Ed McBain - Downtown (16 page)

Mary said.

233

"That's right, thank you, Mary," Gruber said. "At the peak of his career! Hitchcock!" "His _Psycho days!" "His _Birds days!"

"Why, when people in the motion-picture community thought Arthur was _dead last night ..." "Then you'd heard about that," Michael said, suddenly alarmed. "Yes, of course, it was all over television." "We were _so relieved when he called," Mary said. "To say he was alive."

"We couldn't believe it was him calling. He was supposed to be dead. But there he was on the _phone! It was a miracle!" "Believe me," Gruber said, "there was universal mourning in the motion-picture community when ..." "MGM, too," Mary said. "When his murder ..." "United Artists, Columbia, Disney. Not only Universal," she said.

"When his murder was erroneously reported. Genuine and universal _grief for this _genius cut down in his prime, this new master of ... excuse me, what did you say your name was?" "Bond," Michael said. "Michael Bond. No relation." "Because you look familiar." "I'm sure I don't."

"Have I seen you in anything?" Mary asked. "No, I'm just with __The New York _Times." "Exactly my point," Gruber said. "Mr. Bond, I think you understand what I'm saying. I'm saying there is greed and malice everywhere in this world, but honesty and truth will prevail as surely as the cry of a newborn babe."

"Do you write fortune cookies?" Connie asked. "Do you understand me, Mr. Bond? Whoever told you that Arthur Crandall's new film is ... _what did you say you'd heard?" "I heard it was crap." "Crap, I can't believe it," Gruber said.

"The man's a fucking _genius," Mary said.

"Crap," Gruber said again, shaking his head. "Who told you this?" Gruber asked.

"His wife, actually," Michael

235 said. "_That bitch!" Mary said, and her husband gave her a look that said, This is __The New York _Times here, so watch your fucking language.

"What she said, actually," Michael said, "was that in television he'd been doing crap ..." "Absolutely," Gruber said.

"... and he left television to do a really fantastic film ..." "_Truly fantastic!" "... that didn't make a nickel ..." "Not a dime," Gruber said.

"... but now he was back doing crap again."

"False," Gruber said. "Do you know how much this new movie cost to make?" "How much?" Michael asked. "Three times what _Solitude cost."

"Thirty-six million dollars," Connie said at once. "This is very good, this toddy. Why do they call it a toddy?" "Thirty-six million, correct," Gruber said, "plus I have to figure at least another five, six million for prints and advertising, and it'll come to forty, forty-five million before all is said and done. Now tell me something, Mr. Bond, how can a forty-five-million-dollar picture be crap? Can you tell me that, please? You don't plan to _print that, do you? His wife's remark?"

"I mean, she _is a bitch," Mary said, shaking her head. "What we planned to do," Michael said, "was leave the review to the daily reviewer ..."

"Who?" Gruber said at once. "Canby? Or Maslin? Don't say Canby or I'll have a heart attack."

"I don't think it's been assigned yet."

"It hasn't been _assigned yet? It's opening on the second, we had screenings all last week, it hasn't been _assigned yet?"

"Not that I know of. But the Sunday section's approach would be ..."

"I'll bet it's Canby," Gruber said to his wife. "_That prick," she said.

"We thought we'd talk to Charlie Nichols, take an oblique approach to ..."

"Why don't you talk to Jessica

237 Wales? She's the _star of the fucking thing," Gruber said, "why don't you talk to her?"

"Well, we wanted a unique approach ..." "I thought you said oblique." "_And unique." "We've got some great stills of Jessica, you could use those with the story." "The scene where they're coming at her with the knife, oooooo," Mary said, and shuddered. "The ghosts," Gruber said. "What she _thinks are ghosts." "Don't give it away, for Christ's sake," Gruber said.

"They aren't _really ghosts, don't worry," Mary said to Michael, as if trying to still the fears of a very small child.

"That's right, tell him," Gruber said, shaking his head. "Give away the whole fucking plot."

"Are you really a rabbi?" Connie asked him. "What?" he said. "Because I didn't know rabbis talked that way." Gruber blinked.

Mary rolled her eyes and said, "_Whatever you do, don't mention _Gaslight."

"Very good, tell him not to mention _Gaslight," Gruber said. "That's like telling somebody not to stare at somebody's big nose. Did you see that picture?" "No," Michael said. "The Martin picture." "Sheen?"

