by Ed McBain
“How’s the traffic?” she asked.
“Pretty bad. The roads are getting slick.”
“Steve, some wine?” his mother asked. “Something stronger?”
“A little wine, yes,” he said. “Thanks.”
He sat alongside Angela. Outside the window, the snow was coming down heavily. He didn’t live very far from here, but the roads were already bad. He was beginning to regret not having gone straight home from the office. His mother brought him his glass of wine, and went to sit opposite him and Angela at the table. They all lifted their glasses.
“Salute,”his mother said in Italian.
“Cheers,” Carella said.
“Health,” Angela said.
They drank.
“So,” Angela said.
“So,” his mother said.
They were both smiling.
Carella looked across the table at his mother. He turned to look at his sister.
“What?” he said.
“We’re getting married together,” Angela said.
“A double wedding,” his mother said.
“Me and Henry, Mama and …”
“I don’t want to hear this,” Carella said.
He was already standing, surprised to find himself on his feet, wondering when he’d got up. Was it when they’d both started smiling? Was it then that the feeling of impending dread had lurched from his heart into his throat?
“Sit down,” his mother said.
“No, Mom. I’m sorry, but …”
“Sit down, Steve.”
“No. I don’t want to hear about you getting married so soon after …”
“Your father’s been dead almost …”
“I don’t want tohear it!” Carella shouted, and whirled on his sister. “And I don’t want to hear about you marrying the man who …”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Angela asked.
“Oh no,” he said. “Oh no, you don’t.”
“Have you lost your …?”
“Never mind what’s wrong withme! What’s wrong with you? Have you both forgotten Papa already? How can you sit here inhis house …”
“Papa is dead, Steve.”
“Oh, is he? Gee, no kidding. What do you think this is about here? What are we talking about here? What are you both planning to do if not spit on Papa’s …”
“Don’t youdare!” his mother said.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mom, stop behaving like a schoolgirl. And you stop encouraging her!” he shouted, whirling on Angela. “You want to marry that jackass, at least have the decency to leave her out of it.”
Angela was shaking her head.
“Sure, shake your head,” he said. “I’m wrong, right? She meets a Wop fresh off the boat …”
“Not in my house,” his mother said. “Never use that word in my house.”
“Oh, forgive me, what is he? A Yankee Doodle Dandy?”
“I think that lion scrambled your brains,” Angela said.
“And never mind the fuckinglion!” he shouted.
“Not in myhouse!” his mother said, and slapped him.
He looked at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Sure.”
Angela suddenly began crying.
“All we wanted was your blessing,” she said.
“Well, you didn’t get it,” he said. “If you can both forget Papa so easily, I can’t. Goodnight, Mom. Thanks for the wine.”
He turned and was starting for the door when his mother said, “I’m not a schoolgirl, Steve.”
He continued going for the door.
“I love him and I’m going to marry him,” she said.
His hand was on the doorknob.
“Whether you like it or not,” she said.
“Goodnight,” he said again, and opened the door, and walked out into the fiercely falling snow.
THE TAPE RECORDER was going.
Tigo couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Nor did hewant to be hearing what he was hearing. He wanted to get this conversation back to the reason he was wearing a wire to begin with. He wanted Wiggy to start talking about December twenty-third.
He wondered suddenly if this was all bullshit Wiggy was giving him here. Did Wiggy maybeknow he was wired? Was he maybe making up a good story so the fuzz would get off the scent? It sure was a peculiar story he was telling here. Almost made Tigo forget why he was here. Almost made Tigo sorry he had finally found the man.
“You really think all this is true, huh?” he asked. “Cause to me …”
“Man, I was lookin straight into they computer! I seed all this stuff with my own eyes!”
“It just sounds, you know, like science-fiction, you know?” Tigo said. “This file named Mothah you can’t open cause you need a password, an all this money floatin aroun, and these dope deals here an there, and these people causin trouble all over the world, an tryin’a fuck us right here in Diamon’back, I mean, man, it sounds like suppin you’d see in amovie, you know what I’m sayin, man?”
“It’d make agood movie, that’s for damn sure,” Wiggy said, “but it’strue, man! I got it from theycomputer!”
“That don’t mean it couldn’t of been garbage in there,” Tigo said, and shrugged.
“The point is, whut we gonna do about it, Tigo? I mean, these guys are messin with ourpeople!”
