by McBain, Ed
“Sure thing. It’s kind of slow around here, anyway. I may go out on it myself.”
“Will you let me know when you’ve got him? We’re heading for the photographer’s right now, but I’ll be at my father’s place in about an hour. You can reach me there.”
“Right. Kiss the bride for me, will you?”
“I will. Thanks again, Meyer.” He hung up.
Father Paul looked at him and said, “Trouble?”
“No. Nothing serious.”
“I’ve been told about the automobile accident,” he said. “Quite a freak occurrence.”
“Yes.”
“But there’s no trouble?”
“No.”
“Even though the accident, to quote you, stank to high heaven?”
Carella smiled. “Father,” he said, “you’ve got me inside the church, but you’re not going to get me into the confessional.” He shook hands with the priest. “It was a beautiful ceremony. Thank you, Father.”
Outside, the limousines were waiting.
Carella walked over to where Kling was standing with Teddy.
“That was Meyer,” he said. “I’ve got a pickup-and-hold on Sokolin. I think that’s wise, don’t you?”
“I suppose.”
Carella looked around. “Where’s our friend Jonesy?”
“He went back to the house.”
“Oh.”
“If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, don’t worry about it. Cotton left right after him.”
“Good.” He took Teddy’s arm. “Honey, you look about ready to drop. Come on. Get inside that nice air-cooled Cadillac.” He held the door open for her. “Some day,” he said, “when I get to be commissioner, I’m going to buy you one of these all for yourself.”
Ben Darcy and Sam Jones were talking to the caterers when Hawes and Christine pulled up in a taxicab. Hawes paid the driver, and then walked around to the back of the Carella house. A huge framework was in its last stages of construction at the far end of the plot, just inside the row of hedges that divided the Carella property from Birnbaum’s.
Jonesy stopped talking when he saw Christine Maxwell. Wearing an ice-blue chiffon, she rustled across the lawn clinging to Hawes’s arm, and Jonesy followed her progress through the grass with unabashed and open admiration. When they were close enough, his eyes still on Christine, he said, “I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Sam Jones. Call me Jonesy.”
“I’m Cotton Hawes,” Hawes said. “This is Christine Maxwell.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, taking Christine’s hand. Belatedly, he added, “Both.”
“What’s this monster creation?” Hawes asked, indicating the huge wooden grid.
“For the fireworks display,” one of the caterers explained.
“It looks like the launching platform for a three-stage rocket,” Hawes commented, aware of the sledgehammer subtlety of Jonesy’s ogling and slightly rankled by it. “Are we trying for the moon?”
“We’ll be shooting off a few rockets,” the caterer replied humorlessly.
“When will this be?”
“As soon as it’s dark. This is going to be the goddamnedest wedding this neighborhood ever saw, you can bet on that.”
“Angela deserves it,” Darcy said.
“And Tommy, too,” Jonesy added, smiling at Christine. “Have you seen the mermaid, Miss Maxwell? Come, I’ll show it to you. They’ve already loaded the buckets of champagne. It’s fascinating.”
“Well…” Christine started, and she glanced hesitantly at Hawes.
“I’m sure Mr. Hawes won’t mind,” Jonesy said. “Come along.” He took her arm and led her to where the ice maiden lay on her side, protected from the sun by a shielding canopy. The base upon which she lay had been scooped out to form a frigid tub into which dozens of champagne bottles had been placed. It truly looked as if this was going to be one hell of a wedding. Hawes watched Christine amble away across the lawn, aware of a growing irritation within him. It was one thing to do a cotton-picking, bodyguarding favor, but it was another to have a girl snatched from right before your eyes.
“So what is this?” a voice beside him said. “The battleship Missouri?”
Hawes turned. The man standing before the fireworks scaffolding was short and slender with a balding pate fringed with white hair. His blue eyes held a merry twinkle. He studied the framework as if it were truly a wonder of the scientific age.
“I’m Birnbaum,” he said. “The neighbor. Who are you?”
