by John Lutz
“Ask? No. I didn’t want to know.”
“But you knew.”
“I guess so.”
Still unwilling to be definite about his former partner. A good cop.
“This was when you were working narcotics?” Fedderman asked.
“Yeah. It woulda been so simple to go on the take. Drug money. Nasty stuff, floating all over the street in those days. Both of us had our offers, but we always turned them down. At least I thought we both did. It wasn’t easy.”
“They know how to make it hard,” Fedderman said. “Then when you take that first shitty dollar they own you.”
“Maybe they owned Galin. That’s all I’m saying, is maybe.”
“But you think the odds are pretty good,” Quinn said.
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Got anybody in mind who might have had Galin in his pocket?”
“Maybe. A dealer name of Vernon Lake. I couldn’t tell you why I think that. Just the way they talked or looked at each other sometimes, like they shared a secret. Hey, this was all a long time ago. I don’t even know if Lake’s still around. These guys have got life expectancies like fruit flies.”
“Where’d Lake sell?”
“All over, but mostly down in the Village. Best friend of lots of college kids that hit the clubs down there.”
“He live in the Village?”
“Doubt it. They don’t like fouling their own nests. I think he lived over in Brooklyn or Queens. Far enough away so the heat wouldn’t singe him.”
“Did it strike you that Galin had a lifestyle beyond a cop’s salary?”
Holstetter stared into his coffee cup, then looked up and met Quinn’s gaze. “Yes and no. I mean, he had a modest enough house, didn’t wear flashy or expensive clothes, or spend his vacations in Europe. But he had a Rolex watch, said it was a knockoff he bought down on Canal Street. I think it was genuine, worth over twenty thou.”
“President?” Fedderman asked.
“Huh?”
“That’s the expensive Rolex.”
“Probably was. It had diamonds for numbers. Looked real to me, like the gold looked real. He didn’t wear it all the time, just when he was trying to impress somebody. We’d go out at night sometimes, talk up women in bars or restaurants. Seldom led anywhere, though, except to trouble for me once. I think Galin just wanted to show off, know he could score if he wanted to.”
“He never did score?”
“Couple of times. Not in any way meaningful. He’d throw money around, flash the watch and his gold cufflinks. He did have a few suits and jackets that’d put a strain on a cop’s salary.”
“He wasn’t wearing an expensive watch when he was shot,” Quinn said. “And there wasn’t all this gold or a Rolex in his dresser drawers or mentioned when we talked to his wife.”
Holstetter grinned. “June wouldn’t have known about that stuff. Galin was planning on a life beyond early retirement that didn’t include her.”
“According to her, they were happy enough,” Fedderman said.
“Maybe they were. Maybe Joe changed his mind. Life’s complicated.”
“We were talking about that on the drive over here,” Fedderman said.
“Complicated as…shit,” Holstetter said.
Quinn knew that for a fact. The most profound things in life happened in a place beyond words and easy explanations, behind a thick, impenetrable curtain. Now and then the curtain parted slightly to allow a glimpse. Sometimes it was horrifying.
“I never dreamed I’d ever be sitting someplace ratting out my dead partner,” Holstetter said, “but it seems like the only thing I can do if I want his killer brought down.”
“Always the rock and the hard place,” Quinn said.
“Ain’t that the damned truth?”
Quinn figured Holstetter had said all he was going to say that might be useful. He knew where the conversation was going now. It was time to leave. He’d been in these maudlin cop confabs too many times over the years. All that was missing here were the doughnuts.
“Death can be complicated, too,” Fedderman said, joining in the glum philosophizing.
“Until you get right up to it,” Holstetter said. “Then it’s simple.”
17
Hettie didn’t exactly feel drunk. But it was a feeling close to being drunk. Maybe drunk with love.
She giggled.
“You okay?” he asked, raising his head so he could look down into her eyes.
