by Parnell Hall
“It’s perfectly simple. I’m admitting I hired Steerwell and I want to pay the bill.”
“Why?”
“Ah! That’s something else again. Good point, Mr. Minton. Why? Well, I’ll tell you why. I happen to have a felony count of grand larceny pending against me for stealing Steerwell’s photographs. Now, what I think you and the police and everyone else in this case has lost sight of is the fact that if I hired Steerwell, then he took those pictures for me. They are my photographs. And I didn’t steal them, because they were rightfully mine to begin with. And the felony count disappears.”
Minton looked at me.
“Son of a bitch,” he murmured.
“Of course, that leaves two unanswered murder counts kicking around. But I haven’t been charged with them yet, as evidenced by the fact that I am out here walking around.”
“Son of a bitch,” Minton said again.
“So,” I said, “unless you’re gonna wanna retract your identification of me as the person who hired Steerwell, you’re gonna find yourself having one hell of a time trying to press a charge against me for the theft of those photographs.”
“Son of a bitch,” Minton murmured.
“I think you’re getting into a rut,” I told him. “Would you like to try something else?”
Minton looked at me. “You’re admitting you stole those photographs?”
“Admitting? What’s admitting? I’m just telling you I had a legal right to them.”
“All right. But you’re saying you have them.”
“Of course.”
Minton’s face hardened.
“I want those photographs.”
“I thought you might. So, we have a situation here, don’t we? If I hired Steerwell, those photographs are mine, I’m gonna keep ’em, and I’m here to pay my bill.
“If I didn’t hire Steerwell, those photographs aren’t mine, and you just might get ’em back.”
“You’re saying if I go to the police—”
“I’m not saying shit, and you’re not going to the police. I’m not saying anything. Any way you want to play it, the fact is I have those pictures, and if you want ’em, you’re gonna have to pay.”
He looked at me. “How much?”
“Now you’re talkin’,” I said. “When I got ahold of those pictures, they were worth twenty thousand dollars.”
“Twenty thousand dollars!” Minton said.
“Yeah,” I said. “But that was just when I got ahold of ’em. Now they’re worth a hundred thousand.”
“What!?” Minton said.
“You see,” I said. “They’re pictures of Tallman and Nubar together. Now you know what that means. They would have been disastrous to Tallman’s empire. That’s why I say they would have been worth twenty thousand dollars.
“But that was then, and this is now, as the Monkees would say. You ever used to watch the Monkees?”
He looked at me. “What?”
“It used to bother me that they didn’t play their own instruments, but in retrospect they’re great.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Skip it. The fact is, the price of those photographs has gone up. ’Cause now they’re evidence of murder.”
Minton wet his lips.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I don’t? I’ll give you till tonight to get a hundred thousand dollars together. If you get it, you get the pictures. If you don’t, they go to the cops. I’m sorry to be so abrupt about it, but I’m getting really sick of being framed for murder.”
I turned to go.
“But wait,” he began.
I turned back.
“I’ll call you. I’ll tell you where. You just get the money.”
I turned my back and walked out.
35.
THE KING WAS WALKING the floor with his Court when I strode up to him. He recognized me and raised his hand.
“Hey,” he said. “You know, I been thinking over your proposition.”
“Is that so?” I said. “In that case, you’re a jerk. I happen to be a private detective investigating the Steerwell and Nubar murders. Before you sic your goons on me, I think you should know I already talked to Minton and he’s agreed to buy back the embarrassing pictures of you and Frederick Nubar. If anything should happen to me before then, those pictures will be delivered to the police. I know it’s a corny old bit, but the thing is, it works.
“But I was glad to find out you share my enthusiasm for the female anatomy. You’re my kind of guy.”
I smiled, shot my finger at him and walked out.
In retrospect, I don’t think my meeting with Tallman accomplished a damn thing in terms of my investigation.
But it sure was fun.
36.
I HAD A GREAT AFTERNOON. It was great because I knew the cops were following me. I didn’t really see ’em, although once I spotted a car that pulled away from the curb right after I did, but it was probably nothing, because I never saw it again.
But I knew they were there.
And you have no idea what a tremendous sense of power that gave me. I was living poison. I was the kiss of death. I could fuck up anybody in town I wanted just by walking up and talking to ’em. “Excuse me, sir, would you like to be a murder suspect? Why don’t you just chat with me for a minute?” “Excuse me, ma’am, do you know what time it is? Thank you very much, you’re a murder suspect.”
I stopped in a restaurant on Atlantic Avenue and bought a cheeseburger. I overtipped the guy at the counter, knowing I’d just sicced the cops on his case. I hoped he had no health code violations.
I went out, got in my car and drove off. I kept watch in my rear-view mirror just in case anyone was tagging along, but I couldn’t spot ’em. Except for that one time, and I might have imagined that.
I drove out on Ventnor Avenue to pick a place for my meeting with Minton. I figured it had to be outside so the cops would have a chance to move in. There was no way I wanted to wind up alone in a room with the guy.
I was nearly out to Steerwell’s when I spotted an alley in the middle of a block. It looked pretty good. I stopped the car, got out, crossed Ventnor, and checked it out.