“Cotton Hawes.”
They shook hands. “That’s an unusual name,” Birnbaum said. “Very unusual. Cotton Mather? The Puritan priest?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not a religious man, myself.”
“Neither am I.”
“Did you come from the wedding?”
“Yes,” Hawes said.
“Me, too. It was the first time in my life I’ve ever been inside a Catholic Church. I’ll tell you something. It’s a bubemeiseh.”
“What is?”
“That the walls will fall down if a Jew steps inside. I stepped inside and I stepped out again, and the walls—thank God—are still standing. Imagine if the walls had come down during my tsotskuluh’s wedding. A terrible thing to imagine! Oi, God, I would rather cut off my right arm. She looked lovely, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“A beautiful girl, Angela. I never had a daughter. I got a lawyer son, he’s now in Denver. My wife, poor soul, passed away three years ago. I’m alone in the world. Birnbaum. The neighbor. Well, at least I’m a neighbor, no?”
“A neighbor is a good thing to be,” Hawes said, smiling, liking the little man immensely.
“Certainly. But lest you think I’m a bum, I should tell you I am also a grocery store owner besides being a neighbor. Birnbaum’s Grocery. Right up the street. And I live over there. See the house? Been here for forty years and believe me when I first moved in people thought Jews had horns and tails. Well, times change, huh? It’s a good thing, thank God.” He paused. “I know both the children since they were born. Tommy and Angela. Like my own children. Both sweet. I love that little girl. I never had a daughter of my own, you know. So Tony’s having fireworks! My God, what a wedding this will be! I hope I live through it. Do you like my tuxedo?”
“It’s very nice,” Hawes said.
“The least I could do was rent a tuxedo when Tony’s daughter got married. It fits a little snug, don’t you think?”
“No, it looks fine.”
“Well, I’m not as slender as I used to be. Too much easy living. I got two clerks in my grocery store now. It’s not easy to buck the supermarkets. But I get by. Get by? Look how fat I’m getting. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a theatrical agent,” Hawes said, relying upon the earlier fabrication. If someone meant to injure Tommy Giordano, he did not think it wise to advertise his profession.
“That’s a good business. Is Miss Maxwell in show business?”
“Yes,” he lied again. “She’s a dancer.”
“I thought so. A beautiful girl. But I’m partial to blondes.” He looked across the lawn. “I guess Jonesy isn’t. He’s left her.”
Hawes turned. Christine was walking back toward the fireworks platform. Alone. Jonesy was nowhere in sight. It suddenly occurred to him that Ben Darcy had disappeared, too.
I’m a fine cop, Hawes thought. I stand here talking to a grocer while the boys I’m supposed to watch vanish into the woodwork.
“You should take a look at the mermaid,” Christine said. “She’s quite lovely.”
“Where’d your escort go?” Hawes asked.
Christine shrugged. “Said there was something he had to take care of.” She paused. “I didn’t inquire further. I didn’t think it would be ladylike.” She paused again. “He’s rather cute, don’t you think?”
“Adorable,” Hawes said, and he wondered where both Jonesy and Darcy had gone.
And he hoped it w
as not too far.
The photographer’s shop was not too far from the Carella house in Riverhead. In fact, a fairly slow driver could make the journey in less than five minutes if he stopped at each FULL STOP sign on the way.
The photographer was called Jody Lewis, and a sign across the front of his shop read JODY’S simply because he did not wish to name his place LEWIS’S or LEWIS’, both of which he was certain would be mistakenly read as just plain LEWIS. The shop was a simple one-story brick building with a plate-glass front window behind which were displayed the photographer’s previous efforts. Across the street from the shop, sitting back some twenty-five feet from the sidewalk, was a two-story frame house. Six windows faced the street side of that house. From a window on the second floor of the house, the photographer’s shop was clearly visible.
The man stood at the window, peering across the street at the shop. The cars had not yet arrived. That was good. That gave him plenty of time to set up. He lighted a cigar and then crossed the room to where the rifle was standing against the wall.
