Modern Masters of Noir

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  All this good fortune lasted exactly one week. On Wednesday afternoon, they went to see the new western playing up the street. Afterward, they parted company amiably, Johnny going over to the Coffee Cup for a hamburger, and Mac eager to get an early start on the night’s game.

  He should’ve gone to eat instead.

  His luck was suddenly as sour as it had been good, and in only a few hours, he was down seven hundred dollars. At that point, he quit. The cards were just running cold for him, and there wasn’t much sense in blowing his last hundred and fifty bucks. Tomorrow night would be better.

  He left the store front where the game was currently operating and started home, his mood gloomy. Why the hell couldn’t they ever get far enough ahead to relax? One lousy week of feeling good, of spending money, of having some frigging fun, for chrissake, and now things had to turn rotten again. Shit. Just when he’d gotten John all keyed up about maybe taking a trip to California. Shit. Well, the trip would just have to wait. And Johnny wouldn’t care, of course. He wouldn’t even utter a word of complaint, but only smile that same idiotic smile and say, “That’s okay, Mac.”

  Yeah, sure, that’s okay, Mac.

  Just once, he wished that Johnny would haul off and hit him. Then he could hit back, and everybody would be a whole lot happier. He kicked at an empty beer can and swore, but whether the anger was directed at John Griffith or himself wasn’t really clear.

  Lost in somewhat weary contemplation of his life, he wasn’t aware that a car had pulled up behind him, or that two men had gotten out, until one of them touched his elbow. “McCarthy?” The tone was polite, but steely.

  He spun around. “Huh?”

  “Please get into the car.”

  He tried to pull away from the abruptly vise-like grip on his arm. “Why the hell should I?”

  “Because I asked you to. Besides, you have an appointment and we wouldn’t want you to be late.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mac said doubtfully.

  “Please, Mr. McCarthy, into the car.”

  A gun barrel pressed lightly into his spine, and he decided not to argue anymore. Discretion and all that. He climbed into the back seat of the limo. One of the men joined him and the other got in front with the driver. The situation was absurd, of course. Like something out of one of those really bad gangster flicks Johnny loved so much. He opened his mouth to ask just where the hell they were going, but after a glance at the man sitting next to him, changed his mind and kept quiet. Go with the flow, Alex, go with the flow.

  It was only a few minutes before they pulled into an alley behind a large warehouse and stopped. “Get out,” the watchdog ordered. “Don’t try anything funny, or I’ll blow your guts all over the sidewalk.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” Mac replied sincerely. Christ, even the dialogue was right out of a B feature. He had a feeling, though, that the bullets in the gun weren’t props.

  The four of them entered the warehouse and walked across a vast empty area. Mac wondered if maybe they were taking him someplace secluded just for the purpose of killing him. That didn’t seem unlikely, and he suppressed a sigh. Talk about your fucking losing streaks.

  The office they went into was filled with oak and leather. Class stuff. Mac was pushed gently but firmly into a chair. He rested two sweaty palms on his knees and looked at the man sitting behind the desk.

  He was stocky, grey-haired, and he cleared his throat elegantly. “My name is Daniel Tedesco,” he said in a soft, musical voice.

  Surprise, surprise. Mr. Big himself. Mac just nodded.

  “We have a little business to discuss.”

  Mac tried for a grin. “Hey, yeah, the money. Well, look, I haven’t forgotten that, ya’know.”

  Tedesco almost smiled. “I wasn’t speaking of the money. We can deal with that matter later. At the moment, I have something else on my mind.”

  Mac slumped in the chair. “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “There is the question of my two employees. Or more correctly, my two late employees. The two men you killed.”

  Mac straightened quickly. “Me? I didn’t—”

  Tedesco held up a hand. “Denials are a waste of time. I am quite sure that you killed Al and Frank.”

  “But I—”

  “Please,” Tedesco said gently. “Either you killed my boys, or you know who did. If it wasn’t you, then give me a name.” He waited patiently.

