn't have to. Kessler came tooling right by me.
I wanted to shoot him. Poor choice of words. But here we were, heading toward Seventh Avenue for no discernable reason. If this was an audition, it wasn't fair. The job wouldn't be as hard as this. The job would be following a sane person with a sense of purpose. True, that purpose might be the elimination of a human being, but-
I stopped.
I gawked.
Uh-oh.
I realized why I was having such a hard time following Martin Kessler.
He was following someone else.
10
I FOLLOWEL) THEM TO AN apartment building on East Eighty-ninth Street. I use the term followed them loosely, as in detective fiction. It cannot possibly describe the circuitous, hopscotch, follow-theleader, duck-duck-goose entertainment I was treated to. It included a trip to my office, by the way, where I pretended to go back to work, but emerged from the lobby the second the coast was clear, just in time to hop on Kessler's trail. I had a feeling I wasn't supposed to. The fact Kessler had taken me back to the office was a pretty good indication the day was over, a rather strong hint that my services were no longer needed, that he wanted me to leave him alone.
Tough luck, buddy. Hitman or no hitinan, you've made contact with your quarry. This is the very thing I hired on for. No matter what you want.You made that crystal clear. I'm here to thwart your wishes. My day ends when I say it ends. All right, buster, you think you ditched me, what you gonna do now?
Kessler hopped in a cab, went straight to an apartment on East Eighty-ninth Street. A modern high-rise with a liveried doorman at the front desk. I watched from across the street while Kessler went in and spoke to the doorman. I could see the doorman shake his head, but Kessler wasn't taking no for an answer. He was still arguing with the doorman when a taxi pulled up, and the guy he'd been following got out.
Kessler greeted him warmly. Even from across the street I could see the smile on his face.
But not the guy. The guy wasn't smiling at all. And who could blame him? If he had the slightest idea he was in trouble. And surely he must, or he wouldn't have been in trouble. The guy had to know the arrival of Kessler wasn't good news. Still, he shook Kessler's proffered hand.
Moments later the two men were walking toward the elevator.
Holy shit.
Moment of decision. Is this where I rush in and yell, "No! Woodsman, spare that tree! Hitman, put up your gun!"
Fat chance. There was no way to do it. I'd never get by the front desk.
The elevator doors closed. I could see the lights of the numbers of the floors begin to change, though I couldn't make them out at that distance.
Before I had time to think about it, I was crossing the street, striding into the lobby.
The elevator stopped at 16 just as I hit the front desk and realized I didn't know what to say. Panicked, I resorted to the truth. Or the half truth. Actually, a complete fabrication, but who's keeping score.
"The tenant who just came in," I said, pointing to the elevator. "Was that Freddy Foster? I was supposed to meet him here."
The doorman was all smiles. "Freddy Foster? There's no Freddy Foster here"
"He looked just like him. Are you sure?"
"Sure, I'm sure. That's Victor Marsden."
"New tenant?"
"Lived here for years." He frowned. "Sure you don't mean the other guy?"
Yes, I do. Thank you for the prompt, oh helper-out of us of little intellect and slowness on our feet. "Yes, of course. The guy with the tenant. Freddy Foster. Gotta be.You don't know him?"
"Afraid not."
My mind was going a mile a minute, below the national average but top speed for me. "Could you call up and ask the tenant, what's his name?"
"Victor Marsden."
"Yeah. Ask Mr. Marsden if that's Freddy Foster with him."
"Who shall I say is calling?"
This was a moment of truth. I wanted to say Stanley Hastings. That would rock Martin Kessler in his sockets, if Victor what'shis-name relayed the message. But I didn't want to leave my right name, on the alarmingly real chance this apartment building became a crime scene. That would not be a good tidbit of information for the doorman to pass on to the police.
"Rollo Tomassi."
"Huh?"
"Rollo Tomassi," I repeated. A name from the movie L.A. Confidential based on the James Ellroy book. A made-up name Kevin Spacey uses to identify his killer. If Martin Kessler knew the reference, it would have to shake him up.
The doorman rang through. "Mr. Marsden? I have a Mr. Tomassi here-"
"Rollo Tomassi," I corrected.
"I have a Rollo Tomassi here. He wonders if the gentleman with you is Freddy Foster. He thought he looked like him." The doorman listened, said, "Freddy Foster." Then, "No, his name is Rollo Tomassi."
The doorman hung up the phone, shook his head. "You got the wrong man.
I smiled. "Sorry. I could have sworn."
I went out, crossed the street, walked west. I kept going till I was out of sight of the doorman, assuming the guy hadn't followed me into the street. I ducked in the doorway of a brownstone, looked back. There was no one in sight. Why should there be? I hadn't done anything suspicious, anything that would tip off the doorman. Unless he knew the scene from L.A. ConfIdential. I weighed the odds of that. Wondered if doing so made nie a bigot.
