by L. A. Morse
“Yeah. It’s swell, isn’t it?”
I looked around. There were half a dozen cars, marked and unmarked, doors all open, lights on, a cacophony of police radios spitting incomprehensibly. Most of the cops were in two groups, one around Rudy, the other back near my car, where I’d last seen Tony New. The helicopter was sitting in a far corner of the parking area.
“Don’t misunderstand the question,” I said, “but what the hell are you doing here?”
“There was another transmitter hidden in the trunk of your car. I had it put there while you were sitting around my office.”
“You did? How come?”
“Hell! You don’t think I was going to let enough snow to make it Christmas in July, go sailing out without some kind of back-up.”
That made sense, but I knew there was something else. I raised an eyebrow at Nicholson.
He shrugged, then nodded. “I also had a feeling that Novallo might try to change the game. I wanted to be ready.”
“Well, shit! If that’s what you thought, why didn’t you stake out my place?”
“I considered it but decided it might put you in jeopardy if something went wrong.”
“You mean, as opposed to the way it turned out—where I was always entirely safe and secure and never in any danger? Wonderful!”
He looked a little sheepish. “Well, we did cut it a bit close.” I made a face. “Yeah, I’m sorry. Really. We were tailing you all the way, cars moving all over, keeping close, but not too close. Then, when you came into the park, it got tough, difficult to get near without being either seen or heard. When you finally settled down here, it took a couple of minutes to get things organized.”
I thought of a few bright things to say but decided against it. Nicholson knew we’d both been luckier than we had any right to expect, and I saw no point in pushing it.
“Why didn’t you at least tell me about the second transmitter?”
“If it came down to it, I figured it’d be easier for you to deny something if you could do it honestly.”
He was probably right about that; I might not have been able to keep it hidden. But it still annoyed me. From the beginning, I’d been a shuttlecock in a deadly and demented game of badminton, and I was getting tired of it. First Sal, then the kid, now Nicholson. Let’s run Spanner up the flagpole and see if anyone shoots him down.
Oh, the hell with it. I hadn’t exactly been an innocent bystander.
Throughout our conversation Nicholson and I had been walking across the parking lot toward the circle of police around Tony New. When we got there, a couple of cops moved aside and I saw the kid lying on the ground. With both arms he was tightly clutching the suitcase of coke to his chest. He was rolling around, violently flailing his legs, bouncing his head onto the blacktop, cursing, howling, growling, flecks of spittle misting around his terribly distorted face. It was nice to see him bearing up so well under adversity.
“He wasn’t shot, was he?”
Nicholson shook his head. “No. Just went crazy. Christ! We’re waiting for a net to arrive.”
Just then the kid rolled over. He let go of the case and raised himself up on his hands and knees. The cops in the circle tensed and steadied their weapons. The kid was barely recognizable as anything human, more like a bizarre, rabid animal. His eyes were the color of dirty concrete.
“Fucking old man! I’m going to take you apart! You’re dead! You’re dead!” He shrieked, hissed, howled, then started rolling and foaming again.
Hmm. I was getting used to this. It seemed that every forty years a member of the Piccolo family swore vengeance on me.
“Don’t worry,” Nicholson said as we moved away. “With what we’ve got, we can get bail set so high that it’ll look like the national debt. He won’t get out before his trial. And he sure as hell won’t get out after.”
“Well, if he takes as long as Sal did to honor his pledge, I’m not too concerned.”
“Huh?” Nicholson said.
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”
Nicholson looked at me, smiled. “You’ve had a rough night. I think we better get you home.”
Home. Oh, shit! In the excitement of the last ten minutes I’d kind of forgotten.
“I’m afraid the night’s not over yet.”
“What do you mean?”
I told him about the happy little get-together at my place. Nicholson swore, then said he’d send a dozen units over. They’d completely surround the house, leaving Shithead no choice but to surrender.
I shook my head. “Listen. The guy that’s in there—well, I’ve known salads that were smarter. You back him into a corner, there’s no telling what he might do.”
