Tricks

by Ed McBain

Shanahan got out of the car. It was clumsy moving with the right arm in a cast, but he'd rather be made for a cripple than a cop. Guy walking up the street now. How come he wasn't going in the bar? Change of M.O.? Shanahan fussed with the lock of the car door, watching him sidelong.

  Minute the guy was four car lengths away, Shanahan took off after him.

  The bar was baited with Eileen, but there were plenty of other girls out here on the street. And if this guy was suddenly changing his pattern, Shanahan didn't wantany of them dying.

  Eileen didn't like the tricks her mind was beginning to play.

  She was beginning to like him.

  She was beginning to think he couldn't possibly be a murderer.

  Like the stories you read in the newspapers after the kid next door shot and killed his mother, his father, and his two sisters. Nice kid like that? all the neighbors said. Can't believe it. Always had a kind word for everyone. Saw him mowing the lawn and helping old ladies across the street. This kid a killer? Impossible.

  Or maybe she didn'twant him to be a murderer because that would mean eventual confrontation. She knew that if this was the guy, she'd have to end up face to face with him on the street outside. And the knife would come out of his pocket. And hellip;

  It was easier to believe he couldn't possibly be the killer.

  You're tricking yourself, she thought.

  And yet hellip;

  There really were a lot of likable things about him.

  Not just his sense of humor. Some of his jokes were terrible, in fact. He told them almost compulsively, whenever anything in the conversation triggered what appeared to be a vast computer-bank memory of stories. You mentioned the tattoo near his thumb, for example mdash;the killer had a tattoo near his thumb, she reminded herself mdash;and he immediately told the one about the two girls discussing the guy with the tattooed penis, and one of them insisted only the word Swan was tattooed on it, whereas the other girl insisted the word was Saskatchewan, and it turned out they were both right, which took Eileen a moment to get. Or you mentioned the sudden change in the weather, and he immediately reeled off Henry Morgan's famous weather forecast, "Muggy today, Toogy tomorrow," and then segued neatly into the joke about the panhandler shivering outside in the cold and another panhandler comes over to him and says, "Can you lend me a dime for a cup of coffee?" and the first guy says, "Are you kidding? I'm standing here bare-assed, I'm shivering and starving to death, how come you're askingme for a dime?" and the second guy says, "Okay, make it a nickel," which wasn't very funny, but which he told with such dramatic flair that Eileen could actually visualize the two panhandlers standing on a windy corner of the city.

  Outside, the city beckoned.

  The night beckoned.

  The knife beckoned.

  But inside, sitting here at the bar with the television set going, and the sound of voices everywhere around them, the world seemed safe and cozy and warm, and she found herself listening intently to everything he said. Not only the jokes. The jokes were a given. If you wanted to learn about him, you had to listen to his jokes. The jokes were some sort of defense system, she realized, his way of keeping himself at arm's distance from anyone. But scattered in among the incessant jokes, there were glimpses of a shy and somewhat vulnerable person longing to make contact mdash;until another joke was triggered.

  He had used up his first twenty dollars five minutes ago, and was now working on the second twenty, which he said should take them through to twelve-forty.

  "After that, we'll see," he said. "Maybe we'll talk some more, or maybe we'll go outside, depends how we feel, right? We'll play this by ear, Linda, I'm really enjoying this, aren't you?"

  "Yes," she said, and guessed she meant it.

  But he's the killer, she reminded herself.

  Or maybe not.

  She hoped he wasn't.

  "If you add up these twenties," he said, "a dollar a minute, you'll be getting a third of what my dad gets in L.A., he gets a hundred and fifty bucks for a fifty-minute hour, which ain't bad, huh? For listening to people tell you they have bedbugs crawling all over them? Don't brush them on me, right? Well, I guess you know that one, I guess I've already told that one."

  He hadn't told that one. But suddenly, as he apologized for what he'd mistakenly thought was repetition, she felt oddly close to him. Like a married woman listening to the same jokes her husband had told time and again, and yet enjoying them each time as if he were telling them for the first time. She knew the "Don't-brush-them-on-me" joke. Yet she wished he would tell it, anyway.

  And wondered if she was stalling for time.

  Wondered if she was putting off that eventual moment when the knife came out of the pocket.

  "My father was very strict," he said. "If you have any choice, don't get raised by a psychiatrist. How's your father? Is he tough on you?"

  "I never really knew him," she said.

  Her father. A cop. On the beat, they used to call him Pops Burke. Shot to death when she was still a little girl.

