The Spitting Image

by Michael Avallone

  Behind me, April was crying.

  “She shouldn’t have left her to die like that—burning—” The rest was muffled in sobs.

  I lit a cigarette and waited for Monks.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Monks’ face was worried. I gave it to him fast. I was tired and disgusted. All the twins and all the money in the world left me cold now.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off April. He was bug-eyed with wonder. He had looked at May, what was left of May, just once. Once was enough in any lifetime.

  “The full clip,” I said. “Point-blank. Not much left to look at.”

  He grunted, still watching April.

  “I’m not sorry, Ed. My stake-out man was found two blocks away from the Wexler dump. Somebody knifed him. That wasn’t pretty either.” He shrugged. “Well, I polished off the Radkin kill. And now you’ve settled yours. Gotta say one thing for you, Ed. You sure pick your girl friends.”

  “Don’t I though? How can you marry a dame worth two million bucks? One consolation, though, Michael.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  I managed a grin as tired as I was.

  “Triplets are bad enough. Suppose it had been something like the Dionne Quints?”