“Then you’ve got an idea?”
I thought a minute. I had an idea. Nicholson didn’t seem delighted by it.
“Look,” I said, “it can’t possibly make anything worse, and it could be the easiest solution.” He looked skeptical. “Besides, I figure you owe me one, after...” I waved my hand at the parking lot.
Nicholson looked sourly at me. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, inhaled, exhaled, jerked it from his mouth with his thumb and forefinger and glowered at it, threw it to the ground, savagely twisted his heel on it.
“You know something?” he said.
“What?”
“I sure as hell am glad my old man is nothing like you.”
He turned and went to his car to issue instructions.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I was fading fast, almost visibly deflating, like a punctured tire. My hands were trembling slightly. My brain wouldn’t focus, kept drifting off to some soft gray blankness. My tongue wouldn’t obey, slurring my speech. It was like I’d had a stroke, but I knew it was only fatigue—absolute, total fatigue.
I figured I’d done pretty well for myself, but there were limits, and I’d gone way beyond them. You could kid yourself only so far, then physiology took over. Like it or not, I was too old for this kind of stuff.
I wanted to bow out, let Nicholson take it, and just sleep, sleep, sleep. But I wouldn’t. I had to see it through. Sal knew I couldn’t let things slide, and once again I was going to prove him right. Pump myself up again. Hold on for another ten, fifteen minutes. It was sure swell to be so consistent.
I cleaned and straightened myself up. I didn’t want it to be obvious that there’d been a struggle. I wanted to look calm and quiet and self-possessed. Yeah. Fat chance.
A cop drove my car to within a block of my house and got out. I slid behind the wheel, managed to go the rest of the way, and pulled up in front of my place. As I did, I saw the other cops already in position, hidden by the bushes and shadows of the neighboring houses. I paused a minute, clutching the wheel, taking deep breaths. Hold on, Spanner; just a little longer. I put my hand in my jacket pocket and felt the smooth solidity of the blackjack Nicholson had given me.
A light blinked. Long—short—long. Everything was ready.
One more deep breath and I got out of the car, loudly slamming the door. I didn’t want the goon inside to think that anyone was trying to sneak up. I hummed tunelessly going up the front walk, and made a lot of noise opening the screen door and getting my key in the lock. As I pushed the door open, I pressed the brass button on the side, which unlocked it. I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me, and was greeted by Shithead, standing five feet away, gun held out in front of him, a confused, desperate expression on his face.
I held up my hands placatingly. “Relax. Relax. It’s only me. I— Who the hell is that?”
I pointed to the other armchair. The first still held Mrs. Bernstein, securely tied. The second was now occupied as well. A fiftyish man with thinning gray hair, glasses, and a small droopy mustache had his hands tied behind the back of the chair. From the whimpering sounds he made, I didn’t think he was enjoying himself.
Shithead yucked a couple of times. “You got company.”
I ignored him. “Who are you?” I said to t
he man.
He moved his mouth but nothing came out.
“This is Mr. Bemelman,” Mrs. Bernstein said brightly. “He’s the director of the Senior Center.” She sounded like she was making introductions at an Hadassah social.
“So? What’s he doing here?”
Bemelman finally found his voice. It was thin and strained. “Our Miss Eustace told me she was concerned about you. She thought you were ill, experiencing hallucinations.”
“She’s right. You don’t have to worry. This is all a delusion. It’ll soon pass and you’ll be okay.”
Bemelman started to whimper again. Mrs. Bernstein said, “There, there.”
I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. Was there no end to this?
“Hey!” Shithead said.
I turned to him belligerently, trying to grab the initiative. “Why are you still here? Hasn’t your boss called you?”
His forehead wrinkled and he shook his head.
“He hasn’t?” I said. “I don’t understand it. Everything went fine. I left him fifteen minutes ago. It’s all okay. So there’s no reason for you to stay any longer, is there?”
The gorilla was looking more and more confused, which was just the way I wanted him. He poked the gun in my direction. “Shut up! I gotta wait for the call.”
