“Coulda, woulda, shoulda.” He removed the cigar, peeled a slimy shred off his lower lip, and slid the cigar back into its groove. “I won’t apologize again. We all pull our own strings, and sometimes we hang ourselves. You didn’t have to come here tonight. Smallwood didn’t have to play with blonde fire. I could’ve stayed at school. Garnet might have taken his chances with a jury back in sixty-eight, and Regina could have been a stand-up citizen and ratted me out to the cops on New Year’s Eve. Everybody makes a wrong turn he can’t forget. When they finally get around to building that time machine, you’ll have to wait ten years for a seat.”
“Backward is the new forward.”
“What?”
“Something a lawyer told me,” I said. “You don’t have to wait. You said it yourself; you’re a sick old man. Most judges consider that when they hand down a sentence.”
“Maybe so, but I’ll be just as dead by the time it gets that far. This way I’ll spend my last months on a beach instead of in a cell. Smoking a cigar.” He stepped out into the hall, turned around, and fished something out of a pocket. It was a box of matches.
He paused, looked around. “I had a life here. Made love, raised a child. It’s just wood and plaster and masonry now. I guess it always was. I hope whatever they put up in its place winds up with more to offer than a roof over a balding old hypocrite.” He placed a match against the striker.
“First tell me how you got the gun into the hotel past security.”
He smiled. He dropped the match back into the box and strode over to the bed.
“This gun?” He slid a .38 Colt revolver from under a pillow. The cylinder, frame, and barrel had the brown patina of the authentic antique. “It cost me twelve bucks in a downtown pawnshop in ’forty-nine. I don’t know what it’s worth now. Probably a lot more before I hit you with it. As for getting it into the hotel, that part was easy. It was always there.”
THIRTY-SIX
Always there how?” I asked. “That checkpoint’s been there more than thirty years.”
“The gun was there when it came. It’s been parked behind a ventilator grid since LBJ. I parked it there six months before the Chief made me Special Agent in Charge in Detroit.
“I don’t remember what I did with it after I shot Smallwood,” he went on. “That’s the truth. I’m blank on everything that happened that night after I saw Peggy Yale staring at me over the body. I didn’t know that was her name then. I suppose I threw the piece in a trash bin. Somebody rescued it. I never saw it again until it turned up in an illegal weapons cache in sixty-six. I was head of the Black Panther squad here. We got a tip some local Panthers had set up a meet with an out-of-town cell to lay off some ordnance in a room at the old Airport Hilton. We raided the place, made arrests. Then came the photo op. Well, you saw it in the file: federal men posing behind a bed with guns spread out on it in display. We were setting it up when I recognized this piece. See, there’s a triangular chunk broken off the outside grip. I spent plenty of time stroking it with my thumb in my pocket while I was waiting for Smallwood to show up at the Lucky Tiger.”
He thrust the butt under my nose. It was an old chip, dark and rounded at the edges. No one had thought a windfall piece found in the trash worth dressing up with a replacement grip.
“You’d be surprised what kind of junk came up in raids like that,” he said. “Washington put out that the Panthers were mounting armed insurrection with state-of-the-art automatic weapons. Most of the stuff went back to Dillinger, with rusty actions and busted firing pins. It was all for show. Anyway, I panicked a little. I thought if Ballistics matched this to the Smallwood case, Oakland would reopen the file and dig up Regina. We hadn’t inventoried the merchandise yet. I put it in my pocket when no one was looking. After the press left I told the others to pack the stuff up and used a dime to unscrew the grid off a ventilator in the hall and pushed it as far back into the shaft as I could reach. I always thought I’d go back for it when I had time. Well, you know how that is.”
“So in time you forgot. Finding out Garnet was going to meet me at the Marriott—the old Hilton—reminded you. How did you know it would still be there?”
“I sure didn’t expect it to be. I figured somebody probably found it years ago and kept it or gave it a toss. Maybe the vent got sealed up during a renovation. For the record, I never forgot. Never. As time went on it just got harder and harder to think about going back. Then I started to wonder if the Wayne County cops had found it and kept it quiet, and deputies were staking out the spot, waiting to bust whoever came for it. But after thirty-six years that seemed unlikely, so I made a dry run after I found out Garnet was coming there and before he was expected.
