2 Murder

by Parnell Hall

  I got off the Grand Central Parkway at 188th Street, worked my way down past Hillside Avenue, and found the address on Farmers Boulevard.

  What with all the ice and snow, I was surprised to find that the client was a young boy who had fallen off his skateboard. It turned out he had stood on it in the living room. Why that entitled him to any money was beyond me, but someone must have thought so or I wouldn’t have been there. Mine not to reason why. I had the mom sign the retainer forms, snapped the picture of the broken arm, and got the hell out of there.

  I got back in the car and headed for my next assignment on Linden Boulevard in Brooklyn.

  And started thinking again.

  Yeah, I couldn’t go to MacAullif without more proof. And I couldn’t take Linda’s word for it. I had to be sure. And the thing that was eating away at me was the only way to be sure, to be really sure, was to meet him myself. To talk to him. To confront him. To run a bluff on him, the way some fucking TV detective would have done.

  And that is just what I couldn’t do. ’Cause the plain simple truth was, I didn’t have the guts. To stand up to that guy. To talk to him. I mean, hell, I’d seen him. The man was a murderer. Not only did I not want to talk to him face to face—it was more than that. I didn’t want him to know who I was. To remember my face. To have it in for me.

  I was in a hell of a mood as I pulled off the Grand Central and took the Interboro down into Brooklyn.

  Coward, I told myself. You big, dumb, fucking coward. This is your chance, your one chance to get out from under. Now, this afternoon, while the cops are out chasing the Congressman, and no one’s watching you, this is your chance. And you’re not going to take it, are you? You know what you ought to do? You ought to go find him in that fancy bar he hangs out in in the afternoon, the one Linda told you about. You ought to walk right up to him and tell him you know he’s a slime and a murderer. Look him in the eye and say, “I know you popped Darryl Jackson.”

  As I envisioned myself doing this, I got so paranoid I started shaking all over. I had to pull the car over to the side and stop.

  Jesus Christ. If just the thought of doing it does this to me, what would doing it be like?

  Not that bad, I told myself. He couldn’t touch you in a crowded bar. There’s nothing he could do. You’d be perfectly safe.

  Yeah, sure. Safe. I’d be safe.

  But so what? What did it matter?

  The question was academic, anyway.

  ’Cause I was a bloody fucking coward, and I wasn’t going to do it.

  33.

  IT WAS A FAIRLY POSH PLACE on Third Avenue near 59th Street. He was standing at the bar talking to a gentleman in a business suit when I came in. I didn’t want to butt in, so I hung out near the door and watched.

  The businessman was pudgy and bald, and wore horn-rimmed glasses. He seemed to be very interested in what X had to say. They conversed for several minutes. Then X patted him on the shoulder, held up his hand, turned and walked toward the back of the restaurant. He seemed to be heading to the men’s room, but when he reached the alcove leading to it, he stopped and turned toward the wall. His hand reached out toward the wall, left my line of vision, and reentered it a second later holding a telephone receiver. He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out what must have been a coin, and reached it out toward the wall. His arm then made little jabbing movements. He waited a few moments, then began talking into the phone.

  It was a short call. He hung up the phone and returned to the bar, where the businessman was waiting. He said something to the businessman, who pulled out a pocket notebook, and wrote something down. He and the businessman shook hands, and the businessman smiled and left.

  I strolled over to the bar. X had turned back to it, and was stirring the straw in his drink. I moved in next to him.

  “Hi,” I said.

  His expression was pleasant enough when he turned to look at me. After all, I was probably a potential customer. But when he saw my face, his eyes narrowed slightly, and his brow furrowed.

  I smiled at him. “You remember me, don’t you?” I said. “You’re just not sure from where. Let me help you out. I was in that bar in Harlem the other night, when you were having a drink. And now I’m in this bar and you’re having a drink. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  He was looking at me deadpan, giving nothing away.

  “Would you like to know why?” I asked.

  His face might have been carved from stone. There was not even a flicker of response. I didn’t let it bother me. I raised my hand, and motioned him toward me with my finger.

  “Come here. I’ll tell you.”

  He leaned in slightly. I leaned in too. I lowered my voice, but kept smiling, and said, conversationally, “I know you killed Darryl Jackson.”

  I think he blinked. If so, it was his only reaction. He just kept staring at me.

  “I can prove it, too,” I told him. “You see, I’m a private detective, and I’m investigating the murder. That’s why I was there the other night. Checking you out. Sizing you up. I didn’t want to bring this up there, though. I didn’t think it would have been wise.”

  I can’t describe the look he was giving me. And the thing about it was he was doing it without moving a muscle of his face. But what a look it was. I think if the bar had been any less crowded he would have killed me then and there.

  I went on conversationally as if I didn’t notice.

  “Now the thing is,” I said, “I could go to the cops, and they’d pick you up, and the case would be solved. My clients would be real happy. They’d think I’d done a hell of a job. But you know what I’d get out of it? Nothing. Zip. Time and expenses, just the same as if I’d failed. In fact, I’d make less, ’cause the case would be over and I’d be out of a job, whereas if the case dragged on for a while I’d still be on the clock.

