by Jason Starr
Frank put on his robe, then went to the door. Just in case, he picked up his gun.
“Who’s there?”
“Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, Mr. Collins.”
Oh, right, Cobblepot. But this early?
Frank opened the door and saw Cobblepot standing there, grinning like a hyena. He was well dressed—in a suit and tie, and recently shined shoes. As a PI, Frank never missed the details.
“How did you find out where I lived?” Frank asked. His home address wasn’t listed, and he didn’t give it out to many people.
“I have a knack for figuring things out,” Cobblepot said. “But you know that, don’t you—that’s why you hired me.” Cobblepot laughed in an odd, demented way. Frank remembered how last night, when he was drunk, he had regretted getting involved with the guy, and now that he was sobering up, his opinion hadn’t changed.
“Come in,” Frank said.
Cobblepot entered the apartment and Frank shut the door.
“My apologies for the unannounced visit,” Cobblepot said. “I would have called, but I was in the neighborhood, and I had a feeling you wouldn’t be in church.”
“Yeah?” Frank said. “And why did you assume that?”
Cobblepot laughed again. Had Frank missed the joke?
“Well,” Cobblepot said, “let’s just say that a man of your—well, let’s just say—habits, isn’t consistent with the behavior of your typical churchgoer. I mean, am I right or am I right, Mr. Collins?”
Cobblepot’s eyes were so wide that Frank could see the whites under the bright blue irises—always a sign of a loon. Frank used to be good at spotting psychos—he’d always avoided doing business with them—but, somehow Cobblepot had slipped between the cracks, perhaps another indication that it was time for Frank to shut down his PI biz and hit the hammock full-time.
“Habits?” Frank asked. “What habits are those?”
“You’re a drinker and a gambler, to name two,” Cobblepot said, “and you’re a bad gambler at that. Betting on a third-round knockout last night? Not a good idea.”
Good lord, this nut did seem to know everything that was going on in Gotham. Or he’d been stalking Frank. Not that the two were mutually exclusive.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Frank said, “how did you know that?”
“Call me a natural observer,” Cobblepot said. “From a young age I’ve watched my mother, the most wonderful woman in the world. I’ve worshipped her, studying all of her habits, all of her mannerisms, until I grew up to know her perhaps better than she knows herself. And then I began to branch out, leave the nest so to speak.” He laughed. “Now I apply my observation skills to criminals, mainly—it’s not difficult to find a lot of subjects in Gotham.” He laughed again. “I find criminal behavior to be just fascinating. I guess I could’ve been a great psychotherapist. But healing people? Not my thing, Mr. Collins.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Frank said.
“I think you’ll be more interested in discussing the matter at hand,” Cobblepot said. “The location of Roberto Colon.”
“You found him?”
“Yes, indeed I have.”
“So okay? Where is he?”
“There’s a small detail first,” Cobblepot said. “The ten thousand dollars you promised me.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll give it to you,” Frank said, “but after your info checks out.”
“Please don’t be insulted, Mr. Collins.” Cobblepot sat on the sofa and crossed his legs, even though Frank hadn’t invited him to sit. “I’d love to be able to accept your good word,” he said, “but I’m afraid you’re not a good risk.”
Frank had hypertension. His blood pressure was usually around 160 over 90. Now the top number had to be 200, easy.
“I’m a bad risk?” Frank said. “Who are you? Some guy on the street. Some nobody. I’m Frank Collins, ex-GCPD detective, now a respected PI.”
“Yeah, well, you’re a respected PI who’s also in deep trouble,” Cobblepot spewed, his voice taking on a suddenly vicious tone. “I’m worried about your financial stability, Mr. Collins. Or instability, I should say. I know all about your debts to two bookmakers connected to Don Falcone, and where there’s one roach there’s more roaches. God knows how much debt you have right now, yet you promised me ten thousand dollars.
