Detective (Stanley Hastings Mystery Book 1)

by Parnell Hall

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah.” I kicked shit a little. “My car shouldn’t have been in the parking lot that night. I was supposed to be somewhere else.”

  Richard gave me his knowing, man-of-the-world look. I tried not to laugh.

  “One more thing,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know if you could do this, but if you could—”

  “What?”

  “Well, after all that trouble, I’m curious as hell to know if the bullet I found really came from the murder gun. Do you suppose there’s any way you could find out?”

  Richard grinned. “It will be my pleasure.”

  I grinned back. I probably could have liked Richard, if the little prick weren’t only 30 years old, and already well on his way to becoming a millionaire.

  37.

  I CHANGED THE TAPES AGAIN that afternoon. Maybe it was just that my escapade with Pedro made it seem tame by comparison, but this time it didn’t really bother me. I went back to my office and threaded them up.

  Most of it was just more of the same. Grousing, bellyaching, empty threats against whoever was fucking them over. I enjoyed the part when Pedro got back and related his side of what happened to the Murphy rubout. To hear him talk, I was a real pro. I tried not to get a swelled head. It was hard when he suggested there must have been more than one guy.

  Still, there was nothing particularly interesting until I got to the end of the tape. That was the phone call from Angelo Ospina, from Floridian #2. He wasn’t at all pleased with the way things were going. He was flying up the next day. He wanted to meet everyone at Pluto’s at three in the afternoon.

  38.

  YOU GOTTA GO BELLY UP, Murphy.”

  “What?”

  I was calling long distance from my office to his motel room in Jersey. I’d used the M.C.I. number because it’s cheaper, although the connection isn’t always as good. This time the connection was just fine, Murphy had heard me all right. He just wasn’t sure what I’d said.

  I was using my best tough guy lingo, an image I felt it best to promote with Murphy. To be honest, I was really doing Al Pacino in “The Godfather” telling Carlo, “You have to answer for Santino.” So I wasn’t surprised that Murphy didn’t get it.

  “You gotta roll over for the cops,” I said. “You gotta tell ’em everything.”

  “I can’t do that,” he said.

  “Yes you can. You have to.”

  “I can’t. They’ll kill me.”

  “You don’t understand, Murphy. They’re already trying to kill you. They don’t need any more motivation. Right now, it’s come down to you or them.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “You’re not a principal, Murphy. You’re not even gonna do time. You tell your story, you’ll do all right.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hey, it’s not like you had an option. Murphy. You stay where you are, you go broke. You run it’s the same thing. Maybe you think you could get away and start over, but you can’t. It doesn’t matter where you go. You got no money, and you can’t use your credit cards ’cause they’ll trace you through them. You can’t even get a job, ’cause you can’t bank on your references, ’cause you can’t use your right name. You run, you die. You come back here, they kill you. There’s only one way out for you, and I’m it. So you listen careful, and you do what I say.”

  39.

  I MET MURPHY AT THE motel the next morning. I’d typed out his confession for him the day before. I hadn’t wanted to type it on my own typewriter, knowing from detective stories that typing can be traced, so I’d gone out to a typewriter store to do it on one of the floor models. That turned out to be one of those things that works really great in the movies, but sucks in real life. To be fair, I guess in the movies they’re always typing some one-paragraph ransom note they whip in the machine and dash off, whereas I had a five-page confession, which I guess wasn’t very bright. I kept attracting the attention of salesmen, and had to keep moving from one machine to another, and the end result was the damn confession had at least five different type styles, which was gonna confuse the hell out of the police department, but there wasn’t much I could do about it, seeing as how I was lucky just to get out of there without buying a fucking typewriter.

  I went over the confession with Murphy a few times just to get him through the rough spots. There was a lot of stuff in it he didn’t even know. It didn’t matter. It didn’t have to stand up in court. It just had to be strong enough to justify the warrant.

  After I’d prepared Murphy for what he was going to do, I drove him back to Manhattan and dropped him off at a dirty-movie house with instructions to sit and stare at the screen until it was time to make his move. Under the circumstances I couldn’t think of a better place for him.