  “And the other thing is, if I go to the cops, they’ll pick you up all right, but the charge might not stick. I got the proof, but you know what the legal system’s like nowadays. There’s still a good chance that you’d walk.

  “But the thing is, it would cost you. ’Cause I’d have to tell ’em about your little prostitution racket. ’Cause that’s the motive you see. You killed him to muscle in on his call girls. And you have. And it’s a very profitable business. You’re pulling in a small fortune from it, not to mention the shakedown bit on the side.

  “So it occurred to me, here’s a man with a multi-million dollar business going for him. And why should I blow it for him, just because it happens to be my job?

  “Now, I know you don’t want a partner, and I know you don’t want to be bled dry, so I’ll put it right on the line. What I want is $50,000. And it doesn’t have to be all at once. It could be five-or ten-grand installments, spread out over however much time you say. And that will be it. The minute the last payment’s made, I’m gone. I’m telling you this, because I know the first thing a guy like you worries about is it’s gonna go on forever. So I just want you to know what the boundary is, and assure you that’s as far as this is gonna go.”

  He still hadn’t moved a muscle.

  “So,” I said. “Whaddya say?”

  He stared at me a few moments more. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, and turned back to the bar.

  “Of course you don’t,” I told him. “I’m sure a guy like you kills so many people you couldn’t be expected to remember killing one particular pimp. But trust me. You did. Just think about it, and I’m sure it will come back to you. In fact, I’m so sure it will, I’ll call you at home later this afternoon to see if it did.”

  He picked up his drink. “I have an unlisted number.”

  “I know you do,” I told him. “924-6352. Well, nice talking to you.”

  I got up to go.

  “Just one thing,” I added. “If for any reason you should try to follow me out of this place, I’m afraid I would have to yell cop.”

  He didn’t even look at me. He took a s
ip of his drink.

  I turned and walked to the door. Much as I hated to give him the satisfaction of seeing me do it, I couldn’t help stopping and turning to look.

  He wasn’t following me. A businessman in a suit who had been waiting patiently all the while I’d been talking, had already taken my place. X was conversing with him freely and easily, as if nothing had happened. Just business as usual.

  34.

  I FELT GOOD. Terrified, but good. Christ, I’d done it. I hadn’t been half bad. I’d even sounded pretty tough.

  I used to be an actor before I was a writer, before I was a private detective. And on opening night, there was always that terror that gripped you before the curtain went up, that moment of doubt when you thought, I won’t know my lines, I won’t know my part, I’m gonna freeze out there. And then when the curtain did go up, and you walked out on stage, you’d be calm, cool, relaxed, and everything would be all right.

  It had been that way with X. I’d been cool as ice in that bar. Not a nerve in my body. I’d played the part, and played it well.

  Now that the curtain had come down, however, I was back to my good old paranoid self, and I kept looking over my shoulder as I hurried over to Second Avenue where I’d left my car at a meter.

  As I walked, I switched my beeper back on again. The beeper has a silent switch for when you’re in some place where you don’t want it going off, but you don’t want to miss the call. You push the button halfway off. Then, when you get outside, you push it back on again. If you’ve been beeped in the meantime it goes off, and if you haven’t it doesn’t.

  It began beeping now. There was a pay phone on the corner, so I stopped and called the office. I must confess, the whole time I was still keeping a sharp lookout down the street.

  Wendy/Cheryl had a new case for me in Brooklyn. I’d gotten it because presumably I was in Brooklyn, signing up my second case. Actually, I’d signed it two hours ago, as I was running way ahead of schedule. Now, having to go all the way back to Brooklyn, I’d be running behind. No matter though. If worse came to worse, I could call and stall the client. I said I’d take it.

  I hung up, hopped in the car, got on the FDR Drive, and headed for the Manhattan Bridge.

  I went over the bridge, took Flatbush Avenue into the Eastern Parkway, drove to East New York, and signed up a client on Mother Gaston whose kid had gotten lead poisoning from eating the plaster off the walls.

  I got beeped while I was there, called in, and got routed out to Brookdale Hospital to sign up a guy who’d been in a motorcycle accident. Got beeped again, and sent back to sign up a slip-and-fall in a building on Halsey Street in Bed-Stuy.

  By the time I finished all that, it was 4:30, which meant X should have had time to get home from the bar, and it was time to give him a call.

  There are not that many pay phones on the street in Bed-Stuy, but I got lucky. I came out of the client’s building and spotted one right on the corner.

  Sometimes the phone booths are decoys. They look good, but when you get close you find out the guts have been ripped out. This one seemed to be fine. The only drawback appeared to be an old black bum picking through the garbage can on the corner. I detoured around him and picked up the phone.

  It was working. Miracle.

  I pulled out my notebook, and double-checked the number Linda had given me. I dropped a quarter in the phone rather than use my calling card number. This was one phone number I didn’t want showing up on Richard’s bill.

  I punched in the number. It rang.

  A gruff voice answered. “Yeah?”

  “It’s me,” I said. “Have you thought over my proposition?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what’s it gonna be?”

  “All right,” he said. “Five payments, $10,000 each spread out over six months.”

