Modern Masters of Noir

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  Almost as if in response, a faint moan came over the radio.

  Simon grabbed for the microphone and with a mouth that was suddenly dry, requested back-up and an ambulance. He careened around the corner, pounding the accelerator to the floor, just missing a fire hydrant and two pedestrians.

  He was out of the car before it came to a complete stop, running across the lawn, and into the building as if demons from hell were on his heels. He pulled out his gun as he moved, clutching it in his left hand and pushing the door open with his right shoulder.

  His running footsteps echoed hollowly in the corridor. The door to Papagallos’ apartment was closed. Not wanting to touch the knob, Simon raised one foot and kicked until the wood cracked and the door flew open. He fell through the entrance, almost tripping over Papagallos’ body sprawled there in a bloody pool. “Mike?” he gasped out frantically.

  His partner was huddled in a chair. There was blood everywhere. Simon crossed the room in three leaps, bending over the chair, wrapping both arms around Conroy. “Oh, shit,” he sighed. “Mikey?”

  Conroy’s eyes fluttered open. He wanted to smile. “Hey, partner.” A trail of blood ran out the corner of his mouth and down his chin.

  Simon tried to wipe the blood away with the sleeve of his jacket. “There’s help coming, babe, so you just hang tough. Hang tough, okay?”

  Conroy coughed. “Hell.” His fingers scrabbled weakly for a hold on Simon. “Knew you’d get here, buddy.” His soft brown eyes squinted as he tried to think. “Saw the guy.”

  “Was it somebody we know?”

  “Uh-uh. Hurts, Simon. Simon?”

  “It’s okay, Mike,” he said. “I’m here.”

  “Blond guy,” Mike mumbled. “Tall.”

  “Yeah, okay, I’ll get him. Don’t worry, buddy, I’ll get the son of a bitch who did this.” Mike began to shake violently. Simon bent over him, pressing his face to Conroy’s. “Mike? Oh, god, Mike, I’m sorry. I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

  His partner stilled, tried to smile again, and died.

  Simon listened desperately for a heartbeat, then shook the body a little. “Mike? Oh, damnit, man, why’d you have to go and die?” His voice was angry. “Why’d you do this to me?” Bloody, trembling fingers pushed a limp auburn curl off Mike’s forehead. “Why?”

  Simon heard the other cops come in, but he didn’t say anything to them. He just slumped next to the bloody chair, holding onto Wild Mike Conroy’s body and crying.

  The wheels of officialdom began to move quickly, in their roughshod, uncaring way. The room was soon filled with blue uniforms, with snapping cameras, with men in grey suits, all talking in low, urgent voices. Simon ignored them, not caring either. He only spoke once, to tell them that he was going in the ambulance with Conroy’s body. A white-clad intern started to object, but Simon pushed by him, climbing in next to the stretcher. Michael Francis Conroy wouldn’t take this ride alone.

  Simon held his partner’s hand, until the nurses at the hospital gently, but firmly, pried him loose. Lieutenant Troy was there, dressed in golfing clothes, his lined face grim. “What the hell happened, Simon?” he snapped at once.

  Simon shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? What the hell does that mean? You were supposed to be covering him.”

  Simon raised his head slowly and stared at Troy, his dark blue eyes cold. “I was covering him,” he said very softly. “God-damnit, I was. It was you who put the fucking stakeout three blocks away.”

  “That was necessary; we couldn’t afford to tip Papagallos off.” Troy wasn’t looking at Simon.

  “Yeah. Right.” Simon returned his gaze to the swinging doors through which they’d taken the bodies. “It just happened so fast. Someone knocked at the door, Papagallos went to answer it, and then I heard the shots. By the time I could get there, nothing.”

  “Did he say anything before he . . . before?”

  Simon nodded. “Yeah. Said the guy was tall. And blond.”

  “That’s it?” Troy sounded disappointed.

  “The man had a bullet in his chest. He was hurting.” Simon stretched out his arms, bracing himself against the wall.

  “Go home, Simon,” Troy said quietly.

  He shook his head. “No, can’t. Too much to do.”

  “You can’t do anything like that.”

