“Sixty-Sixth and Park,” Harry told the driver, a middle-aged black wearing a faded Dodgers cap with the bill turned to the back, and the cab plunged up Sixth Avenue.
This move caught Ruby unaware, and he gaped at the disappearing red tail light of the cab. Recovering, he leapt out into the rough-paved square and looked wildly about for a taxi. It was five minutes before one crept slowly into the square from West Eighth Street, and by that time Ruby was almost frantic. As the cab rolled to a stop, he nearly ripped the door off and threw himself into the back seat.
“Take it easy, fella,” said the driver, half-turning around. “Where to?”
Ruby sat stunned by the question. His soft mouth dropped open.
“Well,” said the driver sharply, “don’t you know where you want to go? You were in a big hurry a minute ago.” He was a little guy with a sharp, drooping nose and hairy ears.
Ruby’s mouth snapped closed. “You shut up and just sit there,” he told the driver savagely. “I’ll tell you where to go when I want to. You open your face again and I’ll put my foot in it.”
“Okay, okay,” said the driver, turning back and snapping the meter onto waiting time.
Caster and that broad could be going any place. Ruby thought in anguish. If he didn’t find them, Rizzo would have his head. Then he knew where they must be heading. They had to be.
“Okay,” he said to the back of the driver’s head, “take me to Sixty-Sixth and Madison, and make it fast. And keep your mouth shut.”
32
When Rizzo and Injun got to Central Avenue, the street was cleared of traffic. Police cars were parked at odd angles in the middle of the street, and officers were directing drivers into side streets.
“What’ll I do?” Injun asked as a tall cop tried to flag them to a stop.
“Keep going,” ordered Rizzo, and the cop had to jump out of the way. He followed Rizzo’s car with angry eyes as it drove into the center of the square created by the police.
Lying at an angle on the white center line was a long object covered by a shiny tarpaulin. A swiftly circling red and blue light on top of a nearby squad car flickered across the cracked reflective surface of the tarp. Ignoring Chief Beddell, who stood to one side talking with a subordinate and a slight but athletic man in gym shoes, sweat suit and bulky blue jacket, Rizzo walked toward the covered body on the cobbled street. Injun stayed behind the wheel of the car.
Stopping, Rizzo picked up one corner of the tarp and revealed a foot wearing a dirty-white tennis shoe with diagonal blue and yellow stripes. He knew it was Bobby without looking further, but Rizzo knelt and folded the cover about a third of the way back.
The first adult to reach Bobby, a local veterinarian, had turned him over to feel for a heartbeat. When he found none, he closed the boy’s wide-staring eyes with his thumbs. Now, as Rizzo knelt and looked into his son’s face, he tried to imagine that Bobby was only sleeping. But it was death, not sleep, that Rizzo saw in the young face with its bloody cheek and soft, half-formed mouth hanging open in eternal surprise. Rizzo was dimly aware of the sounds of the football crowd coming from the stadium.
“Hey,” said a sergeant, grabbing Rizzo’s shoulder from behind. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Rizzo shrugged off the policeman’s hand and bent from the waist to kiss his son on the mouth. It was still warm. Then he straightened up, replaced the tarpaulin neatly over Bobby’s face and got to his feet. Ignoring the sergeant, Rizzo walked over to where Beddell and the others were standing.
Beddell was talking with Coach Blundell when Vern Hodges nudged him. He looked up and saw Rizzo coming toward him from his son’s body. Blundell instinctively moved back a step when he saw Rizzo’s face, but Beddell stood his ground.
“Where is he?” Rizzo demanded.
Beddell jerked his chin in the direction of the near curb where a crowd of high-school students stood their ground against a cop hot much older than they were. Another tarp, half on the curb and half on the street, covered a sprawled heap in the gutter behind the policeman. Oblivious of the crowd and the policeman, Rizzo put a toe under the edge of the tarp and kicked it half off of Hoerner’s crushed body.
As hard as he tried, Rizzo couldn’t hate this still body which looked as if life had escaped through its face. It was nothing but a piece of meat. Half-heartedly, he drew back his foot as if to kick Hoerner.