Martin Kessler carne out the front door and looked around.
I ducked behind a car before he could see me. Or so I thought. He walked up, flushed me from my hiding place.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded.
"What you hired me for."
"What do you mean, what I hired you for? I hired you for a specific purpose."
"Yeah. To keep the mark alive. That's what I'm doing."
"That was you who called upstairs?"
"Yeah.You like that?"
"No, I don't like that. What a bonehead play. If the guy wasn't suspicious before, he is now."
"Does he know who Rollo Tomassi is?"
"I don't know and I don't care. I took you back to the office. Couldn't you leave it at that?"
"No, I can't.You wanna get rid of rile, fire me. Otherwise, I'm gonna do what I was hired to do"
"Fine.You've done it. Now go home."
"13ut-
"Are you a total moron? The doorman saw me. With the guy. Going up in the elevator together. Igo you think that right now in this apartment would be the ideal time and place to bump him off? I ditched you for a reason. So you wouldn't get yourself in trouble. You're meddling in things you shouldn't.When you don't need to. When there's
no reason. Are we clear?"
His face looked pretty hard for an English teacher. It occurred to me if I were in his class I sure wouldn't wanna be late with a book report. "Yeah. That's clear."
"Good. I'm going to get into a taxi. If you follow me, I'll kill you."
He stepped out in the street and hailed a cab. It went to the corner, turned down Second Avenue.
Another taxi came by and I got in.
I didn't say, "Follow that cab!"
I let it take me home.
11
ALICE WAS SHOCKED. "You saw him."
"Yes."
"You know who he's going to kill."
"Yeah, but he didn't kill him"
"Not yet.'
"He says he doesn't want to kill him."
"If he doesn't want to kill him, why is he following him?"
"It's his job."
"It's his job to kill him."
I frowned. "Yeah. But-"
"But what?"
"It's my job to stop him."
"And you did that?"
"Not really."
"I didn't think so.You didn't do anything, did you?"
"No, I didn't. But in a way I did."
"How do you mean?"
"I think just being there is enough. Just the fact that I'm there, a witness, seeing what's going on, is enough of a deterrent to keep him from doing it. So, as long as I'm following him, I can prevent him from doing the job."
"That's one way." Alice added chopped garlic to whatever she was cooking on the stove. It was some lamb dish or other, and I'm sure she didn't know the name of it. Alice doesn't cook from recipes. She makes what she calls a mishmash, inventing as she goes. It's always delicious.
Alice was cooking late tonight because she didn't know when I'd be home. Usually, when that happens, we order out. I think tonight she was cooking because she was nervous and wanted something to do.
"What do you mean, that's one way?"
"There's another way."
"What?"
"Go to the police."
"I've been to the police."
Alice set the wooden spoon on the edge of the saucepan, turned to face me. "Oh, come on, Stanley. What do you mean, you've been to the police? You fed MacAullif a bullshit story, got MacAullif to trace a name. At the time you had no hard information. Now you do.You know who the guy's going to kill."
"I don't know for sure."
"Oh, come on. Is it the guy or isn't it?"
"It's the guy."
"Do you know his name?"
"Yes"
"What is it?"
I hesitated.
"Right," Alice said. "If you told me, you'd have to kill me."
"Actually, if I told you, he'd have to kill me."
"That isn't funny, Stanley. It's way beyond funny. These are people you should not be mixed up with. If there's any way out, you should take it"
"For instance?"
"I said if. I didn't say I knew one."
"I'm open to suggestions"
"I told you. Go to the police."
"And tell 'em what? That the English teacher they've already checked out now has a specific target in mind?"
"Tell MacAullif the whole thing from beginning to end. Leave nothing out. And for god's sakes, don't say hypothetical."
"What?"
"The minute you say hypothetical, he thinks it's all bullshit. You gotta level with him. This is what happened, this is what I did, I may have broken a few statutes along the way; if so, I gotta take my lumps, but I'm trapped, I can't get out, and I don't want anyone to be killed."
"You want me to turn myself in?"
"I'm not saying turn yourself in. I'm saying get yourself off the hook."
"By turning myself in."
"Well, if you wanna argue semantics"
"Semantics"
Alice dropped pasta into boiling water, added a little salt. The tiniest of distractions, yet it totally threw me. Not that I wasn't thrown already.
"What do you know now that you didn't know before?" Alice said.
"What do you mean, before?"
"Before you took the job."
"I know the mark's name and address."
"That is a fairly important piece of information"
"I also know the hitter's not going to pop him there."
"Hitter?"
"Yeah. It's better than hitman. Nonsexist."
"Stanley. I'm not in the mood."
"What about wine and candlelight?"
Alice groaned. "You're impossible."
