Cut Me In (Hard Case Crime)

by Ed McBain

  The same black hair that hung over his forehead, the same shaggy brows, the same pig-bristled jaw. My writer friend. The one I’d tossed out on his keister yesterday.

  “What the hell do you want?” I asked.

  “David Gunnison,” he said. “You remember me?”

  “I remember you,” I told him. “I thought we’d concluded our business.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  “Look, Gunnison, why don’t you get the hell out of here? This time I’ll call the police, so help me.”

  Gunnison smiled. “I don’t think you will, Blake.”

  There was something crafty in his eyes, something that made me stop short and take notice for a moment. He looked like a man holding four aces, and begging for the guy with the straight flush to bet into him. “What’s on your mind?” I asked cautiously.

  “My book.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes. I think maybe you’d better take it on.”

  “Why? Give me a good reason why.”

  “I’ve got a good reason. I’ve got a reason that might interest you a lot. It might interest you a whole lot.”

  “Talk sense, Gunnison.”

  “Don’t get smart, Blake. You’re in no position to get smart.”

  I started to walk past him. “If you’re going to talk gibberish get out of my way.”

  He laid a beefy hand on my chest and said, “Just a second, pal.”

  I brushed his hand aside and said, “Don’t pal me, pal.”

  “You’re going to take my book on, Blake. We’re going to be author and agent, so you might just as well start changing your attitude now. Like I say, you’re in no position…”

  “Oh, get the hell…”

  He shoved me again, and this time I got sore, and I shoved back, ramming my hand hard against his chest. Gunnison wheeled back a few paces and then ducked his head like a bull coming in for the kill. I stood my ground, and when he came I kept up the bull-fight pretense, stepping aside like a matador and planting the toe of my shoe against his wide buttocks. He sprawled forward on his face, and I thought, this is going to be another picnic. This is going to be another game of pick up Gunnison and throw him out into the hall.

  Gunnison had other ideas. When I reached down for him, he rolled over and grabbed my wrist, pulling me forward and kicking me in the stomach at the same time. I went head over heels onto my back, and then Gunnison was up and reaching down for me.

  I wasn’t as quick as he had been. He got his big hands into my collar, and he pulled me toward his outstretched fist, and when it connected, I saw Saturn and a few of the other planets. Jeanette screamed and plugged in one of her wires, and I figured she was calling the police if she had sense enough to do that. I didn’t do much more figuring then because Gunnison was bearing down on me, and there was a confident look in his eyes, and that goddamned smug, superior smirk on his face again—the smirk of the man with the four aces. He lashed out with his fist, catching me over the shoulder, spinning me half around. I started to turn, and his other fist caught me on the throat, almost choking me.

  I brought up a sharp right uppercut in a reflexive movement, and it whistled by his head, just missing him. But he got cautious, and he began backing away, and by this time I was real mad, and if Gunnison were a smart man he’d have hopped the next plane to Outer Mongolia.

  Gunnison wasn’t a smart man. He must have seen the glint in my eyes, and the set of my lips, but he stood there smiling smugly, and I closed in.

  I feinted at his belly, and he brought down his big, farmer hands and that was just what I wanted. I lashed out with a straight left that caught him right on the button. His head rocked back, and a wash of sweat shook loose from his mane of black hair. He shook his head, and blinked at my other hand coming toward his face.

  I caught him on the nose, and I felt the bone crunch, and then blood was spilling out onto his lip, and a look of unbearable pain crossed his face. I threw one more at him, and he screamed, “You filthy bastard! I’ll show you, you bastard! I’ll show you!”

  I didn’t hear him. I kept hitting him until he was on the floor again, and then I picked him up and carried him to the door, and really threw him into the hall this time.

  He lay on the hall floor, looking up at me, and I kept my fists clenched and I shouted, “Now get this straight, Gunnison. You come back here again, and you’re through, finished. I’ll break every bone in your goddamned body, and then I’ll throw you out the window. Just remember that, you bastard. Just remember it and stay far away. Stay out of this building. Stay off Fifth Avenue, you bastard. In fact, get the hell out of the city, because I’ll kill you no matter where the hell I see you again. You got that, Gunnison?”

