Ed McBain - Downtown (25 page)

"Hey!" Silvio yelled, if that's who he was, and Michael immediately slipped between a Siberian yellow weasel coat and a Persian lamb, brushing past the furs and through the rack to emerge on the opposite side where a tall, angular, craggy-faced blondish man who looked like Sterling Hayden in _The _Godfather was coming around the end of a table upon which was displayed an open coffin with no one in it. Michael figured he himself would soon be displayed in that coffin, which was made of fine

mahogany and lined with white silk and

379 hung with bronze handles.

If the other one was Silvio, then this one was Larry.

So there was Silvio coming through the rack of furs farther up the line now, emerging between a Mexican ocelot and a Mongolian marmot, and here was Larry spotting Michael now and also shouting "Hey!" and here, too, was Alice coming around the home entertainment center display and seeing Michael, and grinning like an African lioness contemplating a warthog dinner. Michael figured this was it. The full deck had been dealt at last and there were no more aces in it. "Freeze!" the voice said. It sounded like Detective O'Brien. But it was Connie. Standing with a gun in each hand.

Behind Alice and Larry, who had probably heard that word a great many times in their separate careers and who did not move a muscle when they heard it now. Coming through the rack swathed in furs left and right, Silvio froze, too. Connie looked like the Dragon Lady. Cool and beautiful and deadly. Ready to blow away anyone who did not take her by overnight junk to Shanghai. The guns were only .22 caliber revolvers, but in her delicate hands they looked like big mother-loving cannons.

"Help us here!" Alice shouted to the moving men, but they, too, had seen the guns in Connie's hands and the look in her eyes, and they had heard the word "Freeze!" thundering like a Chinese curse into that echoing space, and when they'd realized that they themselves were not the ones being asked to freeze, they decided this might be a good time to get the hell out of here before someone asked them to move a piano. There was a rush toward the metal entrance door, now an exit door too narrow to accommodate the sudden traffic. The moving men piled into the doorway like Keystone Kops, wedging themselves there for an impossibly tangled moment, unraveling themselves, and then hurling themselves headlong into the corridor outside. Larry shook his head in dismay when he heard the elevator starting. Still shaking his head, he dropped his gun to the floor and looked at his watch, probably wondering if Johnny Carson was still on. Silvio raised his hands over his head. He looked like a man who did not have

to be told that Chinese people stuck bamboo

381 under your fingernails. Especially Chinese women. Or maybe it was the Japanese who did that. Either way, he wanted nothing further to do with this entire enterprise. Only Alice seemed undecided. Michael had his doubts as well. Which was why he was moving so swiftly toward Connie. Because it was one thing to have a look on your face that said handling a gun was second nature to you and you'd as soon shoot a person as treat him to an ice cream cone, but it was another thing to be _holding a gun as if you'd never had one in your hand before. Connie was holding those pistols the way Crandall had held the .32 last night. They were both amateurs. Michael recognized this because when it came to oranges or guns, he was a pro. But so was Alice. And in thirty seconds flat, she was going to recognize that Connie didn't know a trigger from a click sight. In fact, the knowledge was seeping into her eyes that very instant, and Michael knew he had to reach Connie and grab one of those guns from her before Alice made her play. She moved sooner than he'd expected. Didn't say a word. Merely fired at Connie. And missed. And was sighting along the gun barrel to fire again when Michael realized this was not a time for dueling in the sun, this was a time for definitive action--like throwing himself at her. He flung himself sideways, hoping to knock her off balance and realizing an instant too late that he was rushing her with his bad side, rushing her with the bandaged shoulder and arm that had been injured by one of those Car 54, Seventh Precinct cops--where were they now, when he needed them? He let out a horrible yell, similar to the "Aiiii-eeeeee!" he'd screamed at Detective O'Brien all those years ago on Christmas Eve, but this one was involuntary in that the body contact with Alice sent arrows of pain shooting from his arm clear up into his skull. There was another gunshot, and he thought, _Oh, _Jesus, _no! and then Alice screamed and he thought it was because his own scream had frightened her the way it had earlier frightened O'Brien. But his hands where he grabbed for Alice were suddenly sticky and wet, and he realized all at once that Connie had actually

_fired one of those guns, Connie had

383 actually _shot Alice, who was stumbling backward now as Michael stumbled forward. He said something like "Watch it," or "What shit," and Alice very _definitely said, "What shit," and then both of them collapsed to the floor in a hurt and bewildered heap. Connie was on them in an instant. Legs widespread. Both guns angled down at Alice's head. "One move," she said.

