Big Man

by Ed McBain

  “Hello, boy,” she said, and then she turned and fished a cigarette from her purse, lighting it without even looking at me. I swung around as Andy started the car.

  “I’d like to say goodbye to Dirk and Murray,” I said.

  “Murray already left,” Andy said, “and the hell with Dirk. We’ve got a busy morning ahead of us.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where we going?”

  “You’ll see. Learn not to ask too many questions, kid. It’s better that way.”

  “Sure, I was just—”

  “How’d you like Spotswood?”

  “I never even saw Spotswood. I never once got out of the cabin.”

  “You got any complaints?” Andy said.

  “No. No complaints.”

  “Leave the boy alone,” Celia said. “He’s been cooped up for three weeks. Least he can do is—”

  “Shut up, Celia,” Andy said. “When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.”

  “In three weeks,” Celia said, “a person can get hungry.”

  “How the hell would you know?” Andy asked.

  “I’ve been cooped up all my life.”

  “Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Watch the road.”

  Andy turned back toward the road, driving slowly and carefully. I guess when you’re fooling around with the Law, you can’t afford to get picked up on some crap thing like speeding or passing a red light. It’s like a bank teller who’s taking home a grand a week from the till. He always counts out pennies for the customers because he don’t want some fishy-eyed accountant to find even the slightest little error, not when he’s knocking himself out to cover that thousand-dollar deficit. I never yet rode with anybody who’s ever brushed with the Law and seen him drive fast or careless. The best drivers in the world are crooks. That’s a flat statement, take it or leave it. This don’t mean if you’re a good driver, you are also a crook. But if you’re a crook, I guarantee you’re a good driver. Andy was a careful good driver, even now when he was pissed off at his wife. He drove with this frown all over his face, and I guess he set the tone because nobody talked for a long time. Then, after a while, the frown went away, and he got a little jovial again.

  “How was the service, kid?” he asked.

  “Couldn’t have been better.”

  “Fine. You’ll get our bill in the morning.” He laughed aloud, but nobody in the car laughed with him.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, Andy,” I said. “About paying for—”

  “Never mind. You’ll get plenty opportunity to talk later on today.”

  “Oh. Well sure, whatever you say.”

  Now apparently Celia was steaming on the back seat all this time. She wasn’t the kind of dame who takes guff from a man, and Andy had shut her up a while back, or anyway he thought he’d shut her up, but all he’d done was give her more coal for that fire she was building inside her.

  “Let him talk!” she yelled. “For Christ’s sake, stop cutting him dead.”

  Andy’s eyebrows went up onto his forehead. He was opening his mouth when the next blast came from Celia.

  “The kid’s hungry for talk,” she said, “can’t you see that? He’s been locked in with a clam like Murray and a moron like Dirk! It’s a wonder he didn’t go out of his mind!”

  I turned on the seat. Her legs were still crossed, but her skirt was a little higher now, and she was jiggling the foot with the bracelet on it.

  “Well, neither Murray or Dirk are what you’d call great conversationalists,” I said.

  “I didn’t think so,” Celia answered. “You can talk to me, Frankie. If Andy doesn’t feel like talking he can just keep watching the road.”

  “Listen, talk,” Andy said. “Talk your heads off, who cares? What the hell do I care if you talk or not?” He was getting angry all over again, but I could see he didn’t figure any percentage in starting a ten-round bout with his wife. Whatever else she had, she also had a sharp tongue. I began to think maybe I should steer wide around this dame. That tongue could cut you to ribbons before you even knew you were being cut.

  Celia looked in the rear-view mirror and her eyes met Andy’s there. She sat where she was for a few minutes, and then she slid over on the seat, moving to the right of the car so that she was right behind me, where Andy couldn’t see her in the mirror. She began jiggling her leg again. I looked at it, and then I looked at her face, and she smiled and winked at me. I dropped my hand carelessly over the back of the seat and my fingers brushed against her ankle.

  “So let’s talk, Frankie,” she said. “Tell me what you did all the while you were up here.”

  “There wasn’t a hell of a lot to do,” I said. “I just stayed in the cabin, that’s all. And once in a while I played checkers with Dirk.”

