Ed Lacy - Shoot It Again

• Название: Shoot It Again
• Автор: Ed Lacy
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

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     “The boy looks fine. Only be a few seconds, Amy. I happened to be around here and...”

     “How much do you want?”

     “Come on, I'm not here for a handout. I've recently returned to the States and am leaving for... South America, tonight. I have this...” I pulled the gallery check from my wallet. “You can see it's okay, even you must have heard of this gallery. I've been selling a lot of my stuff lately, have a one-man show in Paris shortly...”

     “I couldn't care less!” Amy said, taking the check, reading it.

     “Of course. I was on my way to the airport and... having been out of the country, I don't know anybody who might cash this. I thought of you.”

     “I don't have anything like $156 with me. I've about $45 in the house. You can have that, and get out!” She flung the check at me.

     Picking it up, I asked, “Got a pen? Ill endorse it.”

     “I don't want your filthy check! I'll give you the money and you leave at once, before Fred comes!”

     “Get the $45 and a pen, Amy. Use the balance of the check to buy something for Clark and...”

     “I will not!”

     “... and don't say a mumbling word about where it came from. Make it snappy, honey, or I'll wait for Fred, ask him to cash it. I mean that.”

     Amy stared at me for a moment, blue eyes full of the icy fury I remembered so well. “All right! But you stay right here, don't try to come into the apartment, or I swear to God I'll scream for the police!”

     “Lord, you're the same silly, melodramatic bitch you always were,” I said sweetly.

     Amy left to return seconds later with her purse and a pen. She gave me four tens and a five. Signing the check, I handed it to her casually. “Goodbye, hon.”

     “Don't ever come back, Clay!”

     “But darling, what was there ever worth coming back for?”

     “You dirty unwashed louse!”

     “Frigid bit...!” Clark and a tiny naked girl of about fifteen months suddenly stuck their cute heads around the corner. They made a startling pair: the boy looking like me, the girl a copy of Amy. “Thank you for your time, madame. I'm sorry you're not interested in ordering rugs. Perhaps next season. Good day.” I cocked my thumb in a pistol motion at the boy, as I walked toward the elevator, heard him giggle. Then my son shouted, “Bang! Bang! I kill you...!” as Amy slammed the door.

     Downstairs I walked several blocks before phoning Nice from a drugstore booth, practically taking all the man's silver. The druggist was open-mouth impressed and I wondered if I was stupidly leaving a trail for the police—I actually didn't wish to involve Amy in anything.

     About fourteen dollars and some ten minutes later the call went through: Hank's gallery didn't answer. I couldn't remember his home address—he slept around so damn much—but while I still had an open wire, I had the call switched to Syd's pension, person-to-person. I'd tell her to see Hank, have him call me back at this number at a certain hour tomorrow.

     Syd's voice sounded so thin and unreal—long, long distance—as she asked, “Clay, on your way back here? Oh darling, did things work out for us?”

     “I haven't been here long enough to see... anybody, yet. Listen to me Syd: you remember that art gallery across from the park, the Jardin Albert 1, where my water colors are on...?”

     “Darling,” she cut in, “the police have been here asking some blasted questions about you. The silly blokes simply must have known you boarded a plane last night, yet they kept asking as if you were responsible for Monsieur Dupre's death. That's the same art gallery, I mean his...?”

     “Hank... Henri Dupre is dead?”

     “Brutally beaten to death during the night—found him in Mont-Boron, outside Nice. Big item in the bloody papers here.”

     “But—what did the police want me for?”

     “Exactly what I kept telling the ruddy bureaucrats—you had to be half across the Atlantic when the killing took place. Clay, forget that, what did you phone to tell me?”

     “What could the French police possibly...? Syd, honey, I only phoned to say this may take more time than I first thought, and... eh... I didn't want you to worry.”

     “Sweet, sweet, Clay darling! Now I know you love me!” Over the phone her voice sounded like a mechanical doll's.

     “Yeah. In case I am delayed, why you go on to London, and I'll write you there. Goodnight, Syd.”

     “Good, good night, my lover!” Syd made a kissing noise—a kind of animal squeal—as I hung up.