  “I’ll be back,” he said. He spoke around the handkerchief he held to his nose. The handkerchief was rapidly turning red, and he kept dabbing it at his nose and talking around it. “I’ll be back, Blake, and you’ll listen when you’ve cooled down. You’ll listen, ’cause you’re in no position…”

  “Try it,” I said. “If you like a broken face, try it. Just try it, Gunnison.”

  I slammed the door on his words and walked over to where Jeanette sat near the switchboard. Her face was white, and she had her knuckles pressed against her mouth.

  “Did you call the police?” I asked.

  “N…no, sir. D…do you want me to?”

  “No, never mind. If you see that sonovabitch walk in here again, buzz me right away.”

  “Yes, sir.” She stared at me with her eyes wide, her knuckles back against her mouth again.

  “Did Roy Parsons call back?”

  “Yes, sir.” She was still staring at me.

  “What the hell’s wrong?” I snapped.

  “Your…your face, sir. It’s bleeding.”

  I felt my cheek, the same cheek that had been kicked open by the guy who’d cornholed me at Lydia’s place. Gunnison had reopened the cut with his big fists. I swore and said, “Never mind that, I’ll fix it. Get Parsons for me, will you?”

  I went into my office, found some iodine and a band-aid, and covered the cut. My hands were still trembling, and inside me there was a hatred big enough to fill the Empire State Building. That sonova…

  The buzzer sounded, and I clicked on, and Jeanette told me she had Roy. I lifted the phone.

  “Hello, Roy.”

  “Hi, Josh. I’ve got the dope.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “He’s being backed.”

  “Good,” I said. “How many people?”

  “Two, from what I could get. You want their names?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Please.”

  “Andrew Jamison,” Roy said, pausing for my appreciative whistle, “and Bertram Nester.”

  “You’re sure about this, Roy? I’m going to move on it, and I don’t want to screw myself.”

  “This is gospel, Josh.”

  “Okay, Roy. Thanks a million.”

  “Nada,” Roy said. “That’s Spanish for…”

  “I know.”

  “Okay, boy, good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So long.”

  Roy hung up, and I smiled at the receiver, and then placed it back in the cradle. Becker was being financed, and the financiers were as big as you could want them. That meant Becker could be scared. And if Rutherford was being shrewd, as he’d kept telling me, this was one baby who could be just as goddamned shrewd.

  I thought of Cam Stewart.

  And I wondered what would have happened if we’d taken that little swim, if Rutherford hadn’t popped in when he had. I shrugged the thought aside, dialed Celebrity Service and found out where David Becker was staying, telling them to bill me for the information. There was a chance he’d be back from Cam’s place by now. And if not, I’d wait. I’d wait a long time.

  * * *

  It occurred to me on the way over to Becker’s hotel that I’d almost forgotten my murdered partner. Becker’s place was a few blocks f
rom the office, so I was walking it, and when the thought came, it gave me something of a jolt. I wondered what the case would be if the situation had been reversed. Suppose it had been Del who’d found me dead on my office floor? If I knew Del, he’d probably have arranged for a big publicity tie-in, hoping to get every mystery writer in the field. Well, I wasn’t a hell of a lot more merciful. The guy had been murdered, and his mistress after him, and all I worried about was a pending movie deal.

  Except the two were tied together. I felt I knew Di Luca didn’t share my views, and I knew that a lot of unrelated things can happen, sometimes confusing the true picture, but I still felt the movie deal was connected with the two murders. And by shoving at the deal, by watching the people most interested in the deal, I felt certain I’d get to the bottom of the deaths.

  Don’t misunderstand me. I wasn’t playing cop. I’d never played cop in my life, and I certainly wasn’t starting now. I was, I suppose, primarily interested in the deal, and what the murders could do to kill the deal. But at the same time, I didn’t like the idea of someone going around taking pot-shots at the agency personnel. When someone gets a wanton gun, you never know who’s going to be next.