“That means you’re lying, and planning to rip me off, or you’re planning to make so much money through Roberto Colon that you actually intend to pay me the ten thousand. In that case, the information I hold must be valuable indeed—far more so than you’re letting on.”
Frank began to get really steamed. He didn’t know how Cobblepot had found out about his debts, but he was sick of this no-name kid trying to push him around.
“It’s twenty grand, after I find out if the info is real,” Frank said. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
“Agreed, the deal is now twenty grand,” Cobblepot said. “And I want the money now—up front, unless you have some collateral. In that case, I’ll take diamonds or gold, but I won’t take an IOU.”
“I’m sorry you’re taking this position.” Frank pulled the handgun out of the pocket of his robe, and aimed it at Cobblepot. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a guy who goes back on his word.”
Cobblepot laughed.
“Having a gun pointed at your face is a joke to you?” Frank asked.
“Funniest joke ever.” Cobblepot laughed some more. “You would never kill me.”
“I wouldn’t, huh?”
“If you killed me, it would be murder. You’re a known gambler and a known drinker, Mr. Collins, but you’re not a murderer. Second of all, if you kill me, you’ll never find out where Roberto Colon is.”
“Eh, I’ll find him,” Frank said, “with or without you. Nobody’s indispensable, Cobblepot.” Frank fired. He was a great shot, hit the bull’s-eye every time at the range. If the bullet had missed Cobblepot’s left ear by a half an inch, that would’ve been a generous estimate.
Showing his true spineless nature, Cobblepot fell backward and cowered, shaking with fear. His eyes were wider than ever.
“What are you doing!”
“See?” Frank said. “You think you know everything, but you don’t. I have a feeling I’d be doing Gotham a favor if I took you off the board right now. Guy like you is gonna get himself into a lot of trouble someday, and drag a lot of people down with him.”
“You almost shot my ear off!” Cobblepot began to recover, and sounded more offended than angry.
“Yeah, guess my aim was a little off.” He fired another shot, aiming for strands of Cobblepot’s spiky hair. Bingo.
Cobblepot’s bravado evaporated, and he shivered with terror.
“This is your last chance to tell me where Colon is, and stick to our original deal,” Frank said, “or I have a feeling the third time won’t be a charm, at least as far as your life expectancy is concerned.”
“What happened to you?” Cobblepot asked.
“Huh?” Frank said.
“You’re not one of the good guys anymore. You switched teams. Something must have caused this tectonic shift in your psyche. What was it?”
“I thought you didn’t want to be a therapist,” Frank said.
“I’m a great observer,” Cobblepot said, “and something in you changed.”
“You’re right, I have changed,” Frank said. “A couple of years ago I never would’ve considered aiming a gun at you. Couple of months ago, I wouldn’t have considered shooting at you. Couple of days ago, I wouldn’t have considered killing you. So do you really want to push me any farther, Cobblepot?”
He didn’t. “Okay, fine,” he said. “Roberto Colon is staying at the Star Bright Motel, just outside of town. He checked in there last night under a fake name—Duncan.”
Frank knew the Star Bright Motel—had been there many times over the years. It was a favorite spot for cheating husbands and wives.
“You better not be wast
ing my time, Cobblepot. If I get up there and find out you lied to me, I’ll find you, and the next shot’s going to go into your head.”
“Understood,” Cobblepot said.
Frank lowered the gun. Cobblepot got up from the couch.
“Well, this has been an enjoyable visit,” Cobblepot said. “You should have me over again sometime. Maybe we can bring lady friends next time. Double date.”
“Get the hell out of here,” Frank said.
“When will I get my money?” Cobblepot asked.
“I’ll find you,” Frank said. “Don’t worry about it.”
Cobblepot nodded and headed out of the apartment; opened the door. Then he stopped and turned back.
