by Ed McBain
Nowadays, their fee was somewhat higher.
Back in December, for example, when Lewis Randolph Hamilton first contacted them regarding a courier named José Domingo Herrera, he'd offered them a flat three thousand dollars for messing up the little Puerto Rican and retrieving the fifty thousand dollars he would be carrying. Zing and Zang looked Hamilton straight in the eye - they were more inscrutable-looking than most Chinese, perhaps because they carried their extraordinary good looks with a defiant, almost challenging air - and said the price these days for moving someone around was four thousand for each of them, a total of eight thousand for the job, take it or leave it. Hamilton said he wasn't looking for God's sake, mon, to dust the little spic, he only wanted him rearranged a trifle. Eight thousand total, the Ba boys said, take it or leave it. Hamilton rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. But he took it.
Which made them wonder.
What they were wondering was the same thing Herrera had wondered when he'd been hired by Hamilton to carry the fifty K: Why is this man not using one of his own people to do this job? Why is he paying us eight thousand dollars for something his own goon squad can handle?
They also wondered how they could turn this peculiar situation to their own advantage.
The first way they figured they could pick up a little extra change was to contact the intended victim, this José Domingo Herrera character, and tell him they were supposed to move him around a little on the twenty-seventh of December, which was two days after Christmas.
'New Year you be on clutches,' Zing said.
They both spoke English like Chinese cooks in a Gold Rush movie. This did not make them any less dangerous than they were. Pit vipers do not speak English very well, either.
Herrera, who was already wondering why Hamilton had hired him as a courier, now began wondering why these two fucking illiterate Chinks were telling him about the plan to cold-cock him. He figured they were looking for money not to beat him up. Play both ends against the middle. Which meant that the possibility existed he would lay some cash on them and they would beat him up, anyway. Life was so difficult in this city.
Herrera listened while they told him they wanted eight thousand dollars to forget their little rendezvous two weeks from now. Herrera figured this was what Hamilton was paying them to ambush him and take back his money. He'd been planning to steal the fifty he was delivering for Hamilton. Vanish in the night. Fuck the goddamn Jakie. But now these Chinks presented a problem. If they beat him up, they would take the fifty and return it to Hamilton. Leaving Herrera cold and broke in the gutter. On the other hand, if he paid them the eight . . .
'We have a deal,' he said, and they all shook hands.
He trusted their handshakes as much as he trusted their slanty eyes.
But, oddly, Herrera started wondering in Spanish the same things the Ba brothers began wondering in Chinese.
Out loud and in English, Herrera said, 'Why is he setting me up?'
Out loud, and in his own brand of English, Zang said, 'Why use-ah two Chinese?'
They pondered this together.
It was obvious to all of them that Herrera was indeed being set up. At least to take a beating. And even though he had to admit that ten thousand dollars was a good price for getting roughed up - in this city, prizefighters had taken dives for less - he still wondered why. And why did the two men beating him up have to be Chinese?
Because . . .
Well . . .
They all looked at each other.
And then Herrera said, 'Because something Chinese has to be coming down!'
'Ah, ah,' Zing said.
Herrera was grateful he hadn't said, 'Ah so.'
'You want to go partners?' he asked.
The Ba brothers looked at him inscrutably. Fuckin' Chinks, he thought.
'You want to go in business together?'
'Ah, biz'liss, biz'liss,' Zing said, grinning.
This they understood. Money. Fingers flying over the abacuses in their heads.
'Find out why he wants me hurt,' Herrera said.
Everyone smiled.
Herrera figured the Ba brothers were smiling because maybe they'd stumbled on a way to become big players instead of handsome goons. Herrera was smiling because he was thinking he could maybe get out of this city not only alive but also rich.
Smiling, they shook hands all over again.
Eleven days later, the twins came back to him.
Frowning.
On Christmas Eve, no less.
No respect at all.
They were beginning to have misgivings about this new partnership. They had been to see Hamilton again, and he had paid them the agreed-upon fifty percent down payment for the job. But they were supposed to receive the remaining four thousand when they made delivery of the dope-cash Herrera would be carrying three nights from now.
'Now we no bling-ah cash, we no catchee monee!' Zang shouted.
"We lose-ah monee aw-relly!' Zing shouted.
'No, no,' Herrera said patiently, 'we can make money.'
'Oh yeah how?' Zing asked.
The way he said it, it sounded like a Column B choice on a Chinese menu.
'If we can figure it out,' Herrera said. 'The deal.'
The twins looked at him sourly and handsomely.
Fuckin' Chinks, Herrera thought.