  Mac tried desperately to moisten his dry mouth. He lowered his eyes and stared at his fingers. Hell, he thought. Goddamnit to hell anyway. “Okay,” he said after a few moments of rapidly considered and summarily rejected alternatives. “I did it.” His voice was flat.

  “Very good. Now we can begin to talk. Honesty is very important to me.” Tedesco paused. One of the lackeys held out an intricately carved humidor, and with great deliberation, the old man made a selection. “You know,” he said parenthetically as he prepared to light the cigar, “it wasn’t very bright on your part to take only the three seventy-five. Since that was exactly the amount recorded in their book as having been collected from you earlier in the evening, it aided our investigation immensely.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure it did,” Mac agreed bitterly. That dumb bastard Johnny. If there was a way to screw things up, you could always count on him to do it. I oughtta just turn the son of a bitch over to Tedesco and solve all my problems at one time. “So what now? You going to burn me, too?”

  “Well, that’s certainly an option,” Tedesco said a little too quickly to suit Mac.

  He wondered how they’d do it. A quick bullet to the head? Or maybe a trip over to the Hudson. Concrete and chains? Hell, I’ve been seeing too many of those damned movies with Johnny. And thinking of Johnny . . . well, that was a line of thought best left alone. There wasn’t a damned thing he could do for the kid now, except keep his name out of it. John would cope. Somehow. He realized belatedly that Tedesco was talking to him. “Sorry, sir?”

  “Please give me your complete attention. I dislike having to repeat myself.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “I find myself in the need of a new collector to replace the late and much-lamented Mr. Nueman. Would you be interested in the job?”

  “Me?” Mac laughed sharply, until he realized that there was no hint of humor in Tedesco’s flat, grey eyes. He leaned back in the chair. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “I’m always serious, Mr. McCarthy. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re in a rather precarious position at the moment, are you not? Shall I enumerate? You owe this organization four thousand dollars. Plus interest. On top of that, you admit to killing two of my best boys.” He paused and studied the glowing tip of the cigar. “Of course, perhaps you’ve already managed to devise some way to extricate yourself from these various complications?”

  Mac shook his head. “No,” he said softly.

  “I thought not. So perhaps you should give my offer serious consideration.”

  “Just exactly what is your ‘offer’?”

  “You will handle my collections. A percentage of your cut will be applied toward liquidating your debt. In no time at all, you’ll be free and clear once again.”

  “Uh-huh,” Mac said noncommittally.

  “Additionally, I am prepared to forgive and forget the matter of my boys being killed like they were. It would become a family matter and go no further.”

  Mac sighed, looking around the plush office. What chance did he and Johnny have against somebody like Tedesco? They were just a couple of losers in way over their frigging heads. If it was just him . . . . He sighed again, realizing that it wasn’t just him and hadn’t been for a long time, maybe even since that first day in Tan Pret. At that moment, more clearly than ever before, he was aware that it would never be just him again. Somehow, without really understanding why or how, he seemed to have made a commitment to John Griffith. There would always be someone else to consider. He rubbed his hands along the sides of the chair. Felt like real l
eather. “Can I have some time?”

  “Of course. Take twenty-four hours.”

  He stood. “Thanks. How can I reach you?”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Can I go now?” He wanted to be home very much.

  “Certainly. Can my boys drop you someplace?”

  He didn’t want any of them near the place. “No. Thanks.” He walked to the door, then paused. “This job. It’s just making collections, right? Nothing else? No rough stuff like Al and Frank pulled on me?”

  Tedesco spread his hands, looking for the moment like a genial uncle. “The job is yours. Handle it anyway you wish. Just bring me my money, and I’ll be happy.” He smiled. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Yeah,” Mac muttered as he left the office. “I’m sure you will.” As he walked across the empty warehouse again, the only sound was the eerie echo of his own footsteps. He resisted the urge to run.

  After nearly a week of clouds, the next day brought a bright sun and clear sky. The weather, unfortunately, didn’t do much to improve Mac’s mood. He toyed unenthusiastically with his scrambled eggs, and watched Johnny across the table at the Coffee Cup. “Hey, I just got an idea,” he said finally, dropping his fork.