They were in her bed, she realized, not even recalling how they’d gotten there. It seemed only minutes since they’d entered her apartment. She could barely remember walking from the lounge. He’d had her arm. She’d felt dizzy, disoriented, almost as if she were floating, being led, her feet not quite in contact with the ground. That was all she remembered, and how insubstantial and small she’d felt. No, wait…Hadn’t there been a subway ride? She seemed to recall the sound, the roaring, clacking, steely clamor. Maybe she’d dozed off. Subways always made her drowsy.
Anyway, here they were. She was on her back. He’d been tickling her right nipple with his tongue.
“Okay,” she said. “ ’Cept you stopped to talk.”
“No problem,” he said with a smile, and resumed paying extraordinarily close and gentle attention to her nipple.
“You slip something in my drink?” she asked, not angrily, but in a have-you-been-naughty tone of voice.
“Uh-uh. Did you slip something in mine?”
She giggled again.
They were nude. She did recall how they’d removed each other’s clothes, slowly, with soft caresses and frequent kisses. That had been his idea. A good one. This man was full of good ideas.
She lay with her eyes half closed, feeling his hand creep down along her stomach. She’d had no idea the flesh of her stomach was so sensitive. Down, down, closer, closer…when he began manipulating her she heard her own moan as if from a distance. How good he was at this! How he seemed to work his fingers in rhythms she rode up, up, up and then swiftly down…and then up again, each peak of emotion higher than the last. A knowing touch, gently tracing out the circular designs of a desire that turned her in on herself and consumed her very soul. The window air conditioner continued humming softly like an engine of her passion. A controlled and insidious sound. Irresistible…relentless…
She felt his softly circling fingers move away.
“No…” a woman pleaded, not wanting him to stop, knowing what would happen next. Her own voice. She pleaded again.
Not as if she really meant it.
You’re not fooling anyone, she said in her mind to the woman with her voice. Why don’t you just be honest?
He entered her slowly at first, unfolding her like a flower so she wouldn’t be injured. In and out slightly then, not far, not far, twice, three times, no pain…and he was all the way into her in a single lengthened stroke that left her breathless.
She began to say something as he began a slow and rhythmic rocking motion that caused the headboard to bump against the wall. Without breaking rhythm, he kissed her on the lips, using his tongue, stilling her words. She had no idea what she’d been about to say.
Not that it mattered.
In the morning he was gone.
Hettie reached over and ran the flat of her hand over cool sheet, then the cool pillowcase.
She felt a stab of loneliness, then of guilt.
One date. That had been all it had taken to get into her pants and beyond. What must he think of her?
If he thought of her at all.
She’d slept all night in the raw and was cool now. While the morning outside was warm, the air conditioner had been set on high and was running hard, winning its battle against summer. Hettie had goose bumps. She pulled the thin sheet up beneath her chin and stared at the ceiling.
Get up. Take a shower. Wash last night away.
In truth she remembered little about how he’d somehow talked her into bringing him to her
apartment. Letting him stay, then sleeping with her. Or had she talked him into it?
They’d talked a while after arriving; she did have some recollection of that, snatches of memory. He’d been interested in her apartment, in the exercise area behind a folding screen in a corner of her bedroom. She remembered him effortlessly chinning himself a few times on the chinning bar. It was a collapsible piece of equipment, the bar set up firmly on a tubular steel frame, and would support much more weight than Hettie demanded of it. He’d been pretending to test the bar but really showing off for her. And he had plenty to show off. He was average-sized but extremely muscular, no stranger to working out.
About their lovemaking she remembered everything.
Or did she?
The smile that had started to form on her face faded. What wonderful things might she not be recalling?
Don’t be absurd.
The sheets still smelled of sex. Leave that behind you. New day.
But she didn’t want to forget everything about last night. That’s where the guilt crept in.
One cheap date!
She sat up in bed, and it was as if a headache had been waiting for her to make a move. It slammed her hard. The ache behind her eyes made her clench them shut.
