My entire life was conducted on borrowed phones. A phone in my room, in my name, was irritating and incriminating, not to mention evidence of income, so I avoided it. At Andy’s, I ordered a drink and studied the menu, had the phone brought over, and called the cop. He answered on the fifth ring, sounding breathless.
“Yeah?”
“It’s your underground friend.”
“Where are you?”
“Andy’s on third.”
“I’ll be there, half an hour. Don’t leave.”
He hung up. Detective Paul Wilson was middle-aged, unhappy, and not averse to making a few bucks on the side. Nothing major: a little inside information, a little security work for nervous crooks. He never lost sleep over it. I’d had a few minor dealings with him, and we got along well.
I went ahead and ordered dinner. Paul showed up when I was halfway through my steak. He sat down quietly at the table and nodded at me by way of hello.
“Your name came up today,” he said. Paul was a heavyset guy, and always sounded out of breath.
“Came up how?”
“In an investigation. Old business, but nasty. They’re gonna come round you up. Ask a lot of questions. I thought I’d just let you know.”
“What old business?” I kept eating. There wasn’t any point in being dramatic about it.
“All I know is, the vic was named Murray. It was about fifteen years ago, but the case is still open.” He shifted in his seat. “That’s all I got. Just felt you should know, as an associate.”
I chewed, trying to figure out if that meant he thought he could get more money out of me, or if he was dishing some honor-amongst-thieves bullshit, or if it was just simple human respect. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
He waited a moment, unsure, and then stood up. “All right. Just thought you should know.”
I nodded again and watched him leave. I knew the name Murray, and it was a problem — one I never thought I’d have to deal with. Then again, my associates were criminals. I never knew what they were going to do. Maybe someone gave up my name out of sheer terror, or happened to remember that I’d been in the same room with so-and-so once. I knew I needed to make some calls, but decided to finish my dinner, have some coffee, and relax like a civilized man.
~ * ~
That was a mistake. The cops, moving with unusual speed, were waiting for me at the Wallace. I didn’t get a chance to make my calls. As I walked into my building, I acquired two hefty men in bad suits and gun-crowded shoulders who pushed me into one of the ancient plush chairs in the lobby and stood over me, making a scene in front of the concierge at the front desk.
“Walter ‘Poppy’ Popvitch?” the one on the left said.
The one on the right didn’t wait for an answer. “Where you been, Poppy? We’ve been waiting for you.”
I crossed my legs and regarded them, trying to look calm. “Out to dinner.”
“Yeah, so he said, so he said,” the one on the left nodded, looking around. “You mind we ask you a few questions?”
I shook my head. “Of course not. Can I ask you what this is about?”
I was selling ignorance, innocence, and confusion but the market was soft. They looked at each other. The one on the right shoved me, lightly. “Come on, let’s go back to the station, be friendly.”
“Am I under arrest?”
Now, I was selling outrage. This got me nothing but another shove, harder, but still short of a brutality complaint. “Not yet, but it’s in your interest to keep us happy, Poppy.”
That was annoying; no one called me Poppy. “You don’t seem too happy now” I pointed out.
The one on the right glanced at his partner, as if saying See? I told you he wasn’t going to be friendly, and slipped a hand under my armpit, pulling me up roughly.
“Come on, tough guy,” he growled.
They had no warrant, and I wasn’t under arrest, but I went quietly, like a good citizen. They had only two questions, but they got good mileage out of them, asking them over and over again.
“Did you know Andrew Murray?”
“No.”
“Did you have anything to do with his murder?”
“No.”
Between repeating their two questions, they jabbered on with a few scary details and hints that they had something on me. They didn’t, though. If they had, I would have been under arrest. So, after a few hours, they let me go to think about it and put a tail on me. But I didn’t care. I had nothing to hide: not much, anyway. I went back to Andy’s, borrowed the phone at the bar, and made my few calls. After half a beer and a lot of dial tones, I tracked down Henry and told him I’d buy him dinner if he’d come down and let me pick his brain. Henry never turned down a free meal, and he knew everything about everyone.
When Henry showed up ten minutes later, I wanted to grill him immediately about Murray, but first, there were pleasantries. I’d offended Henry at our last meeting, and he walked in the place with the wounded air of a true martyr — a sober martyr at that, the worst kind. But I couldn’t really blame him; since he’d lost the courage booze had given him, Henry made a good part of his living dealing and acquiring information, so it made sense that he’d want to keep things chatty, and I’d walked out on him mid-sentence. It was damned annoying, though, when I needed information and wanted to shake the bastard until his valuable head popped off.
I bought Henry a soda and let him harangue me about the lush Scotch on the rocks I was nursing. I endured him waving the glass under my nose, thick finger outstretched, as he delivered a sermon about the Rules of Polite Society and how you treated people the way you wanted to be treated yourself. Finally, he sighed piteously and bought me a drink, and I jumped in to bring up business before he could gather his energies for the standard higher-power sermon Henry liked to end ail his tirades with these days.
“I’ve been hearing a lot about an old piece of business, Hankie, but I can’t seem to place the details.”