“Look! Look!” kids on the curb were yelling, pointing at Rizzo. Others turned away as they caught sight of Hoerner’s uncovered body. For a moment, the cop refused to pay attention, but then he glanced back and caught sight of Rizzo.
“Hey, mister,” he said, half-turning, “you can’t—” The crowd surged forward behind him to fill the gap. Rizzo turned and walked away, and the cop started to follow until Beddell called him off with a gesture. The young policeman wheeled and chased the gawking crowd back to the sidewalk with his truncheon raised.
As Rizzo approached again, Blundell said huskily, “I’m very sorry, Mr. Rice.” But Rizzo spoke to the Chief of Police.
“Who was he?”
“His name was Hoerner,” Beddell replied. “Alec Hoerner. That’s about all we know so far.”
Rizzo’s eyes showed no interest. “I’ll make the arrangements for my boy,” he said. He walked back to the car where Injun waited hunched low behind the steering wheel.
33
The same gray-haired woman greeted Harry and Sandra at the building on East 66th Street. Harry thought she must be like some enchanted gatekeeper maintained in a state of suspended animation until needed.
“Mr. Caster,” she said routinely as they stepped into the foyer. “Your brother is expecting you.” The receptionist motioned them both to the small elevator.
The door leading to Mickey’s office was half-open, and Harry led Sandra through it. The large room had lost its look of executive serenity. Every surface was covered with business papers. The door to Alison’s apartment was open, and they could hear voices inside.
Harry and Sandra stood quietly in the middle of the office unaware that they were holding hands.
Then Mickey Caster walked through the doorway to the apartment, talking over his shoulder: “Whatever you say, sweet. Just pack them, and I’ll wear them.” He saw Harry and Sandra.
“Hello, kid,” he said. “Sorry everything is such a mess, but we’re in a bit of a hurry. Fix yourself a drink.” He gestured toward the low glass table. “No, don’t. The whiskey is under all that crap. I’m afraid, and if you disturb it we’ll never get out of here.” He put some papers on the edge of a chair and walked over to Sandra who had self-consciously dropped Harry’s hand. Harry introduced them.
“Miss Carradino,” Mickey said, taking her hand, “I’m happy to meet you, but I wish it could have been under better circumstances.”
Sandra nodded. She was conscious of the hard muscularity of Mickey’s small hand. He was less than impeccably groomed at the moment. His expensive jacket was on the bed in the other room, and his fitted shirt was riding up between thin braces. Mickey’s razor-cut hair looked as if it had been buffeted by a costly breeze.
“What the hell is going on?” Harry asked.
“A little trip, Harry,” Mickey said, riffling through a pile of papers. “Going on a little trip in about—” He looked at his thin watch. “Christ, Alison,” he called loudly, “do you know that we’ve got only an hour and forty-five minutes to catch that damned plane?”
“Don’t worry, darling,” Alison said as she walked into the office. “We’ll be out of here in another twenty minutes. You just find those bonds. Hello, Harry,” she said. “I warned you that this wasn’t the best time to call, but it’s good to see you again. Did you get that little matter straightened out?” She looked at Sandra in a cool but not unfriendly way.
“Not exactly,” Harry said. He turned to his brother again. “That’s what I’m here to see you about. Can we talk for just a minute?”
“Got the little bastards,” Mic
key exclaimed, putting some papers into a slim attaché case. “Hell, Harry,” he said, looking at his watch again.
“Baby,” he said to Alison, “why don’t you ask Miss Carradino to give you a hand with the final packing while Harry and I have a little chat? But when we’re done, I want you out here with the cases ready to go, right?”
“Right,” answered Alison. She turned to Sandra. “You really can help me,” she said. “I can buy clothes, but I can’t decide which ones to leave behind. You help me be brutal about it.” Sandra followed her into the apartment.
“There’s got to be something to drink around here,” Mickey said, pulling open cupboards with both hands. “Aha.” He pulled out two bell-shaped glasses and a decanter half full of dark liquid. “This ought to be either brandy or furniture polish.” He poured two drinks, downed one and refilled it before giving the other to Harry. “We’re in luck,” he said. “It’s furniture polish and a very good year, too.” Failing to find a place to sit, Mickey leaned against the front of his crowded desk and raised his glass to Harry, who stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Here’s to us, Harry,” he said. “Screw the rest of them.” He took another sip and asked: “What’s on your mind, kid?”
