by Ed McBain
“Yeah? Maybe he shouldn’t be so tickled.”
“What do you mean?” Andy said. “You want some more wine?”
“No. Maybe when this baby is born, whether it’s a boy or a girl or whatever, maybe you still don’t carry on the family line.”
Andy looked at me puzzled. My face had changed, I guess. I guess he knew from my face that I wasn’t being the buddy-buddy drinking wine with an old pal no more.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Maybe the baby ain’t yours,” I said.
He kept looking at me funny. Then he said, “Then whose baby is it?”
“Mine,” I said, and the lie burned in my throat.
He was quiet for a long time, and then he just began chuckling softly. “Come on,” he said. “Cut it out.”
“That all you’re gonna say?”
“Come on, I don’t like this kind of kidding.”
“Goddamnit, I ain’t kidding! Now how about it?” I got up. I was anxious to pull the gun. I was anxious for him to blow his stack and come at me. I was wasting too much time. This had to be done, and it had to be done now. “I’m telling you it’s my baby. Mine and Celia’s!”
“Sit down,” Andy said. “Cut it out.”
“You thick or something? Don’t you understand? Your wife and me—”
“Sure, sure,” Andy said. “Come on, have some more wine.”
“You goddamn jerk,” I yelled. “Don’t you know why I’m here?”
“No. Why are you here?”
“To kill you,” I said, and I pulled out the .45.
Andy looked at the gun and at the long silencer on the end of it. He looked up at my face then. His eyes were sad and sober and old.
“Put that away, Frankie,” he said, very softly.
“Give me a good reason,” I told him.
“A good reason is that you can’t kill me. For Christ’s sake, I’m your friend!”
“Are you?”
“Look, for God’s sake—”
“Mr. Carfon thinks you’re dangerous. He thinks you got too much information in your head. He thinks you might drop something in the wrong place and down comes the house of cards. He thinks you’d be better off dead, Andy.”
“Come on,” he said, like an angry father with a kid. “Put away that gun. Don’t be stupid. Have another glass of wine. Come on, sit down.”
“No, Andy,” I said.
“Frankie, for—”
“No, Andy.”
“You ain’t gonna kill me,” he said. “If you don’t know it, I do. You just ain’t gonna kill me in cold—” and I pulled the trigger.
There was a look of complete surprise on Andy’s face. His mouth popped open, and his eyes went wide, and he said, “Jesus, you—” and I pulled the trigger again, and then again, the gun making small puffing sounds in the quiet living room, no explosions, only these funny little poof sounds. He grabbed at his chest, and the bathrobe came open when he fell, and he lay on the floor with blood all over the T shirt, a ridiculous fat guy in his undershorts.
The door to the bedroom opened. Celia was standing in it. She was wearing a nightgown that swelled out over her belly. She really looked pregnant. She couldn’t have been too far along yet, and still she looked more pregnant than almost any dame I ever seen. She looked at me, and at the gun in my hand, and she just gasped but she didn’t say nothing. And then she walked to were Andy was laying dead on the floor, and she stooped down beside him, and she sort of touched his face gently, and then she stood up and looked at me. Her blond hair was mussed from sleep. She didn’t have no lipstick on.
“Get out, Frankie,” she said.
“Uh-uh,” I told her.
She looked at me. “Get out.”
“You should have stood in bed,” I said.
“What do you—”
“You shouldn’t have come out here and seen me, Celia. It would have been better the other way.”
Her eyes opened a little bit. She kept looking at me as if she couldn’t believe what I was saying. And then I saw it come into her eyes. Fear. Stripped of everything human. Just fear. Just animal fear.
“I’m … I’m carrying a baby,” she said.
“I know.”
“You wouldn’t—”
“Celia, you should have stayed in the other room.”
“I’m carrying a baby!” she pleaded.
“That’s too bad, Celia.”
“Don’t take away the one chance I ever—”
I fired twice. I fired for her head. The gun made two small sounds, and then she fell awkwardly to the floor and she was dead.
