16 Hitman

by Parnell Hall

  "You're kidding."

  "Hey, it's a homicide"

  "No, it's not. It's self-defense.

  "Not this bozo. What's-his-face. Victor Marsden."

  "They got the guy who did it. Didn't the bullets from Delgado's gun match up?"

  "That's what I hear"

  "So, isn't the case solved?"

  "In an unsatisfactory way."

  "Thank you. You mean Sergeant Thurman isn't the cat's meow?"

  "Sergeant Thurman is Sergeant Thurman. You take the good with the bad."

  "Easy for you to say. He never messed up your case."

  "Well, I wouldn't go that far."

  "Really? What'd he do to you?"

  "He didn't do anything. He's made mistakes, sure, but he's always meant well."

  "He should get points for that?"

  "Well, with all these movies about bad cops. Actors just love to play 'em. The dirtier the better. Didn't Uenzel Washington win an Oscar for one? There's something to say for a cop who's honest."

  "He's a saint. So what do I do now?"

  MacAullif grimaced. "That's the third time you've asked me. Jesus Christ, you're like one of those fucking writers doesn't know where to go with his story, just sits spinning his wheels. What do they call that?"

  " "Writer's block."

  "Yeah. That's it"

  "And do you know how to solve that, MacAullif? 'Cause there's a lot of writers gonna be pretty damn grateful."

  I don't know what they do. But I know what you do"

  "What's that?"

  "See what happens next"

  36

  I WENT OUT ON MY rounds. I didn't know what else to do, and I needed the money. Not that I really expected Richard to charge me umpty million dollars for keeping nie out of jail. Keeping me out of jail was one of Richard's hobbies. A nice break from the usual negligence shit. Of course, I realized I shouldn't abuse it. As Richard had pointed out. If you ask me, he was just being cranky. Obstruction of justice is a serious enough charge. Especially when it's regarding a murder. Surely Richard could get his rocks off with that and not bill me up the wazoo.

  Anyway, Rodney Walks, in what passed for a house in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, had developed lead poisoning from eating peeling paint. Probably not the smartest move, but Rodney was only two years old and not up on the latest surgeon general's warnings. His mother, however, did know better, and was righteously indignant. Oddly enough, largely at Rodney himself.

  "I tol' him not to eat the paint, and he jus' keeps eatin' it. Jus' don' listen. Got no sense."

  I figured that was probably true. Rodney, a toddler, would be prone to poor career choices and not quick to take direction. I wondered why the mother, who clearly did know better, hadn't realized the Socratic method wasn't working and taken the initiative to remove the paint from the child or the child from the paint. But, hey, it wasn't my problem. I took down the woman's information, didn't comment on her parenting skills.

  She was signing the retainer when my beeper went off. I called in, and it turned out I was wanted in the office.

  "At the end of the day?"

  "No, now," Wendy/Janet said."Finish your sign-up and come in."

  I signed up the paint eater, who'd probably make a small fortune from his horrific diet. Had the mother known that? Was she actually a very bright woman who sat in the corner feeding him chips of poison paint?

  I beat it back to Manhattan, lucked into a parking meter, took the elevator up to the offices of Rosenberg and Stone.

  Wendy was on the desk. I can tell 'em apart in person. She was on the phone, but she waved me in.

  Richard was at his desk writing on a pad. At least that's how it would look to a client. I knew him well enough to know he was doodling.

  "What's up, Richard?"

  He smiled. "Sit down."

  Uh-oh.

  I pulled up a chair, waited for the bomb to drop. "What's the trouble?"

  "What makes you think anything's the trouble?"

  "You're being entirely too nice."

  "I resent that"

  "Okay, what's up?"

  "The Jerome Robinson case."

  "Why and I not surprised?"

  "I had a nice talk with the client. Smart man. Reasonable. But concerned"

  "Why is he concerned?"

  "The photo assignment. When he pointed out his pothole."

  "What about it?"

  "Jerome feels he may have been mistaken."

  "Does he now?"