  In the next instant, she almost told him that heruncle and not her father was the one who'd had the most telling influence on her life. Uncle Matt. Also a cop. Whose favorite toast was, "Here's to golden days and purple nights." An expression he'd heard repeated again and again on a radio show. Recently, Eileen had heard Hal Willis's new girlfriend using the same expression. Small world. Even smaller world when your favorite uncle is sitting off-duty in his favorite bar making his favorite toast and a guy walks in with a sawed-off shotgun. Uncle Matt drew his service revolver and the guy shot him dead. She almost told Bobby she'd become a cop because of her Uncle Matt. She almost forgot in that instant that she herself was a cop working undercover to trap a killer. The word "entrapment" flashed into her mind. Suppose he isn't the killer? she wondered. Suppose I blow him away and it turns out mdash;

  And realized again that her mind was playing tricks.

  "I grew up in a world of don't do this, don't do that," Bobby said. "You'd think a shrink would've known better, well, I guess it was a case of the shoemaker's children. Talk about repression. It was my mother who finally helped me to break out. I make it sound like a prison, don't I? Well, it was. Do you know the one about the lady walking along the beach in Miami?"

  She shook her head.

  She realized she was already smiling.

  "Well, she sees this guy lying on the sand, and she goes up to him and she says, 'Excuse me, I don't mean to intrude, but you're very white.' The guy looks up at her and says, 'So?' The lady says, 'I mean, most people they come down to Miami, they lie in the sun, they get a nice tan. But you're very white.' The guy says, 'So?' The lady says, 'So how come you're so white?' The guy says, 'This is prison pallor, I just got out of prison yesterday.' The lady shakes her head and says, 'How long were you in prison?' The guys says, 'Thirty years.' The lady says, 'My, my, what did you do, they put you in prison for thirty years?' The guy says, 'I killed my wife with a hatchet and chopped her up in little pieces.' The woman looks at him and says, 'Mmmm, so you're single?' "

  Eileen burst out laughing.

  And then realized that the joke was about murder.

  And then wondered if a murderer would tell a joke about murder.

  "Anyway, it was my mother who broke me out of prison," Bobby said, "and she had to die to do it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Left me a lot of money. Do you know what she said in her will? She said, 'This is for Robert's freedom to risk enjoying life.' Her exact words. She always called me Robert. 'Robert's freedom to risk enjoying life.' Which is just what I've been doing for the past year. Kissed my father off, told him to shove it, told him I'd be happy if I never saw him again, and then left L.A. forever."

  She wondered if there were any warrants out on him in L.A.

  But why would there be any warrants?

  "Went to Kansas City, had a good time there hellip; got the tattoo there, in fact, what the hell, I'd always wanted a tattoo. Then on to Chicago, liv
ed it up there, too, plenty of money to take risks, Linda. I owe that to my mother." He nodded thoughtfully, and then said, "He's the one who killed her, you know."

  She looked at him.

  "Oh, not literally. I mean he didn't stick a knife in her or anything. But he was having an affair with our housekeeper, and she found out about it, and it broke her heart, she was never the same again. They said it was cancer, but stress can induce serious illness, you know, and I'm sure that's what caused it, his fooling around with Elga. The money my mother eventually left me was the money she'd got in the divorce settlement, which I think was poetic justice, don't you? I mean, him raising me so strictly mdash;while he's fooling around with that Nazi hooker, mind you mdash;and my mother giving mehis money so I could lead a richer life, so I could risk enjoying life. I think that was the key word, don't you? In the will? Risk. I think she wanted me to take risks with the money, which is what I've been doing."

  "How?" Eileen asked.

  "Oh, not by investing in hog bellies or anything," he said, and smiled. "By living well. Living well is the best revenge, isn't it? Who said that? I knowsomebody said that."

  "Notme !" Eileen said, and backed away in mock denial.

  "Don't brush them on me, right?" he said, and they both laughed.

  He looked at the clock.

  "Five minutes left," he said. "Maybe we'll go outside then. Would you like to go outside then? When the five minutes are up?"

  "Whatever you want," she said.

  "Maybe that's what we'll do," he said. "Have a little fun. Do something new and exciting, huh? Risks," he said, and smiled again.

  He had a very pleasant smile.

  Transformed his entire face. Made him look like a shy little boy. Blue eyes soft, almost misty, behind the eyeglasses. Shy little kid sitting in the back row, afraid to raise his hand and ask questions.