Squinting, she climbed out of bed, felt the cool hardwood floor beneath her bare soles, and padded toward the bathroom.
Her gaze fell on her wristwatch on the corner of the dresser. Nine fifteen.
Jesus, what’s he done to me? He…?
She realized she still didn’t know his name. My God, what a whore!
At least he didn’t leave a wad of bills on the dresser. Not that I couldn’t use it…
A loud knocking on the door made her heart skip. Was he back?
Not likely. Ever. He got what he came for.
Hettie changed course, went back into the bedroom, and found her white terry-cloth robe. She slipped it on and tied the sash, then on the way to the apartment door ducked into the tiny bathroom and did what she could to rearrange her hair so she didn’t look like an escapee from Bedlam.
More knocking. Even louder.
She went to the door, peeked through the spy hole, and saw a man in a light-colored shirt cradling a long white box in his arm.
Leaving the chain on, she opened the door a few inches and peered out.
Big guy, dark mustache, a potato for a nose.
He smiled at her. “Flowers for Hettie Davis. That you?”
“It’s me.”
“Gonna open the door so I can deliver these, get you to sign for them?”
“Who are they from?”
“I don’t know.” He opened the box and held it so she could see inside. Pink roses. Lush and beautiful against soft white tissue. A dozen of them. “There’s a card, but it’s inside an envelope.” He shifted his weight and glanced at his watch. “Listen, lady, I don’t blame you for being scared. Hasn’t been that long ago a white florist’s box meant a dangerous killer to most of the women in New York. But I ain’t no serial killer. This is on the level, and I’ve got lots more deliveries.”
“Of course. Just a minute.” She closed the door, then went to where she kept tip money in the kitchen and got two one-dollar bills. She went back to the door and removed the chain, then opened the door.
These are from him. They must be!
She accepted the flowers and tipped the deliveryman, who gave her another smile and left, his descending footfalls clattering on the wooden stairs. As she closed and relocked her apartment door, she heard the street door down below whoosh open, then close.
After laying the box on the kitchen table, she opened it and fumbled to remove the small white envelope attached to a stem with a white ribbon tied in a bow. She opened the unsealed flap and withdrew the stiff white card, holding it to the light so she could make out the handwriting in dark blue ink.
Sorry I had to leave early.
Last night was too wonderful not to repeat. I’ll call you soon to see if you agree.
There was no signature.
A weight lifted from Hettie, and her headache magically disappeared. She still didn’t know his name, but he’d call, surely, or he wouldn’t have bothered sending flowers. Maybe he was married. Wanted by the police. On the run from the Mafia. She didn’t care. She’d be waiting for him with open arms, not to mention legs.
Don’t think that way, whore.
But she was grinning, immune from insults even from herself.
She found a tall glass vase for the flowers, and after arranging them, hastily placed them in the center of the small Formica table. Then she put some coffee on to brew and plodded back toward the bathroom to shower.
The needles of warm water on her breasts rekindled her desire.
Of course it would be nice if she had his name, but you took what you could get in this mixed-up and too-often-disappointing world. He’d already revealed so much of himself to her that eventually he’d tell her his name. She could wait. Hettie was patient, and maybe on the very edge of a love affair like none she’d ever known.
18
The late-morning sun beat down on Queens from a cloudless sky, shortening tempers as well as stark shadows. Already the temperature was almost ninety. As she drove, Pearl watched the people on the littered sidewalks, reading their faces and body language. Some of them trudged along looking beaten and resigned. Others scowled and swaggered, with fixed glares suggesting they were near the breaking point. Heat and the city.
Pearl was driving a dusty black four-door Ford. To anyone with a knowing eye it was obviously a city car.
A middle-aged man with a stomach paunch straining the silky material of a blindingly violet shirt glanced over at her from the sidewalk and frowned. What the hell are you doing here, in my neighborhood? Pearl gave him her dead-eyed look, but he continued to stare, unimpressed, as he absently unwrapped a piece of candy or stick of gum and tossed the wrapper on the sidewalk. That irritated Pearl. She considered stopping the car and bracing the arrogant bastard for littering. And that shirt must be in violation of some ordinance.