It was perfect. No illumination of any kind that I could see, except what would filter down from the street. Lots of doorways and alcoves that would become dark hiding places at night, for the cops to settle into.
I walked all the way up and down the alley, just to make sure the cops took the hint. Then I got in my car and drove back to the hotel.
I stopped and said hello to the girl at the front desk. I wondered if that made her a murder suspect. I figured that was stretching it a bit. I wondered if I was losing my marbles. I figured that wasn’t quite so much of a stretch.
I went up to my room and lay down on the bed. Time to rest up for the main event. Fifteen rounds with the heavyweight champion, Murdering Minton. And me in the role of Rocky. I should have been in training. I should have been downstairs in the hotel kitchen, punching out slabs of beef. Except they didn’t have slabs of beef in the hotel kitchen, they only had a sandwich shop. Well, fuck it, I didn’t feel like jogging all the way back to Atlantic City, running up the front steps of Tallman’s Casino, and jumping up and down with my arms in the air, either. No, I’d train for this one lying down.
I called my wife, told her things were going well and I’d probably be home in a couple of days. She seemed glad to hear it.
I didn’t bother calling MacAullif. I knew he was busy. After all, he had three murders on his hands and I only had two. I also wanted to wrap things up before I made my report.
I called Richard, though. He was glad to hear from me, too, what with me being a murder suspect and all.
“Minton get back from Vegas?” Richard asked.
“Sure did.”
“Everything work out all right?”
“Like a charm.”
“I knew it would,” Richard said. “The cops let you g
o?”
“Of course.”
“That’s good,” Richard said. “You have any more problems, you call me right away.”
“First thing,” I told him.
“You sure everything’s all right now?” he asked.
“Just fine.”
“That’s real good,” Richard said, “because Wendy found this photo assignment ...”
I finally got off the phone, but not before I’d accepted an assignment to shoot a department store escalator that some stupid kid had managed to get his finger stuck in. I felt like refusing it: “Sorry, Wendy, I don’t do this kind of shit anymore. I’m a full-fledged murder suspect.” But I figured she wouldn’t understand. I just meekly took down the info and told her I’d do it.
I hung up the phone and lay there, thinking, gee, while I was at it, was there anyone else I wanted to call?
Oh, yeah.
That’s right.
Minton.
I called the Minton Agency. I recognized the dumb secretary’s voice on the phone.
“Minton Agency,” she said.
“This is Stanley Hastings. The murderer. I’d like to talk to Mr. Minton.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by the most wonderful silence. I could almost see her mind racing, trying to figure out what to do. Finally she figured it out, because suddenly I was on hold. About thirty seconds later, Minton’s voice came on the line.
“Mr. Hastings?”
“Yes. Mr. Minton. Did you get the money?”
“I have it. Now I’ll tell you where to bring the pictures.”
“Sorry, Minton, but we’re playing in my ballpark. You don’t tell me where to bring the pictures. I tell you where to bring the cash.”
“I don’t like that.”
“That’s too bad, because it’s my ball, and if you don’t want to play, I’m gonna take it and go home.”
There was a silence, then, “All right. Where do you want?”
I gave him the address of the alley.
“What time?” Minton asked.
“How’s nine o’clock tonight?”
“I’ll be there.”
I couldn’t resist.
“Dress casual.”
37.
THIS WAS IT. The big scene. The shootout at the O. K. Corral. High noon, if you can have high noon at nine o’clock at night. Mano a mano. Just me and the other gunslinger.
There was only one thing wrong, and that was the word “other.” Other implies more than one. But there was only one gunslinger: Minton. I was, as usual, unarmed.
Can you have a shootout between two guys when one of them is unarmed? I know you can have a shooting. But can you have a shootout? I realized it was simply a matter of semantics. The problem was, it was also a matter of survival. You see, I was kind of counting on surviving the final scene. I know the tragic hero’s supposed to die in it, but this wasn’t Greek tragedy, this was real life.
And real life implies real death.
And there you are. And there I was. Being brave. But not as brave as I would have been if it weren’t for the cops. I was banking on the cops. They were the cavalry, riding in to save the end of the scene. I guess the cavalry doesn’t really arrive in High Noon or Gunfight at the O. K. Corral, but you know what I mean. So while I might want to call this my big scene, I knew it wasn’t really one on one.
I parked about a half a block away from the alley. It was a quarter to nine. I got out and looked up and down the street. There was no one in sight. The street light was half a block away. It was dark as all hell.
I straightened my tie and smoothed out my jacket. I straightened my gun-belt. I wasn’t wearing a gun-belt, but I straightened it, which gives you some idea of where my head was at.
I walked out into the middle of the street. I walked down the middle of the street to the alley. There was no reason for walking in the middle of the street. It just seemed cinematic. I realized I was walking slightly bowlegged.
I unbuttoned my jacket, pushed it back from my hip. Ready for the fast draw.
I reached the mouth of the alley. It was dark as bloody fucking hell. As I’d anticipated, by night the doorways and alcoves were dark as pitch, and perfect for anyone to hide in.
I’d come early on purpose. I wanted to give the cops tailing me a chance to settle in.
