Losers Live Longer hcc-59

by Russell Atwood

  “Do you.”

  “I know your secret, Payton.”

  “I’m really the Green Lantern?”

  Matt shook his head sagely.

  “You think you’re a detective in a detective story.”

  His voice bounced off the dank concrete walls and echoed through the shadows of the parking garage. It sounded more ominous than he probably intended.

  I said, “I…”

  “Payton, you think you live your life by this sort of code of behavior, but you’re only fucking playing at it. You and guys like Owl have outdated ideas about what’s right and wrong—but him I could forgive, he was a dinosaur, he lived it. You, you’re just aping old movies.”

  I’d about had my fill of this reunion.

  “You, Matt? You can forgive Owl? You shoved him in front of a car! And why, to stop him from coming to see me? What did you think he wanted to talk to me about? Or tell me? What made you kill him?”

  “Actually, I didn’t mean to,” he said absently. “Kill Owl? Nothing I would’ve ever fucking dreamed of doing. He brought me up in this business. I loved him. But you know, shit happens.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “After the party where Wales bought it, I picked up Cassidy’s trail. I followed her to Avenue C, waited for her outside Addison’s place, watched that fucking stoop till seven in the goddamn morning, and then who does she come out with but George Rowell? It was like something outta a fucking dream, where you think of an old friend you’ve been dying to see in forever, and there they are. And there he was. But holy fuck was he with the wrong woman.”

  “So you followed them to his hotel,” I said. “Only you must’ve been a little clumsy, because he picked up on the fact that he had a tail.”

  “I wasn’t clumsy, asswipe. Owl was good.”

  “Well, you must’ve been good, too, because he didn’t know it was you following him. That’s what he wanted my help for—flushing out who was tailing him. Nothing more.”

  Matt seemed to only half-hear me. When he spoke, it was almost to himself. “He figured it out, y’know. At the end. I tried to fake it when I walked up to him, a big smile, what a surprise. But he wasn’t fooled. I saw it in his eyes. Somehow he’d put it all together, out of nothing, like pulling it out of the air. He really was the best of all of us, just a great fucking detective. But he never really got it. The way life works when the chips are down. I mean, there I am, looking for a car coming fast down the road trying to beat the yellow, and he’s explaining to me the whole time why he has no choice, he’s got to turn me in. Can you believe it? Never saw what was coming.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to see.”

  “At least he went out on the job. That’s the way he always wanted to go. Always said so. So he got his wish.”

  I said, “You’ve got to listen to yourself.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t fucking understand, Payton. You and that poor old fool. I could never make you see it. You don’t know what it’s like for me. Especially now. You don’t know what it’s like to be a father. It changes everything. There was no way I was going to have my family’s future threatened by someone’s principles.”

  Like every asshole he’d ever collared, Matt had cooked up a rationale for all his actions, a way of convincing himself he wasn’t just doing what he wanted or what he had to but what was right. And who could argue with it? If it came down to me or his beautiful infant son, who was he supposed to choose? I mean, really, what did I expect?

  Matt said, “You asked me before, how much and was it worth it. It came to just under four million dollars. Three million seven hundred eighty thousand. Cash. I’d never seen that much in my lifetime. If I hadn’t done what I’ve done, I wouldn’t have that to pass on to my family. As soon as I saw all that money in the suitcases, I knew I’d done the right thing. It was such a fucking relief, knowing it wasn’t for nothing. Knowing it was worth it. Does that satisfy you, Payton?”

  “Not really,” I said. “Like how’d you manage to buy this place, a property this size in Manhattan for less than four million? How’d you ever persuade the previous owner to take less than market value?”

  He didn’t say anything, just stared at me with a combination of sheepishness and pride on his face. Then he unrolled one more finger on his freehand.

  “You got any other burning questions?” he said.

  “Yeh,” I said. “Was it you who sicced Moe Fedel on me after all?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Hell.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You had me believing you hadn’t.”

  “You wanted to believe, Payton. That’s you in a nutshell. You want to believe.”

