by Parnell Hall
That one siren did the trick. They drew their guns all right, but not at me. They drew them and rushed for the door. All of them. Even Tony. Revenge is a hell of a good motivation, but fear beats it every time. Thank god for man’s instinct to survive.
I bent down and ripped the bug from the bottom of the desk. I opened my toolbox, took out Pedro’s gun and razor, and Albrect’s kilo of coke. I pulled the desk drawer open, popped them in, and pulled it closed. Good. Even the stupidest cop couldn’t help finding them.
I heard gunfire coming from the front of the house. All in all, it seemed a great time to get the hell out of there.
I ran to the window. It opened easily. There was a screen, but it slid open too. I pushed my toolbox through, climbed through after it, and dropped to the ground.
I had just picked up my toolbox and started around the house, when I heard someone bark, “Freeze!” Jesus Christ! You mean people say that in real life?
I froze. The cop walked up to me. He seemed young. At least he seemed younger than I was. Right then I felt about a hundred and five.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
I looked at him as if he were an idiot. “Fixing the phone,” I said. “The phones are out.”
“Well, you’re not fixing it now.”
“Hey, that’s my job.”
There came fresh gunfire from the front of the house.
“You hear that?” the cop said. “You deaf? Now get the hell out of here.”
God bless police psychology. If I’d tried to leave he’d have held me. He hurried back toward the front of the house. I cut into the next-door neighbor’s yard and walked out to the road.
There were five police cars surrounding the place. Cops were stationed everywhere out front, and guns were blazing. It seemed like an awfully good time to get the hell out of there, but I didn’t want to leave any trace. Anything that would give the cops the idea the phone had been wired. Anything that might start them thinking.
So I hooked on my belt and started up the pole again. No one noticed. Everyone’s attention was quite well riveted on the ground. I reached the top, settled in, began to work on my splice.
I was still there when the news crews arrived. I have no idea how they get wind of these things—someone must tip them off—but they sure arrived fast. The shootout was still on when the first crews arrived, and the police had to keep pushing them back so they themselves wouldn’t become the fatalities on which they were about to report.
By the time the last crew arrived it was over. Those poor slobs were still setting up as the police led the handcuffed prisoners out of the house. Tall, Dark, and Ugly and Floridian #1 came first, along with Tony’s driver. I hadn’t even known he was there, and I still didn’t know his name, but it didn’t matter, they had him.
Pluto came next, looking just like a little kid who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Big, bold Pluto, killer and dope dealer, who looked like he wanted to cry and run home to his mother.
Floridian #2 came next. He was so frail two cops had to help him. He looked as if he were being assisted into a retirement home, which, in a way, he was.
Tony came last, and he came on a stretcher. Two medics were desperately working on his chest, but even from my high perch I could see it was too late. Alas, poor Bambi, I knew him well.
I completed my splice and slid down the pole. No one bothered me. No one seemed to notice. I went back to my cars. I opened the trunk of the rental car, took out the tape recorders and all the equipment, and threw it in the back of my car I got in my car and drove off. I’d come back for the rental car later, if I got a chance. It didn’t matter if anyone found it, seeing as how I’d rented it with the phony driver’s license made by the guy who made the bank I.D. Let the cops go nuts combing the Bronx looking for Julius T. Coosbaine.
41.
I DROVE BACK TO MANHATTAN. All in all, I felt pretty good. After all, I’d done it, hadn’t I? In my own, bumbling, ineffectual way, I’d done everything I’d set out to do. True, I hadn’t done it heroically dramatically, like some fucking TV detective. I hadn’t shot anybody. I hadn’t even confronted the enemy. As my wife so justly accuses me, I’d avoided all personal confrontation. Aside from briefly meeting Tony in the casino, and Tall, Dark, and Ugly in my repairman guise, I hadn’t even met any of ’em. My one assertive act, aside from frightening poor Red out of his wits, had been Coshing Pedro on the head, and that had affected me almost as much as it had him.
But I’d had to play it that way. I am not Mike Hammer, nor was meant to be.
My actual personal involvement in the case was so limited that no one knew I was connected with it at all. And that’s the way I wanted it. That’s the way I intended to keep it. Oh yeah, I had the tapes, and I should have turned them over to the police for evidence, but they didn’t need them. They had Murphy’s confession, and it covered everything; I’d seen to that. It even covered things he couldn’t know, but that didn’t matter. The cops had the murder weapon. They had the guys dead to rights. With all of them in separate cells, all talking their heads, off, trying to pin it on the others to save their own skins, the D.A. would have all he needed and more.
No one could connect me with the case at all. The only one who might have was Tony, and he was dead. Murphy knew me by sight, but he didn’t know my name. And even if he found out, he wouldn’t talk. I’d read him the riot act before I’d turned him loose on the cops. And he didn’t know I was an ineffectual schmuck. He thought I was a tough son of a bitch, capable of carrying out my threats. Murphy was just as chicken shit as I. He’d keep quiet till doomsday.
