by Parnell Hall
I thought of Richard. Of what he’d make of all this.
“No,” I said.
“Fine,” he said. “In that case, having been duly warned, do you have anything you’d like to say?”
I reached in my pocket and fished out my car keys.
“Here’s the keys to my car,” I said. “You know where it’s parked. In the trunk you’ll find a plastic bag with a beer bottle in it. If the fingerprints on that bottle should happen to match the ones on the knife, we’ll talk.”
36.
IT’S ALWAYS PAINFUL to find out you’re an asshole. Particularly when you thought you were being so smart. It happens to me a lot, though. But usually it happens over the course of some time. I’ll look back to something I did a couple of years ago and think, boy was I an asshole then. Of course, this was a slightly tougher kind of realization to handle. This was, boy am I an asshole now.
I should have known it was too easy walking away from my shadows. Hell, I knew MacAullif was smart. But I’d played him for a sucker, and wound up playing myself for a sucker instead. I’d botched everything up from the word go, and, once again, I had fucked myself.
And the thing about it was, there was nothing I could do about it but sit, wait, and pray that the fingerprints matched up.
They did.
37.
“IT’S NOT ENOUGH.”
I stared at MacAullif. It’s hard to take when your prayers are answered, and it still doesn’t do you any good.
I’d told MacAullif everything. Except, of course, about the video tapes. That was something no one was ever going to know. But I’d told him about Linda and X. The fingerprints had matched, and I’d thought I was home free.
And now this.
“What do you mean, it’s not enough?” I said.
MacAullif shrugged. “It’s a good case, but not a convicting case. With the girl’s testimony it would be, but we won’t get that. You know it and I know it.”
“But the prints on the knife.”
MacAullif waved it away. “Yeah, yeah, the prints on the knife. The guy knew Darryl Jackson, he had dinner with him the week before, he helped him carve the roast. You know what some smart attorney will say. Plus this guy will have eight or ten hookers ready to swear that he was with them the whole time in question. Believe me, we’d be lucky to get a hung jury.”
“But he did it.”
“Sure he did it. You know he did it, and I know he did it. And that and fifty cents will get you a cup of coffee. At least it would last week, I don’t know, everything’s going up all the time.”
“So what are you gonna do? You can’t let it drop.”
“No. I can’t let it drop.”
“So whaddya do?”
MacAullif shrugged. “We don’t have enough evidence, we get more evidence.”
“How?”
“We nail the son of a bitch.”
“How?”
“We get him to confess.”
I stared at him. “How the hell you gonna do that?”
“With a wire.”
“What?”
“With a wire. We nail the fuck with a wire. We get someone to talk to him with a wire on. Get him to admit he did it. Get it on tape. Then we got him dead to rights.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said. “When are you gonna do it?”
“Tonight.”
“Great,” I said. “It’s a big load off my mind. Who’s gonna wear the wire?”
“You are.”
38.
OF COURSE, I had to wear the wire. I made the contact. I made the blackmail approach. It was a natural. I was perfect for the role. Except for one thing. It was gonna take a lot of guts.
MacAullif knew I didn’t have ’em.
“We’ll be right behind you,” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about. We’ll be listening to every word. The moment it gets hairy, bam, we’re there.”
I had my shirt off. A detective was taping the microphone to my chest. He ran a thin wire down to my navel.
“Drop your pants,” he said.
“This so you can add indecent exposure to your list of charges?” I asked MacAullif.
“Charges? What charges?” he said.
“Right,” I said. “When you nail me for blackmail and extortion, I want you to know the same goes double for you.”
“Blackmail? Extortion?”
“Well, coercion then.”
“Ah, coercion.” MacAullif smiled and shook his head. “Hardly the same thing. Don’t give it a thought.”
“What are the N.Y.P.D. regulations about running private citizens as decoys with wires?”
“I don’t know the exact specifications. You want me to look it up?”
“I didn’t know you could read.”
“Yeah, well I got some pretty bright cops on my team. One of them went to high school.”
The detective had run the wire under my balls, up the crack of my ass, and was now taping the case to my back.
“This guy enjoy his work as much as he seems to?” I asked MacAullif.
“Ah, he’s a good man,” MacAullif said. “I think he’s only electrocuted one cop working a wire.”
“That’s reassuring to know,” I told him.
I realized the jive patter was just to keep my spirits up. I also realized it wasn’t working. I was scared shitless.
The guy finished taping the wire.
“O.K.,” he said. “You can put on your shirt.”
I did, and pulled up and buckled my pants.
“O.K.,” he said. “Let’s give it a test. Say something.”
“Whaddya want me to say?”
He reached behind my back and pushed something. A second later I heard my voice say, “Whaddya want me to say?”
He clicked it again. “All set,” he said.
The detective went out. MacAullif reached in his pocket and pulled out a small manila envelope.
“What’s that?” I said.
“You told the guy you had evidence,” said MacAullif. “This is it.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a tape recording of him telling a hooker he popped Darryl Jackson.”
I stared at him. “What?!”
“It’s a mock-up, of course. We threw it together while they were fixing the wire.”
