Rubbed Out

by Barbara Block

  I wondered what a large lapse in judgment would be.

  “Because of the girl.”

  “Because of the girl. He wanted to go away with her.”

  “So what did Walter do with the money?”

  “Ah.” Paul rubbed his finger around the rim of his glass. “Here we come to the crux of the problem. He had it down in his basement. Hidden among his tools.”

  “Get out of town!”

  “It’s true.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Why not a mattress? Don’t tell me. He had a phobia against safety deposit boxes?”

  “He thought this would be a better option.”

  “You’d think a lawyer would be a little smarter.”

  Then I thought about the ones I knew. Most of them were so arrogant that they believed they could get away with anything. Which ended up making them stupid.

  “I take it you didn’t advise him otherwise?”

  Paul got huffy. “I wasn’t involved at that point.”

  I finished the story for him. “Let me guess. When his wife left, she took the cash along.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can see that. Saves on court costs. No messy adjudication.”

  “No. Just a lesson for Walter.”

  “Quite a lesson.”

  Paul brushed his hair back with the flat of his hand. “It certainly was.”

  “So now they want their money back.”

  “Yup.”

  “And you want me to get it.”

  “No. I want you to find Janet Wilcox. That’s a different thing altogether.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Because Janet Wilcox knows me. We’ve met a couple of times. The moment she sees me, she’ll take off.”

  “It seems to me as if she already has.”

  “True,” Paul conceded, “but you have a better chance of getting close to her than I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a woman. She’ll see you as less threatening.”

  “That’s probably true.”

  Paul cracked his knuckles again.

  “And if I find her, then what?”

  “Call me. I’ll fly down and get her to give up the money.”

  “The inimitable Santini touch?”

  Like George, he was more than capable of violence. Unlike George, he didn’t mind exercising that capacity.

  Paul shrugged and ran his thumb along his lower lip. “In this case, I’m prepared to do whatever works.”

  I thought of Janet Wilcox. She seemed like someone who would fold at the first sign of pressure.

  “I have a feeling it won’t be a problem.”

  “I hope so.” And Paul threw the paper clip down on his desk. “I sure as hell hope so.”

  “Me too,” I said, thinking of Wilcox.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Paul reached in his desk, took the bottle out again, and poured himself another shot. Maybe opening and closing the drawer was his exercise for the day.

  “Want one?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. I was pleased to note I hadn’t gotten that bad yet. “You should slow down.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “At least I don’t get drunk in the middle of the day.”

  “Don’t quibble.”

  “Quibble? You doing ‘Improving Your Vocabulary in 100 Days’ again?”

  “I keep seeing Walter.” Paul downed another shot and wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand.

  “I get it. You’re playing on my need to rescue things and put them right.”

  “It’s nice to know that you got something out of that therapist you were seeing.”

  “Not enough to stop me from getting involved with you.”

  Paul saluted me with the empty glass. “Think of me as the next step in your spiritual growth.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Three days,” Paul said.

  “Piece of cake.”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking.”

  “So then there’s no problem.”

  “Exactly. And just to make sure.” Paul opened his middle desk drawer, reached in, and came out with a Glock. “Here,” he said, putting it in my hand. “Take this.”

  “Why am I going to need it?”

  “Just in case. I was a Boy Scout, remember?”

  “They must have been hard up for members.”

  Paul tried for a smile and failed.

  I slipped the gun into my backpack. Never mind that I wasn’t licensed to carry a handgun. The truth is, I don’t like guns. I think they make you overconfident and get you into situations you shouldn’t be in in the first place. Plus it’s too easy to have an accident with them.

  On the other hand, given what had happened to Wilcox, I was prepared to make an exception. Flexibility, I read somewhere, is the hallmark of the high-functioning professional.

  “And Robin,” Paul said. “Remember. Aim for the chest. At twenty feet you can’t miss.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not planning to.”

  And I wasn’t. I was prepared to shoot first and worry about the explanations later. I got up to leave.

  “I’m sorry,” Paul repeated as I reached the door. “I really am. I thought this would be simple. If I had known, I never would have . . .”

  I cut him off with a gesture. Everyone was apologizing. Maybe that was better than not. I don’t know. But it didn’t help remedy the situation.

  “Fine,” he said. “I understand.”

  While I was waiting for the elevator, one of my grandmother’s phrases flitted through my mind. She’d always said, “Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas.” Once again she’d been right, I reflected as the elevator doors slid open.

  I nodded to the three people inside and got on.

  “Cold enough for you?” a woman said to me.

  “Not really.”

  Syracuse humor.

  We rode down the rest of the way without saying another word to each other.

  Manuel was not happy when I told him I had to leave again.

  “When is Tim coming back?”

  “In another two weeks.”

  Tim was my other employee. He’d been out of town for a while taking care of personal problems. I hadn’t asked what they were, and he hadn’t volunteered. I finally squared it with Manuel by promising to get some extra help in for the next couple of days.