  "Yes, he does. And he's rather upset about it."

  "I'm sorry to hear it. He seemed a nice man."

  "He is a nice man. And he's suffered a terrible injury."

  "He's making a miraculous recovery."

  Richard frowned. "Yes. What's that all about? Anyway, the gentleman now feels that the pothole that tripped him was the jagged one that was registered but not repaired"

  "So what's the problem?"

  "He's afraid your memory may not agree with that opinion."

  "No, that's the one I thought it was, too," I said innocently.

  Richard scowled irritably. "Yes, but he didn't think it was at first."

  "He seemed prone to make that mistake," I agreed.

  "But now he'd like to correct it"

  "What's the problem?"

  "He's afraid you'll contradict him. He's afraid you'll take the stand and say he's lying."

  "Is he lying?"

  "Of course he's not lying!" Richard controlled himself, smiled ingratiatingly. "He made an honest mistake."

  "Then he has nothing to worry about."

  "That's what I told him. But he's not convinced."

  "What do you want from me?"

  Richard smiled, his most ingratiating smile. "Could you talk to him? Reassure him? He's at the point where he could go either way. He needs someone to talk him down"

  "I think you switched metaphors on me."

  "Can you do this for me?"

  "On top of what I already did for you? Taking the pictures of the pothole the client said had nothing to do with his accident? The one on which you're basing your entire case now? The one you gloated would be enough to up the jury award, though not to the point I should get any bonus out of it. So I can pay all your billable hours for keeping me out of jail"

  "Consider it done. I was joking, Stanley. I'm not going to charge you"

  "I know you were joking, Richard. So not charging me isn't a concession on your part, is it?" I interlaced my fingers, twiddled my thumbs."It seems that the merits of the cases that you take are rather flexible. Now, this one, for instance, if you go by the pothole the guy claimed, has absolutely no merit whatsoever. On the other hand, if you consider the registered pothole, it's a whole different story."

  "You've made your point. What do you want?"

  "Medical malpractice, the same thing. From one point of view, a woman with a dead baby isn't worth anything. From another point of view, maybe there's something to be done"

  Richard's eyes widened. "Son of a bitch!"

  "Do we have a deal?"

  "I can't believe you're doing this"

  I couldn't believe I was, either. But my life was upside down, and something had to make sense. Or work out. Or seem fair. Somehow, in the cosmic order of the intergalactic mind-fuck, I needed something to go my way. Yolanda Smith and her dead baby was just the ticket.

  "Do we have a deal or not?"

  "Of course, we have a deal."

  "Good. Catch you later."

  I got up to go.

  "Stop by the front desk and see if Wendy or Janet have any new sign-ups." Richard didn't care if I did, he just wanted to reassert his authority.

  I wish I could have let him. "Not this afternoon, Richard"

  He blinked. "Oh? Why not?"

  "I'm going to a funeral."

  37

  I GUESS I WAS EXPECTING the Sopranos.

  No one at Victor Marsden's funeral looked the least connected. Just a bunch of ordinary, everyday people,
marking the impact of death upon their lives.

  And it didn't take place in a huge cathedral, with half a dozen pallbearers loading a massive coffin into a hearse followed to the cemetery by a parade of stretch limousines. No, the Victor Marsden funeral was a quiet little affair at the Johnston Funeral Home on Third Avenue, where a pneumatic elevator whooshed you up to the fourth floor and spit you out into a thickly carpeted room just large enough for the dead man and his guests.

  The coffin was closed, probably a wise choice for a gentleman who'd been shot in the head. Anyway, Victor was presumably in the box, which looked to be somewhere between pine and mahogany, not your dollar ninety-nine egg crate, but not your plush-lined Stratosleeper with gold-embossed lid and built-in stereophonic eternity tape. No, it was as plain as could be.