  Johnny was ladling strawberry jam onto toast, his face a study in the same intensity he devoted to every task, no matter how mundane. He finished the job and carefully replaced the spoon in the jelly dish before looking up. “What idea?”

  “Why don’t we take a ferry boat ride?”

  “Today, you mean?”

  “Sure. Now. Right after breakfast.”

  A smile crossed Johnny’s face; he dearly loved the boat rides. Then he sobered and chewed the toast thoughtfully, before asking the primary question. “Can we afford it?”

  The question irritated Mac. “Of course we can, damn it. Would I suggest it if we couldn’t?”

  Diplomatically, Johnny refrained from answering. “Okay,” he said, smiling again. “That would be fun.”

  Mac felt dragged out, wondering if he’d gotten even twenty minutes’ sleep the night before. He gulped coffee impatiently as Johnny took his own sweet time finishing breakfast. At first, he had considered accepting Tedesco’s “offer” and simply not tell Johnny anything about it. But that could lead to all sorts of complications he wasn’t really sure he was ready for.

  And besides. Yeah, besides. It wouldn’t be fair to Johnny to get him mixed up in something like this totally ignorant of what was going on. Even Johnny—spaced-out, screwed-up John—deserved the chance to make a decision like this for himself. Mac wondered if maybe he had a small streak of honor somewhere inside himself. He liked to think so.

  On the other hand, there was one more thing, something Mac had admitted to himself only after hours of tossing and turning the night before. He was scared. Just plain scared. If he was going to do what Tedesco had said—and what real choice did he have?—he didn’t want to be doing it alone. He wanted Johnny there, too. After all, he admitted in a burst of brutal honesty, Johnny wasn’t the only one who needed somebody.

  Last night it had all seemed fairly simple. But now, in the sharp glare of the winter morning, with Johnny watching him, it wasn’t quite so simple. In fact, it was damned hard.

  He didn’t say much of anything else until they were actually on the return trip, heading from the Statue of Liberty back to the city. Johnny leaned over the railing, the sharp wind off the water making his face red and tousling his hair. Mac stood back a few feet, watching, both hands wrapped around a cup of hot chocolate from the snack bar. At last, he took a deep breath and walked over to stand beside Johnny. “Want some?” he asked, holding out the cup.

  “Thanks.” Johnny took a couple of sips, then handed it back. “What’s wrong?” he asked suddenly.

  Mac took a gulp of chocolate. “Wrong?” He stared back at the Statue of Liberty, before looking at Johnny.

  Johnny smiled. This wasn’t one of his usual bland grins, but a much rarer expression, one filled with a kind of wry self-awareness. It was an expression Mac had come to enjoy, hoping perhaps it signified that the kid was sort of snapping out of it a little. “Hey, Mac, I know you pretty good by this time.”

  Mac returned the smile. “Yeah, kid, I guess you do.”

  The moment passed, and the blue eyes clouded again. “Did I do something wrong, Mac? ‘Cause if I did, I’m sorry.”

  Mac crumpled the empty cup and dropped it into the water. “No, you didn’t do anything.” He was quiet for a moment and Johnny waited patiently. “I won’t bother to apologize to you for screwing things up again. I could spend a whole lot of time doing that.”

  Johnny’s eyes flickered over Mac’s face. “You don’t have to.”

  “I know. I know, and that makes it worse, because I don’t have to apologize. Makes it too easy for me to be a bastard.”

  Johnny shook his head. “You’re not.”

  Mac shrugged. “Well, anyway. You ever hear of a guy called Daniel Tedesco?”

  He thought for a moment. “Uh-huh. He’s the guy who runs the gambling stuff. Like your card games.”

  “Right. He’s also the guy Al and Frank worked for, remember?”

  The color faded from Johnny’s chilled face. “Yeah,” he whispered.

  Mac shoved both hands into the pockets of his cords. “A couple of his apes snatched me last night, and I had a personal meeting with Mr. Big himself.”

  Johnny’s teeth were chattering, but whether it was from the cold or from fear, Mac couldn’t tell. He lifted a hand, as if to touch Mac, then lowered it again. “Did they hurt you?”