Tigo had never particularly felt that any of these people they sold dope to were necessarilyrelated to him in any way. MaybeWiggy thought of they customers as his “people” but Tigo didn’t share the sentiment. To tell the truth, if they was money to be made recycling dope here in the hood, Tigo didn’t carewho sold them the dope to begin with or where the proceeds of the sale were going. In fact, the only thing he wanted to do right this minute was talk about what he’d come here to talk about so he could go back to the police and collect his reward. He planned to retire from the dope business—
He didn’t yet realize how close his retirement was.
—soon as he got his hands on however much money the commissioner gave him for this valuable stuff he was about to tape. So he didn’t need to know about anyconspiracy Wiggy had tapped into through somebody’s computer. Nor did he want todo anything about any such conspiracy, even if it did exist, which he strongly doubted because Wiggy’s story sounded like so much jive to him. So—subtly and not wishing to appear too aggressive or inquisitive—he asked, “How’d it feel killing that dude on Christmas Eve?”
“I think we should go to the police,” Wiggy said, “tellthem the story.”
And suddenly, he shoved himself out of his chair and went marching straight for the telephone.
CARELLA WAS on his way home when the cell phone in his car rang. Ollie Weeks was on the other end.
“Guess what?” he said.
“Surprise me,” Carella said.
“I just got a call from Walter Wiggins.”
“What?”
“Ah yes.”
“The man Gomez is supposed to be taping?”
“The very same.”
“The man who maybe shot and killed Jerry Hoskins?”
“That’s the one.”
“Is he confessing?”
“I don’t think so. But he wants to talk to us.”
“What about?”
“Some kind of big conspiracy.”
“Uh-huh,” Carella said.
“I’m on my way to 1280 Decatur. You want to meet me?”
Carella looked at the dashboard clock.
“Give me half an hour,” he said.
ANTONIA BELANDRES was very impressed that Will had managed to find his way here in all this snow. He jokingly told her he used to drive a dog sled team in Alaska, which somehow she took to be the truth, and was even more impressed. He now had two lies to account for. He hoped he did not lose her when he told her he was not a police lieutenant, and had never been to Alaska in his life.
There wasn’t a single cab in sight when they came downstairs f
rom her apartment. He had deliberately picked an Italian restaurant not too distant from where she lived on South Shelby, but it was really coming down and he apologized for asking her to walk the six blocks, but he was afraid they might lose their reservation.
“Don’t be silly, Lieutenant,” she said. “Ilove walking.”
Lieutenant, he thought. Boy.
As it was, he needn’t have worried about the reservation. The restaurant was almost empty. In fact, the owner fawned over them as if they were the Mayor and his wife who’d braved the storm to come here. He offered them a bottle of wine on the house, and then reeled off the specials for the night, all of which sounded delicious. Antonia ordered theosso buco. Will ordered the veal Milanese, which turned out to be breaded veal cutlets, oh well.
“By the way,” he said, when they had each drunk a glass of wine and Will was pouring again, “I’m not a police lieutenant. In fact, I’m not even a cop.”
“Oh?” she said.
“That’s right,” he said. “Here’s to golden days and purple nights,” and clinked his glass against hers.
“Where’d you learn that toast?” she asked. “Golden days and purple nights.”
“Singapore.”
“Me, too.”
“So here’sto them,” he said.
“Here’sto them,” she said. “Golden days and purple nights.”
They drank.
“Then what were you doing with all those detectives?” she asked. “If you’re not a cop.”
“I was sort of with them,” Will said.
“If you’re not a cop, what are you?”
“Actually, a burglar,” he said.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said, and shrugged.
“Did they arrest you for burglary? Was that it?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
“They thought I passed a phony hundred-dollar bill.”
“Was that the super-bill they asked me to examine?”
“I guess so. It sure looked real to me. I think that’s why they let me go.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I think it fooledthem, too. I mean, ifthey couldn’t tell it was fake, how was I supposed to know?”
“Well, you did work in a bank once.”
“Yeah, but I never saw a super-bill in my life. They told me they could’ve charged me with a class-A mis, but this was Christmas, what the hell. They let me go.”
“So as I understand this …”
“That’s right …”
“… you’re a common thief.”
“Well, I’m a burglar. That’s not so common.”
Antonia laughed. Will figured this was a good sign.
“Also, I have some plans that ain’t so common neither,” he said.
“Oh? What plans?”
“I’ll tell you later,” he said.