  “I don’t want to believe you killed all these people.”

  “Oh fuck, Payton, throw that in my face.”

  “And what are you throwing in my face? What do you expect me to do, Matt? What choice do I have?”

  “You want a choice. Okay, okay. Here goes. A solid half million dollars in cash. Hundred dollar bills. Think about it, Payton. You will never see that much money if you live to be two hundred. So really think, okay? And I don’t mean think of a clever Deal Or No Deal comeback, jack-off. Think what’s really at stake here.”

  He made a good pitch. And he was right. I lived in a world of penny rolls and crumpled one dollar bills. I literally couldn’t even conceive of that much money being mine. It defied my imagination.

  Ultimately, I had to tell him I accepted his offer. His choice was no choice. The problem was keeping a straight face as I did it.

  “So what’s it going to be, Payton?”

  “I don’t know. Right now I feel like I’m in your shoes, Matt, faced with the same problem you were, whether or not to latch onto somebody I figure is going down no matter what I say or do. You gotta know it’s only a question of time. Seven bodies, man—that’s a lot for anyone to sweep under the rug.

  “But I guess they won’t get you today and probably not tomorrow, and who knows, maybe you’ll find some way to pull it off. If anyone can… So sure, what the hell, I’d love a half million bucks. It’ll keep the draft out.”

  “So, what, is that yes or a no?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fuck, then say yes! That’s all I want to hear, yes or no.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah, I got it now,” Matt said. “Just one thing.”

  He nudged Elena, so she toppled over, landing on her side.

  “Kill her.”

  “Wha—no—what are you talking about?”

  “Seal the deal. C’mon, why you think I let you keep your gun?”

  “Let me keep…?”

  “Do this, we’re solid. I’ll have something on you as bad as what you’ve got on me.”

  “You’re nuts, Matt.”

  “Maybe. Choose.”

  “I’m not going to kill her.”

  Elena was squealing. Her eyes were wide with terror, flicking from my gun to Matt’s and back. I lowered mine.

  That was a mistake.

  Matt swung his up to point directly at my chest.

  “Eh—Payton—eh! Not a twitch. Pray as you like, but don’t genuflect ’less you’re done.”

  He lifted the barrel higher and leveled it at my face. He started walking toward me, taking slow steps like a duelist measuring off his ten paces.

  You never really see a gun for what it is until you stare down the muzzle of one in someone else’s hands, watch it come closer, closer, till it fills your line of sight. You watch, knowing it’s about to spit flame, that the split-second explosion will be the last thing you ever see. You know a bullet’s coming as soon as you blink, so you don’t blink. You freeze. Grow old looking at it. If it’s a big gun, you mark how small it looks. And if it’s a small gun, my, how big it looks. An enormous maw about to swallow your head.

  I concentrated on that black hole approaching me. I didn’t blink. It became my whole world, my past future present. Funny that something so small could ma
gnify and become huge, big enough to blot out the sun. It seemed to be sucking at me like a puncture hole in a pressurized cabin. I waited for it, knowing the moment I let my eyes shut I was done…

  How quiet it was. Except for my heartbeat and Matt’s footsteps, there was no sound at all. Which was odd, actually. There should have been another sound, there had been one before, Elena’s muffled sobs. Glancing down, I realized I no longer saw her prostrate shape in the periphery of my vision.

  Matt read something in my eyes, but he didn’t waver, didn’t look behind him. Maybe he thought I was pulling some trick to distract him. He gave me too much credit.

  When I saw the movement behind him, I forced my eyes to lock on his, did my damnedest to hold him, make him focus on me. Not on the sliver of Sayre Rauth I could see behind him shifting her weight and raising her right arm out in front of her.

  She fired. The .22’s dainty reports, even in the echo chamber of the parking garage, were like birthday balloons popping. The barrel gave off puffs of confectioners’ sugar.