  “You should have asked him to get you a girl. Or aren’t you interested in girls?”

  “I’m interested, all right,” I said, and I caught her ankle with my hand, and I squeezed it, and she opened her mouth in a little sort of surprise, and then she kept moving her foot, twisting it under my hand.

  “Is that so?” she said. “Well, is that so?”

  “Tell him all the nice things Jobbo’s been saying about him,” Andy said. “You feel like talking, tell him that.”

  “Jobbo says you’re a smart boy,” Celia said.

  “He says that about everybody.”

  “No, he don’t,” Andy said. “Jobbo’s too stupid to say that about everybody. A smart boy tells everybody they’re smart. But Jobbo’s stupid, so if he says somebody’s smart, he means it. You follow?”

  “Well …”

  “No wells about it. We got room for a smart boy, Frankie.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Andy. I mean, I think you got the idea—”

  “These people I’m taking you to meet,” Andy said, “they know what to do with a smart boy. You working now, Frankie?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then you wouldn’t turn down something good that comes your way, would you?”

  I turned halfway on the seat and looked at Celia. “No, I wouldn’t turn down nothing that looked good.”

  “Besides, you kind of owe us a little something, don’t you?”

  “Well, you see, that’s just it. This idea of—”

  “Not that we’ll hold that over your head, Frankie. You can just forget that, if you’ve got that on your mind. What we done for you was free and clear, no strings attached. You want to walk out now, that’s perfectly all right, you understand?”

  I got to admit I felt pretty relieved when he said that. I guess I almost sighed. “Well, that’s real nice of you, Andy. I appreciate it.”

  “Not at all. That’s the way we work.”

  “Well, I sure appreciate it.”

  “But you can go far with us, Frankie. Ain’t that right, Celia?”

  “You can go as far as you like, Frankie,” Celia said.

  This was a weird thing, what was going on with her. I was holding her ankle, and she was twisting her foot, and I swear to God it was almost like being in bed together. That’s crazy, I know. But just holding her ankle, just feeling her warm skin under the smooth nylon was better than kissing or hugging other girls. It’s hard to explain, I know.

  “Look at Andy,” Celia said with that sharp tongue of hers. “Look at how far he’s gone.”

  “Yeah, don’t get smart,” Andy said. “I only been with the outfit a short time, Frankie, and I’m pulling down a cool two hundred a week. Is that chicken feed?”

  “It sure ain’t.”

  “Sure, we live in a dump, but it wouldn’t look good to move out all of a sudden. Besides, we need a good man on the scene, for emergencies, for things like what happened to you that night.”

  “I see.”

  “That’s why we drive a Chevy,” Celia said sarcastically. “We can afford a Lincoln, but we got to keep up appearances.”

  “
Don’t listen to her,” Andy said. “She’s just an ungrateful bitch.”

  “Thanks,” Celia said dryly.

  “I like you, Frankie,” Andy said. “And I’m slated for bigger stuff, believe me. I’m going to be a big man in this outfit, and if you stick around, who knows? There ain’t no limit to what could happen to you. Provided you keep your nose clean and do what you’re told in the beginning.”

  “I’ll keep my nose clean,” I said.

  I kept my hand on Celia’s ankle.

  We drove over the George Washington Bridge, and then Andy kept driving downtown. He finally pulled up in front of a big building on Central Park West. I was sorry the ride was over. Even after what happened later, even after everything, I’ll never forget that drive back from New Jersey when just touching Celia’s leg made me weak. I’ll never forget that as long as I live.

  We all got out of the car and walked under the canopy to the front door, where a uniformed joker threw it open for us. We rang for the elevator in the lobby, and when it came, Andy stepped in first, the Indian Chief going ahead of the squaw. Celia frowned and walked in after him. I went in last. “Twelve,” Andy said to the operator.

  The car went up, and we got off. Andy led us down to a door at the end of the hall. He buzzed twice, and we waited until a small click told us the peephole was being looked through. It was one of those see-through-only-one-way jobs, so that we couldn’t glimpse the eye looking out. We heard the click again, and a voice behind the door said, “Oh, Andy,” and then I heard the chain going off the door, and then a lock being unlocked, and then another lock, and I figured for Christ’s sake we must be entering Fort Knox.