  I had him!

  “That’s fine,” I said.

  “Just one thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s provided you bring the proof.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll bring it,” I said. Then I realized that wasn’t very smart. “But you get half now, and half after the last payment. Agreed?”

  “Yeah. Fine. Just bring it.”

  “O.K. Where do I come?”

  He gave me an address in Bedford Stuyvesant not three blocks from where I was standing.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “That’s not your address.”

  “That’s right. You don’t go to my address. Got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it. What time?”

  “Tonight. 9:00.”

  “You’ll have the ten grand?”

  “Yeah. Just you have the proof.”

  I hung up the phone. Hot damn, I thought. Hot damn!

  The black bum had fished a broken toy plane out of the garbage can and was eyeing it covetously. As I hung up the phone, he turned his eyes to me. He wanted money, and I didn’t want to give him any.

  I have to explain. In New York City you can’t walk half a block without a bum asking you for money. And the way I figure it, if I gave to one, I’d have to give to all. Otherwise I’d be discriminating: yeah, I like this bum, no, I don’t like that bum. I can’t afford to give to all, so I don’t give to any. I admit this is a very self-serving philosophy—that’s the whole point. And you may think that’s heartless, and maybe you’re right. But maybe you don’t live in New York City.

  At any rate, I saw the touch coming, and I wanted to avoid it. I tried to turn away.

  He was too quick for me, that old man. He got in front of me, and thrust out his grungy hand. And I knew before he even opened his mouth what he was going to say: “Spare some change?”

  He looked truly pitiful, and I hated to turn him down. He took a step toward me, snuffled twice, thrust out the expectant hand, and said, “MacAullif wants to see you.”

  35.

  “IT’S CALLED ‘rough shadow/smooth shadow’.”

  MacAullif leaned back in his chair and looked at me. I was trying to look anywhere else but at him. I felt foolish as hell.

  “It’s a fairly routine tactic,” MacAullif went on. “I would expect most private detectives would be familiar with it. But then you’re not like most private detectives, are you? No. You’re a gifted amateur.”

  MacAullif took out a cigar, bit the end off it, and surveyed it with some distaste.

  “Naturally, as you by now have figured out, what I told you, though essentially true, was also a trap. I wanted to see what you’d do. So I called you into my office, gave you the speech, and put a tail on you. And what did you do? Nothing. We followed you all over Queens and Long Island, and all you did was carry out your business as usual and went home.

  “That’s when we decided to force the game. The rough shadow let you get a glimpse of him. You proceeded to ditch him in relatively routine fashion, and went about your business. That, of course, was where the smooth shadows took over. And sure enough, things began to happen. First you called on Congressman Blaine. Then you led us to a housewife named Pamela Berringer. What we wanted, of course, was for you to lead us to your client. And the first day we had it doped out wrong. We figured the Congressman for the client. After all, that was the natural way to figure it. He was the guy with the money and position, the guy who could afford to hire a private dick. He was also the type of guy who couldn’t afford a scandal. Whereas Pamela Berringer was just your normal, everyday housewife. So we picked the Congressman for your client, and Pamela Berringer as just a witness.

  “The next day straightened things out. You went to see the Congressman without bothering to ditch the rough shadow. So we knew right away the Congressman was a red herring, and someone that for some reason you wanted us to pick up on.

  “You then ditched the rough shadow and called on Pamela Berringer, which confirmed the fact that she was the one you were trying to keep us away from, and therefore the client.

  “En route to meeting Pamela Berringer, you contrived an impromptu meeting with a
young man who, on investigation, turned out to be her husband, further confirming the fact that she was the client, and establishing the fact that her husband didn’t know it.

  “After that, we dropped the rough shadows and stuck with the smooth, giving you the impression that we had either taken the Congressman as bait, or had given up.

  “We then proceed through a myriad of events. In between conducting your business for Rosenberg and Stone, you contacted a young woman who happens to have a record as a call girl. Then you contacted a street hooker, with whose assistance you managed to score a quantity of drugs which we presume to be cocaine. You then contacted another call girl, and accompanied her to a bar. After she left, you proceeded to go inside and hassle some black man, following which you appropriated a bottle of beer. The following day you approached the same black man in another more posh establishment, and engaged in a conversation which left the gentleman in question somewhat less than pleased. You then spent the rest of the day calmly carrying on the normal course of your business.”

  MacAullif pointed the cigar at me.

  “Now,” said MacAullif. “Let me emphasize right here that we, the police, have not done anything illegal. We haven’t searched your home or your office, or tapped either of your phones. All we’ve done is conducted a perfectly legal surveillance, which was certainly justified under the circumstances.

  “You, on the other hand, are guilty of possession of a controlled substance, conspiracy to purchase a controlled substance, sale of a controlled substance, transporting an opened alcoholic beverage from its place of sale, withholding evidence, obstructing justice, accessory after the fact to murder ...” He broke off, “Must I go on?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Now, having said all that, I’m sure you can understand the position you’re in. I don’t think I have to advise you of your rights, but, of course, I do. You understand that you don’t have to say anything that might incriminate you, and you also have the right to an attorney. Would you like to call one?”