“Well, there it was. The grid had a new coat of paint, but whoever they’ve been paying to do the heavy cleaning is either slapdash as hell or his arms are shorter than mine. I had to reach farther in than I remembered, but no set of fingers were ever more surprised to close around the butt of that dusty old Colt.”
“I’m surprised it still fired.”
“They didn’t know about planned obsolescence when they made it. I’d brought a handkerchief soaked in solvent and a handkerchief soaked in lubricant. I found a vacant room and gave it a good going over. It was dry in that shaft. The rust was just surface grit, harmless. The cylinder turned smooth as silk. I put the gun back for when I needed it and left.”
“What about the cartridges?”
“Couldn’t trust them after all that time. When I came back for real I brought two fresh ones with me, in the barrel of a fountain pen in case I was searched. But they weren’t big enough to trip the alarm. I threw the old ones back into the shaft and reloaded. Later I just carried the gun out in my pocket. Nobody stops you on the way out of a secure area.”
“Pretty lucky.”
“No need. I’d have found another way if not that one.”
I believed him. You needed a head for more than just politics to climb as high as he had in Hoover’s FBI. I tried again to force my left hand out of its cuff. It’s the smaller hand. Blood trickled into my palm.
“It won’t matter now if they connect what’s left of it to Smallwood and Garnet. I’d just have to ditch it between here and the airport anyway.” He tucked the Colt back under the pillow and turned toward the hallway, sliding open the box of matches.
The window flew apart. He threw a hand up to his head, hit the wall with a shoulder, and slid down, rucking his shirt up above his pale hairless belly. Vermilion tadpoles fanned the faded gold wallpaper where it had been blank before. The report echoed like cannon fire in some deep valley.
I didn’t look at Burlingame to see if he was breathing. I dug my heels into the carpet, braced my palms against the floor, and heaved back and up with my shoulders against the footboard. The bed moved half an inch and the headboard bumped the wall. I scooted the same half-inch, felt the shallow ledge along the top of the footboard with my back, notched my shoulder blades under the ledge, braced myself again, and took a deep breath. Downstairs someone threw open the front door hard enough to bang the wall on the other side. I hadn’t relocked it when I broke in. I heaved. The leg lifted slightly. I strained to hold up the weight of the bed and slip the chain underneath. My shoulders slipped instead. The leg slammed back down.
I breathed in and out twice, mustering strength. Feet thumped on the stairs. I got back into position and pushed up with everything I had. The leg lifted. My arms shook and I had tremors in my legs. I dug my heels in deep, bent my elbows, and pulled my arms forward, all in one movement. The chain slipped under. I let the bed fall back with a bang and scrambled to my feet. My thigh muscles were cramped. I stumbled and almost fell over Burlingame.
I didn’t know where he’d put my gun. I vaulted over him and dived for the bed. I twisted around to get my hands on the Colt. With just one free hand I’d have made it with a second to spare.
A roar shook the room and a hunk of plaster fell off the wall above the nightstand. It left be
hind a concavity the size of a Frisbee.
Shelly stood in the doorway with his fifty magnum leveled across his left forearm, a shell of smoke crawling out of the muzzle. When he saw me sprawled on the bed with my hands pinned under me, he smirked and thumbed back the hammer. The click fell on my thickened eardrums like a stone.
“Hold your fire, for chrissake! This place smells like a filling station. You want to blow us all to pieces?”
The white-haired man’s face went flat. He relaxed his stance and stepped aside from the doorway. He left the hammer cocked.
Jeremiah Morgenstern followed his bray into the room. He wore a navy blazer over an open-necked shirt and gray flannels, very sporty. Behind him, Nicky slithered in, saw where Shelly was standing, and took up a position on the other side of the door. He was holding his Beretta. His eyes brightened when he saw how I was trussed.
“We’ll let the room air out a little,” Morgenstern said. “No need to open a window. I wouldn’t of bet you could hit the sky with that musket. Guess it’s okay I ain’t going into gambling. What do you say, Red?” He put all his weight on one shiny-toed Oxford and kicked Burlingame in the ribs. Something popped.
