Modern Masters of Noir

by Ed Gorman (ed)

“No,” Mac said firmly. “And neither would I.”

  He sighed. “Okay, Mac. If you think we should do it, that’s okay with me. Whatever you say.”

  Mac couldn’t look at Johnny. Instead, he watched the tunnel lights flash by. God, he thought, God, what am I doing? Whatever I say is okay? I don’t know what to say, you poor dumb bastard, except that I’m scared. And that’s the one thing I can’t say, not to you, because I’m supposed to be strong enough for both of us. Christ, how did I ever get myself into such a fucked-up place? “Oh, hell, Johnny,” he said suddenly, “sometimes I get so tired.”

  “I know,” Johnny replied unexpectedly.

  Mac rested his head against the window behind him and closed his eyes. Johnny began a soft, rhythmic patting of his shoulder, a childlike gesture apparently intended to reassure or comfort him. Mac appreciated the effort, although he didn’t say so.

  Chapter 17

  Her name was Toni and her picture had once been in Playboy. She told Mac all about it when they were finished and he was getting dressed. Her body, covered only by a thin sheet, stretched languidly. “Maybe you saw it?” she suggested hopefully.

  He shook his head as he leaned over to tie his shoes. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Yeah, well, it was there. Page eighty-two.” She tossed her head in a well-practiced gesture that sent amber curls tumbling over her shoulders. “You know, man, that was sort of a quickie. Sure you have to take off so soon?”

  “Yeah. Well, I gotta go to work. See ya around.”

  “Sure,” she replied, reaching one bare hand out to touch his arm, and then snuggling back under the sheet again.

  Mac left the room and hurried down two flights of steps to the street, emerging into the soft darkness of the spring night. An almost warm breeze blew against him, lightly ruffling his hair. He glanced at his watch and grimaced. Damn. Nearly thirty minutes late.

  Luckily, it was only three blocks to the restaurant. Arriving a little out of breath, he paused just inside the door to search the dimly lit room. The place really wasn’t classy enough to justify the lack of lighting, but at least they were trying. After a moment, Mac grinned and moved to a corner table. “Hi,” he said.

  Johnny glanced up from his plate of spaghetti. “About time you showed up.” The complaint was half-hearted at best, but he smiled anyway, as if to take any possible sting from his words.

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” Mac replied, dropping into a chair.

  “Hungry?”

  “Uh-uh. Maybe later.” He picked up the salad fork and absently began wrapping strands of pasta around the tines. “You know, Johnny, we really have to do something tonight about this guy Karlin.”

  Johnny frowned. “Do we?”

  “Yeah.” Mac started on his second forkful of spaghetti. “Tedesco got on my ass about him this afternoon.”

  “Karlin told us last month—” Johnny began softly.

  “Hell,” Mac broke in, “he’s been telling us everytime we see him, but he never does anything. Tedesco wants results.”

  “Or else?” Johnny asked, giving up finally and shoving the plate across the table toward Mac.

  Mac gave him a sheepish grin and kept eating. “With Tedesco, kid, it’s always ‘or else.’ You should know that by this time.”

  “I do know it.”

  Mac’s lips tightened at the bitterness he could hear in Johnny’s usually mild voice. “It doesn’t do any good to worry about it,” he said. “We just have to do what we have to do.”

  “I know that, too, Mac.”

  “Good.” He smiled again. “Look, babe, this shit isn’t going to last forever. Pretty soon now we’ll be living it up in Los Angeles.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Mac shoved a piece of meatball around the plate and frowned. “If I hadn’t dropped so much in that damned game last week, of course, we’d be in better shape.”

  Johnny looked at him sharply. “That was just bad luck, Mac. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Yeah, sure, kid, I know.” He pushed the plate away. “We better go.”