The only thing that could have involved me was the bullet I brought to the cops, but that was no real worry. I’d made sure of that, by telling ’em I’d found it in the parking lot. The police theory of the case, and what I’m sure actually happened, was that Albrect was killed somewhere else and dumped in the lot. The bullet contradicted that theory. Therefore, the D.A. would never mention it. The defense attorney certainly would, if he knew of its existence, but I was sure that would never happen. The cops wouldn’t let it. The bullet would just quietly disappear.
So I was home free. Uninvolved. Invisible. The man who wasn’t there. And that’s the way I wanted it. That’s the way it had to be. I have a five-year-old kid. I couldn’t live with the knowledge that somewhere,, somehow, someone might strike back at me through him. Or through my wife. Or through me, for that matter. I’m a coward still.
Yeah, I’m still a coward, but all things are relative. I mean, after all this, I don’t think I’d find the projects quite so scary anymore. Not that I was planning on visiting the projects any time in the near future.
I pulled up in front of my office, put the blinkers on, and took the recording equipment inside, screw the “NO PARKING TOW ZONE” sign (see, I’m braver already).
I lugged Red’s suitcase back down to the car. It hadn’t seemed that heavy when I’d yanked it out of Red’s trunk that night with all my adrenaline flowing, but it sure weighed a ton now. I flung it in the back of the car and drove off, heading for the West Side Highway and home.
Yeah, I think I’ve had it with the detective business. After all, it was never meant to be permanent. It was always a source of income, nothing more.
I know an actor named Phil who’s a cokehead, who deals grams just so he’ll have something around to snort. He’s not big time, or anything, but he probably moves about an ounce a week. I don’t know what he pays for his coke or how good it is, but I do know that if I offered him what I have at $1500 an ounce he’d probably come in his pants.
Let’s see now, there’s 16 ounces to a pound. A kilo’s over two pounds; I’m not sure exactly what, it’s never come up in my life before. So two pounds is 32 ounces; round it off to 30, say 30 ounces a key, times 20 keys, or 600 ounces. That’ll bring me 1500 tax-free a week for at least the next ten years. Well, if I can’t get any writing done with that much free time, I might as well han
g it up. I’ll worry about it when I’m 50. Jesus, do people really get to be 50? I guess they do. It surprised the hell out of me to discover they got to be 40.
Yeah, I know, all this talk about dealing dope makes me a bad person. But I’ve done the right thing all my life and been fucked over by everyone I’ve ever met. Over half the jobs I’ve ever had, I never got paid for, or at least never got paid for in full. I’ve been pushed around all my life by asshole producers, directors, agents, editors and bosses. I’ve never gotten anywhere. I’m 40 years old and I’m tired, and I’ve got a wife and kid to feed, so can you blame me for taking the free ride?
Look, a lot of people do coke, and they’re gonna go on doing it whether I get my weekly skim or not. And it’s not like I’m hanging out by the schoolyard trying to get the kids hooked. No one in the world is gonna do any more or any less of the stuff whether I get paid or not. So why not get paid?
Yeah, I know, it’s a lousy moral justification. So I’m a bad person. What can I say. I look at my assets after 40 years of struggling through life, and what do I see? Nothing. Zero. With the small exception of 20 kilos of coke.
All right, it’s illegal. But my father-in-law cheats on his income tax, and Richard sues innocent people and bilks insurance companies out of millions of dollars, and Leroy’s a thief, for Christ’s sake. They think nothing of it, but they would all look down their noses at me as a dirty filthy dope peddler. Shit. If I’d just had the presence of mind to hit Red on his way down to Miami, and rip off the drug money instead of the drug, they’d think it was just great. Well, fuck ’em all. You gotta do what you gotta do.
I got on the West Side Highway and headed uptown. Ahead, in the. distance, I could see the sign for the 79th Street Boat Basin.
Yeah. The coke was mine. I’d worked hard for it. I’d earned it. I had every right to keep it I had every right to sell it.
Like Albrect.
Jesus.
Just like Albrect.
I pulled into the Boat Basin, stopped the car, and got out. I took the suitcase full of coke and threw it in the Hudson River.
Tough luck, Phil.
I threw my beeper in too.
Tough luck, Richard.
I got in the car and drove home.
Yeah, you gotta do what you gotta do.
42.
DRIVING HOME ON THE WEST side highway, I got to thinking about the case again, and I had a revelation. I guess it’s not surprising for a guy who just threw a half a million dollars in the river to experience a revelation, but actually, that had nothing to do with it. What set it off was the fact that I realized I was referring to the Albrect affair as “the case,” just as if I were a real detective. Which of course struck me funny, seeing as how the whole time I’d been working on “the case,” my big problem had been that I wasn’t a real detective.
And then, for the first time, I started thinking about what a real detective was. Up to now, my only definition of a real detective had been one that wasn’t me. I’d never really taken it any further than that. But why wasn’t I a real detective? Because I hadn’t kicked down any doors or shot anybody or had any high-speed car chases? Because I hadn’t captured the bad guys single-handed and held them at bay until the police arrived? Just what was a real detective, anyway?