11
It wasn’t so bad.
I slept all right that night. I sure as hell wasn’t going to lose no sleep over anything that had to be done. And it had to be done, you better understand that or you’ll have me all wrong. I’m no killer or nothing like that. What had to be done was done. I happened to be the guy picked for it. I didn’t get no particular joy out of it, I’m not one of these crazy bastards who go around shooting people for kicks. It wasn’t nothing like that, it was just something had to be done.
I didn’t get up until about twelve o’clock the next day. I went in the kitchen in my pajamas. May was cleaning around.
“Hi,” I said.
She didn’t answer me. She took the morning newspaper that was near the sink and slammed it down on the kitchen table. I didn’t even look at it.
“Can I get some breakfast?” I said.
“You know where the cereal is, and there’s coffee on the stove.”
“No juice?”
“In the refrigerator.”
I looked at her and then got my own breakfast. I couldn’t help seeing the headline on the paper. It said GANGLAND SLAYING! I started drinking my juice, reading the story at the same time. They didn’t have even the tiniest clue. They knew Andy Orelli was a racketeer with a record, but they couldn’t figure why he was rubbed or even who would want him rubbed. In one of the columns, it said maybe it wasn’t a gang killing at all. Maybe a burglar had come in or something. I closed the paper and finished my juice.
“Where were you last night, Frankie?” May asked.
“With the boys.”
“Is that your alibi?”
“Alibi? What the hell do I need an alibi for? I was playing cards with the boys. Check with any one of them. There were five guys in the game, and they’ll all swear I was with them.”
“I’m not the police, Frankie. Save it for them.”
“What do I need to save anything for them?” I said. “What are you talking about?”
She pointed to the newspaper. “Did you do it?”
“Do what, for Christ’s sake?”
“That … that killing!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I was playing cards last night.”
“Look at me, Frankie.”
I looked at her.
“Did you kill Andy and Celia?”
“No. Of course not.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“So don’t,” I said. “Believe whatever the hell you want to. Only don’t let me hear you ever thinking I’m involved with this, you hear? Not even thinking! I was playing cards with the boys last night. You just remember that.”
“I remember that you left the house at ten and you got back at twelve. The newspaper says Andy and Celia were killed a little after eleven.”
“You better remember that I left the house at nine and didn’t get back until three. That’s what you better get straight in your head.”
“Then you did kill them?” May said.
“I never killed nobody,” I told her, “and I ain’t starting now. Just remember what I said.”
“Frankie, Frankie …”
“I’m getting dressed. I got to go see Mr. Carfon. Maybe I’ll have good news when I get back.”
“What kind of news? A promotion? Into Andy’s place? Into the place of a man you killed?”
“Cut that out,
May. I’m not kidding you. You can get me in a lot of trouble by saying that. Cut it out.”
“You’re just a no-good—”
“Shut up!” I said. She closed her mouth and stood staring at me as if she hated the sight of me. “I’m getting dressed,” I said.
The news at Mr. Carfon’s place wasn’t so hot. Not for me, anyway.
Jobbo was there when I arrived, and this new kid Georgie was there, too. Jobbo was busy on the phone, I don’t know doing what. Georgie walked over to me as soon as I came in. He was a handsome kid, this Georgie, maybe nineteen years old, with brown eyes and a black pompadour. He was learning how to dress, too. I guess Mr. Carfon laid a little cash on him for clothes. He came over and gave me the glad hand. He had a smile that looked as if he wasn’t smiling. I don’t know if you ever met anybody like that. He had very bright big teeth, and when he smiled it was as if he was purposely turning on a sign. What I mean is, it looked like he was smiling because he once read someplace that a guy can say whatever he wants to so long as he smiles when he says it. That way, he won’t get rapped in the mouth as often. I don’t know where he read it, but I hit plenty of guys who was smiling. They stopped smiling the minute I hit them.