Antonia was thinking the plans he was talking about had to do with sex. He was referring to possibly taking her to bed later on tonight. After dinner. While the storm raged outside. Which wasn’t a bad idea at all. Except that he was a common thief. Well, a burglar.
“What makes a burglar so special?” she asked.
“Well, first of all, we’re like doctors.”
“I see. Doctors.”
“Yes. Our motto is ‘Do no harm.’ In fact, we go out of our way to keep from harming people. We see a light burning in an apartment, we think there’s somebody in there, we’ll avoid it like the plague.”
“Why is that?”
“I just told you. We don’t want some old lady screaming so we’ll have to hurt her. Do no harm. Also, the rap is bigger. If you hurt somebody while you’re inside a dwelling, or even if you’re just carrying a gun. It goes up from Burg Two to Burg One. That’s a difference of ten years, when it comes to sentencing.”
“You sound very familiar with all this,” Antonia said.
“Oh sure,” he said. “Well, I’ve been doing it for a long time now.”
She was wondering why she was still sitting here. The man had just told her he was a burglar, athief.
“I thought you said you worked in a bank,” she said.
“Long time ago,” he said. “I was just a kid when I went out on the Rim.”
“But you never saw a super-bill,” she said.
“Never.”
“I’m surprised. Plenty of them in Southeast Asia.”
“Plenty of themeverywhere, from what you said.”
“Where’d you get the one you tried to cash?”
“I stole it.”
“Why am I not surprised?” she said, and rolled her eyes.
“That’s okay. Not many people get to dine with burglars.”
“Lucky me,” she said, and rolled her eyes again.
“That might turn out to be the case,” he said.
She still thought he was talking about taking her to bed later on. Which she still thought might not be such a bad idea.
“You know that woman who got eaten by lions in Grover Park?” he said. “The zoo there? Did you see that on television?”
“No,” she said. “But I read about it in the newspaper.”
“That was who I stole the money from.”
“Oh my, you’re famous,” she said.
“Well,she was, I guess. It’s not everybody gets eaten by lions.”
“What do you suppose she was doing in the lion’s cage?”
“I have no idea. I only talked to the lady once in my entire life.”
“Youdidn’t have anything to do with …”
“No, hey,no,” he said, “I’m a burglar!”
“Yes,” she said. “So I’m beginning to understand.”
Their food arrived. She was thoughtfully silent for a while. Then she said, “So, if you were me, what would you do here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Wouldyou go to bed with you, knowing you’re a burglar? Or would you eat your dinner and go home like a nice little girl?”
“You could do both,” Will suggested.
TIGO GOMEZ was getting very nervous.
Wiggy had just told him that the man who was on his way here was the very same person who’d strapped this tape recorder to his chest—“That’s just great,” Tigo said—none other than Detective Oliver Wendell Weeks of the Eighty-eighth Detective Squad.
“You maybe seed him aroun the streets,” Wiggy said. “Fat Ollie Weeks. He’s this big fat guy.”
No kidding, Tigo thought.
The problem was that Wiggy thought he’d be doing a favor for the police, when allthey wanted to do was send him up for Murder One. The further problem was that Tigo couldn’t warn the man how dangerous this fat hump was because then he’d have to reveal that he himself had visited the police to ask for a favor of his own by way of a cash reward, and they’d wired him tight as Dick’s hatband, which is why he was sitting here this very minute, still attempting to get information he could use as a bargaining tool when the Law arrived and the shit hit the fan.
“You goan tell him you a drug dealer?” he asked.
“No, I don’t have to tell him that.”
“Then how come youknow these people are sellin dope up here?”
“I coulda heard.”
“Howyou could a heard, Wigg? You goan tell the fuzz this man Hoskins come up here Christmastime, sold you a hundred keys of coke to distribute to li’l kiddies in the streets?”
“No. But I could …”
“You goan tell ’em you shot this man Hoskins back of the head an dropped him in a garbage can? You goan do that, Wigg?”
“I’m say in it don’t seem right, what these mothahs are doin to our people.”
“They’s evil folk in this world,” Tigo said, “itis a shame.”
He was thinking Jerry Hoskins may have brought that shit up from Mexico and sold it to Wiggy, but Wiggy was the one passin it down the line till it got to his “people” in the streets. And hestill hadn’t said o
ne damn word about the Christmas Eve murder. Tigo was about to prod him again, get this show on the road here, nem mine feelin sorry for all the drug addicts in this sorry world of ours, when Wiggy said, “You know what the name Nettie stans for?”