  The door opened wide on a guy almost as fat as Jobbo. This guy was well-dressed, though, and I’d have bet my life he didn’t stink the way Jobbo did. And if he did, it was probably from expensive cologne. His lapels were hand-stitched, and he was wearing a white-on-white shirt, and a silk tie with just a tiny small white horse’s head design in one spot down below the knot. He wore a gold tie clasp high up on his tie, a little too high for my taste, but you could see it was real gold and not any cheap crap. I hate imitations. I always hated them, even when I was a kid. For me, it’s got to be the genuine article, or nothing. So I could appreciate the tie clasp this guy was wearing, and the tailor-made suit, and the expensive shirt. I go for good things.

  “Come on in, Andy,” the guy said. “Ah, you brang the missus. Hello, Celia.” We stepped onto a thick rug, and the guy who’d opened the door for us took Celia into his arms and gave her a kiss on the cheek, the way my greaseball uncles and aunts used to do to my old man when he was still alive. “Come in, kid,” he said to me, and then he closed the door. As Celia passed him, he dropped the uncle routine and patted her on the behind. It got me sore, his doing that, but I didn’t say anything. I could see a bulge under the left hand side of his jacket, right where his monogrammed pocket handkerchief was, and I knew that bulge wasn’t made by no muscle.

  “Mr. Carfon is waiting for you, Andy,” he said.

  “Good. He knows I was bringing the kid, don’t he?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “How’ve things been going, Milt?”

  “So-so,” he answered, smiling. “I understand this is a good boy.” Andy nodded. Milt kept looking at me. “He’s too handsome, Andy,” he said, smiling. “You better lock Celia in a closet.” He began laughing, and Andy laughed with him, and even Celia joined in until I began to feel a little stupid, the only one standing there and not laughing.

  “So come on in,” Milt said when he was finished laughing. “Turk’s here already.”

  “Oh, good,” Andy said. “You think Mr. Carfon’ll mind? Me bringing Celia along?”

  “Hell, no,” Milt said. “Brighten up the joint a little, hah, Cele?”

  “I’m just a little ray of sunshine,” Celia said, and Milt laughed again.

  The rug was like walking on grass, well maybe not that thick, but plenty thick, plusher than any rug I’d ever walked on. The furniture was all this low, clean, modern stuff, with a lot of marble and wrought iron and highly polished woods around the room. A grand piano was at one end of the room, and behind that were windows all across the wall, so that the place was full of sunshine. Milt led us through the room and then stopped outside a paneled door at the end, and knocked twice, and soft.

  “Yes?” a voice asked. It was a gentle voice, and from just the way that word “Yes?” came through the door, I could tell the voice belonged to the one they called “Mister.”

  “Andy’s here, Mr. Carfon,” Milt said.

  “Show him in, please,” Mr. Carfon said.

  Milt winked and opened the door. Andy stepped in first again, ignoring Celia. I was beginning to total Andy as a kind of a meathead. Every time he goofed, in the little courtesies, Celia did a slow burn which he didn’t seem to notice. This don’t exactly promote marital harmony, so you’d imagine the guy would wise up and start pleasing the lady. Instead, he barged right into the room ahead of her. Milt gave Celia a sympathetic smile—I still hadn’t forgot that friendly pat he gave her—and then let her and me go by him into the room. Then he closed the door after us and stayed outside.

  The room was a big one, with the same thick rug on the floor. I was willing to bet that rug spread through the whole damn apartment, even the bathrooms. There were a few sofas in the room, off-the-floor modern stuff, and a bar on one wall, and a big mahogany desk in front of a bank of windows that opened on a terrace. The desk had four phones on it, and a few unopened letters. A tall guy with a dark olive complexion and funny, sleepy eyes was standing near the desk. He looked exactly like a hood. I mean, hoods don’t really look like what the movies make out. Except this guy did. He had on a dark suit with a white stripe in it, and he was wearing a dark blue shirt and a white tie. He also had a scar up near his eye, and I swear to God if he didn’t look like he stepped out of a Warner Brothers feature! Judging by his dark looks and all, I figured he was the one called “Turk.” I mean, a guy who looked the way this one did, you just didn’t call him “Blondie” or “Pinky” or like that. He was Turk all right. I’d bet my life on it.