“I read about your exploits,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Nice work, Frankie.”
“Thanks.”
He was looking at my shirt. He kept looking at it, and then he said, “I never before seen a button-down shirt with French cuffs.”
“I have them made,” I said.
“Is that expensive?”
“Pretty expensive.”
He nodded, and then looked as if he wanted to reach out and touch the shirt, if you know what I mean. I got a feeling he had itchy hands. I turned him off right away before he decided to get buddy-buddy. Jobbo was just getting off the phone, so I went over to talk to him. We didn’t have much to say to each other. It’s always been my opinion that there’s nothing deader than a dead friendship—and Jobbo and me wasn’t even very good friends to begin with. So we just talked about nothing, but it was better than talking with Georgie over there.
After a while, Mr. Carfon came out of the office with Milt. They both came over to me and shook my hand.
“Good job, Frankie,” Mr. Carfon told me.
“Thanks.”
“I think a little bonus might be in order, don’t you, Milt?”
“I sure do,” Milt said. “What happened with Celia?”
“She seen me.”
“Too bad,” Milt said.
“Yes,” Mr. Carfon said. “No police have been to your home?”
“No.”
“I doubt if they will. A bonus for Frankie, Milt. He’s earned it.”
“Is that all I earned?” I said.
“What do you mean, Frankie?”
“There’s a hole, ain’t there?”
Mr. Carfon smiled. “Still the ambitious one,” he said. “Ah, Frankie, Frankie, will you never learn patience? There is such a thing as precedence, you know that, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what ‘precedence’ means.”
“It means that certain people have been in this organization longer than you have, Frankie,” Mr. Carfon said. “You are, after all, a comparative newcomer.”
“Who you talking about?” I said.
“Weasel,” Mr. Carfon said.
“He gets Andy’s spot, huh?”
“Yes.”
“That’s great. A punk like Weasel—”
“Now, Frankie—”
“Who slugged me from behind on that jewelry store caper?”
“Frankie, Frankie …”
“Don’t you believe me? I’m telling you what happened. Weasel slugged me and left me for the cops. That’s a guy to trust, huh?”
“I think he can be trusted, Frankie.”
“So why didn’t you send him to take care of Andy?”
“Because I sent you, Frankie. Do you have any objections?”
“Yes, Mr. Carfon, I do. I’m sorry, but I do. I think you’re making a mistake with Weasel. I don’t think he can be trusted, and I also think I’m a better man than he is, and to tell you the truth, I’m sore.”
“Try Vaseline,” Milt said, and he laughed.
“Don’t get wise, Milt,” I said.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“None of that,” Mr. Carfon said. “Frankie thinks he has a legitimate beef, and he voiced it. I see no reason for ridicule.”
“Thanks, Mr. Carfon,” I said, “but that don’t change the situation none. Weasel is still over me.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I don’t like it.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate. But I couldn’t very well ignore a man who has worked hard and long and well. Whatever happened in the jewelry store is a matter of conflicting opinions. I trust you both, but obviously I must believe either one or the other of you.”
“And you believe him, huh? You think I’m a big clumsy jerk who goes tripping into display cases, huh?”
“I think nothing of the sort, Frankie. I prefer to forget the entire incident rather than being forced into the position where I must disbelieve one of you. The jewelry store incident played no part whatever in my choice of Weasel as the logical successor to Andy.”
“Logical, huh?” I said. “I don’t see much logic in that.”
“You’ll have to, for the present,” Mr. Carfon said. “Have I ever made any false promises to you, Frankie?”
“No, but—”
“All right. I said you would one day be a big man, and you will. There’s plenty of room at the top, Frankie. Plenty. Just learn to be a little more patient.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Would you like a drink?”
“No.”
“Very well. But do believe me when I say there’ll be a lot more coming your way.”
“Sure.”
“Just learn to wait for it.”
“Sure.”
