by Nocturne
“I’m in serious debt,” he says. “Otherwise I wouldn’t accept this.”
“Take it,” she says, and hands him an envelope. “Count it,” she says.
“I don’t have to count it.”
“Count it. It’s twenty-five thousand dollars.”
He shakes his head, puts the envelope into the pocket of his coat. It is eleven o’clock sharp now.
“I had my hair done this morning,” she says.
“It’s very pretty,” he says, admiring the finger wave. “You look beautiful.”
“I would have put on a long black concert gown,” she tells him, “but I want it to look as if an intruder surprised me. So there’ll be no suspicion cast on you. We’ll open the window. It will seem that someone came in.”
“Yes,” he says.
He is wondering what kind of man he is, to be willing to do this to a poor old deaf woman. What kind of man? But he keeps remembering Bernie’s threat. And he rationalizes what he is about to do, telling himself that with the twenty-five thousand he can pay off the twenty he owes Bernie and with the remaining five can perhaps pick a good horse or two in next week’s races, parlay the money into God knows how much, a fortune perhaps. Beside, he tells himself he is not really taking a life. He is only doing what Svetlana herself wishes him to do. He is helping her to die with dignity and honor. He is helping her to leave this world with her memories intact. For this, God will forgive him. This is what he tells himself.
They open the bedroom window.
Cold air rushes into the apartment.
She goes to the bedroom closet and takes from it an old mink coat.
“I want it to look as if I just got back from the store,” she says. “So no one will suspect you.”
His hand is beginning to shake on the butt of the gun in the pocket of his coat. He is not sure he will be able to do this now that the time is so close. He is not sure at all.
“Would you help me, please?” she asks.
He holds the coat for her as she shrugs into it. He can smell fish on his hands. There is always the stench of fish on his hands.
He is beginning to shake all over now.
From the table just inside the front door, she takes her handbag, begins searching in it, and at last finds what she’s looking for, a white envelope with someone’s name written on the front of it.
“Take this to the front desk at the Hotel Powell,” she says. “My granddaughter’s name is written on it. Ask the clerk to send it up to her suite. Make sure you say suite. She has a suite there, you know.”
He nods, accepts the envelope.
“Promise me,” she says.
“I promise,” he says.
He slides the envelope into the left-hand pocket of his coat, the one containing the envelope with the twenty-five thousand dollars in it. The blood money. His right hand is in the pocket where the gun is. He is sweating now. His hand in the pocket is slippery on the handle of the gun.
It is now ten minutes past eleven.
The cat is in the hallway with them now. Looking up at them. First Svetlana’s face, then his. As if expecting to be fed.
“Her carrying case is in the kitchen,” Svetlana says. “On the table. She’s used to it, she’ll think you’re taking her to the vet.”
He looks at her, nods. Looks down at the cat. The cat is rubbing herself against his leg. It gives him the chills. He is sweating and shivering at one and the same time.
“Swear to me you’ll take good care of her.”
He says nothing for a moment.
“Swear,” she says.
“I swear.”
“Swear to me you’ll feed her fresh fish every day.”
“I promise.”
“Swear.”
“I swear.”
“On your mother’s eyes.”
“On my mother’s eyes, I swear.”
The apartment goes very still.
In the kitchen, he can hear a clock ticking.
He looks at his own watch.
It is almost twenty minutes past the hour.
From the same hall table, Svetlana picks up a brown paper bag with a bottle of whiskey in it.
“I drink,” she says in explanation.
“Son’ un’ umbriaga,” she says.
I’m a drunk.
“Everyone knows that.”
As a matter of fact, he doesn’t know this.
As a matter of fact, he doesn’t know this woman at all.
But he is about to kill her.
“Are you ready?” she asks.
“Yes,” he says.
She is standing just inside the door. The bag with the whiskey is cradled in her right arm. He removes the gun from
his coat pocket. The cat keeps rubbing against his leg, purring. Sweat is beading his face, sweat is rolling down under the collar of his shirt, sweat dampens his armpits and the matted blond hair on his chest. His hand is shaking violently now.
“Thank you for doing this,” she says.
He steadies the gun in both hands.
“Take good care of Irina,” she says, and closes her eyes.
The interrogation room went silent.
Q: Did you shoot her at that time?
A: Yes.
Q: How many times did you shoot her?
A: Twice.
Q: Did the shots kill her?
A: Yes.
Q: What did you do then?
A: I shot the cat.
Nellie looked at him.
“Why’d you do that?” she asked.
“I didn’t want to take care of her. I know I promised Svetlana. But cats are not to be trusted.”
Men, either, Nellie thought.
“So you took her money …”
“Yes, but only because I was afraid Bernie would do something bad to me.”
“Did you pay him the twenty you owed him? Or did you stiff him, too?”
“I don’t know what stiff means.”
“Tell him what it means to stiff somebody,” Nellie said to the interpreter.
“Ever leave a restaurant without tipping the waiter?” McNalley asked.
“I always tip waiters,” Lorenzo said. “What does that have to do with Bernie?”
“She’s asking did you go back on your word with him, too?” Moscowitz said. “Isn’t that right, Counselor?”