  So was the woman dressed in black and seated off to the left, the one the guests approached to pay their respects. She was clearly Victor's mother, which disconcerted me. Hitmen didn't have mothers. Except Tony Soprano, and she died after the first season. Yet here, in all her white-knuckled grief, sat Mrs. Marsden, clinging to the arms of the chair as if holding on to her son, pulling him back from that awful place, keeping him safe, while mourner after mourner knelt by her and reaffirmed the fact that he was not.

  The gathering was so sparse that I stood out. Not that anyone cared. Not that anyone was paying the least bit of attention. Clearly, no one knew that much about their dear departed friend. Nor did they know each other. People were talking in small groups of two or three. There weren't more than twenty people there at all.

  Which made me rather conspicuous. At least I felt conspicuous, just standing there with no one to talk to. Which was good, because I wouldn't know what to say. But I could feel Mom's eyes on me, trying to figure out who I was. Which, I realized, was just in my head. The woman couldn't possibly have cared. Still, it occurred to me someone else might notice that I was just hanging out, that I didn't belong. Which was totally ridiculous. How would they know?

  I looked at Mom.

  She was looking back.

  I went up to her, knelt down, said, "I'm sorry. He was a good man. I'll miss him."

  She looked at my face, probably wanted to ask me who I was. But didn't want to be embarrassed if I turned out to be someone she should know. She just smiled a thin smile, said, "Yes, he was a good man, wasn't he?"

  "Yes, he was," I said. "I'm very sorry."

  And I stood and moved on.

  I could sense the woman's relief. She didn't have to go through an awkward conversation, conceal the fact she couldn't place me when I told her I went to Swarthmore, or wherever the hell her son went. Anyway, I was happy not to compound the woman's grief.

  The next obstacle was the guest book, stationed between the mother and the coffin. One couldn't really avoid it after paying one's respects. It would be crass not to sign my name. It would also call attention to me. So I had to sign.

  My real name? Should I sign my real name? Leave a record of the fact I'd attended this funeral? For the cops to find?

  I could imagine Detective Crowley's blood pressure going through the roof when he read the register and found my name. But why would he? Was that the sort of thing Crowley would do? It was the sort of thing MacAullif would do, if it were his case. Talk about going through the roof!

  I could sign John Doe. Or John Hancock. Or Jack Armstrong, All-American Boy. I might as well sign my own name, a hollow subterfuge like that.

  Good Christ, I gotta sign something. I can't just stand here. Signing my name shouldn't be this hard.

  Fuck it.

  I signed Stanley Hastings.

  If that freaked anybody out, it was too damn bad.

  Now what?

  The minister. Or reverend. Or priest. Or whatever the hell they called themselves. Was this Catholic? It didn't look Catholic. Damn. That's what happens when an atheist marries a nonpracticing Jew. Not that Alice needs practice.

  My god, I'm flipping out.Who is he, and do I need to talk to him?

  I suddenly remembered I had to go to the bathroom. That is to say, I pretended I had to go to the bathroom. Which sounds strange. I didn't start wobbling my knees and grabbing my crotch. I just mean I glanced around the room as if looking for the bathroom. And I'm an actor. A method actor. What's my motivation? Stanislavsky. I'm sure he went to the bathroom.

  Anyway, in my head I was avoiding an uncomfortable and potentially dangerous conversation with the minister by looking for the men's room door. An Oscar-caliber performance. I'd like to thank the Academy ...

  Just about then it occurred to me that attending the funeral of Victor Marsden had accomplished absolutely nothing.

  And in walked my favorite perky-breasted teacher.

  38

  SHE LOOKED GOOD IN BLACK. A new trend. Grieving chic.

  She didn't notice me. Though why should she? She breezed right up to the mourning mother, knelt down beside her. Hugged her, exchanged a few words. Then moved on, signed the guest book. Right under my name. Which meant nothing to her. Unless she didn't read it. Why should she? Why shouldn't she?

  She spoke to the minister. He wasn't that old. His face lit up when he talked to her. She had that effect on men. Even men of the cloth.

  I wondered if she knew anyone there. She finished with the reverend, looked around, gave no sign of recognition, and anyone would have recognized her.