  Matt fell against me and I felt the slam of one of the bullets ripping through him. Then another, and a wetness like a sea mist on my face, only hot as molten wax. I clenched my lips against the animal urge to lick it away from my mouth.

  She made no song and dance of it. Four times she shot him in the back, one got him in the neck.

  I sidestepped his weight against me, shedding him like an overcoat. He landed on his face. I wiped mine on my sleeve.

  Sayre lowered her gun, her cunning, little silver gun, the one that killed Windmann, the one I told her she should ditch. Thank god she’d ignored my advice.

  She had dragged Elena over to one side, propped her against the concrete wall. I went and untied her, for something to do.

  She gulped a free breath, her eyes tearing up. “He kill George,” she said, “and Jeff—” She started to cry.

  Sayre came over and put her arms around her, helping her to her feet. They walked together to the stairs.

  I checked on Matt, but there was no more Matt, only a silent body, a mound of lifeless meat on the ground. I patted his pockets but couldn’t find his cell. Finally grabbed a handful of coat lapel and heaved. Rolling him as easy as shifting a flood-sodden sandbag.

  I found his cell phone, turned it on. A brightly lit animation appeared on the screen—crisp, vibrant—and the phone tootled a snappy tune. The first stored number was labeled JEANNE. I didn’t call it.

  Instead I dialed 911. After the call, I slid the phone back inside Matt’s jacket pocket and rolled him back onto his face. I draped the belt with the gold coins in it over him. They would add weight to the story I’d tell the cops. Besides, they were his. If any man had earned his spoils, it was Matt. Then I went down to wait at street level for the cops to arrive.

  The sidewalk was empty, both directions, not even a derelict or a roving wolf-pack of pumped-up ’bangers in sight. No sign of Sayre or Elena either. Disappeared into darkness together, the hard black-blue night.

  I looked over at the East River, and the lights of Brooklyn beyond, and—

  Cried my eyes out.

  Only the sound of sirens brought me back. Wet goop was running down my cheeks. The night looked crystal clear and everything was starry.

  The siren’s wail didn’t sound far off, but its crybaby cry grew fainter, not louder, more distant, farther away. Not my ride, someone else’s emergency. It was first come, first serve in the big city.

  Me and my dead had to wait our turn.

  THE END.

  But here is a BONUS Payton Sherwood mystery story,

  “East Village Noir”

  (originally published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, July 1997)

  ***

  New York City, 1997

  Finding a teenage runaway in New York City is easy. The hard part is finding the one you're looking for.

  I was in my office/apartment at the computer, hooked up to the Department of Justice's database, downloading a file on evidence seizure for a lawyer friend, when call-waiting interrupted the transfer. My modem crackling, I switched the phone cord and picked up the receiver.

  They were calling from a payphone at Veselka's deli three blocks down. Walter and Louise Strich had come to the city to find their daughter Melissa. After a day of looking on their own, they wanted me to find her.

  I asked them to pick me up a coffee—dark, three sugars—and come right over. My place was a mess but there was enough time to empty the ashtrays, fold the couch bed, and gather all the dirty glasses into the sink. I met them at the top of the stairs.

  Mr. Strich said, "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Mr. Sherwood."

  "Thank you for the coffee." He waved away the dollar I offered. "Please come in."

  It took them awhile to get it all out, but my guest chairs are comfortable and I was patient. Their story was a familiar one:

  Melissa Strich, fifteen, had left her home in Keene, New Hampshire five months before, in mid-April, telling a friend she was going to Manhattan to be with her boyfriend, Gary Stadnicki, a would-be guitar player. The New Hampshire police's efforts to locate either Melissa or Stadnicki had turned up nothing; Stadnicki's last known address had been a squatter's building on East 13th Street that the NYPD had evacuated for demolition the previous week.

