Second Story Man

by Charles Salzberg

  Charlie Floyd shrugged and inside I was beginning to smile.

  “It ain’t going to do you no good.”

  “Really? Then why’s it bothering you so much?”

  Francis Hoyt’s faced turned red. He leaned forward and pointed first at me and then at Charlie Floyd.

  “I’m warning you, and I’m warning your little spic pal over there. Stay the fuck out of my fucking private life. I know you guys got a job to do but this ain’t part of the game.”

  “So, it’s a game we’re playing, Francis? Like Monopoly or Parcheesi? You think there are rules we ought to be observing? I’ve got news for you, pal, there aren’t any rules. I’m private now and Manny, well, he can follow the damn rules if he wants to, but not me. My job is to nail you and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. You think you’re smart, but you’re not smarter than me. I’m gonna nail your ass and then let’s see how fucking cocky you are.”

  Francis Hoyt leaned back. He smiled.

  “You can give it your best shot. I wouldn’t have it any other way. But just remember, you’re the one who said there are no rules. I think it’s time for me to go. I’ve made my point and you’ve made yours. I’ve got some work—” he smiled, “—to do. Why don’t you two lovebirds go back to your ballgame?”

  Francis Hoyt rose. Charlie Floyd rose with him. I remained in my seat.

  “Let me see you out, Francis.”

  Charlie Floyd walked him to the door. Before I heard the sound of the door close I heard Charlie Floyd say, “Come back any time. It was a pleasure to meet you. But next time I’ll be visiting you and there’ll be steel bars between us.”

  “Just remember this, Charlie. This time I came in the front door, who knows how I’ll get in next time?”

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  When Charlie Floyd got back into the living room his face was flushed.

  “You know what, now I want that little fucker as much as you do.”

  Charlie Floyd

  Holy shit.

  That’s what went through my mind but not past my lips when I opened the door and there stood none other than Francis fucking Hoyt. He was a lot smaller than I imagined he’d be. He was like the size of a jockey. I know I’m tall but Hoyt, well he’s practically a fucking midget. Even Manny seemed to tower over him. No wonder this fucker was so hard to catch. He was fucking hard to see!

  But man, was he ripped. He was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. I could see the well-defined muscles of his arms and chest right through the cotton fabric of his T. And he was much better looking in person than in his mug shots. I’d even say he was movie-star handsome. Not to him, of course.

  I’ll say this for him—he had a pair of balls on him. I didn’t know quite what to expect but I knew I, or rather we, because Manny was now standing right behind me by this time, were in for quite a ride.

  Francis fucking Hoyt in the fucking flesh. Now wasn’t that something!

  He was pissed that we were getting to his girlfriends, which meant we were getting a little too up close and personal. He mentioned Evelyn Kerns down in Miami. Told us we’d better lay off her.

  That he was sitting there, in my house, on my couch, indicated we were getting under his skin. He was rattled and when someone’s rattled they make mistakes. Yes, even Francis fucking Hoyt can make a mistake.

  It didn’t matter what was said. We had now personally engaged and the advantage was ours. But we had to know what to do with it because Francis Hoyt wasn’t stupid. He didn’t get to where he was by being average, or even slightly above average. He might be the best but even the best sometimes lose. They age out. They run out of steam. They get cocky and make mistakes. Ask any of the big ones. Michael Jordan. Tiger Woods. John McEnroe. Reggie Jackson. Babe Ruth, even. By the end of his career, he was sitting on the bench in Boston rather than in the on-deck circle for the Yankees. Nothing lasts forever. Francis Hoyt was due for a fall. Our job was to give him a little push.

  Screw the Yankee-Boston game. After he left, all I could think about was Francis Hoyt. Manny, too. We talked about him. We marveled at his nerve. We talked about what we’d do next.

  “You know something, Manny. Hoyt didn’t mention anything about Melinda Shaw, just Kerns.”

  “That is correct.”

  “You know what, I don’t think she told him that she met me.”

  “I agree. She most certainly did not tell him, or else he most assuredly would have mentioned her, too. And you know why?”

