The Sour Lemon Score p-12

by Richard Stark

  Barri thought, George, did you get me into something bad? She said, “What do you want, Mac?”

  “I want George,” he said. He was medium height but very broad, massive in the shoulders and chest and neck like a weight lifter. He had a square head with a mean-looking face and a way of smiling that was somehow very nasty.

  She said, “I told George you called. I gave him the number.”

  “I know you did, and that was real nice. But now I want George in person. I want to go talk to him.”

  The sight of the gun in his hand was making her feel very cold, but she was afraid if she went to put a robe on or anything he’d take it as a sign of weakness. She was terrified to show him weakness, as though he were a vicious dog that had to be faced down. She said, “I don’t know where he is.”

  He got to his feet, taking his time, that nasty smile drooping on his face. “For your sake, honey,” he said, “I hope that isn’t the truth. Because I’m going to start on you now, and the only thing on God’s earth that’s going to make me stop is when you tell me where George is.”

  Three

  Paul Brock sat on the floor in the middle of the living room, and tears streamed down his cheeks. He felt he couldn’t go on; he felt it was all too much for him; he felt everything was lost and doomed and beyond recall. I just don’t have the energy, he kept thinking.

  Matt had told him to come back to the apartment at five o’clock on Friday afternoon, and Matt would phone him there. “Parker won’t be hanging around there anymore by then,” he said. “But keep an eye out for him anyway.”

  So that’s what he’d done, coming downtown from the hotel half an hour early, both to be ahead of the worst of the rush hour and to have a little time in the apartment, and what had he walked into?

  It was criminal. It was like murdering a person, what had been done here, just like beating the life out of a human being. The apartment had been raped, viciously, violently raped, and then kicked to death.

  All the time he’d put into this place, all the time and thought and energy and pride, all of himself, poured it into this apartment for three years now, and look what had happened. His home, his home.

  What would Matt say? Matt wouldn’t really care, would he? Not really, not deeply, not the way Brock cared. Matt had never been all that interested in the apartment, in the plans for it. “You do it, baby,” he’d say, grinning that grin of his, and pat Brock on the cheek and talk about something else instead.

  He was alone with his grief. His rage. Grief and rage. There was no one on earth who would really, truly sympathize, understand, share this horrible experience with him. Never before in his life had he realized just how totally, miserably, incurably alone he really was.

  The phone rang.

  Startled, he looked at his watch, and it was five o’clock. Had he been here half an hour already? He’d come in, he’d seen the living room, he’d wandered like a zombie through the rest of the apartment, stunned and dazed by it all, and had finished in the living room again, his mind just refusing to comprehend what had happened. And then he’d fallen to the floor; he’d been sitting here like that ever since.

  And here it was five o’clock already, and the phone was ringing.

  It was on the floor now, over to his right. The upper air just seemed too high, too far up toward the ceiling, the top of the room; he couldn’t get all the way up there, stand all the way up there. He got to hands and knees and crawled across the carpet to the phone and sat down again beside it. He picked up the receiver and in a strengthless, hopeless voice said, “Yes?”

  “Paul?” It was Matt’s voice, strong and confident.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the matter? Something wrong there?”

  “Oh, Matt.” Brock shuddered and felt for a second as though he couldn’t go on, he couldn’t tell any more, he didn’t have the strength to hold the phone anymore.

  “What the hell’s wrong?”

  He took a deep breath. “He was here, Matt.”

  “Who, Parker? You saw him?”

  “No. It was before — Matt, he wrecked the apartment!”

  “He did what?”

  “It’s all — it’s all — ” Brock gestured wildly at the wreckage around him, as though Matt could see his waving arm and strained face. “He just — killed it, Matt. Everything broken, everything — “

  “What did he find?” Matt’s voice snapped through his own wailing.

  “Find? I don’t know what he found. What do you mean, find?”

  “Did he get the guns? Did he get the money? Did he get the serum? Didn’t you look around?”