  I went back to the office to get myself ready. There was a message from Richard on the answering machine, confirming that the bullet I’d “discovered” had come from the gun that killed Albrect. I was glad to get the confirmation, but it didn’t matter. I already knew the bullet came from the gun from the way the police acted, and had been proceeding on that assumption, and, whether the confirmation had come through or not, I was going ahead. But it was nice to have.

  I got out Pedro’s gun and razor and laid them out on the table. I got out Albrect’s kilo and laid it out beside them. A nice little collection. Just the sort of thing Pluto should have.

  I called the time recording and checked my watch. Timing was going to be crucial in this thing. I wanted to go in at the last moment, so there’d be no chance of Pluto’s boys finding the plant. But I had to be damn sure to get out in time. I felt really silly checking my watch, though. I mean, I wasn’t talking seconds here. I was going to leave myself a good half hour.

  It was my one shot, and it had to work. If it didn’t, I’d never get another. Murphy’s confession would be blown. In all probability he’d wind up dead. In all probability I’d wind up dead, too. That was pretty scary, but not scary enough to stop me. Fear is relative. Not doing it was pretty scary, too.

  What I was going to do was terrifying, but quick. One way or another, it would be over. If I didn’t do it, the fear would be less intense, but perpetual. No one could live in constant fear. I know I couldn’t. So when you came right down to it, my bold move was really the coward’s way out.

  I didn’t care. Fuck the motivation. Fuck the reasons. I had to do it. It was something I simply had to do.

  And I could do it. I would do it. The wheels had been set in motion. Everything was right on schedule.

  Nothing could go wrong.

  40.

  WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU rented it?”

  The man at the theatrical costume shop shrugged. “I rented it. What can I say, I rented it.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that’s the only telephone repair outfit you have?”

  “No. I got six of ’em.”

  “So give me another one.”

  “I rented them all.”

  “You what?”

  “I rented them. Some off-Broadway revue. They gotta musical number with dancing repairmen.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Yeah, I know. Sounds like a turkey to me, too.”

  “Where’s the nearest costume house?”

  “Aw, come on, how about a Con-Ed uniform?”

  “Damnit! Where’s the nearest costume shop?”

  “Up Broadway. Four blocks.” I started for the door.

  “But you come back here,” he yelled. “I value your business.”

  I ran the four blocks. Asshole! Dumb fucking asshole! Any moron would have rented the costume first. I’d been so concerned with Murphy not blowing it that I was blowing it myself.

  The shop had no telephone repair outfit. Reluctantly the proprietor directed me to a third costume shop.

  They had one. But the guy wouldn’t hurry. Jesus Christ! Weren’t there ever emergencies where actors were trying to make the curtain? They’d h
ave missed the whole first act in this shop.

  Finally I had it. I tried it on in the shop. It was a little big, but I had no time to be fussy.

  “I can take that in for you,” the old guy said.

  I nearly punched him in the face. I threw money at him, grabbed my street clothes, and ran out the door.

  It was only 8 blocks to my car, but I hailed a cab. Seconds counted now. I’d lost my precious half hour and more, nearly 15 minutes more. Maybe I could make it up by not having to change.

  I got in my car and went through the midtown tunnel. It was jammed. Another 15 minutes lost. On the other side of the tunnel I finally passed the jackknifed tractor trailer truck that was causing all the fuss. How you jackknife coming out of a tunnel onto a toll plaza is beyond me, but the guy had managed. I gave him the finger as I went by, unnecessarily cruel, I know, but I was beginning to lose it by that point.

  I drove like hell. I’m not used to driving fast. On the job I always drive slow. That’s because a speeding ticket will wipe out the entire profit for a four hour sign-up, making the trip meaningless. A parking ticket will do it too, and I’ve had a few of those, usually when I pulled up to a phone to answer the fucking beeper. Jesus Christ, why am I thinking about that now? Just concentrate like hell and keep the car on the road.

