Til Death

by Ed McBain

  “I know.”

  “All right. You finished?”

  “I guess so. We may be back.”

  “What for?”

  “You’re so pleasant to talk to,” Meyer said, and Mrs. Murdoch slammed the door.

  “Well!” O’Brien said.

  “Luckily, she didn’t start shooting,” Meyer said. “With you along, I always expect bullets.”

  “Maybe she’ll shoot when we come back. If we come back.”

  “Maybe so. Keep your fingers crossed.”

  “Where to now?”

  “The Easy Dragon,” Meyer said. “Where else?”

  The Easy Dragon was named the Easy Dragon for no apparent reason. The decor was not Chinese. There was not a Chinese in sight anywhere. The Easy Dragon looked like any tavern in any suburban neighborhood, peopled with the usual sprinkling of Sunday afternoon drinkers. Meyer and O’Brien entered the place, adjusted their vision to the dimness after the brilliant sunshine outside, and walked to the bar.

  Meyer flashed the tin instantly. The bartender studied his shield with great dispassion.

  “So?” he said.

  “We’re looking for a guy named Marty Sokolin. Know him?”

  “So?”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes. So?”

  “Is he here now?”

  “Don’t you know what he looks like?”

  “No. Is he here?”

  “No. What’d he do?”

  “Nothing. Are you expecting him today?”

  “Who knows? He’s in and out. He’s only been living in the neighborhood a short time. What’d he do?”

  “I told you. Nothing.”

  “Is he a little crazy?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You know. A little crazy.” The bartender circled his temple with an extended forefinger. “Cuckoo.”

  “What makes you think he’s crazy?”

  “He’s got a fanatical gleam in his eyes. Especially when he’s drinking. Also, he’s a big bastard. I wouldn’t want to ever tangle with him. This guy chews railroad spikes and spits out carpet tacks.” He paused. “Pardon the cliché,” he said. He pronounced it “cleesh.”

  “You’re pardoned. Do you happen to know where he might be right now?”

  “You tried his house?”

  “Yes.”

  “He ain’t there, huh?”

  “No.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Nothing. Would you mind, if you know, telling us where he might be?”

  “Well, I’m not sure I know. You tried his girl’s pad?”

  “No. Who’s she?”

  “A dame named Oona. Oona I don’t know what. How’s that for a fancy name? You should see her. She’s like a regular bombshell. Perfect for a nut like Sokolin.”

  “Oona, huh? And you don’t know her last name.”

  “That’s right. Just Oona. You won’t miss her if you see her. She’s a blonde with bazooms like pineapples.” He paused. “Pardon the cliché,” he said.

  “You’re pardoned. Any idea where she lives?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where?”

  “Up the street. There’s a rooming house on the corner. She’s new around here, too. The only reason I know where she lives is she mentioned she was at a place served meals. And the place on the corner is the only place serves meals. I mean, of the rooming houses.”

  “I see,” Meyer said. “Can you describe her a little more fully?”

  “Well, like I said, she’s got these enormous pineapples. And she’s got a mouth like a trap, and a pretty nose, and eyes like blue ice and blonde hair like a field of wheat.” He paused, retracing the path of his similes to see if he’d been guilty of another “cleesh.” Apparently satisfied of his innocence, he nodded and said, “If you find her, you can’t miss her.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Meyer said. “Has she been in today?”

  “No.”

  “Did Sokolin ever play a horn in here?”

  “A what?”

  “A horn.”

  “No. He plays a horn, does he? Boy, miracles will never cease.”

  “What’s the name of this rooming house? Where they serve meals?”

  “The Green Corner.” He shrugged. “The house is green, and it’s on the corner. Listen, who knows why people name places?”

  “Is this your place?” Meyer asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why’d you name it the Easy Dragon?”

  “Oh, that was a mistake. The sign painter misunderstood me on the telephone. So after all the signs were painted, I figured why bother changing it to what I wanted originally?”

  “What had you wanted originally?”