  Simon lowered his arms and looked at his hands. They trembled. “I’ll be okay.”

  “You’re covered in blood,” Troy said flatly.

  He noticed the blood for the first time and his stomach lurched. “Christ,” he said. “He was bleeding so much.” His voice cracked a little. “All right. I’ll see you back at headquarters.”

  Troy nodded.

  Simon hitched a ride back to the apartment building with a patrol car. The sidewalk was still jammed with sightseers and the press. A couple of reporters spotted him as he crossed the street toward his car. “Hey, Hirsch,” one called.

  “Yeah?”

  “What happened here?”

  Someone shoved a tape recorder in front of his face; he stared at it dumbly. “What?”

  “Can you give us the details of today’s double murder?”

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t have anything to say.” Quickly he got into the car and started the engine, barely giving the press time to scatter before he squealed away from the curb.

  Details. They wanted details.

  He shook his head again, trying to clear away the fog. The only detail he could remember was the sight of Conroy’s face as he died. He had a horrible feeling that he’d never be able to forget that.

  Without being aware of the journey at all, he soon turned onto his block. The neighborhood was Sunday afternoon quiet. The only noise came from some kids playing ball in the middle of the street. They interrupted the game briefly to let him go by. He parked in the driveway and hurried to the house, hoping no one would see his bloody clothes. The door was locked. He fumbled for the key, found it finally, and shoved the door open, stumbling across the threshold.

  Kimberly was stretched out on the chaise, reading. She looked up in surprise that turned to shock as he burst into the living room. Her face paled. “My god, Simon! What happened? Are you hurt?”

  He stared at her.

  The book she’d been reading slipped from her fingers as she got to her feet. “Simon?”

  He walked past her, across the room to the mantel. Stupid, fucking mantel, he thought distantly. Why have a mantel when there wasn’t any fireplace? A large cut-glass vase sat on one end of the useless appendage.

  “Say something,” Kimberly pleaded.

  Without even looking at her, he picked up the vase and deliberately smashed it against the wall. The glass shattered and a hairline crack appeared in the plaster.

  “Simon!”

  Their daughter appeared in the doorway, her just-painted, blood-red nails fluttering. “What’s going on? Daddy?”

  Kimberly waved her out, then walked over to Simon. “Have you gone crazy?”

  He stared at the shattered vase, then leaned wearily against the wall. “Mike is dead,” he said in a muffled voice. “Somebody killed Mike.”

  Kimberly took a step backwards. Death, he knew, didn’t belong in her world, at least not this way. Dying should be quiet and filled with dignity; it should be neat. There shouldn’t be a madman covered with blood running into her all-white living room, smashing things and talking about death. “Oh, no,” she said at last.

  Simon gave a rattling laugh, still not looking at his wife. “You don’t have to worry about him ruining your goddamned party now,” he said.

  Her porcelain skin flushed. “That isn’t fair, Simon. I never wanted anything like this to happen.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry I said that. It’s just . . . damn it, Kim, I heard the shots. I heard it all happen, but by the time I got there, he was dying. There wasn’t anything I could do.”

  “It must have been terrible.”
>
  “Yeah.” Simon ran a hand down the front of his blood-encrusted T-shirt, denim jacket, jeans. “He just . . . died.”

  Kimberly was recovering. He admired that quality in her. Probably it came from her Methodist past. Solid American stock, people who never let any adversity keep them down long. “I always told you something like this could happen. Thank goodness it wasn’t you.”

  “Yeah,” Simon said. “Thank God for that, huh? My partner is dead, but, boy, I’m just fine and dandy. I was backing him up. Great job I did.” He crashed a fist against the wall. “Goddamn motherfucking bastards.”

  “Shh, Tammy will hear you.”

  He only looked at her, his wife, and the neat white living room. Sometimes, he got the feeling that he didn’t belong here at all. It was as if he lived two lives. One was out on the street with Mike, where they saw the blood and pain and shit that went down with monotonous sameness year after year; and his other life was here, surrounded by nice clean things, with a woman who didn’t like some words because they scared her. Because they reminded her that beyond the wall-to-wall carpeting and the patch of green lawn that surrounded this mortgaged haven, there was a universe that was dangerous and dirty.