Harry held the glass but didn’t drink. The light from surrounding buildings made him feel as though he were in a well-illuminated fishbowl. He didn’t know where to start.
“Mickey.” He hesitated. “Mickey, everything is going wrong. I thought that guy you got for me was only going to scare Rizzo off. He’s going crazy.” He quickly told his brother about Steve Rizzo and the gunning down of Gino that day. “I don’t know what Hoerner or Rizzo is going to do next, but I’m afraid to go home.”
Mickey swished a little brandy around in his mouth and swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s been that kind of week. I think Hoerner has been trying a little too hard. But look, you’ve still got the bar, you’re still alive and so are Hildy and the girls. That’s not so bad. Look at me.”
“Yes, you,” said Harry. “What are you doing? What do you mean you’re going on a trip? A trip where?”
“Harry,” his brother said wearily, “that’s something nobody knows but me and Alison, and it’s better that way. If you don’t know, they can’t make you tell in court.”
“In court? What court?”
“Kid,” Mickey said, “I told you it’s been a rough week for me, too. Only for me it’s been a rough year. And if we don’t get out of here very quickly, the next year—or maybe five—is going to be even rougher. In blunt terms, Harry, Alison and I are doing a midnight flit. In less than an hour and a half, we’re going to disappear.”
“But what about your businesses? And Esther and the kids?”
“My business interests,” Mickey said, “are over there in that fat little satchel on the chair. Take a look.”
Harry twisted the copper hasps, and the leather bag jumped crisply open. It was full of tight bundles of bills, high-denomination bills. The bundle on top looked to be all hundred-dollar bills. “It’s money,” he said stupidly.
“That’s right, Harry boy, you’ll be a success yet. Anybody who can recognize money is well on his way. If you need some, help yourself. But don’t be greedy. It may be some time before I have a regular source of income.”
“I don’t need any,” Harry said, closing the bag and snapping shut the twin locks.
“I didn’t think you would. Harry, you’re a refreshing experience. Better than two weeks at the seashore. And as for Esther, her interests are as well looked after as ever. What is Esther’s has always been Esther’s, and let no one doubt that. She won’t miss me for long, kid, maybe a hot minute.”
Harry didn’t say anything, but he turned his eyes in the direction of the apartment.
“Alison?” Mickey said. “Sure, I’m no fool, Harry. Don’t go all moral on me at this late hour. You’re not exactly alone, yourself. Harry, give me a break. I’ve got enough problems. I know you’re thinking: What about the kids? So am I. And I tell myself that they don’t need me anymore, that they’ll be okay. I’ve got to believe that, so don’t you start confusing the issue.”
Mickey jumped up from the edge of the desk with a fresh burst of energy. “And now, Harry, I’m sorry but I’ve really got to hit it if we’re going to make that plane. Stick around and see us off, but excuse me if I go on with my packing.”
“But, Mickey,” Harry said, “just a second. What am I going to do about Rizzo? Christ, how can I go home?”
“You’ll be okay, kid,” Mickey said. “Hoerner is a tough cookie. He’ll see you through. And I’ll give you your money back.”
“I don’t want my money back. I want the whole thing stopped. Rizzo can have the goddamned bar.”
“Too late for that, Harry. It’s an old story, and sad, but if you buy a ticket you’ve got to ride it to the end.”
“Like you are?” Harry asked sharply.
Harry expected anger, but Mickey looked at him soberly, even fondly. “If you but knew it, kid,” he said, “this is all part of the ride.” He started snatching up papers. “Alison,” he shouted, “where the hell are you and those suitcases?”
Harry stood and watched.
34
Across the street in the dark shadow of a half-basement door, Ruby Bonino crouched and watched the lights go out in Mickey Caster’s office. It was getting colder. For the tenth time. Ruby took the black automatic out of his pocket and checked the cartridge clip and safety. He’d used a gun before, but never alone.