  “I think I do. I think you do, too. She’s afraid of him. She’s not sure what he’d do if he found out. You know what, I think I got to her. I think she’s contemplating rolling over on him. I think that photograph I showed her of Hoyt and Kerns shook her up more than she let on. I think if I just lean on her a little harder we can turn her.”

  Manny had a big, fat smile on his face. And, come to think of it, so did I.

  It wasn’t till hours later that I realized something was amiss and that’s when both our smiles vanished.

  A valuable antique silver ashtray, probably one of the few things of value I owned—it was my mother’s, who smoked way too much until she gave it up at the age of forty-five—was missing from the end table next to the couch.

  I knew where it was. And, so did Manny.

  Francis fucking Hoyt.

  We’d rattled Francis Hoyt’s cage hard enough so he felt he had to do something bold. We had him looking over his shoulder. He was thinking about us. He was worrying about us. Eventually, this would make him take his eyes off the ball. And when he did we’d have to be ready to pounce.

  What he’d told us loud and clear, probably without being aware he had, was that meddling in his private life was his Achilles heel. Both Manny and I believed Evie Kerns or Melinda Shaw was going to be our ticket to the show. But we had to act fast. If we were right about Hoyt being behind the death of Tommy Pfister then chances were he wasn’t about to leave other loose ends dangling. Hoyt was a man of action.

  I didn’t trust that PI Cohan as far as I could throw him. He impressed me as the kind of guy who would do anything for money. If he figured out we were going to use Shaw, he might trace the guy in the photo, Hoyt. That is, if he didn’t already know who he was and was playing dumb with me. That kind of information would be valuable to Hoyt. If I knew it, so did Cohan. If Hoyt had the slightest inkling that I’d already gotten to Shaw, or that I might somehow find her, he might feel he had to get rid of her. And he would do it without leaving his own fingerprints.

  I had to get back to Shaw, push her, and push her hard. And I had to do it quick. If we could get her to turn on him we’d stop Hoyt once and for all. We knew Hoyt probably hadn’t confided in Shaw, but we also knew that if we had her on our side we could use her to help build a case against him. She knew more than she thought she did about him. Maybe he’d let something slip. Maybe he’d left something in her apartment. But to find out what it was, first we had to convince her to help us. That was on me.

  I also came up with another idea that would open an attack on another front. Hoyt used smoke and mirrors to obfuscate where he was going to hit and we could use the same tactics by letting him know we were not just sitting around with our fingers up our asses. The more he had to worry about, the better the chances he’d slip up.

  I told Manny the idea that morning at breakfast.

  “Manny, how’d you like to add some frequent flyer miles to your account?”

  He smiled. “I love to travel, Charlie Floyd. What destination did you have in mind?”

  “I was thinking about the Heartland, you know, home of the Silent Majority.”

  “Minneapolis, perhaps?”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  “The sister or the mother?”

  “I’m thinking the mother will irritate him more, so let’s go with her. You up to it?”

  “No one likes to travel more than I do. I have never been
to Minneapolis although I have most certainly heard of the fabulous Mall of America. It contains a roller coaster inside it, does it not? And Esther will appreciate the extra miles on our account. Next year, for our anniversary, she has hinted that she would like to visit Rome and meet the Pope.”

  “Anything to further that dream.”

  So, it was settled. Manny booked a flight for the next day for Minneapolis. I offered to spring for it but Manny would have none of that so we settled for a fifty-fifty split. “The very same split we will have when we collect the reward,” said Manny.

  While Manny walked the mile and a half into town to buy a few things for his trip—he insisted he needed the exercise and walking helped him think—I got ready to head back down to the city to have another go at Melinda Shaw.

  Just as I was ready to walk out the door the phone rang. It was our local chief of police, William “Wild Bill” Basnight. Billy as I called him, was born for this job. Not only is he a fine enforcer of the law, not that we have all that many problems in our little town, but unlike me he’s a people person. Everybody loves Billy, even the bad guys. I tried to pin the name Andy on him, as in Andy Griffith, sheriff of Mayberry, but for some reason it didn’t stick. Probably because when needed Billy has a tough side that isn’t afraid to knock heads together. Billy can best be described as “a good old boy.” But under that veneer of niceness and collegiality is a genuine tough guy. He’s a former Marine who saw duty in the first Iraq war.