Well, Fred Lazar’s a real detective. What would he have done in this case, assuming he took it at all, which I doubt? Well, he might have had some ex-cop who would have been willing to bodyguard Albrect. What would have happened then? One of two things. One, Albrect and the bodyguard would have got killed, in which case Fred would have reported what he knew to the police, end of case. Two, the bodyguard would have shot Pedro. What would have happened then? Would Fred have covered it up, kept Albrect out of it, and gone after the cocaine ring? Not on your life. Fred has a license, and he’s not dumb. He’d have made a full disclosure to the police, withholding only the specifics of Albrect’s story, stating that Albrect had hired his agency to provide a bodyguard for reasons unknown, and this had been the result, end of case.
Yeah, that’s what Fred would have done. He wouldn’t have solved the Albrect murder. But if he’d gotten involved at all, he’d have made damn sure someone paid him a fee. He’s a real detective.
So it dawned on me that the whole time I’d been upbraiding myself for not being a real detective, what I’d been thinking of as a real detective wasn’t real at all. I’d been coming down on myself for not being a TV detective, a movie detective, a paperback hero that doesn’t even exist. The macho fantasy figure I’d been disparaging all along—that was the guy I’d been unable to measure up to. That was the guy I’d felt useless for not being able to be. He wasn’t real at all.
I got so wrapped up in thinking this I nearly missed the 96th Street exit, and I had to swerve in front of a car that was pulling onto the Highway from the entrance at Riverside Drive and 95th. The driver gave me the horn and the finger, and deservedly so. I didn’t care. I coasted down the exit ramp under Riverside Drive, lost in a world of my own.
Schmuck. You total schmuck. Your real detective wasn’t even real. “And the princess and the prince discuss what’s real and what is not.” Jesus Christ, Bob Dylan sang that song over twenty years ago. Think how old that makes you, and yet you still cling to your idiotic, romantic, childhood notions. Stanley Hastings, P.I. Stanley Hastings, coward, incompetent, bungler, fool. What’s the difference? You did it, you son of a bitch.
I turned the corner onto my block. There was a parking space right in front of my building. Some days you get lucky. I parked the car, set the code, alarm, and went in.
The Mets had won that day, and Jerry was insufferable in the elevator, but I didn’t care. I barely heard. I got off at my floor, put my key in the lock, and opened the door.
Tommie was waiting for me with his Red Sox hat and glove on. He held out my glove to me. As I took it from him, my wife exploded from the kitchen, a letter clutched in her hand.
“There you are, finally,” she cried. “Do you know what this is? The goddamn Master Charge people sent the bill here again. After all the times you’ve told them to switch it over, they sent it here again, and guess what? You know how much it’s for? Nineteen hundred and seventy dollars! I called them up and said what the hell is going on, our limit is fifteen hundred, for Christ’s sake, and they said they sent a letter raising it, but we never got it. So you know what’s happened? Someone’s stolen one of our cards and is charging stuff all over the place. Airline tickets. Hotel rooms. Well, I gave the people at Master Charge a piece of my mind, and you know what they said? We gotta pay it. I told them the card must have been stolen, but they say since we didn’t report it stolen we gotta pay. Can you believe that? Nineteen hundred seventy dollars and they say we gotta pay! Do you know how much the damn interest is on all that? It’s unbelievable. I was so mad I told ’em to cancel our card, but they said we couldn’t cancel it until we pay the damn thing off, and I’m so mad I want to take ’em to court, if we could afford a goddamn lawyer. Do you think Richard would do it? No, he doesn’t handle that kind of stuff, does he? So what the hell we gonna do now, huh?”
She paused for breath, looked at me. “You’re very late. I hope you had a big day, ’cause we really need it. So tell, me, how many hours did you get today?”
I’d been trying to keep a straight face, but this was too much. I chuckled.
I put my glove on, banged it once with my fist. God, I felt good.
I smiled at her, and shook my head.
“Not a damn one.”
Books by Parnell Hall
Stanley Hastings private eye mysteries
Detective
Murder
Favor
Strangler
Client
Juror
Shot
Actor
Blackmail
Movie
Trial
Scam
Suspense
Cozy
Manslaughter
Hitman
Caper
Puzzle Lady crossword puzzle mysteries
A Clue For The Puzzle Lady
Last Puzzle & Testament
Puzzled To Death
A Puzzle In A Pear Tree
With This Puzzle I Thee Kill
And A Puzzle To Die On
Stalking The Puzzle Lady
You Have The Right To Remain Puzzled
The Sudoku Puzzle Murders
Dead Man’s Puzzle
The Puzzle Lady vs. The Sudoku Lady
Steve Winslow courtroom dramas
The Baxter Trust
Then Anonymous Client
The Underground Man
The Naked Typist
The Wrong Gun