While Ruby’s head was down, the big front door across the street opened, and Harry and Mickey came out, each carrying two large suitcases. Alison and Sandra followed with smaller cases. Alison had the money satchel firmly in hand. Down the street, a darkened limousine turned on its parking lights and began moving silently and smoothly toward the small group on the sidewalk. Ruby lowered his pistol and waited.
“We’ll take you to the airport,” Harry said.
“It’s okay,” said Mickey, “here’s our car and driver.”
The limousine pulled up, and the driver got out and said: “Mr. Kastransky?”
“That’s right,” said Mickey. “Open your trunk for our bags.” The big, hollow-looking driver quickly stowed the bags away, except for the satchel with the money, and got back in the driver’s seat. Alison quickly said goodbye and slid into the limousine. Mickey stood with his hand on the open door.
“Well, kid,” he said, “there’s a lot we could say, but there’s no time to say it. Take care of yourself.”
“You, too, Mickey,” Harry said. “You, too.” He held out his hand.
Mickey put his manicured hand in Harry’s and gave it a strong, expressive squeeze. He winked at Sandra and then ducked swiftly into the big car.
“Go,” he told the driver.
As the elongated Cadillac pulled away from the curb, Ruby once more laid the barrel of his pistol on the cold, wet iron railing. He squeezed the trigger.
Harry felt a quick burning sensation at the side of his neck and then heard two loud cracks which echoed in the nearly empty street. Two small, many-pointed stars appeared in the curtained window behind them. Harry put his hand to his neck. It came away dark with blood which reflected a street light. A third shot cracked, and Harry reacted at last, pulling Sandra down into the doorway out of Ruby’s line of fire.
Several yards down the street, the black limousine rocked to a sharp stop, and the right-hand rear door opened. It remained open for a few seconds, then slammed again, and the big car sprinted to the corner and disappeared.
“You’re bleeding,” Sandra said.
“I know,” said Harry. “Stay down. Where the hell is that doorbell?”
Disgusted at having missed with three shots. Ruby saw lights going on across the street and a terrace door open. He knew that if he was going to finish the job, it would have to be now. He didn’t want to. But then behind him in the half-basement kitchen a light went on, startling Ruby and pushin
g him up the wrought-iron stairs with the gun in his hand.
“He’s coming,” Sandra cried, trying to burrow under Harry’s arm as she saw Ruby’s big figure appear on the sidewalk.
Where the hell are they, Ruby thought nervously, peering into the darkness inside the doorway of the building opposite. The street wasn’t lit brightly, but he felt as if there were searchlights trained on him. Advancing slowly at an angle, he saw Harry and Sandra crouched in the corner of the entranceway.
“Your gun, Harry, your gun,” Sandra cried. “Do something.”
Ruby brought his gun up. He wasn’t going to miss again.
Harry’s hand gripped the revolver and brought it out with surprising ease. Almost blindly, Harry extended his arm and jerked the trigger as fast as he could.
The deafening noise and echo of the five shots died down, and the stink of gunpowder drove Harry and Sandra out of the doorway. The first thing they saw was the big form of Ruby Bonino lying face down in the middle of the street. His gun lay in the gutter a few paces from his head.
“Harry,” Sandra said, clutching him, “you hit him.”
“Yeah,” said Harry softly, still not believing it.
“Do you think he’s dead?”
“I’m afraid to look.”
Ruby groaned loudly and rolled cumbersomely over onto his side. “Help me,” he said weakly. “My leg.” He was curled over, reaching toward but not touching his blood-soaked leg. “I’m bleeding to death. Call a doctor.”
Looking up at Harry, Ruby started to plead once more and then saw the gun in Harry’s hand. “You shot me,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” said Harry lamely.
“You bastard,” Ruby said. “Call a doctor.”
Harry became aware that up and down the street people, most of them in nightclothes, were standing looking silently at them. Unable to look at them, Harry kept his eyes on the man he’d shot. Then he heard his name called softly.
The Triple Shot Box (Goodey's Last Stand, Not Sleeping Just Dead & Fighting Back): Three Gritty Crime Novels Page 59