“What business would that be?” he asked, sagging slightly until he seemed to be hanging off the bar.
“Somebody named Murray, gone to lavender a few years ago.” He closed his eyes and settled himself on the stool. Watching Henry think was more interesting than expected. He went into a trance and fidgeted, twitching and raising his eyebrows, scanning back through his photographic memory.
“Okay,” he said, his eyes popping open. “I think I’ve heard about this.”
“Good. How far back did you have to go?”
“Oh — about ten.”
I nodded. A hundred bucks was cheap. And, it meant that he didn’t see much value in the information, so was offering it at a discount. “Good number.”
He closed his eyes again. “Andrew Murray, pickpocket. Worked the East Side, mostly. Subsistence kind of career, only big scores were accidental, whatever he happened to pinch. Not real smooth, either. Got caught several times, never arrested, beaten up a few times. Found dead in a public lavatory in Grand Central Station seven years ago, apparently beaten to death with a blunt instrument. Police assumed it was a pocketing gone wrong and didn’t wind themselves looking into it. Case remains open.
“Word around town is that it was a fellow grifter did it. No names, just rumors. Doubt that some civilian could have whacked him, posed him in the can, and not leave a trace — must have been someone with skills. He had a lot of enemies, could have been anyone that he owed money to, which were plenty. He drank and gambled and liked to have whores on hand. He liked to live a flashy life on a very small income, and got in deep with shylocks, not to mention anyone dumb enough to give him a friendly loan. Drank like a fish and it sank him in the end. Your basic black hole. We’ve all known this guy and kept our distance. I used to be this guy.”
He looked at me meaningfully, trying to communicate, no doubt, that he thought there was a little bit of black hole in me. I rattled the ice in my drink as a talisman and nodded, amazed — I wondered briefly what Henry would have been capable of if
he hadn’t soaked his brain in liquor for thirty years. But I was satisfied. Nothing unexpected.
“As you know,” Henry went on after a moment, “your name comes into it.”
I froze, careful not to reveal the shock. I took a sip from my drink, nodding.
“Let’s talk about that.”
Without opening his eyes, he raised both eyebrows, “Indeed. Let’s. There’s no direct connection, I don’t think. It’s a case of degrees of separation. The last person the police believe saw Murray was Miles Tucker. Tucker couldn’t be tracked down for years; he’d left the city, and efforts to locate him and his various names and pseudonyms — as lackluster as they were — were fruitless until a week ago when Tuck reappeared at some old haunts, cheerful and buying drinks. Scooped up by some bored crushers, he provided your name as a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“Oh shit,” I exhaled, draining my glass. I remembered Tuck, vaguely. Hadn’t known him well and couldn’t remember if he’d been there that night, but it was possible. It was feasible. I spent my whole life spinning the feasible into reality. I knew how it worked.
“Dismayed, Walt? That’s either a fabrication or an inconvenience to you. Either way, the police will no doubt haunt you for a bit.”
I nodded, signaling the bartender for another round. The fucking cops hadn’t mentioned this guy’s alibi to me, but that just meant Tuck wasn’t very reliable and the cops were shaking the tree, seeing what fell out.
I dug out two more C-notes and slid them over to Henry. He looked at me.
“Tuck’s real name,” I said, accepting a fresh drink from the bartender gratefully. “And where he might be found.”
Henry made the bills disappear. “Indeed,” he said, managing to sound aggrieved about earning money.
~ * ~
After leaving Henry, I let the cops watch me go home. I fixed myself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table for an hour, drinking and thinking. No one gave a shit about this clown Murray. The cops were looking for a quick and easy clearance. They wanted names they could take to court, and I doubted they cared much about the truth. And there I was, plain as day, for the cops to turn over and see what crawled out. I intended to remove myself from the equation.
My coffee finished, I changed into an old suit, opened up the bathroom window, and climbed out. From there, I was able to climb up onto the roof of the building next door. It was dangerous, but I’d done it before. I ran across my building and jumped over to another roof. Three more jumps, and I was able to climb down a series of fire escapes and emerge on the street several blocks away. I hailed a cab, gave the driver an address a few blocks away from the one Henry had given me. Then I spent some time looking out the back window for pursuit. I didn’t see any, so I relaxed, watching the city go by.
The taxi let me off in a dingy, rundown neighborhood — I knew this one, knew where it was safe to spend my money and where I’d get broken hands for my trouble. I walked briskly to the address Tuck was using, bristling with anger. I remembered this fuck. We had nothing between us, I thought, but here he was, trying to jam me up. It pissed me off.
His brownstone, weathered and chipped, was in the middle of the block. The streetlight was broken, leaving the house in a shadow. This wasn’t the sort of work I was used to doing, but I did what I had to do.
I walked up and rang the bell. The rest happened quickly.