"I'm not impossible. I'ni joking bravely in the face of death. I'm not happy with the current situation, and I would love to get out of it any way I could. Short of making a full confession and doing time. The point is, the guy's safe for tonight. The shooter's not going to take him out in his apartment"
"Shooter?"
"You didn't like hitter."
"I don't like shooter."
"How about shitter? Combination of the two."
"Stanley."
"So he's safe tonight. And he's safe tomorrow morning, too, because our hitman has school."
"If he's for real."
"So I have until class lets out at three forty-five."
"To go to the police?"
"Actually, I'm doing cases for Richard"
"Until three forty-five? When you pick up the hitman at school?"
"No, he picks me up at the office"
"What?"
"He doesn't want me going near the school. So he's coming by the office instead"
"What if he doesn't show?"
I sighed, said nothing.
"Stanley."
"I know, I know. I gotta go to the cops"
"You'll talk to MacAullif?"
"I'll talk to MacAullif."
"Before three forty-five?"
"Yeah"
"What about your cases?"
"I'll fit it in between my cases."
"You won't let Richard talk you out of it?"
"I'm not even dealing with Richard. I get beeped by Wendy/Janet."
"Okay. When you talk to MacAullif, remember one thing."
"What's that?"
"Don't use a hypothetical."
12
"SUPPOSE I GAVE YOU ANOTHER NAME."
"Have you got another name?" MacAullif said.
"Suppose I did."
"This is a hypothetical?"
"No. This is a let's-suppose."
"What's the difference?"
"Semantics."
"You're really pissing me off."
"You should talk to my wife."
"What?"
"I'm a walk in the park. Get my wife in here and see how long you last."
"What's your hypothetical this time?"
"My hypothetical is a let's-suppose."
"This is the name of the hitman?"
"Not necessarily."
"What does that mean?"
"I'm not sayin' it is, and I'm not sayin' it isn't. But it just might be a major player in this little drama"
"Major player?"
"One of the two main participants."
"Are you talking about the whacker or the whackee?"
"That sounds like self-abuse."
"Good. If the hitman offs himself, it's a suicide, and I don't have to find a perp."
"That isn't what I meant."
"I know what you meant. I just can't believe you've regressed to adolescent masturbation jokes"
I got a name, MacAullif. And I really need it traced before three this afternoon."
"Why?"
I took a breath. "I'm in trouble. I need help. I think I'm in over my head. By three o'clock this afternoon I need to know if there's any reason under the sun why anyone would be interested in Victor Marsden of East Eighty-ninth Street"
"He's the victim?"
"Not yet."
"Say I do this for you.You gonna tell me what's up?"
"When I can."
"When's that?"
&
nbsp; "I don't know. Alice says I should tell you now. Only problem is, I don't wanna go to jail. And you probably don't either."
"Good guess"
"Would you like me to tell you everything-including the part that could be considered quasilegal-in order to better allow you to extricate me from the unfortunate situation in which I now find myself ?"
"You do and I'll kill you"
"Not you, too"
"Your life has been threatened?"
"Only in jest. I hope."
"If your life has been threatened, it's something else. Do you have any reason to believe that this person means to do you harm?"
I took a breath. It would be so easy just to say, "Yes. I'm scared to death. The guy's a wacko whacker who's having far too much fun with this assignment. Who might easily knock me off just to test his reflexes"
Only that wasn't the case. Martin Kessler posed no threat to me as long as I didn't cross him. Which was all well and good, except my job was to cross him.
"You're sweating," MacAullif said.
"It's hot."
"I'm a sergeant. My office is air-conditioned." MacAullif cocked his head. "Has this guy threatened your life? Is that why you're sweating?"
"I wish it were that simple."
"It is that simple. There's the good guys and the bad guys.You line up on one side or the other. At the end of the day you tally the score. If you align yourself with the bad guys, don't expect to score very high."
"Where did that analogy come from?"
"Damned if I know. Some guy puttin' together some task force or other, trying to hearten the troops. It's a bunch of bullshit, but what do you expect from a dumb cop."
I noticed how adroitly MacAullif had led the conversation away from the topic of my telling all. I wondered if Alice would appreciate the significance of the timely digression. Except I knew she wouldn't. She'd say, "Bullshit. He pulled that on you because you weren't straight with him." The fact he didn't want me to be straight with him would get lost in the shuffle.
"Can you run the name?"
"Of course I can run the name. I have nothing else to do. I sit here all day long, waiting, hoping you will show up in my office and give me some work. The five open homicides-make that sixthe six open homicides I am supervising can pretty much take care of themselves, seeing as how we have made no arrests and have no one to interrogate. Oh, wait a minute, that's not a good thing, is it? Since the commissioner tends to view arrests as progress. And lack of them as-wait a minute, I've almost got it-lack of progress. Which tends to make the commissioner grumpy.