The rifle was a Winchester Model 70 target rifle that had been developed to meet the requirements of all long-range, highpower target shooting, and long-range shooting at small game. The stock was ample in size and weight, with a large butt stock, a well-rounded comb, and a large full pistol grip curving close to the guard. The gun also featured a target butt plate and a long, wide beavertail forestock.
He picked up the gun and studied it, the cigar smoke trailing up past his face.
A telescopic sight was mounted to the gun.
The sight was a blued steel tube, one inch in diameter, eleven and a quarter inches in length. It weighed only nine and a half ounces and was adjustable for internal windage and elevation with either a friction lock or a quarter-inch click.
The man carried the gun to the window and rested it on the window sill. He focused the sight on the door of Jody’s shop, so that the crosshairs were on the center of the doorway.
Then he sat back to wait.
The two limousines pulled up before he’d been waiting five minutes.
He pulled back the bolt and slammed it home, rested the gun on the window sill again, and took careful aim at the entrance to the shop. He looked up from the sight once to make sure he knew which of the people coming from the cars was Tommy Giordano.
Then he waited again.
Tommy stepped into the door of the shop.
The man’s finger began to tighten on the trigger. And then Tommy pulled his bride to him, her back to the street, kissing her soundly. The finger hesitated. Tommy pulled her into the shop. The moment was gone.
Cursing, the sniper stubbed out his cigar and prepared to wait for their exit.
Jody Lewis was a dwarf of a man who looked like something that had popped out of a trick box camera when the shutter was clicked. Bouncing around his shop with undiminished energy, he said, “These are the only posed pictures we’ll take. Of the bride and groom. This is your story, the bride’s and groom’s. That’s why I don’t want any posed shots of the best man or the maid of honor. Who needs them? This is your story. That’s what it’ll say on the cover of the album. ‘Our Wedding Day.’ Not the best man’s wedding day, but the groom’s. Not the maid of honor’s, but the bride’s. And all I want here in the studio with the good lights is one perfect picture of the lovely bride, God bless her, and one perfect picture of the handsome groom, and one of you together. And that’s all. And then we go off to the reception. But is that the end of Jody Lewis? Not by a long shot. Not by a closeup, either. I’ll be with you every minute of the way, taking pictures of you when you least expect it. Click, click, click goes my shutter. A candid record of your wedding day. Right to the hotel, right to a shot of Tommy carrying you over the threshold, and you putting your shoes in the hallway. And then back to develop and print, so that when you return from your lovely honeymoon, you’ll have this candid album titled ‘Our Wedding Day’ as a keepsake forever, as a memento of events you might otherwise forget. Who can remember all the little things that have happened or are going to happen today? Nobody has a memory like that except a camera. And I am a camera! Me, Jody Lewis, from the play and movie of the same name. Now sit right here, little ones. The two of you together. That’s it. Look as if you love each other, I’m joking, God only knows you’re crazy in love with each other, that’s it, smile a little, Tommy, my God, don’t look so serious, the girl loves you. That’s better. Take his hand, Angela. That’s the girl, now look over there, not at the camera, over there where the picture’s hanging on the wall, that’s it, hold it, click! That’s going to be beautiful Now turn a little on the seat, Tommy, that’s it, and put your arms around her waist, oh she’s nice to hold, my friend, that’s it, don’t blush, you’re married now, that’s it, now hold it, hold it…”
“How do you feel, Teddy?” Carella asked.
Gently, Teddy touched the mound that began just below her breasts. Then she rolled her eyes heavenward and pulled a weary face.
“It’ll be over soon,” he said. “Is there anything you want? A glass of water or something?”
Teddy shook her head.
“Massage your back?”
She shook her head again.
“Know I love you?”
Teddy grinned and squeezed his hand.
The woman who answered the door at the private house in Riverhead was in her late fifties and didn’t care. She wore a wrinkled housedress and scuffed house-slippers. Her hair hung limply on her head, as if it had followed its owner’s directive and given up the struggle.