I walked into the alley. Step by step.
I stopped half-way down. This was it. This was the place.
But now what? Shit. I should have had a signal. I should have told him I’d light a match. Or cough three times. Or something like that. I hadn’t even thought of it. Because I’m an amateur and I don’t know how to do these things. Well, if I don’t get killed, I’ll learn.
Waiting is a bitch. I don’t know anyone who likes waiting. I mean, when they put out lists of leisure activities people enjoy, you never see “waiting” on any of them. Or you’re talking to someone and they say, “Hey, I really like waiting, you know what I mean?” It just doesn’t happen. Waiting for the dentist. Waiting for your kid at camp. Waiting for your wife—that’s a biggie. Waiting for Christmas, when you were a kid. Waiting for Godot. Or Lefty. Yeah, no one really likes that.
But they all beat waiting for a murderer.
I caught a flash of movement in the alley up ahead on my right. Good. That would be the cops settling in. I wanted them in position before Minton showed, of course. That cop had managed to maneuver around by me in the dark. He’d be behind me. But there’d have to be another cop at the mouth of the alley, where Minton would come from. He’d be behind Minton. He was the one I was counting on. In fact, to be honest, I hoped there’d be more than just two.
The cop I had spotted moving, moved again. He stepped out from the shadows where he was hiding into the middle of the alley. I could see him better now—my eyes were growing accustomed to the dark. He moved again, and what little light there was filtering down from the street fell on his face.
It was Minton.
I shouldn’t have been so surprised. After all, I’d asked Minton to be here, and here he was. True, he was a few minutes early, but then so was I. No, I shouldn’t have been surprised. But the fact was, I almost jumped out of my shoes. It was like being in a funhouse when suddenly a face jumps out at you. A scary face. One you don’t want to see.
The thing was, I didn’t want to act scared. For one thing, it would ruin my image as a private detective. For another thing, it would probably get me killed. I didn’t want to act scared, but I was. Jesus Christ! Well, if that’s Minton, where’s the cops? Where the hell’s the fucking cops?
Minton stood there, feet slightly apart, weight nicely balanced, I was sure, ready for the quick draw.
I stood there with my heart in my mouth.
“Hastings?” Minton said.
I wasn’t to be outdone. “Minton,” I said back.
I think the next line should have been, “This town’s not big enough for the two of us,” but apparently Minton hadn’t read the script. “You bring the pictures?” he said.
I was ready for that question. I figured there were only two answers, and if I picked the wrong one I’d wind up dead.
“No,” I said.
Minton took a step forward, ominously.
“You were supposed to bring the pictures,” he growled.
“I know that,” I said. “But you see, I’m not as stupid as I look. You’ve already killed two people. I figure if I had the pictures on me, you just might go for three.”
He took another step.
“Where’s the pictures?” he growled.
“The pictures are in an envelope, waiting to be delivered to the police in the event I don’t make it out of this alley.”
“Yeah,” Minton said. “Tallman called me. He said you used that line on him. It’s an old gag.”
“I know. That’s what I told Tallman. The thing is, I’m not very inventive. I believe in the tried and true.”
“Maybe. I think you’re bluffing.”
/> “Oh?”
“Tallman fell for that, but I don’t. We’ve only got your word for it what’s in those pictures. You say they’re shots of Tallman and Nubar. Could be. But they could be shots of Steerwell’s girlfriend, for all we know. I say you’re bluffing. I say you got nothing.”
“Then you say wrong. Steerwell had shots of Tallman and Nubar together. That’s what you were afraid of. That’s why he wanted in on your little deal. The deal with you and Tallman.
“You liked the idea of being Tallman’s silent partner. You didn’t need someone else horning in. So you rubbed Steerwell out. Just like you rubbed out Nubar.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“And you’re unlucky.”
“That I know.”
“See, the way I figure it, even if there are shots of Tallman and Nubar and you send them to the cops, they prove nothing. It’s even money the cops aren’t even going to act on them.”
“You figure wrong. You see, I enclosed a letter.”
“A letter?”
“Yeah. A letter. To the cops. Wanna hear it? I can’t remember it word for word—it’s a long letter—but I can give you the gist. At least let me tell you how it starts. ‘Major Crimes Division, Northfield, Attention Lieutenant Barnes: Since you are reading this, it means that I am dead. I was killed by Mr. Minton of the Minton Detective Agency. He killed me in an attempt to cover up his role in two other murders, that of Joseph T. Steerwell and that of Frederick Nubar.’ It goes on for a couple of pages. It explains how you flew to Vegas and then had a private plane fly you back. It explains how Tallman was in so deep to Nubar that he cut a deal with you to get Nubar out of the way. So you set Nubar up to get killed. Then when Steerwell tried to horn in on the deal, you rubbed him out, too. It explains how you falsely identified me as the guy who hired Steerwell because the other witnesses had blown the identification, and how you, being guilty of the murders and wanting a fall guy, hopped on the bandwagon and identified me, too.
“It’s a great letter. It’s one of the best things I ever wrote. In fact, if I could write that well all the time, I’d make a living at it, and I wouldn’t have to do this private detective shit.”