"Steve. Anyway, this isn't _Gaslight we did, this is an entirely new and original approach to psychological suspense. Jessica Wales gives the performance of her career and Arthur Crandall has never been ..." "I wonder, Mr. Gruber, do you think you could let me have Charlie Nichols's address, please?" "You're determined to do this interview with Charlie, huh?" "That's my assignment, sir." "Who thinks up these crazy assignments? Gussow?" "I'll bet it's Canby," Mary said.

"Do we even _have his address?" Gruber said. "I mean, he's a bit player. Why the hell

do you want to interview _him?"

239 "I just take orders," Michael said.

"Oh, sure, everybody just takes orders," Gruber said. "The Nazis just took orders, Canby just takes orders, _you just take orders, where's the address book?" he asked Mary. "I'll get it," she said, "don't get excited. He gets so excited," she said to Michael.

"Maybe I oughta just call Arthur, he's probably got the address right at his finger ..." "No, I don't think you should do that," Michael said.

"Why not? You said you want to talk to Charlie ..."

"We'd like to surprise Mr. Crandall." "Oh, he'll be surprised, all right, don't worry. An interview with Charlie Nichols? Oh, he'll wet his pants, believe me. When's this thing gonna be in the paper?" "Next Sunday." "You work that close, huh?" "Yes."

"Here it is," Mary said, and handed the address book to her husband. The chimes suddenly began playing "Mary Had a Little Lamb." "I love this song," Mary said. Gruber waited until the entire little song had played. Then he said, "Who is it?" And a man answered, "Police."

10

It was as if someone in the platoon had yelled "Charlie!" His heart stopped.

He almost threw himself flat on the ground. But the ground was a thick white carpet, across which Gruber was now walking to the front door. Michael glanced quickly at Connie. Connie smiled back mysteriously. It occurred to him that Mary's little hot rum toddy had done a real number on her. Gruber opened the door. There were two men standing there.

They were both wearing blue jackets with yellow ribbed cuffs and waistbands. "Mr. Gruber?" one of the men asked. He was about Gruber's height and weight. He had curly red hair and blue eyes that matched his jacket. "Yes?" Gruber said.

"Detective Harold Nelson, Seventh Precinct," he said, and immediately turned his back to Gruber. Across the back of the blue jacket, in yellow script lettering, were the words SEVENTH PRECINCT BOWLING TEAM. He turned to face Gruber again. "I called a little while ago," he said. "This is my partner, Detective Marvin Leibowitz." "How do you do?" Leibowitz said. He was taller than Nelson, with black hair and brown eyes. Together they looked like __Car 54, Where Are _You? In bowling jackets.

"Marvin is our captain," Nelson said. "An honor to meet you," Gruber said. "Not of the precinct," Nelson said. "The team."

"Still an honor," Gruber said. "Come in, please." The way he was treating them, Michael figured Gruber had paid off a great many cops on the streets of New York while filming this or that wonderful motion picture. When he was still living in Boston, they had shot a movie titled _Fuzz up there, which was about cops. Burt Reynolds had played the detective in it. Raquel Welch was in it, too, though they never got to kiss because Reynolds was already married to a

woman who couldn't hear or speak.

243 Michael went to see it later, it turned out to be a lousy movie. But while they were shooting this movie, there were so many _real cops hanging around that Michael was sure the entire Boston P.D. was on the take. He suddenly wondered if _Winter's _Chill, the new Arthur Crandall masterpiece, had been shot right here in New York City.

"The reason we're here, sir," Nelson said, "as I mentioned on the telephone, is we're the detectives investigating this homicide which we caught in our precinct ..." "Yes, I realize that," Gruber said.

"Although you wouldn't know it from the jackets, would you?" Leibowitz said. "We're playing later tonight," Nelson explained. "The Ninth," Leibowitz explained. "Who's conducting?" Connie asked.

Both Nelson and Leibowitz looked at her. Michael wished they weren't looking at her that way. She still had the mysterious smile on her face, which made her look somehow insulting. To cops, anyone smiling that way was either mentally retarded or trying to be a wise guy. He could sense both cops bristling at the way she was smiling. It never occurred to either of them that she might have had too much toddy. They merely saw this Oriental smiling in a superior manner, and they figured her for somebody challenging authority. In Vietnam, sometimes you got an American soldier questioning a native who either lowered his eyes or looked away, and the soldier figured he had something to hide. Couldn't look you straight in the eye, then he had to be lying or something. Didn't realize this was a sign of respect, not looking a superior directly in the eye. It caused a lot of trouble in Vietnam. In Vietnam, a lot of innocent people had got themselves shot because they wouldn't look an American soldier in the eye when he was asking them questions. He wished Connie would stop smiling.