  One job I wouldn’t want is cop in a small town, and the only job worse than that is being the police chief of a small town. You have to handle all kinds of little shit, the stuff that would drive me crazy. I like the big shit, which is why I did what I did.

  “Hey, Billy, what’s up? I was just about to leave the house.”

  “I’d make sure you double-lock the door behind you, Charlie.”

  “Why’s that? Has a crime wave suddenly hit town?”

  “I hope not, but a neighbor of yours got hit last night. All they took was the silver. The good silver. Whoever did it, left a calling card. There was a note taped to the breakfront. It said, ‘Fuck you, Charlie Floyd, and fuck you, too, Manny Perez.’ Know anything about this, Charlie?”

  “I know everything about it. It’s Francis Hoyt.”

  “Fuck me. You’re kidding? Hoyt is in town?”

  “’Fraid so. What was the value of the stuff taken?”

  “Ten, twenty grand, tops. From what I know about Hoyt that’s chicken feed.”

  “He didn’t do it for the money. He did it so he could leave that note.”

  “I take it you and he have a personal problem.”

  “Looks like. But I’m hoping it’s going to be just his problem real soon. Thanks for letting me know, Billy.”

  “It’s my job to deliver bad news, Charlie. You think I should call out the troops and secure the town?”

  “I don’t think you have to. He’s got bigger fish to fry than our citizenry. He just wanted to send a message. In fact, I’d say the last place he’s going to hit again is here.”

  “That’s good, because from what I hear, he’s a hard one to reel in and you know how I hate to work hard.”

  “Don’t worry, I think we’ve got a handle on this one.”

  “Not sure what you mean, Charlie. Didn’t you retire last year?”

  “I did. But I guess I’m unretired now. I’m working private, alongside a buddy of mine. Manny Perez. He’s a Miami cop and he’s up here because of Hoyt.”

  “I wish you guys luck, man. From what I know about Hoyt, you gonna need it.”

  Francis Hoyt

  Those two sad sacks didn’t know what the fuck hit them. You shoulda seen the look on the big one’s face when he opened the door and there I was, in the flesh. And then, adding insult to injury, to steal the only thing of value that sap had, well that was icing on the cake. Man, I would have loved to see the look on his face when he realized it was missing. And while I was at it, I couldn’t resist hitting that house at the end of his block. I didn’t get much, a few pieces of silver that might have been a couple thousand bucks. But that wasn’t the point. The point was I could do whatever the hell I wanted and where I wanted and they couldn’t stop me. In his own fucking backyard!

  But there was more to it. I wanted to deliver a message. They already knew about Evie and I figured they weren’t about to give up on her. And therein lay a problem. What was I gonna do about her? I didn’t think she could or would help the cops, but you never knew. I had to do something about her. So, I sent her some dough and told her to take a little “vacation.” She took it pretty good. After all, what’s so bad about sitting on some beach in Hawaii, compliments of Francis Hoyt? She’s a tough broad and I didn’t think Perez or anyone else could get anything out of her, but better safe than sorry.

  But what about Mel? Did they know about her? I figured, like Evie, she’d have said something to me, so my guess was they didn’t know about her yet. Or, if they did, they couldn’t track her down. But they might. And if they did who knows what she’d do. She’s already pissed at me for not spending enough time with her and with women you never know what they’re thinking, which means you never know what they’re gonna do.

  I guess I could send her away, too, but the truth is I didn’t think she was going to go for that without some kind of explanation. Besides, she’s got a real job and can’t just take off, and I sure don’t feel like supporting her for the rest of her life. What would I tell her, anyway? That the law was after me and that I was afraid she was going to drop a dime on me? I don’t think so. I want my women to know as little as possible about me and the life I lead and even telling her that much would be a mistake. Besides, it would give her the kind of leverage I didn’t want her to have. Between Evie and Mel, Mel presented more of a problem because she was more stubborn and hardheaded.

