by Parnell Hall
TONY: “What’s that?”
PLUTO: “How the hell’d he get on to us in the first place?”
TONY: “I don’t know.”
PLUTO: “Yeah. Well, I do. Murphy fucked up.”
TONY: “Murphy’s a civilian.”
PLUTO: “Yeah, well he fucked up.”
TONY: “Yeah, but Murphy doesn’t know enough to fuck up.”
PLUTO: “Maybe not, but he did. This guy got in through Murphy. Now Murphy may be a civilian, but he knew Albrect was making the run. He may not have known why or what for, but he knew Albrect was doing something for us. And somehow, some way, Murphy let this guy in.”
A pause.
TONY: “I’m not sure what you’re saying.”
PLUTO: “I’m saying Murphy may be a civilian, but he’s become somewhat of a liability, you know what I mean?”
TONY: “Yeah.”
PLUTO: “I gotta make a call. I gotta call Ospina.”
I should have switched to the telephone tape, but I couldn’t. I was hypnotized, transfixed by what I was hearing. I just sat there, unbelieving, as Pluto dialed the phone.
PLUTO: “Hello, let me talk to Angelo. . . Hello, Angie, Victor. . . I got a problem. . . with the last shipment. . . No, it’s not your problem, it’s my problem. At least, I don’t think it’s your problem. I think it’s at my end. If it is, I take full responsibility. If it turns out it’s at your end, we can make an adjustment later, O.K.?. . . Yeah. Good. . . Well, it’s like the Albrect thing, only worse. . . We got ripped off. . . The whole shipment. . . I tell you, I take responsibility. Only the problem goes a little deeper than that. I mean, the whole operation could be in jeopardy. . . Yeah. So I could use a little help. . . Yeah, like with Albrect. So can you put Pedro on a plane. . . Yeah. . . One or two. At least one, right away, but there’s a second, and the second is the important one Tonight?. . . O.K.. . . Have him call with the flight number and Carlos will pick him up at the airport. . . great. . . I’ll keep you posted.”
There was the sound of Pluto replacing the receiver.
PLUTO: “All set. Pedro will fly in tonight. Carlos, you pick him up at the airport like before.”
TDU: “Sure, boss.”
PLUTO: “Tony, you’ll have to coordinate this.”
TONY: “Me?”
PLUTO: “Yeah. Murphy’s your boy. You’ll have to point him out. Take Pedro there in the morning, and point him out on his way to work.”
TONY: “O.K.”
PLUTO: “He can’t do it then, though. This can’t be a quick hit and run. It’s gotta be a message, like the other two. We gotta give the fuck who ripped us off something to think about. So after you finger Murphy, bring Pedro back here. He can pick him up when he leaves work. He can get him at home, in a restaurant bathroom, or a parking lot, that’s no problem, we leave that to Pedro, he knows his job.”
TONY: “I know.”
PLUTO: “Then we nail that other son of a bitch.”
There was more, but it was all along the same lines. I listened to it all, and shut the machine off.
Despite what I had just heard, I was remarkably calm. I’d dreaded hearing the tape, but now that I’d heard it it wasn’t that bad. I mean it was that bad, but the realization wasn’t as bad as the anticipation had been. At least I knew exactly what they were going to do.
And, finally, I had a plan.
31.
MURPHY WAS SMILING ALL OVER his face as he ushered me into his inner office.
“Mr. Armstrong, how nice to see you again.”
“That’s fine,” I told him. “But the name’s not Armstrong. I’m a private detective, and I’m investigating the Albrect murder. Incidentally, your buddies weren’t too pleased about you bringing me around their little establishment, so they’ve put out a contract on you. Aside from that, how are you?”
Murphy turned white as a sheet, and sank down onto his couch. I went over to the bar and poured him a brandy, just as he’d done for me the time before. He took it and drank it with trembling hands.
“What are you talking about?” Murphy said, when he’d recovered his power of speech.
“Your friends want to kill you. Tony Arroyo and the boys. They killed Albrect, in case you didn’t know. They think you can tie them to it. They also blame you for bringing me to the casino. Corny as it sounds, they’ve hired a hit man. They’re going to kill you. Unless you have no objection to being discovered in a parking lot tomorrow morning with your dick in your mouth, I suggest you listen carefully do exactly what I say.”
