Abel Baker Charley (41 page)

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Authors: John R. Maxim

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BOOK: Abel Baker Charley
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“Can you drive, lass?” Harrigan spoke to Tanner. She was
behind him, pulling herself erect with the help of a door
frame. Her shoulders quivered and her face was turned
away. Harrigan slammed a palm against the surface of a hall
table, shocking her. “Can you drive, damn it?”
Harrigan fixed his sights on Stanley's forehead. “Where
is your car, Stanley?” he asked. Stanley tilted his head, indi
cating a place nearby.
“It's right down the street,” Tanner managed.
Harrigan stepped once again to Vinnie Cuneo and patted
at his pockets. From one he drew a key ring, which he held up questioningly to Stanley Levy, who nodded.
“Bring their car, girl.” He singled out the ignition key and
held it toward Tanner Burke. “Bring their car into the back.
You'll find young Tina on the patio. She's been drugged. I
want you to get her into the back seat of the car and then come back for me. Can you do all that, Miss Burke?”
“Their car?” she asked distantly.
“Their car is closer,” he snapped impatiently. “Need I do
all this myself, Miss Burke?”
Tanner's eyes flashed angrily and she straightened. Be
sides the anger, they had a certain loathing in them. Harri
gan saw it. But more, he saw that his words had had the
effect he'd hoped for. Tanner passed behind Harrigan and stepped over Vinnie Cuneo's legs toward the bloodstained
door. Harrigan could see her strength returning as she
walked across the lawn. Good girl.
“On your feet, Stanley.”
“We should see about the lady. No one said nothing about
hurting the lady.”
“No,” Harrigan snarled. “Just a fourteen-year-old girl,
you son of a bitch. Get on your feet.”
Stanley's expression remained bland. “No one was going
to hurt the girl neither. You want to shoot me, shoot me for something else. No one was going to hurt the little girl.”
Connor Harrigan had all the something else he needed.
Kate Mulgrew's body was barely cold. He could kill Stanley
Levy for a lot of reasons, but that one alone would do. Stan
ley seemed to know what was on his mind.
“Mulgrew,” Stanley remembered the name. “Before, you
said you'd kill me for that. You're going to kill me for a hooker? She's better dead than with that kind of shame.”
“Never mind that now, Stanley.” Harrigan's voice was
icy.
“You talk to me about hurting ladies, but you got hookers
on your payroll? That's what a pimp is, Harrigan. They
never told me you was a pimp.”
Harrigan leaned forward as if he were gong to drive his
shoe into Levy's face, but he stopped himself. Levy saw
this and understood. So it wasn't no hooker, he thought. So
that was one of Harrigan's people, and she was supposed
to sucker him into a doorway and then sphritz him with
this here tear gas thing. Stanley stretched the fingers of one
of his folded hands and brushed the tips across the cylin
der tucked under the strap inside his sleeve. She looked
like a hooker, she talked deals like a hooker, she was
workin' Sixth Avenue like a hooker instead of being home
fixing dinner. What was he supposed to think? Now she turns out to be a make-believe hooker who got sent out by
Harrigan here and then got dead. It ain't me you should be mad at, Harrigan. But keep getting mad. We see who kills
who.
“Why were you taking the girl, Stanley?” Harrigan kept his voice even with some effort.
Stanley leaned back and drew his knees closer to his
chest. Harrigan moved nearer.
“If Tortora wants the girl it's because he wants Baker. Isn't that right, Stanley?”
Again, Stanley didn't answer. Harrigan leaned in and
smashed his revolver against Levy's knee. Levy gasped and hugged it.
“Talk to me, Stanley.”
“He wants to ask him.” He forced the words through his
teeth. “He wants to ask Baker why he done his kid in the
park is all.”
“Then why, Stanley.” Harrigan moved still closer to
watch what happened in Levy's eyes when he asked his next
few questions. “Why wouldn't Dr. Sonnenberg ask him
that? You do know Dr. Sonnenberg, don't you, Stanley?”
Stanley blinked. “Sonnenberg?” His face had a faraway
look in reaction to the name, like those looks that would
cross Baker's face now and again. He half-expected Stanley
to deny knowing Sonnenberg, but Stanley didn't bother. “Sonnenberg don't care nothin' about that,” he answered.
“You want to know about Sonnenberg, ask Sonnenberg.”
“Why don't I ask them both, Stanley? Why don't I ask
them both at the same time?”
The question troubled Levy. He blinked again, this time
shaking his head as if confused. He opened his mouth to
speak but no words came. Only a gagging sound. Again the
head shook, more violently this time. One hand moved up and slapped hard against the side of his face. He stared, wide-eyed, past Connor Harrigan, with the look of a man waiting for a terrible stab of pain to pass.
“Stanley?” Harrigan dropped to a squat, watching
closely.
“I'm okay.” Stanley swallowed. He held his left hand out, off to one side, as if inviting Harrigan to help him to his feet.
Harrigan disdained the hand, but on reflex, his own gun
hand swung in that direction. The buzz came. Too late, but
it came. He saw his gun hand almost in slow motion as it
reached the apogee of its loop and too slowly started its
swing back again. He saw Stanley's knees come apart to re
veal the silver thing that seemed to be exploding in Stanley's
hand. A flash and a clap like a pistol shot had begun from
the tips of Stanley's fingers, and a cloud of smoke was rush
ing toward his face. Harrigan's reflexes answered but too slowly. His arm flew up to cover his face, and he hurled his
body backward to roll with the impact of the bullet he knew
was coming. But there was no impact. Only the cloud of
smoke and Stanley's body rising catlike behind it, his ice
pick scooped off the floor where he'd dropped it, now in his fist. Harrigan's brain screamed at him for his stupidity, for
not bothering to search a man he had been planning to shoot
the minute he heard Tanner pass in the driveway. And now it