  I sped off the L.I.E. on to the Grand Central. I took the exit ramp at 65, nearly lost it on the last curve, then straightened out, ducked in front of a semi, and shot out into traffic.

  I sailed down the Van Wyck, hoping there wouldn’t be a jam up at the airport. There wasn’t. Miracle. I shot onto the Belt Parkway, headed east.

  My car has a digital clock and the fucking thing is always accurate, so I knew when 3 o’clock came. I wasn’t even on the Southern Parkway yet, and Murphy would already be starting to spill his guts. Maybe they wouldn’t believe him at first. Maybe they’d take time. Yeah, maybe.

  But Ospina would be arriving right now. The meeting would be starting. All in all, it was a fucking mess.

  I raced down Sunrise Highway, turned south, skidded around a few turns. I almost hit a kid on a bicycle. Great. Vehicular homicide on top of everything else. Asshole.

  I slowed down for the last few turns, and suddenly there was the car. I pulled in right behind it, shut off the motor, grabbed my repair kit, and got out.

  I strode off down the road toward Pluto’s house. My pants were too big and kept falling down. The least of my worries. I reached the telephone pole. I could see in the driveway. The cars were all there, so Pedro must have gotten back from the airport. So that was that. The meeting had started. They were all inside.

  I slipped the belt on and shinnied up the pole. I was getting pretty good at it by now, and I might have made good time if it hadn’t been for my pants, which kept trying to fall down. I reached the top. I pulled the clamps from my pocket, connected them to the wires on either side of the connection. I pulled the electrical tape off, and tugged at the splice. Luckily, my splice wasn’t very good. It gave like that. Seconds later I was sliding down the pole.

  I unhooked the belt and strode up the driveway to the front door. There was no time to be scared now, which was a blessing in itself. No time for reflection. No time for thought. Just do it.

  I rang the bell. I rang five times before Tall, Dark, and Ugly opened the door. He frowned as he recognized me.

  “What the hell do you want?” he said.

  “The phone’s out again,” I told him.

  He stared at me. “What?”

  “The phone’s out. Is that so hard to understand? Your phones are out again.”

  “No they’re not. I used the phone this morning. It’s working fine.”

  “Well, it’s out now,” I told him.

  He wasn’t convinced. “I don’t understand,” he said. “We didn’t report the phone’s out.”

  “You don’t have to,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. See, what happens is, someone tries to call you and keeps getting a busy signal. Then they call the verifying operator, and the operator checks the number and finds out the phone’s out. She reports it to my department, and they send me out to fix it.”

  “Without calling first?”

  I looked at him. “What, are you nuts?”

  He thought a second. “Oh,” he said. But he still wasn’t convinced, and I had a good idea his last call hadn’t been that long ago.

  But he let me in. His attitude changed a little when he picked up the kitchen phone and found it dead. I didn’t even bother with it.

  “Let’s try the living room,” I told him.

  The living room phone was dead too.

  There was no time to ask him for a soda, even if there’d been a chance in hell he would have gotten me one. I simply unscrewed the mouthpiece under the guise of examining it, and palmed the bug off it right under his nose.

  “Looks O.K.,” I said. “Let’s see the other one.”

  He didn’t seem too keen on that. “The trouble was outside last time. Why don’t you start there?”

  I looked at him. “Hey, buddy,” I told him. “Are you telling me my job?”

  Tall, Dark, and Ugly knew better than to argue with a menial in the practice of his profession. Reluctantly, he led me to the study door. “Wait here,” he said.

  He opened the door and went in. I stood in the hallway and looked through the half-opened door. And there they were. All of ’em. Pluto and Bambi and Floridian #1 and #2. All of ’em but Dumbo, who by now should be ratting on the rest to the local fuzz.