32.
AT FIVE THAT AFTERNOON I was sitting in my car outside Fabri-Tec Inc. with a bulge in my hip pocket. The bulge wasn’t a gun—the only gun I had was the Luger, and with or without bullets, I didn’t think it would be any match for Pedro, even if I could bring myself to fire it, which I knew I couldn’t. The bulge was made by the sap, or cosh, or blackjack, or whatever-the-hell it is thugs use to knock each other out with when they’re not using the butt of a gun. I’d picked it up at a pawnshop earlier that afternoon. I felt funny when I bought it, and I felt funny having it in my pocket, but I needed something. It felt strangely reassuring too, just to know it was there. Christ, am I getting macho? Not likely. Just stupid. Pedro had a gun and ate people like me for breakfast. So what the hell was I doing with a sap?
All this was running through my head when I spotted Murphy leaving work. He stepped straight out into the street and hailed a cab, just as I’d instructed him. As the cab pulled out, a dark sedan pulled out from between two trucks and fell in behind.
I’ll say this for Pedro. He was good. I’d been looking for his stakeout and hadn’t spotted him. I knew for sure he wasn’t sitting in that car, because I’d driven by it checking out the block fifteen minutes earlier. And I hadn’t seen him anywhere on the street. But somehow, between the time Murphy left the building and hailed the cab, he’d managed to get to his car.
I let two taxis go for insurance, then pulled out and fell in behind.
Murphy was following my instructions to the letter. He was scared not to. He headed for the East Side, and turned up Third Avenue.
I’m slow on the uptake, I must admit. In fact, at times I am more than a little bit dense. But it wasn’t until we turned up Third Avenue, that I consciously realized that what I was doing was exactly what Albrect had asked me to do not two weeks ago, when I had turned him down, when I had told him in no uncertain terms how unqualified I was for the job.
I wasn’t any more qualified now. And I wasn’t any braver. If anything, I was twice as scared. But I sure as fuck had motivation.
Murphy’s cab pulled up in front of a fairly posh restaurant, again following my suggestion. He paid off the cab and got out. I wondered how Pedro would handle the situation. There was no parking anywhere to be seen. But Pedro just pulled up and double-parked. I should have known. Hit men don’t sweat parking violations. If he got towed, he’d take a cab home. Probably write the towing charges off as a business expense. Well, if you can, I can. I double-parked and got out in time to see Pedro follow Murphy into the restaurant. I got a good look at him as he went in the door. It was my old friend, Floridian #1.
I went in the front door. It was just after five and the place was just beginning to fill up. There was no line. A waitress had just shown Murphy to a table. Another waitress was guiding Pedro to a table on the other side of the room. A third waitress descended on me.
“One,” I said.
The waitress frowned. I wondered if she were suspicious, but immediately dismissed the thought. A sudden influx of single diners just at rush hour meant lousy tips, that was all.
I saw Murphy order a drink, which I was sure he needed. Pedro did the same. I ordered a seltzer.
The drinks arrived and Murphy gulped his down. He was trying hard not to look at me, and even harder not to look at Pedro. He ordered shrimp scampi. I couldn’t hear what Pedro said to the waitress, but I couldn’t help wondering what one ordered before cutting so
meone’s dick off. I ordered a tournedos bearnaise. If I’d been less petrified I might have had a tinge of regret knowing that I’d never get to eat it.
Murphy got up and headed for the john. He disappeared through a curtained hallway at the far end of the room. Pedro waited about thirty seconds, then followed. I followed right behind.
Pedro opened the door of the men’s room and stepped in. I came in right behind him and brought the sap down hard on the back of his head.
Pedro went down as if he’d been shot. His legs buckled, and he sprawled, face down on the floor. His head twisted to one side, and I could see the flesh on his face begin to sag, as if his life were draining out of him.