  They left the restaurant, hailing a cab for the twenty-minute ride to Karlin’s. The whole operation had become routine in the last six months, and they were very good at it. They knew it—or, at least, Mac did—and Tedesco also knew it, which was probably why he gave them a little more leeway than was usual before cracking down, as he had that afternoon about Karlin. Mac and Johnny showed a high rate of return and managed to do so with a minimum of fuss. Tedesco had no reason to regret the addition of John Griffith to his organization. In fact, it was quite likely that it was Griffith, more than McCarthy, who accounted for the success of the team. Mac talked a good tough line, and looked dangerous, but he had never yet laid a hand on anybody. It must have startled more than a few people when the tough guy smiled pleasantly, then stepped aside to watch as his blond and gentle-looking companion moved in to take over. Tedesco knew that he was onto a good thing here and he was pleased. Just so long as he didn’t have to actually see Griffith.

  Something in the pale blue eyes caused a chill inside the old man, and so he met only with Mac.

  Karlin lived in a small wooden frame house tucked between two factories. They left the cab waiting at the curb and walked around the house to the back porch. Karlin, a balding, paunchy man with a penchant for also-rans at the track, answered Mac’s sharp knock and stepped outside, pulling the door closed carefully. “My wife,” he explained. “She gets upset.”

  Mac leaned against the porch railing, lighting a cigarette and tucking the cheap lighter back into his pocket before speaking. “I think maybe she has good reason to get upset, sir,” he said politely. “Our employer, he’s a little upset, too.”

  “I know I’ve missed a couple of payments, but—”

  “Four,” Mac interrupted gently. “You’ve missed four payments.” He took a long drag on the cigarette, and with off-hand deliberation, blew smoke into Karlin’s face. “We want the money, you bastard,” he said, his voice suddenly harsh. “Or else.”

  “But I don’t have . . . give me more time . . . please.”

  “Everybody runs out of time, man, and you just did.” He nodded toward Johnny. “You remember my associate?”

  Karlin glanced toward the shadows. “Yeah, sure.”

  Johnny stepped into the circle of brightness cast by the porch light. Two blue chips of ice glittered in his pale face. He reached out and gave Karlin three quick open-handed slaps in succession. “You have to pay the money, sir,” he said. Another slap, this one hard enough to knock Karlin backwards. “Please,” Johnny added coldly. He took Karlin’s face in one hand and pushed hard, crashing his head against the house. “Do you understand that this is your last chance?”

  Karlin tried to nod. “Yeah, yeah.”

  Johnny nodded, satisfied, and released him, stepping back immediately into the shadows. Mac tossed the cigarette into the bushes. “Twenty-four hours, Karlin. Then it’s out of our hands.” He almost smiled. “And we’re the nice guys. Good night.”

  He led the way back to the waiting cab. Johnny got in first, scooting over to the far door, and sat there, both hands folded neatly in his lap. Mac leaned toward him. “You okay?” he asked in a low voice.

  Johnny only nodded.

  “Are you?” Mac insisted.

  “Yes.”

  It was only one word, muttered through clenched teeth, but it was enough for Mac. He relaxed. This was a helluva way to make a living, yeah, but they didn’t have much of a choice right now. Someday, someday damn it, they’d get out from under. Out from under. The words had a familiar ring. Yeah, that’s what Wash had told him a long time ago. He’d been talking about getting rid of Johnny, of course. But Mac had ignored that advice.

  And look at me now, he thought glumly.

  As if he were somehow aware of Mac’s thought, Johnny lifted his gaze and looked at him. “Hey, Mac,” he said.

  “Yeah, kiddo?”

  “There’s a new movie
at the Variety. Will you come with me?”

  Mac glanced at his watch. “I have a game,” he began, but then he looked into Johnny’s hopeful eyes, and shrugged. “What the hell; the game will be there later. Sure, let’s go.”

  Johnny smiled.

  Chapter 18

  Mac was disgusted. The game hadn’t gone very well, at least as far as he was concerned, and it didn’t help his mood much to emerge onto the street close to midnight and find out that the temperature was still hovering somewhere around the ninety degree mark. By the time he’d walked half a block, he was already drenched in sweat. Summer in this city really sucked. Even Johnny seemed dragged out by the heat and humidity that blanketed New York day after day. He spent most of his time parked in front of the TV, swilling down gallons of soda.