  Which was a selfish outlook, too, I suppose.

  All right then, the whole damned setup was selfish. So be proud of yourself, you bastard. You want a Caddy, and not a Buick. You want a sprawling house with a swimming pool, and not an apartment with an electric fan. You want three-hundred-dollar suits. You want money. That makes you a bastard.

  Bastard or no, Del is dead. Lydia is dead, too, and you can’t help the dead by shedding a lot of tears. The police were on it, and the police would probably solve it if they took Di Luca off the case, which they probably would not do, and so the whole thing would be dumped into the open file and the hell with it.

  How many perfect murders are committed every year, anyway? How many every day?

  I couldn’t guess.

  I couldn’t guess, and I didn’t want to guess, because there was still a big feeling of guilt inside me, as if I should have been more actively concerned with finding the murderer, and the movie deal be damned.

  But the movie deal was big, and I wasn’t going to dump it. No. Let the police find the murderer. That was their job.

  Sure, I told myself. Sure.

  But I didn’t believe it for a minute.

  I got Becker’s room number from the desk clerk and then took the elevator up.

  I wasn’t prepared for the blonde who answered the door. She wore a cocoa-brown sweater that was simply crazy in this heat, but she didn’t seem to mind very much. If anything, she seemed to thrive in it. She seemed to thrive everywhere, in fact, from the unhidden curve of her breast, to the flowing curve of her hip, to her legs, to her throat, to everywhere. She was one of the most thriving creatures I had ever seen.

  She smiled now and said, “Yes?”

  “Mr. Becker, please,” I said.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “May I come in? I’m not selling anything, really.” I smiled, and she smiled back, and then she opened the door and I walked into the suite. It was a nice layout, and it was probably costing Becker a pretty penny. I looked at the girl again. She reminded me of someone. She was very tall, and her blonde hair was cropped close to her head. She had bright blue eyes that fairly sparkled, and she wore a pale orange lipstick, and that damned cocoa-brown sweater that made it difficult to remember anything else.

  “You look familiar,” I said.

  “I’m not,” she answered, smiling. “Nor do I intend to be.”

  “No, really. Haven’t we…met?” I asked lamely.

  “Oh, brother.”

  “Corny, I know. I’m serious, though. You remind me of someone I…”

  I remembered then. The blonde in the half-slip and bra. The one I’d found at my kitchen table, puffing on a cigarette. I stared at her hard. No, it wasn’t she, but it could have passed for her in a crowd.

  “No,” I said. “Sorry. I was mistaken.”

  “I still don’t know who you are.”

  “A friend of Dave’s,” I lied. “Who?”

  “A friend. I want to surprise him.”

  “If you’re a friend of Dave’s, you know he doesn’t go in for surprises.”

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  She gestured with her head toward a closed door. “In there. With his lawyers. Working on a contract.”

  “Oh. Who are you?”

  “His secretary.”

  “Traveling?”

  “Sure.” She saw the look that flitted over my face and hastily added, “Don’t get ideas, Buster.”

  I shrugged. “How long will Dave be?”

  She shrugged, too, and she did it much better than I. “An hour, two. Who knows?”

  “That’s what I figured,” I said. I started for the closed door.

  “Hey!” the blonde shouted. “Where are you going?”

  “To surprise Dave.”

  “But…”

  I already had my hand on the doorknob. I twisted it, and the blonde started running across the room, but I was inside, and I slammed the door behind me and looked into the startled faces.

  Becker’s face was in the middle, round as a cue ball. On either side, like cue sticks with chalked tips, were two long-faced lawyers.

  Becker stood up quickly and said, “What are you doing here, you chiseler?”

  “I bring sad tidings, Caesar,” I said.

  Becker turned to one of the lawyers. “What the hell is this madman talking about?”

  “Lend me your ears, friends,” I said.