As Pedro melted into the bathroom floor, my body suddenly felt limp and I had to grab the edge of the toilet stall to keep from falling. My head was spinning, and my vision was so fuzzy I could hardly see. I felt as if I’d been kicked in the stomach. That may seem an extreme reaction to such a simple act, but the truth is, I had never coshed anyone before. I can’t even recall ever having punched anyone before, nor can I recall ever seeing anyone go down and out from a blow to the head except, of course, in a prize fight, and even that would have been on TV, never in person. So I was not taking it particularly well.
For all that, I was still doing better than Murphy, whom I found curled up in a fetal position next to the toilet. I don’t know if he knew I was in there with him. I don’t know if he was aware of anything at all. He might have been merely waiting for the bullet.
I put my hand on his back. “Stay there,” I told him. I needn’t have bothered. He wasn’t going anyplace.
I stumbled back out of the toilet stall. Pedro lay face down on the floor. He hadn’t moved. I stepped over the body and locked the outer bathroom door, just as Pedro surely would have done if I hadn’t snuck in right behind him. Then I bent over the body.
He was alive. I could tell that at once from the shallow and raspy breathing. He was definitely out, but I couldn’t tell how long he’d be out. After all, as I said, I’d never coshed anyone before. I’d hit him hard, I knew that, and the sap was good and solid. I wondered if I’d fractured his skull. I was afraid he’d die, but I was even more afraid he’d come to.
I rolled the body over. It wasn’t easy. He must have weighed about 220 pounds. But I got him onto his back.
His right hand was inside his jacket. I tugged it out, reached inside, and pulled out his gun.
I don’t know much about guns, so I couldn’t tell the make or the caliber, or anything like that. All I knew was that it was an automatic. And that it had a silencer.
I handled the gun, as they say, on long fingers. I pushed it across the floor, being careful to keep it pointed away from me. Slowly, gingerly, I picked it up. I knew I ought to stick it in my pants, but I also knew I’d be sure to shoot my balls off. I set it against the wall, as far away from Pedro as possible. Then I went back to the body.
I figured the gun wasn’t the only weapon Pedro had on him. I was right. In his inside jacket pocket I found a straight razor, the kind that barbers use. I’d have been willing to bet you Pedro had never shaved with it. I slipped it into my jacket pocket.
Pedro was showing no signs of coming around, but neither was Murphy. I went inside the toilet stall and shook him, but I got no response. With an effort, I pulled him to his feet. He looked at me with uncomprehending eyes. I slapped him hard in the face. He blinked, staggered, said nothing.
“Murphy,” I shouted. “Snap out of it. You’re alive. Nothing happened. It’s all right. We gotta get out of here.”
Murphy looked around dazed. Then he saw Pedro lying on the floor. His knees sagged again, and I had to hold him up.
“Come on,” I said. “We’re getting out of here.”
I got him to the door and leaned him against it. Then I bent down and picked up the gun. I hated to do it, but I had to. I stuck it in my left inside jacket pocket. It stuck way the hell out, what with the silencer and all, but by keeping my left arm rigid, I was able to hold it in place. I unlocked the bathroom door, grabbed Murphy, and steered him out of there.
“All right, Murphy,” I hissed at him. “Here’s the pitch. You’re sick, and I’m helping you out of here. Just act sick.”
The dramatic coaching was totally unnecessary. Murphy was already giving a hell of a good impression.
We were conspicuous as hell going through the dining room. The two waitresses who had taken our orders hovered solicitously, as they saw their potential tips heading for the door.
“This man is sick,” I said. “I’ve got to get him to a doctor.”
I pulled a hundred dollar bill out of my pants, and handed it to one of the waitresses. “Here,” I said. “This should cover it.”
I hoped the hundred dollar bill would do the trick, but it didn’t. It was too much money. As with Rosa, it only made them suspicious. The maître d’ came rushing over.
“Is something the matter?” he said.
“This man is sick,” I repeated. “I’ve got to get him to a doctor. I gave the waitress a hundred bucks to cover the charges. Hold my order. I hope to be back to eat it. I doubt if he’ll be back for his.”
The maître d’ didn’t look convinced, but I kept moving toward the door. I had to get out of there fast, before someone used the john. Shit. I should have propped Pedro up on the toilet, the way he would have done with Murphy if he’d gotten to kill him. But I’m an amateur, and then again, Murphy didn’t weigh any 220 pounds.