  "In a way, you know," he said, "ithas been a sort of revenge. What I've been doing with the money. Traveling, having a good time, taking my risks. And getting even with him, in a way, for Elga. Our housekeeper, you know? The woman he tricked my mother with. Deceiving her all those years. A shrink, can you imagine? Holier than thou, and he's laying the goddamn housekeeper. I mean, my mother was the one who put him through medical school. She was a schoolteacher, you know, worked all those years to put him through school, do you know how long a psychiatrist has to go to school? It's very difficult to believe that women can be so callous toward other women. I find that very difficult to believe, Linda. I mean, Elga behaving like a common hooker hellip; excuse me, I don't mean any offense. Excuse me, really," he said, and patted her hand. "But, you know, you hear all this talk about sisterhood, you'd think she might have had some sense of concern for my mother, I mean the woman was married to him for fortyyears !" He grinned suddenly. "Do you know the one about this man who comes to his wife, they've been married forty years, he says to her, 'Ida, I want to do it like dogs.' She says, 'That's disgusting, Sam, doing it like dogs.' He says, 'Ida, if you won't do it like dogs, I want a divorce.' She says, 'Okay, Sam, we'll do it like dogs. But not on our block.' "

  Eileen nodded.

  "Didn't like that one, huh?"

  "Mezz' a mezza," she said, and see-sawed her hand on the air.

  "I promise we won't do it like dogs, okay?" he said, smiling. "How would you like to do it, Linda?"

  "You're the boss," she said.

  "Have you ever seen a snuff movie?" he asked.

  "Never," she said.

  Here it comes, she thought.

  "Does that scare you?" he said. "My asking about a snuff movie?"

  "Yes," she said.

  "Me, too," he said, and smiled. "I've never seen one, either."

  Explore it, she thought.

  But she was afraid to.

  "Think you might like that?" she asked.

  Her heart was suddenly pounding again.

  "Killing someone while you were laying her?"

  He looked deep into her eyes as though searching for something there.

  "Not if she knew it was going to happen," he said.

  And suddenly she knew for certain that he was their man, and there was no postponing what would happen tonight.

  He looked up at the clock.

  "Time's up," he said. "Let's go outside."

  CHAPTER 12

  The call to the squadroom came at twenty minutes to one. The call came from Monoghan, who was in a phone booth on the edge of the River Dix. He asked to talk to either Brown or Genero. Willis told him Brown and Genero were both out.

  "So who's this?" Monoghan asked.

  "Willis."

  "What I got here," Monoghan said, "is a head and a pair of hands. These guys dragging the river turned up this aluminum case, like it's big enough to hold a man's head. And his hands. So that's what I got here. A head cut off at the neck, and a pair of hands cut off at the wrists."

  "Uh-huh," Willis said.

  "So earlier tonight I was with Brown and Genero back out behind this restaurant the Burgundy, and what we had there was the upper part of a torso in a garbage can, is what we had. And I got a head and a pair of hands, and it occurred to me this might be the same body here, this head and hands."

  "Uh-huh," Willis said.

  "So what I want to know, does Brown or Genero have a positive make on the stiff? 'Cause otherwise we now got a head to look at, and also some hands to print."

  "Let me take a look at Brown's desk," Willis said. "I think he left some stuff here."

  "Yeah, go take a look," Monoghan said.

  "Hold on," Willis said.

  "Yeah."

  "Hold on, I'm putting you on hold."

  "Yeah, fine," Monoghan said.

  Willis pressed the hold button, and then went over to Brown's desk. He riffled through the papers there, and then stabbed at the lighted extension button, and picked up the receiver.

  "Monoghan?"

  "Yeah."

  "From what I can gather, the body was identified as someone named Frank Sebastiani, male, white, thirty-four years old."

  "That's what I got here, a white male around that age."

  "I've got a picture here, too," Willis said.

  "Whyn't you run on over with it?" Monoghan said. "We see we got the same stiff or not."

  "Where are you?"

  "Freezing my ass off on the drive here. Near the river."

  "Which river?"

  "The Dix."

  "And where?"

  "Hampton."

  "Give me ten minutes," Willis said.

  "Don't forget the picture," Monoghan said.

  The apartment over the garage was perhaps twelve-feet wide by twenty-feet long. There was a neatly made double bed in the room, and a dresser with a mirror over it, and an upholstered chair with a lamp behind it. The wall surrounding the mirror was covered with pictures of naked women snipped from men's magazines banned in 7-Eleven stores. All of the women were blondes. Like Marie Sebastiani. In the bottom drawer of the dresser, under a stack of Brayne's shirts, the detectives found a pair of crotchless black panties. The panties were a size five.