  Yeah, I’d have to do something about her but I wasn’t sure yet what it should be.

  Charlie Floyd

  We had to work fast. Hoyt is unpredictable. He doesn’t run in straight lines. He goes forward, back, then forward again. He’s not afraid of doing something outrageous, unexpected…even dangerous. The more outrageous, the more dangerous, the better for us.

  “With Hoyt,” I said as I drove Manny down to LaGuardia the next day for his flight to Minneapolis, “it’s better if we don’t play his game or even worry about what his game is. That’s not gonna work because he’s in control. He knows where he’s going and what he’s doing and we don’t. We have to make him play our game. We have to make him react to us as opposed to us reacting to him. We’ve got at least a three-pronged attack and I’m betting one of those prongs nails Francis Hoyt.”

  Manny nodded in agreement. I could see he was thinking about his trip, planning how he would handle Hoyt’s mother.

  “Eventually, he’s going to figure out we know about Melinda Shaw. That’s why it’s so important I get back to her as soon as possible. Right after I drop you off, I’m heading straight into the city to talk to her.”

  “I only hope, Charlie Floyd, that he has not already taken care of this particular loose end as I believe he has with another.”

  Manny was referring to a conversation he’d had last night with his ex-partner, David Chung. He had asked him to keep an eye on Evie Kerns. Evidently, that wasn’t so easy. Earlier this morning, just as we were about to leave the house, Chung called. Evie Kerns had disappeared. He couldn’t find her at the club where she worked and he couldn’t find her at her home. No one had seen her for the day or so. This wasn’t a coincidence. Either Hoyt had her eliminated her or he’d stashed her someplace we couldn’t get to her. Either way, it didn’t bode well for Melinda Shaw. That’s why I had to get to her as soon as possible.

  Shaw lived in a brownstone building on 71st, between Broadway and West End Avenue. I dropped off my car at a nearby garage and by five-thirty I’d parked myself on the stoop a couple buildings closer to Broadway so I could see her coming down
the block. With a copy of the New Yorker to keep me company I waited for her to get home from work.

  I didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes before six, I spotted Shaw heading toward me. She was carrying a Trader Joe’s bag and a large purse in one hand and was checking her cell phone with the other. When she got within a few feet of where I was sitting, I jumped in front of her so that her shoulder brushed mine.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, as she reflexively took a step back. As soon as she looked up she realized who I was. “What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  “This is harassment,” she said as she brushed past me then turned to go up a winding metal staircase that led to the front door. I followed close behind. Halfway up the steps she stopped and turned to face me. “This isn’t going to do you any good, you know. And if you keep this up I’m going to call the cops on you.”

  “You’ve got the phone in your hand, go ahead. But I don’t think Francis would like the idea of you, me, and the cops getting together. Why don’t you invite me up for a few minutes and hear me out? Then I promise I’ll get out of your hair.”

  She thought for a moment. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

  “I know.”

  She put her phone in the large purse she was carrying. “But if I do you’ll leave me alone?”

  I raised my hand. “Promise.”

  “Okay, you can come up, but you’re on the clock, Floyd. I’ll give you five minutes.”

  “What floor you on?”

  “Third.”

  “It’ll take that long for me to catch my breath.”

  There were two apartments to a floor. She lived in the back apartment. Before she unlocked the door, she turned and said, “I’m not apologizing for anything but the place is a mess.”

  “You’re in luck. I’m not the health inspector.”

  She was right. It was a mess. She lived in one large room. The bed was a convertible sofa and it was open, a tangle of sheets, blankets and pillows. Otherwise, the room was sparsely furnished, a small table that probably did double duty as a desk and a dining room table, two folding chairs set up on either side of the table, and a dresser with two of the drawers wide open with pieces of clothing hanging over the sides. The walls were completely bare. Melinda Shaw was living a temporary life, waiting for something to change it. Lots of people lead their lives this way: waiting for something better to happen. It almost never does.