     In a sweaty daze, I squared away the overtime charges with the operator, the coins dropping like a slot machine jackpot—in reverse. How could the French cops have connected me with Hank? Or had the flics been shadowing me all the time, after I was ordered to leave France?

     The hell with the flics, I was in Queens now! But no wonder the 'ping' man and his runty partner had been on hand to kill Al Foster! Somebody —another 'they'—had tortured poor Hank until he spilled the details. Syd had said Dupre had been 'brutally beaten'... why couldn't his bad heart have stopped, saved him all that nightmare of pain?

     One thing was now clear, when the tall man with the silencer had been looking around the hotel room, the closet, he'd been hunting for me. Either they had followed Foster to me, or they were waiting until he arrived, figuring on getting the fifty grand and the dope. But Hank had said he'd picked me as the courier on the spur of the moment, wouldn't let anybody else, even the contact here, know until my plane was about to land at Idlewild. How the devil did Foster know where to contact me, then? Hank was dead hours before the plane reached the States. This was supposed to be an informer-proof plan; or had I literally let the cat out of the bag, caused Hank's death? I certainly hadn't talked, but Parks saw the cat, so did Syd, madame, the porter's son... But how could they have possibly known what the cat held? That was the 'beauty' of the plan, I was merely bringing home souvenirs... like a glass cat.

     Leaving thedrugstore I moved about aimlessly, my head aching. I hadn't the slightest idea where to go, what to do. I had less than thirty bucks on me. True, I was carrying three millions around...

     I swung the little blue duffel bag over my shoulder. I ought to have Robert Parks recite The Ancient Mariner. The damn junkies talked about a monkey on their stupid backs... I had a seven kilo albatross around my fat neck—strangling me.

     I opened my eyes to blink at the tower, now flecked with gold shadow from the sinking sun. Tall tower... the final jest for me... that phallus symbol slop? My sex castle...? Nutty talk. Lovely contrast, gold and white of the tower against the dirty grey of the rest of the castle. Call the color of sand, burnt sienna... or...? Doesn't matter, never did—for me, really.

     The little boy stood up. Man's castle... no, no, the boy and his castle of 'boy.' Lu said cocaine was 'girl'... hit you like an orgasm. My newly found store of.... stupid knowledge.

     White, white tower in the sun. Crazy road for a poppy to travel. Gorgeous poppy with your innocent coloring... and belly full of evil opium. Oh God, is beauty really the other face of evil? My God...? My God... am I about to see You? So much to forgive... Forgive?

     Closing my eyes I listened to the relaxing music of the waves. Kept opening my eyes every few seconds—to be sure I could. Lu, face down in the sand beside me. Dead face down. Poor Lu.... Good Lu.... in our weird way, did we find love? Love—I'm a maudlin slob... dying next to a dead whore. What more fitting headstone for me?

     The sand in her dark hair seemed like maggots. I glanced down at the deep white of the tower. The White Tower hamburger joints in New York... her torn breast like hamburger. Ugly tower!

     Crazy last thoughts... crazy... crazy world I'm leaving. Bon Voyage, bastard world.

     No more voyages for me. Still, this... the castle... the sun... the blue of the sky... the sea. Cemetery with a view.

CHAPTER 8

     Riding the subway again gave me a slight sense of security. It wasn't only the protection of the crowd—being on the go always was my tonic. There wasn't any Robert Parks in the phone books, but I found a listing for his lawyer, Maxwell Wyckoff. On the off-chance he hadn't been hospitalized yet, I wanted to see Robert: I needed money—eating and room rent dough. I'd given up on the idea of moving to Europe: soon as the police learned I was Stanley Collins, all ships and planes would be checked. Hell, now I couldn't ever return to my hotel room, cash in my open boat ticket.

     Later for Europe—and poor Syd.

     There was another reason for seeing Parks: only one way I could contact the syndicate—or even Mr. Ping, if he'd stand still long enough to listen to a proposition before silently blasting away—was via a junkie. A user could put me in touch with his pusher, who could do the take-me-to-your-leader routine until I reached somebody big enough to buy what I had in my duffel bag. Robert was the sole hophead I knew and there was a strong possibility he'd been snowing me over in Villefranche, had been on the junk here. Certainly —if he wasn't in a hospital—Parks would have made some sort of dope contact by now: his habit would have forced him to.