He opened the envelope and slid out a micro-cassette. He took a miniature recorder out of his pocket, opened it, and popped the tape in.
“There was no way we could match up his voice,” MacAullif said. “So we lead with the hooker. See?”
MacAullif pushed a button. There was a burst of static, then I heard a girl’s voice say, “Gee, X, you’re so smart. Tell me how you managed to take over all of Darryl Jackson’s girls.” Then a black male voice said, “Shit, nothing to it.”
MacAullif snapped it off.
I looked at him. “That doesn’t sound a bit like him.”
MacAullif shrugged. “I didn’t think it would.”
“Who’s the hooker?”
“Stenographer.”
“It’s worthless,” I told him. “The minute the guy hears this, he’s gonna know it’s a plant.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said MacAullif. “See, this tape is the signal. The minute you pop this on, we come in.”
“What if he hasn’t confessed by then?”
“He has to have confessed by then. That’s the whole thing. See, the way we figure it, unless he popped Darryl Jackson, there’s no reason in the world for him to go so far as to listen to the tape.”
“Yeah, but—”
“And that’s your job,” MacAullif said. “It’s up to you to make sure he does confess before you turn on that tape.”
I didn’t look convinced.
MacAullif grinned. “That shouldn’t be hard for a gifted amateur like you.”
39.
IT WAS A FOUR-STORY BUILDING in the middle of the block with an alley running along one side. I cruised by it once, just as I would have done
if it had been a potentially risky signup. And in my mind I played the game again: how bad is it going to be?
Not that bad, I told myself. And told myself. And told myself.
Yeah, not that bad. MacAullif and half-a-dozen cops would be right behind me. They’d park on the next block, and move in as soon as I got inside. And I was wearing the wire, so they’d know what was happening all the time. By the time I got into the apartment, they’d be in the building. At the first sign of trouble they’d move in.
So what could go wrong?
Well, they could burst into the room and find a dead private dick lying on the floor. Cut it out. Asshole. Just tell yourself it’s a signup. It’s a signup, just like any other assignment. You diddle the guy, hand him a bill of goods, and close the deal.
Yeah. That’s the idea. Treat it as a signup. Shit, maybe even snap his picture. Christ, what are you thinking that for? You’re getting punchy. You can’t afford to lose it now.
I circled the block and pulled up in front of the house. I got out of the car. It felt funny getting out of the car without my briefcase. How can I treat this as a signup without my briefcase? Imagine the briefcase, asshole. You were an actor—what would Stanislavski say? Fuck him. Who cares. It’s memory of emotion, not memory of briefcase. Why are you thinking that now? Oh yeah. Signup. Briefcase. Right. Pretend you got a briefcase. Just don’t get carried away and pantomime the damn thing.
I went up the front steps. The front door was unlocked. I pushed it open and went in.
I found myself in a dimly lit foyer facing a narrow staircase. No one was in sight. I took a breath and started up the stairs.
X had said apartment 3R. Here I go again. Did that mean third floor right or third floor rear? Pick a door, any door. Behind one door you’ll find a psychotic murderer who’ll want to kill you for attempting to blackmail him. Behind the other door you’ll find a mystery guest, who may or may not be friendly. Or would you rather quit right now and keep the felony counts of suppressing evidence and accessory to murder?
I reached the third floor landing. No choice. The door to the right was also to the rear. I went over to it, raised my hand.
Whose apartment was this? Why had X wanted to meet me here? Did some friend of his live here? Or was this some apartment he maintained just so he’d have a place to use when he wanted to rub someone out? Nonsense. He wouldn’t want dead bodies showing up in some apartment with his name on the lease. What lease? Maybe it’s not his apartment. Maybe it’s a vacant apartment. Maybe he just broke in here to use it. Then how did he know the address just like that? He must have used it before. For what?
Yeah. Maybe it’s a friend’s apartment. And maybe the friend’s there. Maybe a lot of friends are there. So many that MacAullif and the boys won’t make any difference. It’ll be over before they get there. They’ll nail X all right, but not in time to do me any good. “PRIVATE DETECTIVE MURDERED: The body of Stanley Hastings, a private investigator, was discovered late last night by homicide detectives, who—”
Stop it. Asshole. What was it MacAullif said? No one stands in the hallway for five or ten minutes. There’s the door. The curtain’s going up. It’s showtime.
I knocked.
There was a moment’s silence, and to me it seemed as if it were the answer to my most fervent prayers. He wasn’t there.
Then footsteps.
And the door opened.
X stood in the doorway. He had changed out of his suit into a sweatshirt and blue jeans. His killing gear? His face had that stolid, impassive look that seemed to be his only expression.
“Come in,” he said.
Never have I had a less appealing invitation.
X stepped back out of the way to let me pass. I didn’t like that. I didn’t want to put him between me and the door.
But there was no help for it. The play had begun and the stage direction said, ‘private detective crosses into room.’ Or perhaps the director had given that stage direction in rehearsal, in which case I would have penciled it into my script. In which case, the shorthand notation for “cross” would be “x,” and I would have written “x into room.” And in this case “x by X into room.”