'Did he say anything about why? he asked patiently.
'He say we tell you Henny say hello.'
A throw-away line.
'Henny?' Herrera asked.
'Henny Shoe.'
Was what it sounded like.
He realized they were talking about Henry Tsu.
What they were saying was that when they beat him up on the twenty-seventh, they were supposed to give him Henry Tsu's regards, which would make it look as if two Chinks from Henry's big Chinatown gang had stolen Hamilton's money.
Ah so, he thought, and realized he was going native.
* * * *
15
Sunday was not a day of rest.
Not for the weary, anyway.
Jamie Bonnem of the Seattle PD was trying to sound patient and accommodating but he came over as merely irritated. He did not like getting called at home so early on a Sunday morning. Early for him, anyway. For Carella it was already ten o'clock. Besides, his case was still cold and Carella's call only reminded him of that bleak fact.
'Yes,' he said brusquely, 'we talked to the Gillette kid. We also talked to the other old boyfriend. Ain't that standard where you work?'
'It's standard here, yes,' Carella said pleasantly. 'How'd they check out?'
'We're still working Gillette.'
'Meaning?'
'He's got no real alibi for where he was on the night of the murder.'
'Where does he say he was?'
'Home reading. You know any twenty-year-old kid stays home reading at night? Eddie Gillette was home reading.'
'Does he live alone?'
'With his parents.'
'Where were they?'
'At the movies.'
'Did you ask him where he was on New Year's Eve?'
'We asked both of them where they were on New Year's Eve. Because if this is tied to your kid kill . . .'
'It may be.'
'The point ain't lost, Carella. We haven't been eliminating anyone just 'cause he was here in Seattle that night, but on the other hand, if somebody tells us he was roaming the Eastern seaboard . . .'
'What'd Gillette tell you?'
'He was right there on your turf.'
'Here? Carella said, and leaned in closer to the mouthpiece.
'Visiting his grandmother for the holidays.'
'Did you follow up on that?'
'No, I went out to take a pee,' Bonnem said. 'You might want to check Grandma yourself, her name is Victoria Gillette, she lives in Bethtown, is there such a place as Bethtown?'
'There is such a place,' Carella said.
'I talked to her on the phone, and she corroborated
Gillette's story.'
'Which was what?'
'That they went to the theater together on New Year's Eve.'
'Gillette and Grandma?'
'Grandma is only sixty-two years old. And living with a dentist. The three of them went to see a revival of ... what does this say? I can't even read my own notes.'
Carella waited.
'Whatever,' Bonnem said. 'The dentist corroborates. The three of them went to see whatever the hell this is, Charlie's Something, and afterward they went out in the street with the crowd, and walked over to a hotel called the Elizabeth, is there such a hotel?'
'There is such a hotel,' Carella said.
'To the Raleigh Room there, where Grandma and the dentist danced and Eddie tried to pick up a blonde in a red dress. All this according to Eddie and Grandma and the dentist, too, whose name is Arthur Rothstein. We do not have a name for the blonde in the red dress,' Bonnem said drily, 'because Gillette struck out.'
'Where was he between one-forty-five and two-thirty?'
'Pitching the blonde.'
'The dentist and Grandma . . .'
'Corroborate, correct.'
'How about the other boyfriend?'
'Name's Harley Simpson, she dated him in her junior year, before she met Gillette. He has an alibi a mile long for the night she was killed. And he was here in Seattle on New Year's Eve.'
'Mmm,' Carella said.
'So that's it,' Bonnem said.
'How's the old man taking this?'
'He doesn't even know she's dead. He's heavily sedated, on the way out himself'
'Is there anyone else in the family? Any other brothers or sisters?'
'No. Mrs Chapman died twelve years ago. There were just the two sisters. And the husband, of course. Melissa's husband. You want my guess, they'll be out here settling a will before the week's out.'
'He's that bad, huh?'
'Be a matter of days at most.'
'How do you know there's a will?'
'Do you Know any zillionaires who die intestate?'
'I don't know any zillionaires,' Carella said.
'I know there's a will because I've been following an idea of mine out here. I'll tell you the truth, Carella, I don't think this is linked to your New Year's Eve case. I think what we have here are two separate and distinct cases. I guess you've been a cop long enough to know about coincidence . . .'
'Yes.'
'Me, too. So while I ain't forgetting what happened there, I also have to treat this like a case in itself, you follow me? And I started thinking love or money, those are the only two reasons on God's green earth, and I started wondering if the old man has a will. Because you see, he was playing house with this younger woman before he got . . .'