  “The place was supposed to be called the Easy Drag Inn.” He shrugged. “Listen, people goof all the time. That’s why they’ve got erasers on penc—” and he stopped himself before uttering the banality.

  “Well, come on, Bob,” Meyer said. “Thanks a lot for your time, mister.”

  “Not at all. Think you’ll get her?”

  “All we want to do is get him,” Meyer said.

  All I want to do, the sniper thought, is get him.

  What’s taking them so long in there? How many pictures do they have to snap, anyway?

  He looked at his watch.

  They had been inside the shop for forty minutes already. Weren’t they due back at the house? Shouldn’t the reception be starting any minute? For God’s sake, what was taking them so long?

  The front door of the shop opened.

  The sniper peered through the telescopic sight of the rifle, fixing the doorway smack on the intersection of the crosshairs.

  He waited.

  One by one, the wedding party began pouring through the open door of the shop.

  Where the hell was Tommy Giordano?

  Was that…? No. Not him.

  There now, there’s the bride…there’s…

  Tommy appeared in the doorway. The sniper held his breath.

  One, two…now!

  He squeezed the trigger, pulling off two shots in rapid succession.

  From the street, the shots sounded like the backfire of an automobile. Already inside one of the limousines, Carella didn’t even hear them. Both slugs struck the brick wall to the left of the doorjamb and then ricocheted into the air, spent. Tommy, unaware, ran to the first car and climbed in with his bride.

  The sniper cursed as the cars pulled away.

  Then he packed his rifle.

  At one end of Tony Carella’s lot, close to the Carella-Birnbaum property line and to the left of the fireworks stage, Weddings-Fetes, Incorporated, had constructed a bandstand. Hung with white bunting, adorned with flowers, it provided a magnificent setting for the local band Tony had hired. The band was called the Sal Martino Orchestra. The band—or the “orchestra” as Sal preferred to call it—consisted of:

  One piano player

  One drummer

  Four saxophonists (two tenor men and two alto men)

  Two trumpeters (one lead trumpeter and one second-trumpeter)

  And a trombonist

  Actually, the ensemble would have been complete—oh, sure, the rhythm section could have used a bass player, but why be picky—would have been complete without the trombonist. A two-man brass section in an eight-piece band (orchestra, that is) was certainly enough brass power. The lead trumpeter would carry the section, and the second trumpeter would handle all the hot solos and screech work. Since the band (orchestra, of course) had a full sax section each member of which doubled on clarinet, the two trumpets would have afforded a well-balanced complement of brass. There really was no need for the trombone.

  Sal Martino played the trombone.

  He also played the French horn, but never on jobs. He restricted his French horning to the privacy of his bedroom. In all fairness, he was not a bad French hornist, nor was he a bad trombonist. It was just that the band needed him the way they needed a flatted fifth. Or an
augmented seventh. The band preferred their chords to be simple and major. A diminished ninth could throw their rehearsals into a tizzy for a solid week. Simplicity was the keynote of the Sal Martino Orchestra. And simplicity certainly did not call for a trombonist in the brass section. But such are the vagaries of leadership.

  Besides, Sal Martino looked like a real pro when he was up there leading the band. He was a man in his late twenties, with a high crown of black hair and a small black mustache. His eyes were blue and very soulful. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist and long legs that he wobbled with Presley-like ease while conducting. He sometimes conducted with his right hand. He sometimes conducted with the end of his trombone. He sometimes simply smiled out at the crowd and didn’t conduct at all. Whichever way he did it, the band sounded the same.

  Lousy.

  Well, not lousy. But pretty bad.