  Another guy was sitting behind the desk, wearing a gray seersucker suit, neatly pressed, with a white handkerchief in the breast pocket. No mountain peaks on the handkerchief; just folded flat, the way they wear them now in the magazines. He had on a black knit tie, very slim. A little silver pin pierced the tie and held it to his shirt. There was no bulge under his handkerchief. He wore gold-rimmed glasses, and he looked a little bit like a bank teller.

  He stood up politely the minute Celia entered the room. He put out his hand and smiled, and I saw a gold tooth off center in the front of his mouth, matching the gold-rimmed glasses. He came around the desk lightly, almost like a queer, except I knew right away he wasn’t. He just walked as if he knew exactly where he was going, and he did it fast, but he didn’t fly around the room, the way queers do. A queer comes into the room, it’s like a jet plane has just taken off. I can spot them from the back, from the front, sidewards, upside down, I can spot them. Once I was sitting in a movie on 125th, the Grand if you know the neighborhood, and this pansy got funny with me, and I almost broke his jaw. Mr. Carfon walked light, but you got the feeling he was a man.

  “Ah, Andy,” he said, smiling, “good to see you. And Celia …” And here his voice got warm, as if he was her father and she had just come back from some fancy dame’s college for the Christmas vacation. “… how are you, Celia?”

  “Hello, Mr. Carfon,” Andy said, taking his hand. They shook, and then Mr. Carfon turned and politely said, “Turk, I don’t know if you’ve ever met Mrs. Orelli. Celia, Turk Fenton.”

  Turk looked like he was in some kind of daze. The more I looked at him, the more I figured he was a fugitive from The Maltese Falcon or something. “Yeah, how’d you do?” he said, smiling, his teeth forming a big enamel trench across his dark face.

  Celia nodded and smiled and then went to sit
in a chair near Mr. Carfon’s desk, crossing her legs. The one thing Celia had, I mean except this crazy, wild, loose-hipped, long-legged, big-busted body, was class. She walked like a lady, and when she sat she crossed her legs as if she was expecting a cup of tea and a slice of pound cake, tucking her skirt around her nicely. She had good posture. It’s important to me that a dame walks like a dame and sits like one and is proud of herself. Dames got a right to walk with their heads up, especially when they’re pretty.

  “Is this the boy I’ve been hearing so much about, Andy?” Mr. Carfon said.

  “This is him,” Andy answered. “Mr. Carfon, I’d like you to meet Frankie Taglio.”

  Mr. Carfon stuck out his hand, and I took it. “Frankie Taglio, is that right?” he said, pronouncing the name as if he was born in Milan.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Taglio. Doesn’t that mean ‘cut’ in Italian?”

  “Tell you the truth, I don’t know,” I said.

  “Well, no matter. I understand you know how to use a .45, Frankie.”

  “Mr. Carfon—”

  “We can always use good men. Some of our best possibilities come from the street gangs. A man who shows himself to advantage in the street gangs is a made man.” He paused. “I haven’t heard your name associated with the clubs, Frankie.”

  “I don’t believe in that kid crap,” I said.

  Mr. Carfon smiled. “And I don’t believe in the use of profanity, however mild, in the presence of a lady.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Certainly. Why don’t you believe in the clubs?”

  “What’s the percentage? I don’t see any kicks in stomping another guy into the sidewalk. The clubs are for kids.”

  “I see. Well, in any case, Andy tells me he’s checked on you, and you look like a good man. Now Andy’s word is good enough for me. Oh, he’s made a few mistakes every now and then, but on the whole he’s a good man himself, and there’s plenty of room for good men. How much are you earning now, Frankie?”

  Before I could answer, Celia took a cigarette from her purse and started to fumble around for matches. Mr. Carfon saw her from the corner of his eye, snatched a silver cigarette lighter from the desk, moved to her in that quick, light way and lit the cigarette.