  “Matt, I didn’t even — “

  “Look, dummy! Get off your ass and look!”

  “Matt, how could I be expec— “

  “Look now!”

  “All right,” he said. “All right. I’ll be right back. Matt?”

  “What?”

  “I wasn’t sure you were still there. I’ll be right back.” He put the phone down and labored to his feet, as stiff and clumsy as a washerwoman. He went through the apartment, not looking at the destruction this time, looking for the signs of robbery, and he found them. He went back to the phone, turning a chair back onto its legs and sitting on its slit-open seat, picking up the receiver from the floor and saying into it, “Everything, Matt. He got everything.”

  Mart cursed. Angry, harsh words, clipped and bitter. Brock rubbed the heel of his free hand against his forehead, listening to the tinny words in his ear.

  Finally Matt took a deep breath and said, “Okay. He’s number two on the list. We’ll get him, baby, don’t you worry.”

  “I want to kill him,” Brock said in the same faint voice. “I want to do it myself, Matt.”

  “He’s yours. But right now there’s still number one. Uhl, he’s the one we’re after first.”

  Brock forced himself to ask, “Have you found him?” Though he didn’t really care. He would never say anything to Matt, but he was thinking that none of this would have happened if Matt hadn’t insisted on horning in between Parker and Uhl.

  Matt said, “Sure I found him, baby, what do you think? I found out his drop, anyway, and that’s all that matters. He’s either there or he’ll show up there. I’m gonna need you.”

  “All right.”

  “You don’t want to stick around there anyway.”

  Brock looked at the room. “No. I don’t.”

  “I’ll meet you in Philly. I looked it up; there’s a six-ten express train gets in at seven forty-five. I’ll meet you there.”

  “All right.”

  “Don’t worry, baby. We’ll have Uhl and the dough out of the way by tonight, and then we’ll go settle the score with Parker.”

  “All right.”

  “And we can use a chunk of that thirty-three grand from Uhl,” Matt said, “to put the apartment back in shape again. What do you think of that, huh?”

  Voice dull, Brock said, “That will be fine, Matt.” Thinking how very alone he was, that the only man in the world he was close to could be so ignorant about him. That Matt could think for a minute he would ever want to set foot in this apartment again. That Matt couldn’t understand how it had been spoiled for him, that no amount of money on earth could make this apartment a virgin again. “I’ll see you in Philadelphia, Matt,” he said.

  Four

  Pam Saugherty said, “Well, I hope he never comes back at all.”

  Ed Saugherty said, “Frankly, I hope the same thing. Just to get you off my back about him,”

  “Is that any way to talk to me in front of the children?” Who were sitting with them at the dinner table, eyes round, ears open, mouths full of unchewed food.

  Ed Saugherty knew there was no way to win an argument when his wife began hitting him in the head with the kids, so he just made a face and picked up his knife and fork and started cutting his roast beef.

  Pam, having reduced him to silence, continued her half of the argument as a monologue,
but he didn’t really listen. He thought about George Uhl instead, and about his earnest prayer that George wouldn’t come back. Not ever. Not at all.

  And not just because of Pam either, though God knew that was a big part of it. But George was mixed up in something bad, and the longer George hung around here the greater the danger Ed Saugherty was going to get mixed up in it with him, and that was the last thing Ed wanted.

  It wasn’t like high school anymore. The world was different now; the responsibilities were different. Only George didn’t seem to understand that. Back in high school he’d been an exciting guy to know, a risky, dangerous guy who drove cars too fast, drank before he was of legal age, got into fights with strangers, was always in trouble with the teachers at school; and it was fun to be a pal of his then, to share even just slightly in the excitement of his adventures. But when you’re a kid nothing is for real, nothing counts, there aren’t any responsibilities. That was what George failed to understand — that when a man grows up he has to set aside the things of a child, goddammit.