The man on the floor groaned. Lying there with one side of his head stained almost black, he’d looked as dead as he’d left Curtis Smallwood. One leg was twitching.
Morgenstern squatted on his haunches, took Burlingame’s chin in one hand, and turned the ruined head toward him. The ex-FBI man had lost an ear and most of his scalp. His mouth hung open. Grotesquely, the cigar was still in place, dry-glued to his lower lip.
“I’m too trusting,” the gangster said. “My only fault. When a fed tells me he’s got the gaming commission in his pocket, I believe him. I even agree to meet him on his own turf. Just a sucker for a title. A Girl Scout could rig me for a frame.” He took the ragged stump of ear between thumb and forefinger and jerked. I turned my head away. Burlingame howled.
I looked at Shelly. “Good tail job. I never saw the Jag.”
He thought before answering. “It’s up on a hoist. You made me snap an axle on that train crossing.”
Morgenstern wiped blood off on Burlingame’s shirt and stood. He looked at me for the first time. “Where’s Pet?”
“I don’t know. I dropped her off in Windsor.”
He nodded. Then he drew in a lungful of air through his nose and let it out. “Smells a lot sweeter now. Nothing like the night air in a small town.” Without turning, he held a hand out toward Nicky, palm up.
Nicky took a beat, then laid his pistol in the palm. Morgenstern fisted it and pointed it at me. I shrank back against the headboard. My hands touched cold metal. I fumbled for the Colt’s grip.
Morgenstern bent suddenly and jammed the muzzle under Burlingame’s chin. The Beretta cracked and the top of the FBI man’s head flew off.
I twisted onto my left side. I had the Colt in both hands and I strained my left shoulder almost out of its socket, bringing the barrel clear of my hip. As I squeezed the trigger I realized it wouldn’t fire; Burlingame had pumped both fresh loads into Delwayne Garnet. The rest were in a ventilator shaft.
It pulsed between my hands. He’d reloaded, like any good field agent trained to respect firearms. Morgenstern was still bent over the dead man, with Shelly standing beyond him, looking down at his boss’s handiwork. Shelly’s white shirt blossomed red. I fired again, opening another bud high on his chest. His back struck the wall and the long silver barrel came up as if the gun were guiding the hand. The headboard splintered, a foot from my head. I twisted in the other direction now, throwing myself toward the floor. I took the nightstand with me, and with it the lamp. Red flame squirted in the sudden blackness. Morgenstern’s bullet whumped into the mattress, but I was in the clear, scrambling for thinking space under the bed.
There was a little silence. It might have meant my eardrums were gone.
“Mr. Morgenstern?”
Nicky’s voice. It sounded shaky.
“I’m okay. Where’s Walker?”
“Shelly’s hurt.”
“Fuck him.” He raised his voice. He hadn’t been whispering to begin with. “Where’d you take her, Walker? Not Canada. I got people in every province. She knows that. She knows a lot more than she lets on. Or has till now.”
I lay on my back under the bed, trying to breathe without panting. The gasoline stench was strong there. If I fired from that position I could barbecue myself.
“I won’t hurt her,” Morgenstern went on. “You either, if you tell me where she is. I just want her back.”
I said nothing. I could make out the shape of the box springs. That wasn’t good. Morgenstern’s and Nicky’s eyes would be adjusting too.
“Say something, you son of a bitch! You hit?” The Beretta cracked again. I heard plaster falling.
I tried to wriggle over onto my stomach. My sleeve caught on the end of a coil and I had to reverse directions to clear it without making a ripping noise. I gashed my wrist. Morgenstern heard me gasp.
“Where’d I hit you?” he shrieked. “The belly, I hope.”
I stopped struggling and held my breath. My heart wouldn’t cooperate. It hammered against the bedframe.
“Don’t just stand there. Find a light.”
Nicky said, “Not me, boss. If he can suck in air he can still shoot.”
“So can I, you yellow bastard.” Another shot. The bullet didn’t strike anywhere near me.
“Jesus, you almost hit me.” Nicky was as shrill as Morgenstern now.
“Next time for sure. Do what I tell you.”