'Oh?'
'Yeah, before he got sick. Her name's Sally Antoine, good-looking woman runs a beauty parlor downtown. Thirty-one years old to his seventy-eight. Makes you wonder, don't it?'
'It'd make me wonder,' Carella said.
'About whether she's in the old man's will, right? If there is a will. So I started asking a few questions.'
'What'd you find out?'
'Miss Antoine told me she has no idea whether she's in the old man's will. In fact, she said she saw no reason why she should be. But when I get an idea in my head, I ain't about to let go of it that easy. Because if the lady is in his will, and if the younger daughter found out about it somehow . . .'
'Uh-huh.'
'. . . then maybe she came out here to pressure the old man into changing the will while he could still sign his own name. Get the bimbo out of it. Though she isn't a bimbo, I can tell you that, Carella. She's a decent woman, divorced, two kids of her own, came up here from LA, been working hard to make a go of it. I can hardly see her pumping two shots into Joyce Chapman.'
'Did you take a look at the will?'
'You ought to become a cop,' Bonnem said drily. 'What I did, I couldn't ask the old man if there's a will because he's totally out of it. So I asked his attorney
'Who's that?'
'Young feller who took over when Melissa and her husband moved east. Hammond used to be the Chapman attorney, you know. Got the job shortly before Melissa married him, little bit of nepotism there, hmm? Met her when he got back from Vietnam, used to be in the army there, next thing you know he's the old man's lawyer.'
'Did he draw the will for him?'
'Hammond? No. Neither did the new lawyer. Said he had no know ledge of it. Protecting his ass, I suppose. So I asked him who might have knowledge of it, and he suggested that I talk to this old geezer here in town, name's Geoffrey Lyons, used to be Chapman's attorney, retired just before the son-in-law took over. He told me he'd drawn a new will for Chapman twelve years ago, yes, right after Mrs Chapman died, but a will's a privileged communication between attorney and client, and there was no way I could compel him to waive that privilege.'
'Does he know you're investigating a murder?'
'Tough.'
'Does Chapman have a copy of the will?'
'Yes.'
'Where?'
'Where do you keep your will, Carella?'
'In a safe deposit box.'
'Which is where Miss Ogilvy told me the old man keeps his. So I go for a court order to open the box, and the judge asks me if I know what's in this will, and I tell him "No, that's why I want to open the box." So he says "Do the contents of this will provide probable cause for the crime of murder," and I tell him that's what I'm trying to find out, and he says "Petition denied."'
'Who typed the will?' Carella asked.
'What do you mean? How the hell do I know who typed it?'
'You might try to find out.'
'Why?'
'Legal typists have long memories.'
The line went silent. Bonnem was thinking.
'Find the secretary or whoever,' he said at last.
'Uh-huh,' Carella said.
'Ask her does she remember what's in the will.'
'It'd be a start.'
'And if she says the will does name Sally Antoine . . .'
'Then you've got to go see Miss Antoine again.'
'Won't that be fruit of the Poison Tree?'
'Once the old man dies, which you say is any day now…'
'Any day.'
'Then the will goes to Probate and becomes a matter of public record. In the meantime, you're working a murder.'
'Yeah. But you know, the Antoine woman was here in Seattle on New Year's Eve. So that would let out any connection with your case. Even if she is in the will.'
'Let's see what the will says.'
'The husband's back east, you know. Why don't you ask him?
'Hammond? Ask him what?'
'What's in the will.'
'How would he know?'
'Well, maybe he won't. But if I'm going to bust my ass looking for a person typed a will God knows how many years ago, the least you can do is pick up a telephone. Which, by the way, are you guys partners with AT&T?'
Carella smiled.
'Let me know how you make out,' he said.
'I'll call collect,' Bonnem said.
* * * *
There had been times during the past month when Herrera wished his partners were Puerto Rican, but what could you do? The roll of the dice had tossed him two Chinks who, as agreed, had not given him either a beating or Henry Tsu's regards on the twenty-seventh day of December. Instead, on that day, Herrera had disappeared with the dope money, and Zing and Zang had gone back to Hamilton - seemingly shamefaced - to return his deposit. By the twenty-eighth of December, the year was running out through the narrow end of the funnel and Herrera was still sitting on the fifty K, hoping to turn it into a fortune overnight. He knew that the only way to do that was through dope. Any other way of turning money into more money was dumb. In America, there were no streets of gold anymore. Nowadays, the streets were heaped with cocaine. Coke was the new American dream. Herrera sometimes figured it was all a Communist plot. But who gave a shit?
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