“Why? It’s plain everything’s okay. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t, would I? Maybe he forgot. Or maybe he figured that you’d be smart enough to leave, once I got here.”
His eyes were darting around the room, as though looking for an answer or a clear instruction. “Shut up! Shut up!”
Just then the phone rang. Thank Christ. I didn’t know how much longer I could vamp.
Shithead looked at me, then in the direction of the phone, then at the two hostages, then back to me. The phone kept ringing. If I waited for the ape to reach a decision, we’d be hearing bells all night.
“That’s probably him. You’d better answer it,” I said.
That was just enough of a push.
“No,” he said, waving his gun. “You answer.”
I shrugged and walked in front of him into the kitchen. I picked up the phone.
“Is everything all right?” I heard Nicholson say.
“Yeah, just fine... He’s right here.”
I held out the receiver to Shithead. He looked relieved. I put my hand in my pocket. He said “Hello” a couple of times, then started looking confused again. He was about to say something to me, when my hand came out of my pocket and swung in a big circle. It didn’t quite complete the rotation. It ended when the meaty part of the sap connected with the middle of the goon’s forehead. From his hairline to the bridge of his nose, the skin split like that of an overripe plum, revealing the red-orange pulp inside. His mouth fell open and he dropped face-first to the floor.
I looked down at him. Involuntary twitches shook his arms and legs. I slapped the blackjack on my palm. Funny. I didn’t feel quite so tired anymore. I smiled. There’s nothing quite like clobbering an evil son of a bitch to perk you right up.
Suddenly, both the front and back doors flew open. Cops with their weapons drawn raced in. Had I not managed to put Shithead out, they would’ve ended it in two seconds. One plan, at least, had worked perfectly.
“All over,” I said.
A young patrolman looked at the heap on the floor, then at me. He shook his head. “Chee,” he said.
Nicholson appeared a couple of minutes later to direct the mop-up. An ambulance that had been waiting around the corner took Shithead away. He was starting to groan.
Mrs. Bernstein and Bemelman were untied. After a few questions, they were free to go. I saw Mrs. Bernstein looking meaningfully in my direction and I hastily engaged a puzzled cop in earnest conversation. Not very nice of me, but I didn’t have a clue what I could say to her. I felt I’d rather face the kid, Rudy, and Shithead all over again than have to contend with Mrs. Bernstein just then. Besides, what could I have said that would’ve made any sense... or any difference?
Bemelman was still pretty dazed, blinking his watery eyes and soundlessly opening and closing his mouth. Mrs. Bernstein took his arm and led him away, saying what he needed was some nice hot tea and a piece of homemade coffeecake. Okay. That might not solve his problems, but it sure would give him something new to worry about.
Nicholson and I briefly went over the evening’s events again. He said he’d have a statement prepared for me to sign during the next day or so, but that everything looked pretty straight ahead from that point on. For a sour son of a bitch, he seemed almost cheerful.
Finally, he chased out the remaining cops. He stood over me, looking down, wearing a kind of smiling grimace. “You know, two day ago I thought you were another pain in the ass that I didn’t need...”
“—But?”
He grinned. “But you turned out to be a pain in the ass that I did need. Thanks.”
I smiled acceptance of what, for him, was probably high praise.
He put a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve had a busy night. Get some rest—you deserve it.” He paused at the door. “And don’t worry about Novallo. His ticket’s canceled.”
I sat on the couch for a long time after he left, thinking over the last few days. In the whole insane, incredible situation, the most insane, incredible thing was that I was still here, thinking about it. I had made it. I had survived. I had showed that I could still pull it off, that—goddammit!—Jake Spanner still had something. I didn’t know if anyone cared, but it mattered to me.
Given that, I should’ve been feeling better, and it didn’t take me long to realize why I wasn’t.
The bastard that had dropped me in the shit to begin with was still floating loose. It sure wasn’t the first time I’d been played for a sucker—maybe it wouldn’t even be the last—but it wasn’t the kind of thing that practice made any easier to accept. No, I knew I couldn’t let it lie.