  Simon wondered which life was his real one. Or maybe his real life hadn’t started yet. If there was such a thing as real life.

  He shrugged. “I gotta clean up and get downtown.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t go. You look terrible. They can’t expect you to work after what you just went through.”

  “I don’t know what ‘they’ expect, Kim. I know what I have to do. Somebody killed my partner, and I’m going to find the son of a bitch.”

  She shivered. “It scares me to hear you talk like that,” she whispered.

  He grimaced and started out.

  Kimberly knelt on the carpet and began carefully to pick up the pieces of jagged-edged glass.

  Simon stopped. “Don’t do that,” he said sharply.

  “What?”

  “Leave it there.”

  She picked up another piece of glass. “Don’t be silly, honey. I can’t leave this—”

  He took a step toward her. “Leave the fucking thing there!” he shouted.

  Her hand dropped the shards. They stared at one another for a long moment, then Simon spun around and went into the bedroom.

  Just about an hour later, he walked into the squad room. Although he had showered in the hottest water his body could stand, scrubbing until his skin was raw, and dressed in clean clothes, he still felt as if he were covered in blood. The too-starched white shirt and neat sport coat seemed to chafe his flesh.

  He sat down, propping both feet on his desk. A couple of other homicide dicks were in the room, and they looked at him without saying anything. There wasn’t anything to say. He lit a cigarette and tried to ignore the desk opposite his, with its familiar clutter.

  Troy, clad now in a suit, came in. “You okay?”

  Simon nodded shortly. “Anything turn up?”

  “No. We’re still waiting to get the bullets. None of the neighbors saw or heard anything.”

  “Yeah, that figures.”

  “Probably they really didn’t. This was a smooth job, Hirsch, pro all the way.”

  “Except for one little thing,” Simon replied, flicking ashes toward the already over-flowing ashtray, and missing.

  “What?”

  “I think Mike being there was a surprise. There was just the slightest hesitation between the two shots, as if whoever was pulling the trigger had to . . . readjust his plan. Mike’s death was an afterthought.” Simon smiled bitterly. “Hell. An afterthought.”

  “You may be right.” Troy gestured impatiently. “Which gets us absolutely nowhere.”

  “This is my case, of course,” Simon said.

  “Is that a good idea, Hirsch? You might be too close to things.”

  “I promised Conroy. It’s my case.”

  Troy looked at him for a moment before answering. “All right. As long as I think you can handle it. When I decide you can’t, that’s it.”

  Simon shrugged. “I’ll have the bastard before then.”

  Troy moved closer. “I know how you must be feeling right now, Simon.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I lost a partner once.”

  Simon crushed out the cigarette. Yeah, he wanted to say, but you didn’t lose Mike Conroy. Instead, he crashed his feet to the floor. “I gotta clean out his desk.”

  “Somebody else can do that, man.”

  He shook his head. “My job.”

  “At least wait awhile.”

  Simon sighed. “I have to sit here and work. I can’t be looking at that mess.”

  Troy nodded and left the room.

  Simon moved around and sat in Conroy’s chair. He pulled open a drawer and made a face. “God, that guy was a slob,” he said hoarsely.

  The other men in the room took pity on him and turned away.

  Simon started piling old magazines, wrinkled report forms, and discarded candy wrappers on top of the desk. “A goddamned slob,” he said, this time to himself.

  Chapter 2

  Simon stood hunched over the snack bar, chewing on the rubbery hot dog and waiting. Sometimes it seemed like they spent half their lives just waiting. Just over sixty hours had passed since the shooting, and he’d spent a lot of that time in a sort of limbo. He hadn’t been home since that trip on Sunday to get rid of the bloody clothes. Hadn’t changed since then, or shaved, or slept. He took a gulp of too-sweet Coke. Thank God for caffeine.

  Where the hell was Danny anyway? That was the trouble with a junkie snitch; they were too damned unreliable. Danny, of course, might not show at all, since the creep really wasn’t his snitch at all, but Mike’s.