A floorboard shifted. The yellow bastard was more afraid of Morgenstern than a slug from me.
“Sing out, Walker. Otherwise I’ll torch the place and you with it.”
Nicky said, “what about Shelly?”
“If you don’t find that fucking light they’ll be saying, ‘What about Nicky?’ ”
A shoe gleamed on the floor. If my hands were free I could have reached out and touched it.
“Don’t think too long, Walker. They won’t know a PI from a pot roast.”
I got my sleeve free and squirmed into position by easy installments. There wasn’t room enough for a decent-size monster under Burlingame’s bed, let alone one hundred eighty-five pounds of red-blooded American detective.
Nicky’s toe touched the lamp. Clothing rustled as he bent to pick it up.
At last I lay on my chest with my head toward Morgenstern’s end of the room. If he was still on that end of the room; he might have been moving too. I used my toes and knees to push myself forward.
Nicky fumbled for the switch. The bulb was smashed. I saw a ghostly face beneath the bedframe.
“He’s under the bed!”
Something struck sparks off the steel frame and chugged into the floor two inches in front of my face. I braced for the blast.
There wasn’t one, but I couldn’t lie still while he tried again. Once again I strained the Colt past my hip. Nothing to aim at; I was blinded by Nicky’s muzzle flash. I squeezed my eyes shut. They claim you don’t hear the explosion when you’re in it, but what do they know? I tightened pressure on the trigger. It was slippery with my blood.
“Police! Drop your weapons!”
Captain Hichens’ voice. It sounded like birdsong.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I finished my stand-up and got off the stage, just like George Burns said.
Hichens let the camcorder run another thirty seconds, then twirled the power cord around his ankle and yanked the plug out of the wall. The red light winked off and the motor stopped whirring. The remote was on the table right in front of him, but he’d have had to lean forward from his chair to use it. The arid eyes in the pale face looked as tired as I felt. In his case the condition was chronic.
“I never heard of an investigation like it,” he said. “Not a single informed decision from start to finish. You just stuck your nose into the wind and stumbled after it, like a—a—” He looked to me for help.
“A hungry coyote,” I said. “Wile E. Except it takes me longer to bounce back after the cliff falls on my head.” I rubbed my eyes and yawned. I was crying pure gypsum and my breath would knock down a wall. Outside the room where we sat in the City-County Building, feet had begun to whisper along the corridor. The bureaucrats were reporting for work. Apart from being knocked silly in Randall Burlingame’s bedroom for a few minutes, I’d gone around the dial without sleep. “It wasn’t an informed-decision kind of a case. Most of the witnesses were dead and the only piece of concrete evidence spent the last half-century in a wall with Poe’s black cat. The rest was instinct.”
“You were a hair less dumb than Burlingame, if it means anything. If he hadn’t got cute and tried to frame Morgenstern for Garnet, he’d be smoking that cigar of his on some beach right now.”
“He trained under J. Edgar. Doubling the double-cross came as natural as shedding skin cells.”
“Feds and gangsters. Yippies and prizefighters and whorehouse madams. What year is it?”
“Backward—” I yawned bitterly. I didn’t have the energy to finish the sentence.
“We’ve got the gun, and if Homeland Security cooperates we ought to find Burlingame on videotape at least twice going through the hotel checkpoint. That ties up the Garnet case. I doubt Smallwood, even if the gun checks out; hard to prove chain of possession after fifty-three years. That’s Oakland County’s headache. I don’t guess they’ll chew much aspirin. Their suspect’s on a slab.”
Hichens hadn’t gone to Plymouth alone. If he had, he might have arrived in time to prevent bloodshed; or to make his own contribution to the pool. He’d stopped to alert the city police and make a courtesy call to Oakland, whose case Smallwood still was. Three departments had converged on the quiet residential street, and Morgenstern and Nicky surrendered themselves without gunfire. Shelly left strapped to a board in an EMS unit.
A perky Pakistani with the Washtenaw County Coroner’s office had opened his bag next to Burlingame’s body and confirmed he was dead. That ended the suspense.
Loren D. Estleman - Amos Walker 17 - Retro Page 23