“It’s close enough,” Nellie said. “Ask him” she told McNalley, who immediately translated the question.
“I didn’t go back on my word with him or anyone else,” Lorenzo answered. “I didn’t stiff anybody, however you say it. I paid Bernie his money, and I did everything Svetlana paid me to do. Except for the cat.”
“Except for the cat, right,” Nellie said. “The cat, you shot in the head.”
“Well.”
“Well, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I don’t like cats.”
“Gee, I love them” Nellie said.
And I’m the D.A., she thought.
“What’d you do with the other five thousand?”
“I bet it on the horses.”
“Did you win?”
“I lost.”
“All around,” Nellie said.
All during lunch, Priscilla kept complaining about her cheap grandmother leaving her a mere five thousand clams. Georgie kept thinking about the ninety-five thou hidden in one of the black patent-leather dancing slippers in a shoebox in his closet.
First thing he did when he got back to the apartment was check the stash. There it was, in a spanking-clean envelope with a rubber band around it, as beautiful as when he’d put it there yesterday, bulging with money. He counted the money. He wanted to throw it up in the air and let it come down on his head. Instead, he put it back in the envelope and put the rubber band around it again, and put the envelope in one of the shoes, and then put the lid back on the box and put the box back on the top shelf. He closed the closet door. The phone on the kitchen wall was ringing. He went out to it.
&nbs
p; It was Tony.
“When do we split the cash?” he wanted to know.
“I’ll come by your place before we go to the club tonight,” Georgie said.
“What’s half of ninety-five?” Tony wanted to know.
“Forty-seven and change.”
“How much change?”
“Five bills.”
“Bring the change, too,” Tony said, and hung up.
“What we’ve got here,” Moscowitz said, “is a mercy killing, pure and simple.”
“What we’ve got here, pure and simple,” Nellie said, “is Murder Two. In fact, what we may have here, Alan, is murder for hire, which just may qualify for the death penalty.”
“Oh, come on, Nellie, really.”
“Man takes money to kill someone, that sounds to me like a contract killing.”
“Woman gives a man money to assist her in committing suicide, that sounds to me like a mitzvah.”
“What’s a mitzvah?”
“You don’t know what a mitzvah is?”
“No, what’s a mitzvah?”
“How long have you been practicing law in this city?”
“Are you going to tell me what a mitzvah is?”
“It’s a good deed.”
“Man shoots a woman …”
“She asked him to shoot her.”
“That’s a good deed by you?”
“That’s a mitzvah. Nellie, this man isn’t a criminal, he’s …”
“Then what is he? An angel? He murdered a woman in cold blood. Shot her twice in the chest …”
“She wanted to die!”
“How about the cat? Did she want to die, too?”
“Okay, I’ll give you the cat.”
“You’ll give me more than the goddamn cat, Alan.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Are the acoustics in here bad? I told you. Murder Two. Murder for hire. Lethal injection. That’s what I’m looking for.”
“This wasn’t murder for hire, and you know it.”
“He got twenty-five grand to kill her!”
“But she’s the one who gave it to him. This wasn’t some outside party who hired him to kill her. This was the victim herself who …”
“Victim, you’ve got it, Alan.”
“… who wanted to die, but didn’t have the nerve to kill herself. She’s arthritic, she’s got a brain tumor, she’s about to go stone-deaf, she’s about to lose the nerves in her face, all she wants is out. My client helped her.”
“Right, he’s a Good Samaritan.”
“No, he’s a compassionate man who …”
“Who murdered her for twenty-five grand so he could pay off his bookie!”
“The best you’ve got here is Criminal Facilitation One. But this case is something that’ll bring tears to a jury’s eyes. Give him Facilitation Four, and we’ve got …”
“Facil …” She almost choked on it. “That’s a class-A mis!”
“Okay, forget it then. Take a look at 120.30 instead. Promoting a Suicide Attempt. A person is guilty of promoting a suicide attempt when he intentionally causes …”
“… or aids another person to attempt suicide,” Nellie finished for him. “This wasn’t an attempt, Alan! This was eminently successful. The woman is dead. And so’s her cat.”
“Lay off the goddamn cat, will you? We’re talking about a woman in agony and pain, we’re talking about a sympathetic man who …”
“You’re talking about a lousy class-E felony, is what you’re talking about. We’re wasting time here, Alan. Let’s roll the dice.”
“All right, I’ll grant you the suicide attempt was a success …”
“What suicide? He murdered her.”
“Didn’t you just say the attempt was successful? Eminently successful, weren’t those your words? So what’s it going to be, Nellie? Did the guy go in there and shoot her in cold blood, or did he merely help her commit suicide? You go for Murder Two, that’s what the jury’ll have to decide.”
“Good, let them decide.”
“Take a look at Michigan.”
“Don’t sing me Kevorkian.”
“Gets kicked out each and every time.”
“This isn’t Michigan. And Kevorkian didn’t shoot anybody.”
“A jury might not see it that way, Nell.”
“Don’t call me Nell. I wasn’t raised in the woods.”
“Tell you what …”
“Sure, tell me.”
“We’re forgetting murder for hire, am I right?”