“Speaking of gambling, Mr. Collins, I’m betting you’re going to need me again someday. I’m going to be big—bigger than you can imagine. Someday I’ll be the king of Gotham. Everybody who wants to get somewhere in life needs friends in high places, Mr. Collins, and I just want you to know that I won’t hold your behavior today against you.” He gathered himself, and brushed off his jacket. “I’m a forgive-and-forget kind of guy. I’ll be your friend when you need me, I’ll do favors for you—and in exchange you’ll do favors for me. Life in Gotham is like a maze, Mr. Collins, except there are consequences. Choose the right path and you can become rich and powerful. Choose the wrong path and you’ll wind up dead!”
He spewed the word “dead” like a threat, and then he stormed out of the apartment, making sure to slam the door. It was all Frank could do not to take one more shot.
The king of Gotham? Frank mused. Man, this nutcase is even farther gone than I thought. Yet as Frank showered, he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe he’d made a mistake—maybe he should’ve blown Cobblepot away when he’d had the chance. Guys like him had the potential of turning into lose threads someday, and that’s why God created scissors, to cut loose threads.
Wow, something in Frank really had changed. He was starting to scare himself. What had happened to his conscience, his moral center? What frightened him most was that he didn’t really give a damn.
TWENTY
Fresh clothes and a shower changed Frank’s appearance, but he was still feeling the effects of last night’s bender. He drank a lot of water, but it didn’t help the nagging headache and nausea.
He got a call on his phone—Tommy Wayne again—and didn’t pick up. He let the call go to his voicemail. When Tommy found out that Frank had stolen his painting and hightailed it to the tropics, he’d be shocked. It would be like a kick to the balls that he never saw coming, but Tommy was a big boy. He’d get over it.
During the drive out of town Frank had to piss like a racehorse, but didn’t want to find a place to stop. So he peed into a large plastic soda bottle he kept in the car, just for such an emergency. In the old days, peeing in bottles was for long assignments like stakeouts, not twenty-minute drives. Yet more incentive for Frank to pack it in and sign out of Gotham, forever.
He knew a guy, Louie, who worked the desk at the Star Bright Motel. He didn’t know if Louie would be working today, but when he entered the office sure enough the guy was there, on duty. Frank waited until he was finished checking in a couple. Cheaters for sure—they both had that giddy, kids-in-a-candy-store look, and then he gave Louie a big hug.
“Frank the man,” Louie says. “What brings you to the Star Bright? Wait, you’re not following that couple that was just here, are you?”
“No, but some other PI probably is,” Frank said. “Actually, I’m here about somebody else. Guy who checked in today, named Duncan.”
“Who?”
Uh-oh. Had Cobblepot sent him on a wild goose chase? That friggin’ bastard. If he had, Frank was going to blow the little scumbag away.
“Duncan,” Frank said. “At least I think—” He pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, the tail end of the emergency money he’d kept hidden at home. Louie looked at the computer monitor on his desk.
“Oh, wait, that guy. Yeah, he’s here.”
Frank gave Louie the fifty. It was just about the last money he had to his name, but it was okay—a lot more would be coming in soon.
“What room’s he in?” Frank asked.
Louie pocketed the bill. “Two-oh-one.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Frank said. “How’s your daughter doing by the way?”
“Getting married next month.”
“Whoa, time flies,” Frank said.
“You’re tellin’ me.”
Frank left the office and headed outside. Mr. Duncan, aka Roberto Colon, was staying on the second floor. Frank went up the exterior stairwell, looking around casually to make sure there weren’t any bystanders lurking about. This was just a precaution. The Star Bright was the type of motel that catered to cheaters and criminals, so when something suspicious went down, people tended to do the smart thing—look the other way and keep their mouths shut.
He spotted a guy getting into his car in the parking lot below. So when Frank got to the top of the landing he waited for the guy to drive away. Then, when the coast seemed clear, he took his gun out and approached Colon’s room.
Someone was in the there. Although the curtains were pulled together, Frank could see a faint shadow moving inside.