  When the car horn beeped lightly behind Mac, he closed his eyes in weariness for a moment, before turning to see, as he’d expected, Tedesco’s limo sitting by the curb. It was something of a surprise, however, to see that the old man himself was in the back seat. He waved Mac over. At least it’s cool in here, he thought as he climbed in and eyed Tedesco.

  “Yeah?”

  Tedesco smiled, looking cool and unruffled in a white suit and Panama hat. “How is it going for you, Alexander?”

  “Okay,” he grunted. “But I’m sure you already know how it’s going for me. Right down to the last nickle. You probably already know how I came out of tonight’s game.”

  It wasn’t denied. “Every life has its little ups and downs, right?”

  “Right.”

  “When you get as old as me, you’ll know how to take these things in stride.”

  “Probably.”

  “And how is John?”

  Mac knew that there would be no business discussed until all of these preliminaries were out of the way. “John is fine,” he said, enjoying the feel of the sweat chilling on his body.

  “Good, good, I like all my boys to be happy.” Tedesco paused before continuing in a saddened tone. “We have a little problem, Alexander.”

  His mind moved quickly over the past couple of weeks to see if there were something he had done—or Johnny—to get them into trouble, but nothing came back to him. “What problem?”

  “You are perhaps familiar with the name Mike Danata?”

  He thought some more, then shook his head. “No. Should I be?”

  “Probably not. He hasn’t been in town very long. Out of Chicago, Mr. Danata is.”

  Mac just looked at him, wondering where the hell all this was leading. There had to be a point to it; the old man never talked just to make conversation.

  Tedesco sighed. “Like so many young men, Danata is ambitious. That in itself is not bad, because without ambitious young men, where would this country be? Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir, you’re right.”

  “Unfortunately, in Mr. Danata’s case, his ambition has led him to make some foolish mistakes. Such as intruding into areas that are my concern. We have warned him about this, but he has chosen to ignore us.” The musical voice turned hard. “I want Danata taken out. For good. And I want you to do it.”

  Mac straightened slowly in the seat. “Me?” he said hoarsely. “You must be kidding.” The chill he felt now was not pleasant.

  “I told you once before that I’m always quite serious about what I say.”

  “Then you must be smoking something funny in those damned Havanas of yours. Hey, man, I’m a collector. Period. Not some two-bit hitman.”

  “You’re my employee, Alexander.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m a killer.”

  “Come now,” Tedesco said, smiling. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve killed.”

  “I never, except for the war, I never—” He broke off. Shit, he thought.

  Tedesco’s black eyes glittered in the dim light. “Well, we mustn’t forget Al and Frank, right?”

  “Yeah, right,” Mac mumbled, slumping in the seat again. “Those two.”

  “Except for one minor point.”

  “Which is?”

  Tedesco discovered a small spot of dirt on his right trouser leg. He frowned and brushed at it. “You didn’t kill them, did you?”

  “Sure. Of course I did.”

  “No,” Tedesco said gently. “You just said that Alexander McCarthy is not a killer. I believe that.”

  Mac’s face was stony. “Look, this whole conversation is a lot of shit. Cut it out, huh?”

  “All right. To the point. John Griffith killed Al and Frank, didn’t he?”

  “No. It was me,” Mac said.

  “Your sense of loyalty is admirable, but totally unnecessary. At any rate, it’s quite irrelevant. I want Danata eliminated. You will do it. Or John will do it for you. He does whatever you tell him, doesn’t he? I don’t care very much either way, just so long as the job gets done. Otherwise . . . well, we won’t discuss the various unpleasant alternatives right now, will we?”

  Mac realized suddenly that the car had stopped in front of their apartment building. “I don’t want to talk about this,” he said.

  “Fine. It’s late. Go upstairs. Sleep on it, as they say. Perhaps discuss it with John. If you can talk to him about such things,” Tedesco added, tapping his forehead significantly.

  Mac opened the car door. “John isn’t crazy,” he said, wondering why the hell it mattered now.

  “Whatever. We’ll be in touch.”

  Mac got out of the car and hurried into the building, not waiting to watch Tedesco leave.

  His gut hurt.

  This was the nicest place they’d ever lived in. It wasn’t luxury, by a long shot, but at least the hallways didn’t smell of piss, and the apartment itself had two beds and a small kitchen. Life had been sort of okay lately. Until now.