"Is there something comical, miss?" Nelson asked. "Yes," she said. "May I ask _what?" "No," she said, and kept smiling. Nelson looked at her as if trying to freeze her solid with his icy blue stare.

Leibowitz, standing behind him and to his

245 left, was scowling now. Suddenly, they no longer looked like _Car _54. Instead, they looked like two mean detectives who would kick Connie's ass around the block as soon as look at her.

"At _any rate," Nelson said, dismissing her and turning to Gruber again, "we thought that since you are an associate, so to speak, of Mr. Crandall ..." "Yes, I am."

"Who at first we thought was the dead man, but who isn't ..." "Oh, thank God," Mary said, "such a genius." Nelson looked at her.

"I don't believe I have met these other people, sir," he said to Gruber. "My wife, Mary," Gruber said. "How do you do?" Nelson said. "Ma'am," Leibowitz said, and almost touched the bill of a cap he was no longer wearing, a holdover from his days as a uniformed cop. "Mr. Bond and Miss Keene of __The New York _Times," Gruber said. Michael said, "Nice to meet you." Connie smiled mysteriously.

"What're you gonna do?" Nelson asked her. "Write about how _incompetent the cops in this city are?" "Because we ain't got the killer yet?" Leibowitz said. "You look familiar," Nelson said to Michael. "I don't think so," Michael said. "You ever done a story up the Seventh Precinct?" "No, sir, I'm sure I haven't." "Me, neither," Connie said.

"I could swear I know you," Nelson said. "How about the Two-Six uptown? You ever write about the Two-Six?" "Never." "'Cause I used to work up the Two-Six." "I've never been there." "Up in Harlem? On a Hun' Twenny-sixth Street?" "No, sir, I'm sorry." "Five-twenny West a Hun' Twenny-sixth?" "No."

"Boy, I could swear I seen you

247 someplace." "Me, too," Leibowitz said, staring at him.

"Mr. Gruber," Michael said, extending his hand for the book Gruber was clutching like a hymnal, "if you'll just let me have that address ..."

"When _do you expect to catch him?" Gruber asked. "Barnes? Who knows? The man's from Florida, for all we know he's already back there by now."

"Well, as a matter of _fact," Michael said, bristling somewhat, "for all you know, he may not have killed that person at _all. Whoever that person may be." "Oh, so _that's gonna be the _Times approach, huh?" Nelson said, and nodded knowingly to his partner. "Of course," Leibowitz said. "The police in this city don't know if Michael Barnes _really done it ..." "... and we _also don't know who got killed."

"Who _did get killed?" Michael asked. "We don't know," Nelson said. "But that doesn't mean ..."

"That doesn't mean _Barnes didn't kill him," Nelson said. "Well, I'm sure you'll work it out," Michael said. "Connie, let's go. Mr. Gruber, if you'll ..." "Okay, Michael," Connie said. "... let me have ..." "_Michael, did you say?" Leibowitz asked. Michael thought Uh-oh. Leibowitz was looking at him. "Mr. _Who, did you say?" Nelson asked. Nelson was looking at him, too. Both of them trying to remember if this was the man they'd seen on television. The picture on the license. Not a very good likeness, but-- "Bond," Michael said. It wasn't going to wash.

"Mr. Bond," Nelson said, reaching under his jacket for the gun holstered to his belt, "I wonder if you'd ..." Michael did two things almost

simultaneously.

249 Three things, actually.

In such rapid succession that he might just as well have been doing them all at the same time. He grabbed Connie's hand; he yanked the address book out of Gruber's hand; and he hit Nelson with his shoulder. "Oh my _God!" Mary yelled. "Stop or I'll shoot!" Nelson yelled. "Don't!" Gruber yelled. "The paintings!" The door seemed so very far away. Moving through the jungle with Andrew in his arms, his life leaking away. The medical choppers so very far away. The jungle path a long, dark tunnel through overhanging leaves of green, vines of green, everything dripping green except Andrew, who kept spilling red. Behind Michael, someone called, "We no wanna hurt you, no run, Yank, we wanna help you," and he wondered why every fucking Cong soldier in this country sounded like a Jap in a World War II-- Nelson fired. He didn't hit any pictures. What he hit was Michael. In the left arm. He dropped the address book. He said, "Oh shit."

Which sobered Connie at once. Or maybe the sudden sight of blood sobered her. She yanked open the door, picked up the book, grabbed the hand on Michael's good arm, and pulled him through the doorway after her. Behind them, Nelson--or perhaps Leibowitz--fired a shot that sent splinters flying out of the jamb.