“Who said so?”
“Arguendo. And I guess you know that an affirmative defense …”
“Don’t insult me, Alan.”
“… under 125.25 is that the defendant caused or aided another person to commit suicide.”
“That’s an affirmative defense, all right.”
“Which happens to be the case here. An assisted suicide.”
“So?”
“So you’re absolutely right. You go for Murder Two, we’d be rolling the dice. And you just might lose.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Man Two.”
“No way.”
“A person is guilty of manslaughter in the second degree …”
“I know the section.”
“… when he intentionally causes or aids another person to commit suicide.”
“Man One is the best I can give you, Alan. Provided we agree on the max.”
“That’s too much to pay for a mitzvah.”
“A mitzvah, my ass. Man One. The max, Alan. Eight and a third to twenty-five. Take it or leave it.”
“Make it two to six.”
“No.”
“The poor bastard’s a foreigner.”
“Tough.”
“He can’t speak English, he looks like Robert Redford. You know what they’ll do to him in prison?”
“He should’ve thought of that before he murdered the old lady.”
“Come on, Nellie. You know he’s not a killer. What do you say? The minimum, okay? Two to six, okay?”
“I’ll give you a straight five to fifteen. And we’ll oppose parole after five.”
“You’re a hard woman.”
“I’ll also throw in the cat. Have we got a deal?”
“A hard woman,” Moscowitz said, shaking his head.
“Yes or no?”
“What choice do I have?”
“Good. Let’s go home.”
It was almost twelve-thirty when Carella and Hawes finished all the paperwork. They both looked bone-weary.
“Go home,” Byrnes told them, “it’s been a long night.”
“Uh-huh,” Carella said.
“Get some sleep.”
“Uh-huh,” Hawes said.
“You’ve still got a dead hooker on your plate,” Byrnes reminded them.
To qualify, a school had to answer positively to two questions: “Do you have a football team?” and “Are your school colors navy blue and white?”
Didn’t matter if he was talking to St. Peter’s High or John Parker High. If he got an affirmative answer to both questions, he saddled his horse and rode on over.
By one o’clock that afternoon, Fat Ollie Weeks had personally visited all of the qualifying P schools in the metropolitan area and had struck nothing even faintly resembling pay dirt.
Only twelve of the blue and white schools had football teams. Only eight of those had parkas with a big white P on the back of them. Of those, only two had a white football logo under the letter P. Ollie talked to some sixty football players, all of them shitting their pants, trying to determine what each and every one of them had been doing this past weekend while a white hooker and two black dudes were respectively being eviscerated, drowned, and stabbed. These kids were used to TV violence, but man, this was real life.
The way Ollie looked at it, nobody in this country was really concerned about violence, anyway. If they were, they’d put the V-chip on football and hockey ga
mes. What really bugged Americans was sex. It was okay to talk about it obliquely on all those morning and afternoon TV programs, but show two people actually doing it, and, man, the house suddenly got hushed, and all at once everybody was running to protect the little kiddies smoking crack in the next room. Sex was The Great American Hang-up, legacy of those fuckin Puritans who came over from England. Speaking of which, he hadn’t had any in a week and a half—sex, not Puritans—and here he was shagging ass all over the universe trying to find three football players who maybe had got a little bit sexy and violent off the playing field, and whose head hairs might just match those he already had.
He was back in the squadroom again by a quarter past one.
He checked his computer list again.
Began making phone calls again.
At two-fifteen that afternoon, he began driving upstate to a school named Pierce Academy, whose colors were blue and white and whose football team wore hooded parkas with a white letter P and a white football logo on the back.
At two-thirty that afternoon, Georgie looked up the name Karen Todd in the Isola directory and found a listing for a K. Todd at 1217 Lincoln Street. He dialed the number, and her answering machine told him she could be reached at work and gave him the number for St. Mary’s Hospital.
He hadn’t known she was a nurse, if she was a nurse.
This only whetted his appetite.
He dialed the number and was connected to a woman who said, “Records Office,” immediately shattering a young boy’s dreams.
“Karen Todd, please,” he said.
When she came on the line, he told her who he was, and reminded her that he’d been to see her earlier this morning, did she remember, the tall good-looking guy, he actually said, with the black hair and brown eyes …
“I was with a blond woman and another man.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “of course. Svetlana’s granddaughter, in fact.”
“Yes,” he said.
“I remember you, sure,” she said. “Did you have any luck finding that guy who delivered the fish?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “The police have him. He killed her, I guess. Was what I could gather.”
“No kidding? Wow.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Uh, Karen,” he said, “do you think you might perhaps care to join me for dinner tonight?”
“Sure, why not?” she said.
From where Richard the First stood in the back row of the choir, he could see out over the heads of the two other Richards and all the other singers. Like a true monarch surveying his lordly domain, he looked down the center aisle of the church and beyond the transept to the huge oaken entrance doors. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the leaded stained-glass windows on either side of the massive, vaulted space, illuminating it as if a religious miracle were in progress. Professor Eaton, the choirmaster, had just given them notes on how badly they’d sung the hymn the last time around. They were now waiting for his hand signal to start the third chorus all over again.