  “Are you taking Zsa Zsa?”

  “I can’t.”

  He yanked up his pants. Why he insisted on wearing them with the crotch down to his knees is something he has yet to explain to me.

  “Boy, she’s going to be pissed at you.”

  “I know.”

  Nothing like throwing a little guilt into the equation, I always say. I wondered if Manuel had been a Jewish mother in his last life.

  “She likes me but . . .”

  I thought of the weapon in my backpack. “Listen, Manuel, if anything happens . . .”

  “Yes?”

  I stopped. “Forget it.”

  But it was too late. Manuel was on full alert. “Hey, what’s going on?” he demanded.

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m just having a bad day.”

  I didn’t want to tell Manuel what Paul had told me because I knew if I did he’d want to come down with me, and I didn’t want him to get caught up in this. Things were bad enough as they were. Anyway, if something happened to him, who would take care of Zsa Zsa?

  “You havin’ a lot of those recently”

  “No kidding.”

  He looked me in the eyes. “You in trouble?”

  I looked back at him and lied. Like Calli. But there are lies and then there are lies.

  “No,” I said.

  “Because me and my homies . . .”

  “I’m fine. Honest.”

  “All you got to do is say the word.”

  “I know.”

  Finally I managed to convince him I was okay, and he moved
off to take care of the shipment of iguanas that we’d just gotten in. I went into the back, wrote out some checks for orders that were coming in over the next two days, and arranged for someone I knew to work at the store. Then I went home, made a reservation at the Gramercy Park Hotel down in the City, and forced myself to take a nap.

  Even though I wanted to get going right away, I was afraid that if I did, I’d go off the road because I’d fallen asleep at the wheel. I woke up two hours later, took a quick shower, changed into my good black pants and my oatmeal-colored cashmere sweater, and put on the two hundred fifty dollar boots that Calli had forced me to buy, which I’d heretofore worn exactly once.

  God. Calli. I missed her. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was a self-righteous bitch.

  I dialed her number. No one answered. I left a message on her machine saying, “Let’s talk.”

  Somehow that made me feel better. Then I called Manhattan information and asked if there was a new listing for Janet Wilcox. Not that I expected there to be. But sometimes people do strange things, especially when they’re nervous. There wasn’t. I did the same for the rest of the boroughs and got the same result. Nothing. Oh, well. Worth a try. I lit a cigarette, packed my suitcase—I seemed to be doing a lot of that all of a sudden—slipped on my black leather jacket, and wound the red mohair scarf that George had given me as a birthday present around my neck. But I couldn’t keep that on. It was too painful. I put it back in my drawer and picked out an old knit wool scarf that I’d bought at Marshall’s, my favorite discount store.

  It was a little after seven o‘clock at night when I pulled out of my driveway. Before I got on the Thruway, I stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts and got two large coffees with cream and sugar and four chocolate-peanut doughnuts to go. Dinner. I asked for a glass of water and swallowed a couple of vitamins that I’d taken to carrying with me and, confident that I’d taken care of my nutritional needs, continued on my way.

  Unlike the last time I drove down, I made good time. The roads were clear, the weather was fine, and the traffic was minimal. It was a little after eleven by the time I pulled into the City. I’d spent most of the drive trying to figure out how I was going to locate Janet Wilcox.

  According to the information Paul had acquired, she hadn’t been using her credit card, so if she’d bought an airline or bus or train ticket, or rented a car, she’d done it with cash, meaning there was no record of her transaction—or at least none that he could access. Ditto with hotels. Which was too bad.

  For all I knew, she could be on the Costa del Sol by now, although I didn’t think she was. She didn’t impress me as a woman who’d go someplace new. I saw her as staying with the familiar. Of course, she hadn’t impressed me as the kind of woman who’d take off with her husband’s money either.

  I had two leads. Quintillo and her daughter, Stephanie. Which was better than nothing. Hopefully, one or the other would know where she’d gone. I was pretty sure that was the case, because most people have a need to keep in touch with their nearest and dearest, even when it isn’t in their best interests to do so. I also wasn’t too worried about persuading Quintillo and/or the daughter to speak to me. I’m fairly good at convincing people to tell me what I need to know.

  My question was: What had made Janet Wilcox leave Quintillo’s apartment in the first place? Had something spooked her, or was leaving part of her master plan? If she had been spooked, I hoped the thing that had done the spooking wasn’t me.

  As I ate the second half of my third doughnut, it occurred to me that Janet Wilcox had to have known where the money came from. Or at least she had to have known that her husband was involved in something illegal. After all, no one leaves that kind of change lying around if they’re legitimate.

  I could see her going down one day to clean the basement and discovering the money sitting there. A late Christmas present. She probably hadn’t said anything to Walter about her find. She’d retired upstairs to think. Because she probably already knew about Alima.