The door opened, and an unfamiliar shape filled the space. I didn’t pause to be sure, or to be clean. My knife came out, and I leaned in. I pushed it forward and up, pulled it out, then back again, punching him. He leaned backward, trying to climb up off my blade, but he leaned too far, and he toppled over. I stepped in and shut the door behind me. I looked down at Tucker. I was glad he wasn’t some poor ass who got in the way, but regardless, this is how it had to be done — fast and thoughtless.
~ * ~
Sometimes, I cut a corner each off of four twenty-dollar bills and pasted the corners onto a one-dollar bill. It’s surprising how often this works when a cashier is busy or stressed. It’s a quick, dirty, and dangerous way to make a fast $100 or so; making people see something that isn’t there.
This is what I did. I moved quickly through the house, and when I was sure there was no one else I left the knife in the sink and climbed out the bathroom window. I got home in an hour, walking the whole way. I didn’t see any blood on me, but I wouldn’t be sure until I got home. I climbed back in the way I’d gone out, inspected myself, and stripped, tossing everything into the garbage.
After a hot, hot shower, I stepped into a robe and felt good. I peeked out a window and checked out the cops, reliable as the sun.
I made myself a coffee, and the cops saw what I wanted them to see. It’s what I do.
<
~ * ~
SCOTT WOLVEN
Vigilance
from Controlled Burn
This is what happened, the same story I gave to the investigators:
I never met Carl Larson before I rented a one-bedroom house from him in Potlatch, Idaho. I’d seen a handwritten ad tacked to a bulletin board at the University of Idaho and I called the local number from a pay phone. An old woman answered and said she and her husband were Carl’s neighbors, just handled the keys for him. She’d be glad to show me the place, but I’d have to talk to Carl about renting it. Her name was Rose. She gave me a longdistance number to reach Carl. I dialed.
A woman answered and I asked for Carl Larson and she asked what it was about. The rental, I said. A man got on the line and introduced himself as Carl Larson. He didn’t mention a lease or paperwork. Nothing for me to sign. He asked me my name. Ed Snider, I lied. The utilities — phone and electric — stayed in his name. The phone was restricted from long-distance access to prevent renters from running it up, and the bill went directly to him. Same with the electric bill. All I had to do was mail him the first month’s rent, a five-hundred-dollar money order made out to cash. There was a garage I could use however I wanted and Rose and her husband, Dan, would explain that to me. The house heated with a woodstove in the living room and a pellet stove in the basement. The garage woodstove worked and the neighbors would show me about turning the water on, which valve was the pressure tank, and how to empty the tank, in case I went away during a temperature drop. Keep a close eye on the pipes in winter, Carl said.
The number I’d called was in the nine-oh-seven area code, Alaska, and the mailing address he gave me was Fairbanks. Everything was to be sent care of L. Matthews, and he told me on the phone the address was the house of a woman he knew, a shirttail relation of his. He spent as little time in town as possible. He’d built a cabin way out in the woods, far away, where he hunted and fished a good part of the year. His friends on the peninsula were all big fishermen, some commercial. His voice was deep and old, a little slow in coming. We drifted into a brief conversation about states with a single area code being the best for hunting and fishing. Montana, Idaho, and Alaska we ranked as the top three. Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine in the East. Neither of us had traveled east in years. Carl said he liked the people out west better and I agreed. One time, he said, years and years ago, he shot a twelve-point whitetail in eastern New Hampshire, on the Maine border. He hadn’t expected to see a buck that size, ever, and his rifle was under caliber, the shot a hair too long. The hit was a solid lung shot, but the deer took off. Managed to get over the state line, marked in the woods. Carl came to a clearing and a logging road. Three Maine game wardens had the buck halfway dressed in the back of a pickup truck. Too bad about your New Hampshire deer, the one game cop said, he decided to die in Maine. That’s people from the East, Carl finished.
Like he’d said, his neighbors Dan and Rose held the keys and they’d explain the trash to me, answer any questions at all. He asked me not to move stuff around in the house and to be careful with the taxidermy and I said I wouldn’t and I said I would. How long did I think I’d stay in Potlatch, he asked, and I said I didn’t know. I
understand, he said, don’t worry about it. Go look the place over and let the neighbors look you over. In the meantime, I’d mail the money order, and once it got to Fairbanks, I could move in, unless Dan and Rose didn’t like the way I dressed out. He told me if I had trouble with money to ask Dan, there was always extra work around. He wished me good luck and I said the same to him. We hung up and I walked across downtown Moscow to the post office a block off Main Street to mail the money order. I wrote “Cash” on the To line, “Snider” on the From line.
My brother and I had given up a scrap business in Nevada, so I carried a little money, but not much. Thirty-five hundred dollars and a truck that ran most of the time. My brother headed to Seattle after a girl, and in Seattle there were lots of girls in case he broke up with this one, so after a while you didn’t even ask last names, because that wasn’t important, you knew they would not be around long enough to worry about last names. Living in Potlatch put me close enough to two big colleges, Washington State and University of Idaho, both twenty minutes south. Plenty of dates if I wanted them. But I wasn’t looking for that right now. I wanted to earn honest money and get on the right track. I wanted that a lot.
The Best American Mystery Stories 2006 Page 41