So much for a polite entrance. He knew these rooms had windowed bathrooms and he didn’t want to announce his visit, giving Colon a chance to get away. Also, he didn’t know if just Colon was in there, or there were other people. Tommy had said there were three burglars, and there could be more.
The element of surprise was Frank’s friend.
Staying low, he got into position. Then he reared back, led with his shoulder, and charged the door. He heard the lock give, ripping through the outer frame, and then the door swung open.
Colon—or the man Frank presumed was Colon—was lying in bed in just his boxers.
“What the f—” His hand shot toward the night table.
“Freeze or I’ll shoot,” Frank said.
Wisely the guy froze, his arm in the air. Keeping his gun aimed at Colon, Frank went over and grabbed the gun.
“Who the hell are you?” Colon said. “What do you want?”
“I think you know exactly what I want,” Frank said. “Where’s the Picasso?”
“Wait, what is this?” Colon said. “You didn’t even show me a badge. Are you a cop? That’s against the law, you know? I’ve got rights. You know, I can report you. They’ll take your badge away.”
“Shut up,” Frank said. Then he heard movement, coming from the bathroom.
“Someone else here?” Frank asked.
“Lexi, run!” Colon shouted.
But at that moment the bathroom door opened and a young brunette in slinky lingerie came through. She looked familiar, though Frank wasn’t sure why. He was more concerned with the gun she was aiming at him. She fired a shot at Frank. Frank fired back—hit her twice, both times in the head, and her body went down, falling back into the bathroom.
“Nooo!” Colon cried out.
“Shut up,” Frank said.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Colon said.
“Would you have preferred it if I let her kill me?”
“Of course I would’ve, you sonuvabitch,” Colon said.
“Who was she?” Frank asked.
Colon hesitated. “Friend of mine. What difference does it make to you?”
“Wait, I remember now,” Frank said, letting his gun hand relax. “She’s a pro. I’ve taken pics of her here before, screwing my clients’ husbands.”
“Who the hell are you?” Colon demanded. He reached toward the night table again. Frank fired, hitting him in the arm. Colon wailed in agony. “Sonuvabitch!”
“Shut your goddamn trap—or you want another?” Frank asked.
“You’re crazy, man!”
“You’re right,” Frank said. “I am crazy. I snapped big time and, trust me, you don’t want to push me too far. Where the hell is the painting?”
“Man,
I have no idea what you’re talking about? Painting? What painting?”
“The one you and your crew lifted from Wayne Manor.”
“I have no idea what you’re—”
Frank fired, hitting Colon in his other arm. He wailed again, and pressed back against the headboard. Blood was all over the bed sheets, spreading in a widening stain.
“Help!” Colon yelled. “Help me!”
“You’re wasting your breath,” Frank said. “In this joint, people run away from the word help. I got all the time in the world, but I’m warning you right now, if you scream again, the next bullet’s going between your eyes. I’m asking you for the last time. Where’s the painting?”
“You gotta tie tourniquets around my arms,” he said. “I’m gonna bleed to death.”
“Final chance,” Frank said.
“Okay, okay,” Colon said. “Belladonna has it.”
“Who?” Frank asked.
“Belladonna, that’s her name.”
“What’s her last name?”
“I don’t know. She’s an art dealer. I mean… I mean she sells stolen art.”
“Where is she?”
“Please, I’m bleeding to d-death here, man. You gotta help me.”
“If you want to live you better tell me quick.”
“Duke Street, n-near the docks. It’s a blue door. Gragraffiti.”
“That’s where she lives, or where she works?”
“I don’t know,” Colon said. “Both maybe… Please, please help me. I’m begging you, man. Please.” Colon was getting weaker, probably bleeding out. Even if Frank wanted to save him, he probably couldn’t.
“Thanks, Roberto. You were a big help.”
Frank shot him in the face.
The sudden silence was a relief. Frank had to kill him—he’d had no choice. A talker like him would’ve been a major loose thread. After he checked to make sure that Colon and the hooker were both officially finite—they were—he left the motel room.