  I He remembered calling George four years ago, when he’d been up in New York with the convention, and he remembered with embarrassment how he’d deferred to George both evenings. In adult, practical, realistic terms it was Ed Saugherty who was on top of the heap and George Uhl who was on the bottom, but it hadn’t worked out that way, and Ed knew it was his own fault. He’d still seen George as romantic and dramatic; he’d seen himself as a dull, plodding, uninteresting sort of guy, and he knew he’d spent those two evenings trying to win some sort of approval from George, approval and understanding. He’d even tried to buy his approval with that forty bucks they’d both known was a gift and not a loan.

  At least he hadn’t talked to George about women. That had been during the bad time with Pam. He’d come to New York determined to break his marriage vows, and when he’d called George it had been mainly in hopes George could arrange a double date or something, could line him up with a girl. But he hadn’t been able to bring himself to ask the question, and George hadn’t volunteered any such thing. Afterwards he’d been glad he hadn’t embarrassed and humiliated himself at least that much. He’d done so enough as it was. With the forty bucks, and deferring to the man.

  And the same thing Monday, four days ago, when George showed up in the dusty car, unshaved, a wild look in his eyes, full of desperate secrets, asking to be hidden out for a while. Ed had fallen immediately into the old attitudes towards George, admiring his derring-do, deferring to him, taking the subordinate position to him. And maybe this time it would wind up costing him more than forty bucks.

  If George came back. But of course he’d come back; he’d left a suitcase in the closet in the guest room. And in his note he’d said he’d be back. But if only he wouldn’t.

  In a funny way, if it weren’t for Pam he felt he could throw George out now. If he came back. Tell him, “I’m sorry, George, but I’ve got responsibilities to my family and I’m afraid you could wind up bringing them trouble, so I’m going to ask you to find somebody else to help you. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.” He could say that and mean it and know it was the best thing under the circumstances. Except for Pam. She’d turned it into a contest by now, a battle of wills, trying to force him around to her way of thinking, and of course that made it all impossible. To throw George out now would not be the way of reason, it would be giving in to Pam. Letting her win.

  If there was only some way to get that fact across to her, to make her understand that if she’d only lay off she’d get what she wanted. But, looking across the table now at her talking face he knew there wasn’t a damn thing he was going to be able to do to change anything. Circumstances were rolling along, rolling along, and he was just swept up in it, and all he could do was hope for the best.

  The phone rang.

  It startled him and he dropped his knife, and that startled Pam, who stared at him in surprise a second and then said, “I’ll get it.”

  He nodded and picked up the knife again. He watched her trim figure as she walked into the living room, thinking that George had no idea what he’d cost Ed already. He looked around the table, told Angela to chew her food, and then Pam came back and said, “It’s for you. I think it’s him.”

  “Oh.” He got to his feet as she, cold-faced, sat down. He went into the living room and said hello into the telephone.

  George. “Ed, we’ve got a problem.” Sounding out of breath, rushed, harried.

  Ed felt dinner lumping in his stomach. “A problem? What do you mean, a problem?”

  “I’m not coming back there,” George said, and Ed smiled at the phone. But then George said, “There’s been a mess down here. I’m in Washington. There’s a girl here” — his voice receded a bit as though he turned away from the phone to look at something for the next few words — “she’s been beat up pretty bad. I got to take care of her, do something for her; then I’m getting out of here. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’ll get in touch.”

  “That’s all right, George, you — “

  “The big thing is the suitcase I left there,” George said quickly. “You stash that someplace safe, you hear me?”

  “Yes. I — “

  “Don’t tell your wife where. Just you do it by yourself.”

  Ed stiffened a little at that. “Pam wouldn’t— “

  “That isn’t the question,” George said. “The question is, it’s better she doesn’t know anything. Better for her. There’s a guy might come around.”

  “What?”

  “Ed, don’t worry about it. Here’s what you tell him.”

  “What do you mean, somebody might come around?”

  “This girl here had to give him your phone number. He really leaned on her, Ed, he made a mess out of her. But all you do— “

  “My phone number? George, what have you done to me?”