     Sitting in the reception room of his Wall Street office, I glanced at a fascinating copy of the Law Journal. Wyckoff didn't even ask me into his office —he came out to the reception foyer. “Yes, Mr. Biner?” he asked, a look of distaste on his round face. He shaved too often—the area under his double chin was blotchy.

     “I've misplaced Robert's address and he isn't fisted in any phone book or...”

     “Young Parks entered a private hospital yesterday. He can't be visited for several weeks.”

     “What hospital? Lexington?”

     “I'm not at liberty to divulge that. What is it you want, Biner?”

     “Can you give me his mother's address?”

     “I'll have to know exactly what you wish to see her about, first.”

     “Well... when Robert asked me to be his nurse on the trip home, he agreed to pay me. In the excitement of my sudden leaving, I didn't bother to ask for my... pay, and then, at Idlewild, you took him away abruptly. It happens that the sale of one of my pictures, which I was counting on, hasn't come through and I can use the...”

     Wyckoff walked over, pressed the elevator button. “Mr. Biner, unless you leave immediately, I shall be forced to call the police. Blackmail is an ugly...

     “Blackmail?” I cut in, boiling. “I want the money he promised me! Returning to the States so suddenly has upset my plans.”

     “Biner, you're either crazy or stupidly brave to have come here. There's one aspect of Robert's mess which has never been satisfactorily explained to me, nor to his mother. Robert went abroad a clean, sensitive youngster—within a matter of weeks he returns a dope addict, his life wrecked. While I am aware you allegedly rescued him from the clutches of hoodlums, I also am aware Robert would never have mixed with such lice if he hadn't met the wrong type of people abroad. I feel certain some... uh... Beatnik, like yourself, put him on the narcotic path. Now, you come around asking for money, which smacks of blackmail.” The elevator door slid open behind him. He jerked a fat thumb at it.

     Furious, I yelled, “Is this the thanks I get for risking my life to rescue him from a mess—in which he involved me! I never saw Robert in my life until he arranged to have my passport stolen! Have me arrested—I'll sue the hell out of you!”

     “I accept that risk. Now, either you leave this second, never attempt to contact Mrs. Parks or myself again, or I shall phone the police. The choice is yours.”

     Really feeling like a whipped cur, I stepped into the damn elevator, punched the main floor button.

     Walking uptown, still sweating with anger, I didn't know what to do. I needed a room, a place in which to lay low for a while, to think... and I had less than thirty bucks in my pocket. Passing a cheap bar north of Canal Street, I felt sick with hunger. Buying a late paper I went into the bar, took a roast beef sandwich from the food counter over to the bar, ordered a beer. The bartender was an antique with the map of Ireland on his pale, veined puss.

     Eating the sandwich, I glanced through the paper—nothing new on the killing, no mention of my name. When I ordered a second brew, the barkeep said, “Sure a scorcher today. I see you've been to the beach. Many people in swimming?”

     “Yeah.” It was nearly six p.m. and the bar was empty except for a wino at the other end, staring up at the old movie on the ceiling TV, as he munched pretzels and nursed a drink.

     The bartender thought making small talk was part of his job. Placing a beer in front of me he said, “Mister, I notice by your tan you're no stranger to the beach. Don't see many folks taking care of their health these days. I say folks have lost faith in each other, in God. What do you say, mister?”

     “What? I say you're a 100% right,” I mumbled, my mind a whirling blank. I dropped a dollar on the bar. “Give me a straight bourbon chaser.”

     Two women came in, sat at a table near the door. The bartender made no move to serve them. Both wore cheap, long-sleeved print dresses, looked in their late twenties. The younger had a swarthy face, chunky figure. The other dog was scrawny all over. Quickly casing the bar, the women talked to each other in a gossipy whisper.

     Drinking the whiskey slowly, hoping it would relax my brains enough to let me think, I felt depressed as could be. “See you know how to drink, mister,” my gabby bartender said. “I swear, nobody even knows how to get an honest toot on any more. Great saints, all they do now is throw the stuff down their throat, become vomiting drunk. Main trouble with our world, no longer any honest values.”