  “Look, Blake…”

  “I know, Becker. You’re busy. You’ve got to get this contract all worked out before the big shindig tonight. Cam’ll sign on the dotted line then, and everybody will break a magnum of champagne on her luscious head.” I shook my own, not-so-luscious head. “No dice, Becker.”

  “Your agreement again, huh, crook?” He looked around him hastily, to see if there were any swimming pools in the vicinity.

  “Yes, my friend, my agreement. I’m going to be at the party.”

  “So come. So who cares?”

  “The angels, Becker.”

  “What?”

  “The backers, Becker, the backers.”

  “What?” he spluttered, still not grasping it.

  “Becker’s backers. Andrew Jamison and Bertram Nester. And I’m going to tell them you don’t own TV or radio rights. I’m going to shout it to the goddamned rooftops, and they’re both going to turn green, Becker. They’re going to vomit and they’re going to run like hell because no one’s going to invest with a lawsuit swinging over his head.” I paused. “Get the idea, Becker?”

  “You…you…”

  “I would, Becker. I would, and I will, and I’m going to. I’ll be there with bells on, and we’ll see how many people will be willing to invest in this turkey once they find out what the score is. You can’t go around me, Becker, so you might as well come to me.”

  “You…you…”

  “Yes, me, me. I’m the guy. Papa Blake. It all has to come through me, or the deal gets it in the ass. If you want that, fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I started for the door, feeling damned good. “I’ll see you at the party, Becker.”

  I swung out and slammed the door behind me, almost knocking over the blonde. I reached down and patted her on the fanny, and she looked up, surprised as hell.

  I went to the garage, got the Buick, and drove straight for Gail Gilbert’s place in Yonkers. With Del dead, she was, after all, almost a partner, and I thought I should keep her informed on the latest developments. Besides, I was more than a little worried about her. She hadn’t been home earlier, and with some damned idiot running around with a .45 in his mitt, there was no telling what could happen. I pulled up in front of the house, saw that the white bamboo drapes were drawn back, and sighed in relief.

  I pressed the panel in the door jamb, heard the buzzer g
o off inside, and then waited. I didn’t hear any footsteps, so I was surprised when the door opened.

  “Josh!” Gail said. “What a surprise!”

  “Hi,” I said.

  I followed her into the spacious living room, tastefully furnished in whites and blacks and greys. The interior here reminded me of the approach to Gunsmoke Acres, except that this was severely modern, with the cold, sterile look broken only by some bright orange throw-pillows on the long couch. Gail, in keeping with the room, was wearing black pedal-pushers, and a white, long-sleeved blouse. The blouse was buttoned to the third button from the throat, and that left a lot of unbuttoned area. She’d apparently been out in the sun, and it had brought out a dusting of freckles on her nose, and had put a high flush into her cheeks.

  “Sit down,” she said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “All right.”

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Gin and bitters should be nice.”

  “Sorry, no gin.”

  “What have you got?”

  “There’s a batch of whiskey sours I mixed. Could you go for one of those?”

  “Fine.”

  “Be with you in a minute.” She walked into the kitchen and I heard her rummaging around in the refrigerator. I heard her cracking ice, and I called, “Hey, I thought they were already mixed.”

  “I’m just freshening them.”

  “Okay.”

  I heard the sound of ice dumped into a shaker, and then the shaker being pounded for all it was worth.

  She stopped shaking and called, “What did you think of Di Luca?”

  “Barging in yesterday, you mean?”

  “Yes.” She was shaking again.

  “That was my idea, Gail, I sent him when I thought you were in trouble.”

  “He told me he made it all the way up here in ten minutes. Do you believe that?”

  “With sirens blasting, why not?”

  “I thought he was nice. Sort of cute.”

  “If you go for spooks.”

  “I also think he’s a good cop.” She was back in the living room now, with the cocktail shaker in one hand, and two whiskey-sour glasses in the other. She put the glasses down on the coffee table in front of the couch, and then poured both glasses to the brim. Then she took the shaker out again.