“I have a job for this weekend. I thought perhaps I’d send you and this new boy, Georgie. He’s going to go places, that boy. Do you feel up to it?”
“Whatever you say. What kind of a job is it?”
“Nothing very important.”
“Then why don’t you send the hot-shot Weasel?”
“Would you prefer that, Frankie?”
“I’ll do whatever you say. That’s what I’m supposed to do, ain’t it?”
“Ah, Frankie, Frankie, you’re still angry. All right, I’ll send Weasel. But only because you did such a splendid job last night, and because I think you’ve earned a rest. All right?”
“Fine.”
“I wasn’t kidding about that bonus. Milt?”
Milt fished into his wallet and handed me a bill. It was a C-note. Some bonus. Mr. Carfon put his arm around my shoulder and said, “Frankie, learn to be patient. Learn to wait.”
As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait very long.
On Saturday night, I had another fight with May, this time on the way home from the movies. We were living in one of those quiet sections of the Bronx, near Fordham Road but in one of the side streets off Poe Park. We had gone to Loew’s Paradise, which is right on the Grand Concourse, and then I took her for ice cream, and we were walking through the park, which is a short cut we took any time we weren’t using the car, when she started in on me again. I really didn’t feel like an argument. We were passing the thing where the bands used to play when I was a kid. We used to come up from Harlem to hear the bands. This was when I was around sixteen or so. They used to have dancing. You could always pick up a girl there. It was kind of fun. Anyway, it was a good memory to have, and I didn’t feel like getting into no damn argument with May. But she started in about the Andy thing again, and before you knew it we were right in the middle of a major battle. So I left her right there in the park to walk home by herself, and I caught a cab and went downtown, figured I’d see what the boys were doing.
I didn’t mind not having the car with me because I always like to ride in cabs, anyway. When I was a kid, we used to play a game with cabs. We used to stand near the curb on First Avenue and wait for a cab to go by, and then we’d yell, “Taxi! Hey! Taxi!” and those goddamn cabs would scream to a stop, and we’d go run in the hallway. One time, a cab driver chased us all the way up to the roof, he was so burned up. Those were the things we used to do.
Well, I got down to Harlem and it was pretty quiet for a Saturday night. I was tempted to ask the cabbie for change of the C-note, just to see his eyes bug. I mean, what the hell, have you ever seen a hundred-dollar bill? But I didn’t. I just paid him and tipped him, and then walked around to see what was doing. I met Jobbo, and he was very excited. He was all bundled up in a heavy winter coat, I guess so he could sweat better. He was the kind of guy, his personality was ruined if he couldn’t sweat. He came puffing down the street all excited, and he said, “Did you hear, Frankie? Did you hear?”
“Did I hear what?”
“About the close shave with the cops?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Weasel and Georgie. On this liquor-store holdup.”
“What happened?”
“The law showed while they were in the store. There was a big gun battle. It’s on all the radios. Georgie got away fine.”
“And Weasel?” I said.
“I only got this from Georgie. But as they were running away, one of the cops clipped him.”
“Clipped Weasel?”
“Yeah. He’s dead, Frankie.”
So there I was.
12
I talked to Georgie the next day, before I got the signal from Mr. Carfon. He didn’t seem to remember too much about how Weasel got it. Apparently they was in the liquor store and a uniformed cop showed up, and the owner yelled. Weasel opened fire. For a while there, Georgie thought they’d never get out of the store. But they finally managed it, with Weasel leading and Georgie running behind him. And then the cop’s slug took Weasel, and Georgie just kept running. This is where the story was a little vague. The newspapers reported that the cop had been shot before the pair left the liquor store, so I couldn’t understand how this cop, who’d been shot in the chest and who probably wasn’t feeling much like fighting any more, had managed to pick himself up and take a good deadly aim on Weasel. But that’s what Georgie said happened. I wasn’t asking too many questions. If he was the one gave it to Weasel, I should have thanked him because that very afternoon I was Number Three in the outfit.