  They sounded especially bad when they were tuning up, but then all bands sound bad when they are taking their A from the piano player. At 4:45 that afternoon, the Martino Orchestra was warming up and tuning up and sounding very much like the Boston Pops Symphony minus the Boston and minus the Symphony. Hawes, a music lover by nature, could barely sit still as he listened to the cacophony. He was also slightly disturbed by the fact that neither Sam Jones nor Ben Darcy was yet in evidence anywhere on the grounds. In truth, it was becoming increasingly more difficult to locate anyone in the Carella back yard. Immediately following the ceremony, the Carella household had been overrun by wedding guests who hugged and embraced and kissed each other as if they had not seen each other since the last wedding or funeral—which, in all probability, they hadn’t. The bedroom and adjoining bathroom on the main floor of the Carella home had been set aside for the female guests, another similar setup upstairs having been made available for the gentlemen. As soon as all the embracing and kissing was concluded, the women trotted into the downstairs bedroom to freshen up, so that there was a constant flow of traffic from back yard to back porch to bedroom to bathroom and out again. Hawes was getting somewhat dizzy. In all that sea of strange faces, he longed only to see the vaguely familiar faces of Darcy and Jones, but for the time being he seemed to have lost them completely.

  “What’s the matter?” Christine asked him.

  “I’m just wondering where Darcy and Jones went.”

  “Oh, they’re probably around somewhere.”

  “Yes, but where?”

  “Have you tried the men’s room?”

  “No.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “All right, I will. Don’t pick up any stray men while I’m gone.”

  “Now, Cotton, would I do a thing like that?”

  “Yes.”

  He went into the house. A woman coming out of the bedroom said to another woman, “She’s pregnant again, can you imagine? I haven’t been to a wedding in the past five years that she hasn’t been pregnant.”

  “She likes children,” her friend said.

  “That isn’t what she likes,” the woman said, and they both laughed hysterically, almost bumping into Hawes as he made his way to the steps.

  “Oh, excuse me,” the first woman said. Tittering, they went out of the house. Hawes climbed upstairs. The bedroom was cluttered with near and distant relatives of the Carellas and Giordanos. A tall, blue-eyed blond man lounging against the doorjamb said, “Full house, Mac.”

  “Mmm,” Hawes said. “I’ll wait.”

  “We got a choice?” the blond said.

  “The Thunderbird ain’t a sports car,” a man near them said to his friend. “And neither is the Corvette. I got news for you, Charlie. There ain’t no such animal as an American sports car.”

  “No?” Charlie said. “Then how come they call them sports cars?”

  “What do you want they should call them: armored tanks? You know something?”

  “What?” Charlie said.

  “When a real sports-car owner passes an American sports car on the road, he don’t even wave.”

  “So what?”

  “So that’s the sign of courtesy, like tipping your hat to a broad. And they don’t do it. Because American sports cars ain’t sports cars. They’re considered like cockroaches on the road. That’s a fact.”

  “Then what’s a sports car?” Charlie asked.

  “An MG, or a Jaguar, or a Talbot, or an Alfa Romeo, or a Ferrari, or Ghia, or…”

  “All right, all right,” Charlie said.

  “…or a Mercedes-Benz, or a…”

  “All right,” Charlie said, “I come up here to go to the John, not to hear a lecture about foreign cars.”

  The door to the bathroom opened. A slender man wearing eyeglasses stepped out, zipping his fly.

  “Anybody else in there?” Hawes asked him.

  “What?”

  “In the bathroom.”

  “No,” the bespectacled man said. “Of course not. Who else would be in there with me?” He paused. Indignantly, he said, “Who are you?”

  “Water Commissioner,” Hawes said. “Just checking.”

  “Oh.” The man paused. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, fine, thank you.” He took a last look around the bedroom. No. No Darcy or Jones. He was starting downstairs again when a cheer went up from the back yard. For a moment, Hawes thought the caterers had struck oil. And then he realized what it was.

  “They’re here!” someone shouted. “They’re here!”

  And at that instant, Sal Martino’s orchestra began playing “Here Comes the Bride.” Hawes joined the general exodus down the steps. Women were pouring out of the downstairs bedroom. Children were screaming and giggling, rushing onto the back porch, anxious for a glimpse of the newly arrived bride and groom. Sighing, Hawes vowed never to get married.

  When he got out to the porch at last, he found Christine talking to Sam Jones.

  “Well, well,” he said, “this is a surprise. Where’ve you been, Jonesy?”