  “Listen to me, goddammit. If he comes around, if he comes around, you tell him you used to know me when. I called you on the phone, I asked you to relay messages, you said okay. You got two messages, one yesterday, one today. The one yesterday was from a Matt Ros— “

  “George, I can’t— “

  “Listen, Ed, you want him leaning on you too?”

  “What is he after, George, the suitcase?”

  “Hell, no! He’s after me, Ed, what do you think? Listen, all you have to do is remember the two messages. You got them, I called you a while later, and you gave them to me, that’s all you know. You don’t know where I am or anything else. You got it?”

  Pam had come to the doorway, napkin in hand. She was looking at him.

  Ed said, “Are you sure I shouldn’t call the police, George?”

  “Ed, you’ve got an aiding a fugitive rap if you do. Now just listen to me.”

  “Aiding a — ” Then he saw Pam in the doorway and stopped himself.

  George was saying, “You don’t have anything to worry about, Ed. He might not come around at all. Just stash the suitcase somewhere safe, and if this guy comes around give him the story. Two messages, and I called you both times. He’s got no reason to call you a liar, so he’ll go away. Right? Ed, you there?”

  “I’m here.” Ed licked his lips, watched his wife watching him in the doorway.

  “I’ll go over the messages with you,” George said, and went over them with him. The names, the times the messages came, the phone number on the first message, the times George allegedly phoned him to get the messages. He made Ed repeat them, which he did, Pam frowning at him, and then George said, “I’ll get in touch in a couple days. Now I got to get out of here. Don’t worry about a thing, Ed.” And hung up.

  Ed kept holding the receiver to his ear. He knew George had hung up. He knew sooner or later he was going to have to hang up too, but until he did, until he broke the connection at his end, nothing could move forward. As soon as he hung up, reality would break in, Pam would start asking questions, strangers would come to the door. But not till he hung up the tel
ephone.

  He stood holding the receiver to his ear.

  Five

  Midnight. Matt Rosenstein stepped into the sidewalk phone booth and shut the door to make the light come on. He dialed the number, then opened the door partway again, enough to switch the light back off. Then he leaned against the glass wall and listened to the ringing.

  Matt Rosenstein was a heavyset man of forty-two with irritable, intelligent eyes and a heavy, stupid jaw. He’d started pushing garment racks around Seventh Avenue in New York in his late teens, and the first crime for money he ever committed was helping punch some people out in an office down on Varrick Street. He never knew what it was all about and he never much cared. He and three other guys got thirty bucks each to go downtown and punch these people out, and they did, and that was it. And it was easier work than pushing garment racks up and down the sidewalk. In the twenty-four years since that incident, Rosenstein had committed most of the felonies on the books — kidnapping was about the only major exception — and every commission had been strictly for money. He’d burned people’s diners down when they wanted a fire for the insurance. He’d stolen, he’d hijacked, he’d extorted, he’d blackmailed, he’d murdered, he’d swindled. Whatever came along, it never mattered. Money was money, and more money was more money, and a tough, thick-skinned guy with intelligent eyes and a stupid jaw could make out in this world.

  Until four years ago when he’d met Paul Brock, his personal life had been bare but heterosexual. He’d taken sex the way he’d taken money, where he could get it and any way he could get his hands on it. It had never pleased him as much as money, but it had never occurred to him there might be any reason for that other than his own preoccupation or the dullness of the pigs he invariably wound up with.

  Paul Brock was a partner in a men’s boutique on Hudson Street that needed a fire preceded by a robbery, and one of the other partners got onto Matt, and that was how they met. Matt looked at Brock, recorded the fact that he was a faggot, and ignored it. Business was business. But the night before the fire they were alone together in the stockroom, Brock explaining what to take and what to leave, and Matt found himself patting his cupped hand against the back of Brock’s neck. Brock looked at him, and Matt saw the fear in Brock’s eyes, and he shook his head and just kept patting. And Brock sort of went limp, his shoulders sagged and his eyes closed, and he leaned forward toward Matt as though he’d fallen over on his face, and that was how it started.