was he who was shot except still there was no bullet. Only
the cloud and Stanley's ice pick. Another part of his brain told him why. The smell that had reached it was not sulfur
but almonds and locker rooms. Oh, damn you, Harrigan.
Damn you for an ass. The little bastard has Katy's cyanide
gun. Roll, Harrigan. Roll while there's still a whisper of life
in you and rub your foolish face against the carpet. Rub,
Harrigan. Push .. .
Stanley, his ice pick poised and his eyes on the base of
Harrigan's skull, suddenly staggered in midstride and fell
back, snatching at a window drape. His mouth and eyes widened once in surprise and then clamped tight like a
swimmer's under water. Gas, he realized. Not tear gas. The
woman's thing had gas gas. Stanley tore away the drape and stumbled back into the corner where he'd been sitting. With
the balled-up fabric held over his mouth and nose he
watched, fascinated, as Harrigan writhed, furiously rubbing
his face against the carpet's pile like a dog that had been
sprayed by a skunk. And like a dog, Harrigan was kicking,
using his legs to drive his face and body along the surface.
But the kicking was feeble now, no longer able to find pur
chase along the rug. Finally, they only trembled and then
were still.
Stanley waited a moment longer to see if Harrigan moved
again. Then, throwing the drapery fully over his face, he crawled blindly through the arched doorway into the living room. He stopped only when he struck a coffee table that
he
knew was half a room away from the poison in the hall. A
fluttering sound startled him. He tore the cloth away and
spun to face it. It was a bird, he realized. A parakeet, green
and yellow. It had fallen to the floor of an antique brass cage
near the archway and it too was staggering, unable to hold
its perch, and slapping bits of gravel through the bars with
its wings. Stanley stumbled to his feet and snatched up the
cage. He ran with it toward the kitchen.
He saw Jane Carey now where Vinnie had left her. But first the bird. Stanley carefully placed the cage inside the
stainless steel sink and turned on the tap. He took the small rinsing hose in his hand and, after checking the temperature
of the water, loosed a gentle spray upon the stricken bird.
Still spraying, he reached across the sink and raised a win
dow. It seemed to help. The bird was quieter now, and more steady. Stronger. He whispered to it reassuringly as he lifted the cage and placed it on the windowsill, where the morning
sun could warm it. “Rest now,” he said. “I'm gonna help
your mama now so she can come take care of you.”
A troubled look crossed Stanley's face. What if she
couldn't? he wondered. To the bird he made a staying mo
tion with the palms of his hands, then he crossed the kitchen to where Jane Carey lay unconscious. He winced at the sight
of her face. One eye flamed red and was swollen shut. Her nose was clearly broken, and a smear of blood covered her
mouth and chin. The kitchen phone, torn from the wall, lay
beside her. Stanley felt for a pulse at her throat. She moaned
at his touch and her eyes flickered. Stanley nodded. Not so
bad, he mumbled to himself. A terrible thing, but not so bad
it won't get better. It won't seem so bad when she sees how he helped her bird. One more thing, he thought. One more
thing he'll do so she won't feel so bad about what Vinnie
done to her.
Stanley found two kitchen towels and dampened them in
the sink. He used one to dab away the blood on her face and
then dropped it in the trash can under the sink. With the other, he covered his mouth and made his way back to the
front hall.
Harrigan had not moved. He lay still, his eyes partly open.
Cuneo was conscious. Still dazed, but with the pain of his
shattered face beginning to push through the anesthetic of
shock, he was reeling to his knees, both hands against his
cheekbone. His eyes, black with pain and fury, darted from
Stanley to Harrigan and then to his knife, which lay open several feet away. Stanley crossed to the knife and picked it
up.
“It's your upbringing,” he said sadly. “One month with
my mother and you wouldn't behave like this no more.”
Now there was fear on Vinnie's face. Stanley was holding
the knife like a schoolteacher wagging a finger.
“Or my cousin Emma,” Stanley continued. ”I got this cousin Emma. She could have taught you. Emma, she don't
even ever say nothing, and still she could have brought you
up better than this. But your mother tried though, didn't she, Vinnie? I bet she tried until it broke her heart and put her in
an early grave.” Stanley lowered the bobbing knife until it
reached a point near Cuneo's breastbone. Vinnie's mind
would not let him believe what was about to happen. Instead he roared in rage at Stanley: “Help me!” The words sprayed
thickly from Vinnie's mouth. “Shut up about your fuckin' mother and ...” Vinnie's voice became a squeal as the knife
found a space beneath his sternum and pushed slowly up
ward into his heart. Stanley watched his eyes while he died.
There was only surprise. What is it about dying that they al
ways look surprised, he wondered. Even Holmes was al
ways finding dead guys that looked surprised. Stanley was
reflecting on this when Tanner Burke pulled the Ford up be
hind the house.
Stanley glanced once more at Connor Harrigan, then
crossed through the living room into the kitchen. Jane Carey
was conscious now and trying to rise. Outside he saw Tan
ner Burke, half-carrying and half-dragging the unconscious
body of Tina Baker toward the car door she'd left open.
Stanley quickly helped Mrs. Carey into a comfortable chair, chatting apologetically with her about Vinnie's behavior and the mess on her hall carpet. He thought of suggesting how to
get it clean. Stanley knew about rug stains from a cat he'd had once. But Mrs. Carey did not look like she would have
understood him. Anyway, she probably knew. She kept a
nice house. He put his fingers to his lips at the sound of Tan
ner's footsteps and moved swiftly to the back door, his ice pick again in his hand.

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