  Mac shook his head impatiently. “No, no, of course not. Tedesco just wanted to talk. About Al and Frank.”

  “Ohmygod.” Johnny clutched at the railing, his fear-blanked eyes staring at Mac. “Do they know what I did?”

  “No.” Mac grinned. “They think I did it. And I just let them go right on thinking that.” He pulled his hands out and ducked his head to light a cigarette.

  “But, Mac . . .” Now Johnny grabbed him by one arm. “You didn’t kill them. I did and it isn’t fair for you to take the blame.”

  “Shut up, willya, dummy?” Mac shook off Johnny’s hand, aware of the other passengers standing nearby. “You did it because of me. That makes me responsible, too.”

  Johnny moved away from the railing and huddled against the wall. Mac swore to himself and tossed the cigarette away. People were beginning to look at Johnny, and Mac moved over very close to him. “Johnny, it’s okay, kid, everything’s gonna be okay.”

  Johnny just shook his head.

  “Come over here,” Mac muttered through clenched teeth, dragging him around the corner to where they could be alone, at least for the moment. He stared into Johnny’s vacant face. “Man, don’t fold up on me now. I need you.”

  A new, unfamiliar look came into Johnny’s eyes. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Goddamned right.”

  The idea of being needed seemed to amuse Johnny fleetingly.

  Mac shook him by the shoulder. “Are you listening to me?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Good. Now look, Tedesco isn’t going to do anything to me at all. At least, not if I go along with what he wants.”

  “What’s that?”

  Mac shrugged. “He wants me to take over Al’s job. To become his collector.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m talking to you about it. So we can decide together.”

  In a couple more minutes, the ferry docked. They disembarked, not talking much again until they were on the subway platform, waiting for a train to take them home. Johnny broke the silence finally. “What’s going to happen, Mac, if you say yes?”

  “Tedesco told me that I could just do the job anyway I want. Part of what I make goes to pay off the money I owe. I figure when that’s taken care of, we could save most of the money, and then get out of this town. Go to L.A. and make a fresh start.”

 
Johnny nodded thoughtfully. “And what happens if you say no?”

  Mac gave a sharp laugh. “Then I think that my future will pretty much take care of itself.” He bit his tongue, tasting blood. Shit. That was just the kind of thing he hadn’t wanted to say. “Oh, hell, we could figure out something,” he said quickly, but the look in Johnny’s eyes told him that the damage was already done. He averted his gaze, studying the graffiti on the wall beyond. One extremely ambitious spray-canner had scrawled his message in large red letters that seemed to go on forever, like splashes of blood against the concrete.

  I’VE GIVEN UP SEARCHING FOR THE TRUTH, it read, AND NOW I’M LOOKING FOR A REALLY GOOD FANTASY.

  “I thought maybe we could handle the job together,” he said at last.

  “Yeah?” Johnny replied.

  “Yeah. It might be a way out of this hole. But only if you want to, John. Otherwise, I’ll just tell Tedesco no deal, and we’ll think of something else.” Sure we will, he thought hopelessly.

  It was several minutes before Johnny spoke again, and by then they had boarded the express. “There is something else I could do,” he said.

  “What?”

  His voice was very soft and Mac had to lean close to hear him. “I could go to the police and tell them what I did. Then nobody would bother you.”

  Mac could only look at him, stunned by the unexpected suggestion. “Don’t you know what they’d do to you?”

  “Put me in jail, like that other time.”

  Mac snorted. “Shit, man, they’d shove you into a padded cell so fast that your head would be spinning.”

  “But it would help you.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure, John, sure,” Mac said in disgust. “How long have you had this Jesus Christ complex? Well, you might as well climb down off your fuckin’ cross, ‘cause I’m not gonna play that game. If we go down in flames, we go together. We’re not heroes, either one of us.”

  Johnny relaxed. “Thanks,” he said. “I didn’t really want to do that.”

  “No kidding?”

  Johnny’s fingers twisted around the edge of the seat. “If we work for Tedesco, I wouldn’t have to do anything by myself, would I?”