  I’d never seen Floridian #2 before, and it startled me. I’d expected another broad-shouldered Colombian thug. Angelo Ospina was a frail old man, 85 if he was a day. He was sitting on the couch, and he looked as if it were taking all his strength just to keep his head from falling into his lap. It really floored me. I have this thing, where somehow I expect everyone to be as old as I am. It had shocked the hell out of me to find out a big drug dealer like Pluto was a 22-year-old kid and not even Hispanic to boot. Ospina was certainly Hispanic, but, Jesus Christ, this was a cold-blooded killer and drug czar? This is the infamous Floridian #2? Through the door I could hear the murmur of voices. “. . . telephone repairman. . .”

  “. . . who the fuck. . .”

  “. . . phone’s out again. . .”

  “. . . now?. . .”

  “. . . just be a minute. . .”

  “. . . fuck it, we have to have the phone. . .”

  Tall, Dark, and Ugly came back out. “O.K.,” he said. “But make it fast, will you?”

  “Word of honor,” I said.

  I meant it. I had just checked my watch, and if my calculations were correct, I had five, maybe ten minutes before the police would be all over this place. I had to be out of there before then.

  O.K., kid, this is it. You gotta do it If you ever had any guts in your life, you better have ’em now. You gotta go into that room.

  It was terrifying. Coshing Pedro was nothing compared to it. That was a simple, quick, impulsive action, spurred on by a tremendous flow of adrenaline. This required calm, precise, deliberate action, in spite of a tremendous flow of adrenaline. This took nerves of steel.

  I didn’t have ’em. Jesus Christ, what the hell was I doing here? Was I nuts? Going into that room with all of them watching me, Tony Arroyo included. Maybe I should have worn a disguise after all. Maybe people don’t notice a fake mustache or a wig. Couldn’t I at least have worn a pair of dark glasses? No, idiot, not in the house, and not with a hardhat. It would look funny and people would stare. Or would they? Haven’t you seen hardhats with shades before? What’s the difference? What does it matter now? Oh, Jesus Christ, there’s TDU going through the door, you can’t just stand here, can you?

  I followed him into the room. I tried not to look at the men. I tried not to let them get a good look at me. I tried to keep my pants from falling down. I tried to keep from pissing in them, too.

  I made my way to the desk. I put my toolbox on the floor behind it, out
of sight of the men. I bent over the phone. I tried to keep my head down, keep my helmet over my eyes.

  I couldn’t help sneaking a look at Tony. He was looking at me kinda funny, as if trying to figure something out. I hoped he wouldn’t do it. My hands were shaking slightly, and I was having trouble with the phone.

  I suddenly had a paranoid flash that everyone was looking at me. I stole a look. They were! Holy shit! Then I realized. Of course they were looking at me. They wouldn’t keep talking while I was in the room. They were all just waiting for me to leave.

  Somehow I got the phone apart. I got the mouthpiece off, palmed the bug. So far, so good. But there was the other one under the desk. Not to mention the stuff in my toolbox.

  I heard the faint sound of tires on gravel from the driveway, the sound of a car pulling in. Oh Christ! Not the police. Not now. Not yet.

  I heard another one. Pulling in, coming to a stop. Hadn’t they heard it too? I risked a glance. No one seemed to have heard but me. Had I imagined it? No, I’d just been listening for it, expecting it.

  The sound again. A third car pulling in. It’s real all right. It’s happening. Get on with it. Get it done.

  I bent down behind the desk. And then I heard Tony’s voice, clear as a bell. “Wait a fucking minute!” he murmured as if in awe.

  I couldn’t help it. I looked up. He was staring straight at me, wide-eyed. There was no mistaking that look. Total recall. I’d been made.

  Tony’s hand flashed toward the inside of his coat. I stood like a statue. I should have been diving for my toolbox, but for that split second I was frozen in time. I could see it happen. The gun coming out of his holster, first the butt appearing clutched in his hand, then the barrel clearing the fabric of his coat, swinging around and aiming at me. His finger tightening on the trigger, the sound, the flash, the bullet smashing into my chest.

  It didn’t happen. At that instant there came the unmistakable squeal of brakes from out front, and then, god help me, one lone siren. Thank god for the one asshole cop in the bunch.