One of the truths I’d learned with age was that you never regretted what you did. You only regretted what you didn’t do—the chance you never took, the thing you didn’t say, the woman you never made, whatever. Maybe it would come to nothing, or prove nothing, but I knew I had to at least try to locate Sal Piccolo. If I didn’t, it would stick in my throat for the rest of my life, however long or short that might be, and I figured I was already carrying enough stuff around as it was.
But that was for tomorrow.
This day had gone on long enough, I realized with a start when I found I had been dozing with my chin pressed against my chest.
I dragged myself to the bedroom, dropped my clothes on the floor, and fell into bed. The last thing I saw before I turned off the light was dripping letters screaming “Red Vengeance” from the cover of the paperback on the nightstand.
Any color would do, I thought, as I tumbled into sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Twelve hours later, pale golden sunlight filling my bedroom, I woke from deep, dreamless sleep to the sound of birds chirping and neighbors arguing about how someone’s business meeting could not possibly have lasted until four in the morning. Apparently, having two fights and nearly being killed was a marvelous soporific. I doubted, though, that it would replace Seconal.
I yawned, stretched, sighed, decided I felt like a million bucks. Well, maybe six ninety-five, but that was still more than the plugged nickel I would’ve given for my chances, twenty-four hours before.
I got up, showered, brushed my teeth, shaved, slapped on some bay rum, slicked back my fringe of hair, and flashed a big grin into the mirror. Bad idea. I looked like a happy buzzard.
I made a big pot of Mexican coffee with cinnamon and cloves, and put together a croque monsieur, a kind of grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich that’s been a favorite of mine since my days in Paris. I gobbled down one, found I was still ravenous, and ate a second. The way I felt, I could’ve continued on and probably devoured my kitchen, but I figured I’d better get down to it.
I poured some more coffee, and
lit another of my Cuban cigars. Being alive this morning seemed a sufficiently special occasion. I pulled the telephone over and spent the next two hours making calls.
Sal had buried himself behind so many layers and veils that he was as good as invisible, the hidden puppetmaster. But the puppeteer has to pull strings, and every once in a while you can catch a glimpse of them. If you can follow them up, you might get to the manipulator himself.
I only had two links, two lines to go on—the guy who sapped me at the phony ransom drop, and the limousine. I figured they had both been hired. If I could get onto them, maybe—just maybe—they’d point me to Sal. It was pretty tenuous—lines as fine and flimsy as spider’s silk— but it was all I had.
To look into the first of these, I again contacted my favorite geriatric bookie, Barbara Twill. Babs wasn’t surprised by my call; said that after my visit she asked around a little about me and heard some curious stuff. Said she was expecting I’d be in touch. That was one sharp lady. I knew there was no point trying to dance around her, so for the first time I gave her the whole story.
After finding out about her ancient connection with Sal, I had some hesitation about telling her he was still alive, but I needn’t have worried. She just grunted at the news. Nor did she react much to the rest of it. Didn’t laugh, or whoop with disbelief, or offer meaningless after-the-fact advice. For all of which I was very grateful. That was the mark of a real friend—someone who didn’t feel it was necessary to discuss at length the foolishness of which you were already well aware. Instead, she merely asked what I wanted her to do. What a swell old dame.
I told her that I figured that the goon who had hit me had been hired for that specific task, as opposed to being a partner; that after his experience with his grandson, Sal probably wouldn’t trust anyone for anything.
“You mean, except for you,” She laughed.
“Yeah, right.”
Babs thought about it and agreed with my assumption, but pointed out that there was tons of muscle in this town, amateur and pro, and that there was enough work to keep a lot of them busy a lot of the time. Finding the one who’d done a particular job was, at best, a long shot. Still, she’d put the word out. The one thing in our favor, she said, was that the employer and the circumstances were sufficiently unusual that there might’ve been some conversation about it.