  “Why? Someone looking for me?”

  “No, I was just curious.”

  “Oh, I’ve been roaming around,” Jonesy said.

  Hawes looked at him curiously and skeptically. Sal Martino’s boys were pounding out their third chorus of “Here Comes the Bride.” The music trailed off lamely as the piano player attempted a modulation into another key. Failing, he blinked helplessly at Martino who gave the band a one-two-three count and, waving his trombone frantically, led them into “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.”

  The master of ceremonies, supplied by the caterers, rushed onto the floor, directing Tommy to dance with Angela. He needed no prompting.

  “Best man!” the caterer shouted. “Maid of honor!”

  “Excuse me,” Jonesy said, and he rushed over to the long wooden rectangle that had been put down as a dance floor, ringed in by the long white tables. He took the maid of honor into his arms, and the MC beamed happily and then began pairing off ushers and bridesmaids, Tony and Louisa Carella, Steve and Teddy, and anyone else he saw in a tuxedo or a gown. The band segued into “Always,” and the MC beamed some more, and then pulled Angela from Tommy’s grasp and shoved her into Jonesy’s arms, filling the void with the maid of honor whom Tommy accepted with a slightly dismayed smile. Ushers and bridesmaids began changing partners. Paunch to paunch, Tony Carella and his daughter-in-law whirled about the floor. Louisa Carella found herself in her son’s arms.

  “So?” Carella said. “Are you happy, Mom?”

  “Yes. It was a beautiful wedding, Stevie. You should have got married in church.”

  “Now, stop it.”

  “All right, you big atheist.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You don’t go to church.”

  “I work on Sundays.”

  “Only sometimes.”

  The band had somehow successfully modulated into “The Anniversary Waltz.” The MC waved his arms at the people lining the dance floor, and they began filtering onto it, two by two, joining the wedding party. Tommy politely but firmly dep
osited the maid of honor into Jonesy’s grip and pulled his bride to him. A tall redheaded girl in a green silk dress that had surely been applied with a spray gun, suddenly broke away from her partner and shouted, “Steve! Steve Carella!”

  Carella turned. The redhead’s voice was not exactly what he’d have called dulcet. It boomed across the dance floor with all the energy of a nuclear explosion. Teddy Carella, dancing with her father-in-law, happened to turn just as the redhead threw her arms around Carella’s neck and planted a kiss on his mouth.

  Carella blinked.

  “Steve,” the redhead said, “don’t you remember me? Don’t you remember Faye?”

  Carella seemed to be having a little difficulty with the memory. He seemed also to be having a little difficulty with Faye herself whose arms were still firmly entwined about his neck. The green silk dress, in addition to having been sprayed on, was cut low in the front, very low. Glancing over the girl’s shoulder, Carella saw Teddy whirl by in his father’s arms, and he saw a frown beginning on her face.

  “I…I…” he stammered, “don’t seem to…”

  “New Jersey?” the girl prompted. “Flemington? The wedding? Don’t you remember? Oh, how we danced!”

  Dimly, Carella remembered a wedding years and years ago. God, he must have been eighteen and yes, there was a redhead, a slender, bosomy girl of seventeen, and yes, he’d danced with her all night, and yes, her name was Faye, and oh my God!

  “Hello, Faye,” he said weakly.

  “Come!” Faye commanded. “Dance with me! You don’t mind, do you, Mrs. Carella?”

  “No,” Louisa said, “but…” and she shot an apprehensive glance across the floor to Teddy, who was craning her neck over her shoulder to observe any new developments.

  Faye pulled Carella to her. She threw her left arm up around his neck and Carella was overpowered by the scent of a heady perfume that drifted into his nostrils. Faye put her cheek against his.

  “How have you been, Steve?” she asked.

  And Carella answered, “Married.”

  Across the floor, Ben Darcy cut in on Tommy Giordano. Tommy, surprised, did not relinquish his bride for a moment.

  “Come on,” Ben said, smiling. “You’ve got to share the wealth.”