“What do you want?” she said. She pierced Meyer and O’Brien with eyes chipped from green agate.
“We’re looking for a man named Marty Sokolin,” Meyer said patiently. “Does he live here?”
“Yes, and who the hell are you?”
Patiently, Meyer took out his wallet and opened it to where his shield was pinned to the leather. “Police department,” he said.
The woman looked at the shield. “All right, Mr. Detective,” she said. “What did Sokolin do?”
“Nothing. We just want to ask him a few questions.”
“What about?”
“About what he might be planning to do.”
“He ain’t here,” the woman said.
“And what is your name, madam?” Meyer asked patiently. If there was one attribute Meyer possessed, it was extreme patience. An Orthodox Jew born in a predominantly Gentile neighborhood, he’d been further handicapped by the vagaries of a whimsical father who thought it would be a good joke to give his son a double-barreled moniker. The family surname was Meyer. And old Max Meyer decided to name his change-of-life offspring Meyer Meyer, just to get even with the powers that dictated offseason births. The joke was played. It was not a very practical one. It provided the young boy with a ready-made millstone. To say that Meyer Meyer’s childhood had been only an endless round of fist fights provoked by either his name or his religion would have been a complete understatement. For coupled with the fist fights came the slow development of a diplomat. Meyer learned that only some battles could be won with his hands. The rest had to be won with his tongue. And so he acquired a veneer of extreme patience to cover the scars of his father’s little jibe. Patiently, he even learned to forgive the old man before he died. Now, at the age of thirty-seven, the only scar he carried from an excruciatingly anxious childhood (or, to be more precise, the only scar that showed) was a head as bald as the famed American eagle.
Patiently, he repeated, “And what is your name, madam?”
“Mary Murdoch. What’s it to you?”
“Nothing,” Meyer said. He glanced at O’Brien. O’Brien stepped back a pace, as if anxious to sever whatever national ties bound him to the woman. “You said Mr. Sokolin was not in. When did he leave, might we ask?”
“Early this morning. He took his damn horn with him, thank the good Lord.”
“His horn?”
“His trumpet, his trombone, his saxophone,
whatever you call the damn thing. He practices it morning and night. You never heard such unholy screeches. I wouldn’t have rented him the apartment if I’d known he played a horn. I might kick him out, matter of fact.”
“You don’t like horn players?”
“Put it this way,” Mary Murdoch said. “They make me vomit.”
“That’s a unique way of putting it,” Meyer said, and he cleared his throat. “How do you know Sokolin left with his horn?”
“I seen him. He’s got a case for the thing. A black case. That’s what he carries the damn thing in. A case.”
“A trumpet case?”
“Or a trombone, or a saxophone, some damn thing. It sure makes an unholy racket, whatever it is.”
“How long has he been living here, Miss Murdoch?”
“Mrs. Murdoch, if you please. He’s been living here for two weeks. If he keeps blasting away on that damn saxophone, he won’t be living here much longer, I can tell you that.”
“Oh, is it a saxophone?”
“Or a trumpet, or a trombone, or some damn thing,” she said. “Is he in trouble with the police?”
“No, not really. Do you have any idea where he went when he left this morning?”
“No. He didn’t say. I just happened to see him go, that’s all. But he usually hangs out in a bar on the Avenue.”
“What avenue is that, Mrs. Murdoch?”
“Dover Plains Avenue. Everybody knows the Avenue. Don’t you know the Avenue?”
“No, we’re not too familiar—”
“Two blocks down and under the elevated structure. Dover Plains Avenue. Everybody knows the Avenue. He hangs out in a bar there. It’s called the Easy Dragon, that’s some name for a bar, isn’t it? It sounds more like a Chinese restaurant.” Mrs. Murdoch grinned with death’s head simplicity.
“You’re sure he hangs out there?”
“Sure, I’m sure.”