I was about halfway across the room when I saw what I’d been dreading. A guy at a table against the wall was rubbernecking around the room, looking for something. I dug my elbow into Murphy’s ribs, trying to get him to hurry. He moaned slightly, but didn’t seem to pick up the pace. Shit. The guy I saw at the table was getting up. He was heading for the curtain at the back of the room.
I half lifted, half dragged Murphy through the front door. The car was still there, double-parked right outside, as was Pedro’s. Christ, we hadn’t even gotten tickets. How lucky can you get? I threw Murphy into the back seat of my car, jumped in, gunned the motor, and got the hell out of there. In the rearview mirror, I could see the maître d’ come running out onto the sidewalk. He looked excited.
I got on the FDR Drive and took it and the Harlem River Drive to the George Washington Bridge. I went over the bridge, got off at the Ft. Lee exit, and took 9W north till I found a motel. I left Murphy in the car, went in, and registered as Murray Cross from Buffalo. The clerk never batted an eye. I went back out, drove the car around to the unit, got Murphy out of the car and pushed him inside.
Murphy was a little more coherent now, perhaps having realized that he was still alive. I took out a written set of instructions I’d typed that afternoon and slapped them into his hand.
“All right,” I told him. “You’re out of danger, at least for now, but you gotta do exactly what I tell you. It’s all in the instructions, you can read them after I go. Basically, it’s this: you stay here, you don’t go out, and you don’t call anyone. Particularly, you don’t call anyone. I don’t care if there’s some girl who’s gonna think you’re dead, better she thinks you’re dead than you are dead, if you know what I mean. And don’t go out, not even for meals. They got room service here, you have your meals sent in. You stay here, watch TY and wait for my call. If I call and you’re not here, you’re in trouble, cause if Tony Arroyo doesn’t kill you I will. You got it?”
Murphy was staring at me bug-eyed. He managed to nod.
“You got any money?” I asked him.
He wet his lips. “Ah, yeah, I got some.”
“Fine,” I told him. “If you can sign for your meals, great. Your name’s Murray Cross. If you can’t and you run short, go hungry. Don’t under any circumstances get cute and use one of your credit cards. Not unless you wanna wake up with your dick in your mouth.”
I left him there, got in my car and drove home.
I’d never been so tired in my life.
MY WIFE KNEW AT ONCE something was wrong. She always does. I can never hide anything from her. I had to say something, so I told her about the double-amputee I’d photographed in Rosedale the day before. It hadn’t touched me at all, things being how they were, but I had to tell her something, so I told her how badly it had upset me.
She was all sympathy. Don’t get me wrong about my wife. She does drive me crazy with her constant exhortations to better myself, to “be all that I can be,” as the army would put it (I can never see that commercial without conjuring up the mental picture of a private on K.P. duty sitting peeling a mountain of potatoes, with the sergeant standing over him saying, “This is all that you can be”), but basically she’s a very good person and I love her very much.
After the amputee story, I told her about the flop house and the bums watching “The Newlywed Game.” I told her about the husband who was ridiculed for saying the sun rose in the east in his neighborhood, and she’d seen the same show! Not then; it was a repeat, she’d seen it years ago. But she remembered it, particularly because of the question about the sun and the east.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell her the kicker to the story, that when the client finally showed up it turned out he was the super in the building, and even though he had been injured in his own room on his own time and not while working on his job, that technically made it a workman’s compensation case, which meant there was no money in it and Richard wouldn’t take it anyway. I couldn’t tell her that, because I couldn’t tell her I had tried to get out of taking the case. But it didn’t matter, because “The Newlywed Game” thing was so funny, and we laughed about it a lot, and the end result was we wound up in bed.
But tonight it wouldn’t happen. I couldn’t get it up. Which shows you what a state of mind I was in. That’s not to say it had never happened to me before. When I was young it used to happen to me all the time. That’s because, like everything else, I was always scared of women. Scared of sex. Scared I wouldn’t be able to perform, which, of course, made me incapable of performing.