  For five months the Strichs didn't hear from their daughter. Then, two days ago, Tuesday, she called asking for enough money to get her home. So happy to hear her voice, they didn't pressure her for details, just wired the hundred dollars where she told them to, a Western Union on Avenue A, the Lower East Side. The next day, when there was no word from her, the Strichs checked with Western Union and discovered the money hadn't been claimed. Not knowing what else to do, frantic after so many months of worrying, they left their home before dawn the next morning and drove the six hours to New York. By 10 A.M. they were parked in front of the Western Union on Avenue A. They watched all day, but their daughter never came for the money.

  I asked Mr. Strich what kind of car they drove.

  Mrs. Strich answered. "You can see it from your window, Mr. Sherwood. The stationwagon on the corner."

  I craned back and, through the wide oval window overlooking 12th Street and 2nd Avenue, saw a pale blue stationwagon parked across the street. It had New Hampshire license plates and, sitting on its hood, a rangy hooker—probably little older than the Strichs' daughter—applying badly needed flesh tone to her face.

  "Your daughter could've picked your car out from five blocks away," I said. "You may have scared her off."

  "Our daughter's not scared of us," Mr. Strich said, almost a challenge.

  "But we didn't know what else to do," Louise Strich said. "I got so desperate I started stopping people on the street, showing them Missy's picture, asking if they'd seen her."

  She handed me the photograph, a head and shoulders shot of Melissa taken the year before: round hazel eyes, cornsilk hair fluffed back, feather earrings brushing her long, slender neck. She was hugging a golden retriever. If she'd been roughing it on the street for five months, I wondered if even her own mother would recognize her now.

  "Some people wouldn't even stop," Louise Strich said. "But...then there were these children sitting by—"

  "Children!?" her husband groaned. "One was shaved bald. A tattoo of a bat on his forehead. I couldn't believe she went over to 'em."

  Mrs. Strich set the record straight. "They were very polite. I showed them Missy's picture, but they said they didn't know her."

  I shrugged. "They probably wouldn't have told you if they did. These kids are down here living on the streets for a lot of different reasons; some are just slumming rich kids, playing homeless. Others are fugitives from their families, running from abusers, hiding out."

  "But listen, Mr. Sherwood, when we got back to the car, the one with the bat on his head came over. He said that he did know Missy and where she was."

  "He knew your daughter?"

  "He kne
w she was from New Hampshire."

  "He could've gotten that from your license plates."

  She looked unsure.

  "But he said he could go and get her for us, if only..."

  Her voice trailed off.

  I could see what was coming next. "How much did you give him?"

  Mr. Strich answered, disgusted. "Fifty dollars!"

  "But he needed it," his wife insisted. "He owed money to the person she was staying with and he—"

  "We waited over two hours," Mr. Strich said. "Then we called you."

  I nodded.

  "Is there anyone at your house in case your daughter calls?"

  "My sister's there," Walter Strich said.

  "How long do you plan to stay in the city?"

  "We don't have any plan, really." He was a little ashamed. "Do you think...how long usually do...?"

  I told them I'd have a better idea how things stood in the morning, suggested they check into a hotel for the night, and gave them the address of the Lincoln Towers on 34th Street; it had an underground garage.

  At the door, we shook hands. Their skin was cold and frail to my touch. In their watery, sleepless eyes I saw a desperation that embarrassed me. Against my better judgment I told them there was nothing to worry about, their daughter was fine.

  I'd looked for a lot of runaways since I took up the trade, first as an apprentice at Metro Security Inc. and for the last three years working freelance. The usual route was to canvass the youth hostels, shelters, and halfway houses, looking for Missy or anyone who may have seen her, but it was too late to start that process now, a little after eight P.M.

  It bothered me that Melissa never picked up the money. A hundred dollars pulled a lot of weight on the street. Something obviously prevented her from getting it; I just didn't know what. Rather than rely on my psychic powers, I put my mouth to work for an hour calling the area hospitals and asking if Melissa Strich or a Jane Doe fitting her description had been admitted in the last two days. Everywhere I called Louise Strich had preceded me. I guess calling hospitals is a parent's first reflex.

  I indulged a reflex of my own and called my "in" at the 9th Precinct on the Lower East Side.