Forget it. Bigger fish to fry.
She turned up the blower on the car’s air conditioner and made a left turn. In the rearview mirror she caught a glimpse of the guy in the luminescent shirt standing and staring at her with his fists on his hips. Prick.
Pearl pulled the car to the curb diagonally across the street from Pizza Rio. It was almost eleven o’clock. She was hungry enough to eat a pizza, so somebody else would soon crave an early lunch and pick up the phone to order takeout. Then one of the two teenage boys lounging near the bike rack across the street would place a cardboard box in a warmer on the wide basket on one of the ratty bicycles and leave to make a delivery. Pearl hoped it would be the shorter, heavier of the two, leaving her to talk privately with the tall one, who must be Jorge Valento. Knowing she was a movie buff like himself, Quinn had told Pearl to look for Sal Mineo. From this distance, the tall one filled the bill.
Pearl settled in, leaving the car’s engine idling and the air conditioner on high. Even with the windows up she could smell the spicy scent of pizza being baked. It was making her hungry.
The two boys by the bike rack didn’t seem to notice her. Jorge leaned with his back against the brick wall, his hands in the pockets of his baggy, torn jeans. Now and then he casually spat off to his left, away from the bikes. The shorter kid was doing all the talking, all the time jumping around a lot like a junkie needing a fix.
After about fifteen minutes, the jumpy one was suddenly still, and Jorge raised his head with a sideways tilt. Apparently a buzzer or some other kind of signal had sounded.
Pearl was in luck. It was the short boy who scurried into Pizza Rio and emerged almost immediately with a large, padded black pizza warmer. He used bungee cords to strap it to the wire basket behind a bicycle seat, then mounted the bike and rode off, standing on the pedals and leaning out over the handlebars as he gained speed.
Good at his job, Pearl t
hought, which meant she might not have much time. She switched off the ignition and climbed out of the car.
Not moving from where he leaned against the wall, Jorge observed the woman from the car approaching in the corner of his vision. When she was within about ten feet, he pushed himself away from the wall and turned toward her.
Nice-looking piece, he thought. Compact, trim, good legs, great rack. Nice face on her, too. Long dark hair that’d be fun to yank on. Dark eyes. Maybe she was Hispanic, as he was. A sister. He might play that angle.
No, now that she was closer she looked Jewish. That was okay, too. It just required different moves.
He knew he had a beautiful smile. He aimed it at her.
“You’re a cop,” he said.
She didn’t change expression. Not much would surprise this one.
She flashed her shield. “I’m Detective Kasner.”
“And I’m not.” Play wise ass with her, see how she reacts.
She seemed about to yawn. “You’re Jorge Valento.”
It kind of bothered him that the bitch knew his name. “How’d you know?”
“I came to talk to you about Joseph Galin, the man whose body was found here in a parked car night before last.”
He made it a point to meet her direct stare, and then blatantly looked her up and down, lewdly appraising her.
She looked only mildly irritated.
“I don’t know much about that,” he said.
“Sure you do.”
“I told everything I know to another cop, yesterday.”
“Not everything.”
“Who says?”
“Homicide Detective Frank Quinn.”
“That the cop I talked to yesterday? Old icicle eyes?”
“Uh-hm. Those eyes are the windows to his soul.”
“So why should I tell you anything I didn’t tell him?”
“It’d be a lot easier to tell me. You see, in Quinn’s mind, me asking you is just like him asking you. When people lie or refuse to talk to me, which is to say him, he gets impatient.”
Jorge remembered the big cop, Quinn, the large hands with their knobby, scarred knuckles. Not a young guy, but you just knew he could still be mean, and that it was his way sometimes. Jorge felt nervous. It had to show. He mentally put his mask back on, rearranging his facial muscles so he looked bored.