Oh god, I am losing it. I got through the bar scene, but this is too much. I’m cracking up. I’m doing routines again. Shit. Hold together. Whatever you do, just don’t start talking out loud to yourself.
I walked into the room. It was a sparsely and cheaply furnished living room. No props. Nothing in the room I could put my finger on and identify as a sign of human occupancy.
Not a home.
A stage set.
A killing ground.
Sound from offstage left: click of X turning the deadbolt, locking the door.
X x’s into room.
Stop it! Schmuck! Stop your mind! This is real, and this is here, and this is now. Do it. Play the scene.
Scene. Shit! Your mind’s in a loop. Get it out.
X: (ominously): “You bring the proof?”
ME: “I got it. You got the money?”
X: “Yeah. Let’s see your proof.”
ME: (reaching in pocket and—)
Shit! Last chance. Pull yourself together.
My head was spinning. I shook it to clear it. I reached in my pocket and pulled out the envelope. I opened it and slid out the micro-cassette.
“What’s that?” X said.
This was it. My big speech. I looked him in the eye.
“It’s a recording of you telling a hooker how you popped Darryl Jackson. The hooker was wearing a wire. Lucky for you, the hooker wasn’t working for the cops, she was working for me. So instead of going up for the big one, all you gotta do is come across with fifty G’s.”
His eyes widened. “Son of a bitch.”
His hand fished in his back pocket, came out a second later. I heard a click. I looked, and saw I was staring at an eight-inch ugly switchblade.
Which wasn’t in the script.
I didn’t have my confession yet, but I didn’t care. At that moment, all I wanted to do was get out of that room alive. I had to signal MacAullif, and the best way was the direct way. Fuck the script. Time to improvise.
“Hey,” I ad-libbed. “What the hell you doing with that knife?”
He started across the room for me.
“I’m gonna stick you, just like I stuck Darryl Jackson,” he said.
I was so fucking scared that for a moment I didn’t even realize I’d just got what I’d come for. Then it dawned on me. I had him.
But he also had me. Come on, MacAullif, you dumb fuck. He just said the magic word. That’s your cue. Where the fuck are you?
Something hit the door hard. In a play, three cops would have burst into the room. But this wasn’t a play, and X had one strong fucking door. It didn’t give at all.
He turned at the sound, though, and that was the one break I needed. I lunged for the window. There was no time to open it. I flung out my arm, smashed the panes of glass with my hand. I brushed them aside and tried to fling myself up and over the sill. I caught a quick glimpse of what was outside. Three stories down and no fire escape. Well, fuck it, who cares? So I break my damn leg. I’ll sign myself up and sue the owner of this fucking building, just let me out of this damn room.
I was half-on half-off the sill, squirming out the window. I teetered over the edge and started down.
A hand gripped my ankle, caught and held. I slammed into the side of the building from the force. I looked up. A huge black face glared down at me. He had my leg in his left hand. In his right hand he had the knife. And he was reaching down to plunge it into my back.
A nightstick crashed against the side of his head. His eyes widened, his grip loosened, and suddenly I was going down. What, no stunt man? That’s movies, not plays, schmuck, and—
I hit the ground and rolled over in finest paratrooper fashion, which was rather lucky for me, having never been a paratrooper. The snow was deep, which probably helped a lot.
I looked up and saw MacAullif standing in the window. Scared as I was, shaken as I was, I could not resist the childish impulse to be one of those fucking TV heroes, those cocky pricks who toss off an adventure like this every day after breakfast, and always have some jive rejoinder waiting.
So I raised a finger, waggled it at him like one actor commenting on a fellow actor’s performance, and called up to him, “Little slow on the entrance.”
“We’ll work on it,” he called back. “You all right?”
“Fine.” I told him.
I was too. I got to my feet. I’d have a few bruises, and I saw now that my wrist was cut from where I’d smashed through the window, but, basically, that was it.
Tough luck, Richard. There goes our million dollar lawsuit.
Tag line:
Some days you just can’t get a break.
Curtain.
40.
IT WAS 2:00 in the morning before the cops got everything sorted out and I finally got home. When I did, there was no place to park. The snow had jammed up everything. Some people had been lucky enough to back into dug-out spots, but a lot of others hadn’t. Out of desperation, many drivers had beached themselves by driving into the huge drifts the snowplows had left along the sides of the street, and faced the task of attempting to dig themselves out the next morning. Cars were parked crisscross, diagonally, every which way. Every available inch of space was taken.
Great, I thought. “Super-sleuth solves case, can’t park car.” When I’d solved the Albrect case, I’d gotten a parking spot just like that. Well, you can’t win ’em all.
I circled the blocks, hoping for a miracle, and thinking about how things had turned out.
Well, another case wrapped up, and, once again, without earning a fee. I may be getting a little better as a private detective, but as a businessman, I’m the pits. I’ll have to sit down with a calculator some day and see how much, what with gas, tolls, VCR rental, TV purchase, taxi fares, and fifty-dollar cash bribes to hookers, solving this case had actually cost me. Not to mention, of course, the hours I had to take off from my real job.