  So she’d come up with her plan, her “fuck-you-Walter” plan. I could see the vindictive smile playing on her lips. I wondered if she knew, or cared, that something bad might happen to her husband and the father of her child.

  Paul was right. Janet Wilcox was one very pissed-off lady.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The first thing I did when I got into the City was head over to Quintillo’s place. I rang the buzzer to his apartment, but no one answered, which meant he was either still out for the evening or asleep. I was about to ring someone else’s buzzer when a young couple came along and opened the inner door. I slipped in after them. They didn’t seem to mind. I don’t think they even noticed. They were too busy locking lips. I admired their skill as I followed them up the stairs. I’d always found it hard to do both those things at the same time.

  No light was showing under the crack between the floor and the door of Quintillo’s apartment. I rang the bell. No one answered. I stood very still and listened. I didn’t hear any sounds. Either Quintillo was a deep sleeper or he was out. I turned and went down the steps and headed into the street.

  The bare branches of the gingko tree in front of the building glowed under the street light. People were walking by, mostly couples out on dates. Dog-walkers urged their charges to do their business so they could go upstairs. I thought about Zsa Zsa. I wondered how long it would take her to forgive me for deserting her. Then I wondered what she’d think of New York City if I brought her down. I listened to the snippets of conversations floating in the air. In Syracuse, everyone would be inside and asleep by now.

  I could have double-parked my vehicle and waited for Quintillo to return, but I decided I’d catch up with him in the morning. The nap I’d taken earlier hadn’t been enough. I needed to sleep in the worst way. Otherwise, I’d begin making mistakes, and I didn’t have time to do that right now.

  The Gramercy Park Hotel is a shabby, aging queen of a building, and I love her. I love her partly because of the mix of people she gets, partly because she’s still funky and hasn’t been rehabbed to the point where every ounce of her character has been drained away, and partly because Murphy used to work there as a night clerk while he was taking courses at Hunter College during the day. I’d spent a fair amount of time with him hanging out behind the front desk, and coming here reminded me of him.

  After I checked in, I unpacked, got out my flask, called down to the desk and got some ice, filled my glass half full with Scotch, turned on the TV, and lay down on the bed.

  The room was shabby in a comforting kind of way. The dresser had nicks in the wood. The prints on the wall were generic landscape scenes. The white chenille cover on the bed reminded me of the ones on my bed when I’d been little. The curtains were a brown-and-white check. The mattress itself was old and had a few lumps in it, but it was serviceable for the time I was staying. I was halfway through East of Eden and was feeling pleasantly sloshed when my cell rang. I looked at the number. George. I could feel my mood evaporating as I heard his voice.

  “Manuel asked me to call,” he told me. “He’s worried about you.”

  “He must be very worried to turn to you.”

  “He is.”

  “Funny. Last I heard, he was calling you an asshole.”

  “I’m hurt.”

  “You shouldn’t be. He’s right. If he’s that worried, why isn’t he calling himself? You’re slipping,” I said when George didn’t reply. “You’re usually a better liar.”

  “Okay,” George said. “You got me. I’m the one that’s concerned. All he said was that you were down there again. Given everything that’s happened, I got to wondering.”

  “I have a ticket to the opera.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Seriously, why do you care?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  I leaned over and took another sip of Scotch. Someone in the room next door must have turned on the shower. I could hear the water running.

  “Yes, it is
, George, but if you want to know, I’m helping Paul.”

  “That certainly sets my mind at rest.”

  “Too bad.”

  I could hear the sound of George’s television through the wire.

  “Let him solve his own problems.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to.”

  “What the hell has he gotten you involved in?”

  “That is none of your business.”

  On screen, James Dean was discovering that his mother was a prostitute. Seeing the expression on his face made me want to cry.

  “I told you Paul was no good,” George continued.

  “Funny. He says the same thing about you.”

  It occurred to me they were fundamentally the same. Both players, both men who got off on the adrenaline rush.

  “Robin, come home.”

  “I will in a couple of days.”

  “Do it now.”

  “If you’re so worried about me, why don’t you get on a plane and come down here then?”

  “I’d like to.” Here George hesitated.

  I finished the sentence for him.

  “But there’s Natalie. Tell me, does she know you’re speaking to me?”

  “Robin . . .”

  “Does she?”

  “No.”

  “You have to decide what you want: to be in my life or out of it. You can’t have it both ways.”

  “I told you. I care about you. I always will. I want to be your friend.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  I hung up, drained my glass, and poured myself another drink.

  I went back to watching East of Eden. But it wasn’t the same. Finally, I clicked the television off and closed my eyes. A fire engine went by. Someone’s car alarm went off. Two men started fighting underneath my window. I heard glass shatter. Someone shrieked. Then there was silence. I didn’t bother getting up to look. I really didn’t care if they bled to death on the sidewalk as long as they did it quietly. What was even worse was that I didn’t care that I didn’t care.