  At the thought of his partner, Simon glanced at his watch and frowned. It was getting late. Now there wouldn’t be time for him to go home and change before stopping at the funeral parlor. Hell, if Danny didn’t get here soon, he’d miss the visitation entirely. Not that he was looking forward to it, but it had to be done. Some things just had to be gotten through and then, hopefully, gotten over. Like the report that he still had to write on the shooting. And like the funeral tomorrow.

  He looked up again impatiently and saw the gimpy little junkie crossing the street toward him. The two of them made a nice pair at the end of the counter as Danny arrived and sidled up next to him. “About time you got here,” Simon complained.

  “Couldn’t help it.” Danny sniffled. “Very busy.”

  Simon nodded glumly.

  Danny shuffled his feet. “Damned shame about Mike. Damned shame. I was real sorry to hear it.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  “I mean, he was a good guy, y’know? Ain’t that always the way? The good ones always get it.”

  “Yeah, Danny, that’s the way it is. The good guys get it, and the garbage like you keeps right on walking around.”

  Danny could no longer afford the luxury of being insulted by anything Simon said to him. “Mike, he understood how it is, y’know? Always had a few bucks to slip a guy,” the junkie reminisced.

  Simon pushed a folded bill down the counter toward him, but kept a finger on it. “Mike was always a sucker for a sob story,” he said coldly. “But not me. I’m different. When I pay, I want something in return.”

  “I always try and give good value,” Danny said.

  Simon released the bill. “So I’m waiting.”

  Danny pocketed the money quickly and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Ahh, well, that’s the thing about this case. The streets is real dead, Inspector.”

  “Yeah, well, Mike Conroy is real dead, too, you prick.”

  “Damned shame.”

  “You said that already. Come on, Danny, you must have heard something. Christ, man, you spend all your time in the gutter.”

  Danny picked up the remains of Simon’s hot dog and shoved it into his mouth. He mumbled something, spraying drops of saliva and crumbs over th
e counter.

  “Swallow first, asshole.”

  He swallowed. “Well, word has it that the job was done by imported talent.”

  “Imported from where?”

  “Don’t know.” He belched. “Back east somewheres, I guess.”

  “I need a name, Danny.”

  Danny washed the rest of the hot dog down with the last gulp of Simon’s Coke. “No names, man. There ain’t no name. It was big time stuff, though. Big time.” He began to edge away. “Sorry about Mike,” he mumbled. “Damned shame. He was a good guy.” Danny slipped out the door, melting quickly into the crowd on the sidewalk.

  Simon slumped against the counter, burying his face in his hands. Nearly four hours it took just to track Danny down and set up this meet. And all for what? A big fat zilch.

  “You okay, Inspector?” asked a quiet voice at his elbow.

  He raised his head and saw the young patrolman. Aginisto, he recalled after a moment. The cop had a worried expression on his boyish face. Boyish? I’m only thirty-five, Simon thought bitterly. I’m not old. “Huh?” he said.

  “I just wondered if you were okay,” Aginisto said hesitantly.

  Simon nodded. “Yeah,” he said wearily. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

  Aginisto studied the wall. “Sorry about Inspector Conroy.”

  “Right.” Simon gave him a smile and started toward the door.

  He stopped abruptly, staring across the room. A tall, slender man with shaggy blond hair stood at the far end of the counter, concentrating intently on a slice of pizza. After a few moments, he apparently became aware of the scrutiny. He turned curiously, peering around until his gaze rested on Simon.

  Simon broke the uneasy eye contact first and walked out the door, mentally kicking himself. Hell, he couldn’t start suspecting every tall blond man he saw. A guy could get real paranoid that way.

  The parking lot of the O’Boyle Funeral Home was crowded, and he had to drive around twice before finding a spot to pull his car into. He locked the battered VW and went up the steps leading into the imposing brick building.

  His first stop was the men’s room. He splashed cold water on his face, then straightened to look into the mirror. Rather hopelessly, he tried to pull his comb through his tangled mop of dark curls. He gave that up quickly and simply tried to smooth the mess a little. His clothes were fairly hopeless, as well, but he stuffed the shirttail in where it belonged, and gave a quick polish to each shoe on the legs of his trousers.