  Johnny was sitting in the middle of his bed, watching TV, the small fan aimed right at his body, a can of Coke in one hand. He looked up and grinned when Mac came in. “Hi, buddy.”

  Mac tried to smile and went to get a beer. He flopped down onto his bed. “Things okay with you, John?”

  “Oh, sure, fine.” Johnny reached over and turned the fan slightly, so part of the air flow hit Mac, too. “Things okay with you?”

  Mac took a long drink of beer. “Yeah, babe, fine.”

  Johnny looked at him for a moment, then turned back to the TV. “This is a good movie. Paleface, with Bob Hope.”

  “Yeah? Well, you watch it, huh? I’m tired.” Standing, he pulled off his clothes, gulped down the rest of the beer, and then stretched out on the bed again. Maybe they should just get out of town. Yeah, like that other guy. What was his name? Bright? Something like that. He’d crossed Tedesco. Mac didn’t know any of the details, but he knew that Bright had left town, figuring that would solve his problems. All it did was to get him wasted in Cleveland, instead of New York. Big fucking deal.

  Mac turned to face the wall and closed his eyes. Maybe Tedesco would just let it drop. The meeting tonight might have been just a feeler, and now that he knew exactly how Mac felt, the matter might be forgotten.

  He stopped thinking about it and finally fell asleep, listening to Johnny’s soft laughter as he watched the movie.

  It seemed like only moments, but it must have been a couple of hours later when Mac was jerked abruptly back into wakefulness. The room was suddenly filled with light and noise. He rolled over and found himself staring into the twin barrels of a sawed-off shotgun. “Oh, shit,” he said.

  The man with the gun smiled humorlessly. “Sorry to wake you up.”

  Mac slowly turned his head. Two more men stood by Johnny’s bed, one of them holding a .357 Magnum, the barrel of which was tangled in blond hair. Without his glasses, Johnny peered myopically around the room, his face bewildered.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Mac asked.

  “Nothing to get excited about, Mr. McCarthy,” said the man without a gun. He was slowly pulling on a pair of black leather gloves.

  “Mac?” Johnny�
��s voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “It’s okay, kid,” Mac said quietly, realizing suddenly just what was going down. “I think they’re just here to deliver a message.”

  “You got it, man.”

  “Well, I’m the one the message is for, not him.”

  The man flexed his fingers inside the gloves. “Oh, the message is for you, all right.” He looked at Johnny. “You right-handed or left-handed, dummy?”

  Johnny only blinked, obviously incapable of answering.

  “He’s right-handed,” Mac said wearily. “Why?”

  “We don’t want to put him out of commission.”

  Mac swallowed. “Don’t hurt him. I’m the one who’s supposed to get the message and, believe me, I got it.”

  “But we’re supposed to impress upon you the importance of the message. Just so there’s no mistake.” The man lifted Johnny’s left arm.

  Mac licked his upper lip. “I’m as impressed as hell. Listen, you son of a bitch, he doesn’t even know what’s going on.”

  The man shrugged. “It’s nothing personal. We’re just following orders.”

  Mac tensed and leaned forward to push himself up from the bed. “Don’t do it, sweetheart,” his keeper murmured, pressing the shotgun against his chest. “Unless you want to have yourself spread all over the walls.”

  He relaxed again.

  Johnny tried to pull away from the hands gripping him. “No,” he whispered. “Don’t hurt me, please.” The fingers closed around his wrist. “Mac? Help me . . .”

  Mac closed his eyes.

  He had to. There wasn’t anything he could have done for Johnny, except witness his ordeal, and that he wouldn’t do. In the quiet of the room, the sound of bone snapping echoed like a gunshot. A faint gasp of pain was Johnny’s only reaction. Mac felt hot bile rising in his throat; he leaned sideways and threw up. “Nonono,” he whispered to the floor, one long, almost soundless, word.

  The gloved hands released Johnny, who slumped back against the wall. The three men walked to the door. “He’ll be in touch,” the spokesman said.

  Mac nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. When the three men were gone, he sat very still, staring at the closed door.