  I wandered by the guest book, stole a casual glance.

  The perky-breasted teacher was Sheila Blaine.

  I sidled up to her, said, "Hi."

  She looked at me as if I were trying to pick her up. Which, in a way, I was.

  She smiled, said "Hi," but her body language said "Do I know you?"

  "You'll excuse me if I'm forward, but I don't know anybody here"

  "I don't either."

  "You know the mother."

  "I met the mother. I don't really know her"

  "Let me take a wild stab. Ex-boyfriend?"

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Funerals aren't much fun. Not the type of thing you'd go to for a casual acquaintance."

  "Who are you?"

  "I ask myself that every day. Sorry. Scratch that.You saw nle at the school. I'm the one who pushed Martin Kessler out of the way. Before he got shot at"

  "Oh.You're the man who tripped."

  "Amazing how that story stood up"

  "Story?"

  "So you're Victor's ex. Do you know what he did for a living?"

  "He was in the stock market."

  "Is that what he told you?"

  "That's what he did."

  "Dangerous work, the stock market"

  Her eyes narrowed. "What are you saying?"

  "I've known a few stockbrokers. This is the first one I've heard of shot dead"

  "It's not funny."

  I wasn't joking"

  "What were you doing? What are you trying to say?"

  "You're also friends with Martin Kessler."

  "He's a fellow teacher."

  "He's a married fellow teacher"

  "You have a dirty mind"

  She was right. I did. But I wasn't the one messing around with a married fellow teacher. I wondered if I should point that out to her. It occurred to me that if I were quicker on my feet, I'd have already come back with a retort rather than wondering whether I ought to.

  "I didn't see you interviewed on TV?"

  "No. Just Marty and the hero cop"

  "Marry." ?

  "He's a colleague.You want me to call him Mr. Kessler?"

  I wasn't making much headway with the young woman, except she hadn't told me to go to hell. I wondered why not.

  "What were you doing there?" she asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Before you tripped."

  I winced. "You trying to goad me?"

  "I was joking before." She peered at my face. "But you're really pissed about it, aren't you?"

  I smiled. "No. It's fine if you think I fell down
."

  "What were you doing there?"

  "That's the wrong question."

  She frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "You should be asking me what I'm doing here"

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Paying my respects to the dead."

  She pouted. "You're the one who said to ask you."

  "Your two gentlemen friends-did they know each other?"

  "Please! Martin Kessler isn't my gentleman friend."

  "But Victor Marsden was"

  "I said he was an ex-boyfriend."

  "You go to the funerals of all your ex-boyfriends?"

  "No. Only those who die"

  "That's an interesting answer. I can't decide if it's cold and callous, or spunky."

  "Maybe I don't care what you think."

  I nodded. "There's absolutely no reason why you should. I wonder if it's occurred to you yet"

  "What?"

  "So far, you're the only connection between Victor Marsden and Martin Kessler. In a twenty-four hour period, someone tried to kill 'em both."

  "What about you?"

  "What about nie?"

  " You knew both of them."

  "Yeah. As far as I know, we're the only two people here who can make that statement"

  "Are you a cop?"

  I grimaced. "I get that in the projects a lot. I hoped for sonie- thing better from you."

  "So who are you?"

  "Stanley Hastings. I'm a private investigator."

  From her expression I had just shattered her illusions. She thought a PI was Jack Nicholson in Chinatotvn. Only she was probably too young for that.

  "Oh," she said. "I'm-"

  "Sheila Blaine," I said smoothly. "Pleased to meet you."

  "How do you know my name?"

  I jerked my thumb. "You wrote it in the book."

  She frowned. Disappointed.

  "Yeah," I said. "Tricks aren't much fun when you know how they do them."

  She adjusted her parameters, said, "Are you here on the job?"

  "No"

  "How about at the school? Were you on the job then?"

  "No:

  "I don't understand."

  "I don't either. But I'm trying to."

  "Why?"

  I sighed. "Lady, I wish I knew."

  39