"Don't get dramatic," Alice said, and tossed her gun onto the floor. She was bleeding from the shoulder. "It went off," Connie explained. "I see that," Michael said. "Remember when I asked you if it was a crime to steal stolen goods? That's when I stole them. From the table. Because he who gathers up his nuts need never leave his hole." "If you don't mind," Larry said, "there's a lady present here." "Get me a doctor," Alice said. Michael wondered if Dr. Ling would make a house call all the way over here in the First Precinct. "Who's Mama?" he asked. "Go fuck yourself," Alice said. "Tch," Larry said, and rolled his eyes. Silvio still had his hands up in the air. "Can I put my hands down, lady?" he asked. "Or shall _I go fuck myself, too?" "You can put them down," Connie said.

"First promise me no bamboo shoots," Silvio said. "What?" Connie said. "And no MSG," Larry said. "It's the MSG gives you headaches." "Keep your hands up," Michael said. "Who's Mama?" "_Qui�_sabe?" Silvio said. "Are you Spanish?" Michael asked.

"No, I'm Italian. But everybody knows what _qui�_sabe means."

"Sure," Larry said. "It's what Tonto calls the Lone Ranger." "Anyway," Alice said testily, "we don't know who Mama is, and please get me a goddamn doctor." "Why are you trying to kill us?" Michael

asked.

385

"_We're trying to kill _you?" Alice said. "This Asian person almost takes off my arm with that _weapon in her hand, and _we're trying to kill _you?"

"That's certainly comical, all right," Larry said, shaking his head in wonder. "Can I put my hands down?" Silvio asked.

"No," Michael said. "Who's Mama?" "Call a doctor," Alice said. "No. Who is she?" "Call the police, too. I want to press charges against this illegal alien." "I'm legal," Connie said. "Sure. So's Mama." "Go ahead, tell them," Larry said, shaking his head again. "I didn't tell them anything." "You told them Mama's an illegal alien." "No, _you just told them." "_I said Mama's illegal?" "An illegal alien, is _exactly what you said."

"Did I say that?" Larry asked, turning to Silvio.

"How come everybody can put their hands down but me?" Silvio asked.

"If I bleed to death here, they'll deport you," Alice said to Connie. "Let's talk a deal," Michael said. "If you had one wish in the whole world, and you could get that wish by telling us who Mama is, what would that wish be?" "Could I please put my hands down?" Silvio said. "Yes," Michael said. "You just blew your wish, dummy," Larry said. "That wasn't my wish," Silvio said, shaking his hands out from the wrists. "That was just a polite request." "Just get me a doctor," Alice said. "Is that your wish?"

"I wish my mother would go back to Palermo," Silvio said. "I wish she'd take _my mother with her," Larry said, and both men burst out laughing. Alice laughed, too.

Blood was trickling from her left shoulder, but

she suddenly began laughing along with her

387 buddies. Michael was thinking it would be fun to work with these three if only they weren't killers. He tried to remember if any of it had been fun in Vietnam. Working with the killers there. He guessed maybe some of it had been fun. Before the baby. Hell she doing out here? Andrew asked. The baby crying. M/'ve crawled out from the village, the RTO said. "Who's Mama?" Michael said.

"You want to get us all killed?" Larry asked. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do," Michael said. "I'm going to make the wish _for you, okay? I'm going to wish that I don't go to that phone on the wall there, and call the police, and tell them to come up here and get you, that's what I'm going to wish."

"First Precinct," Connie said. "I have the number in my book." "Go ahead, call them," Alice said.

"I keep all the precinct numbers handy," Connie said. "In case I get a weirdo. I know all the desk sergeants down here." "Do you know Tony Orso?" Michael asked. "No. Is he a desk sergeant?" "No." "Then I don't know him." "Tony the Bear Orso." "No." "I know him," Silvio said. "So do I," Larry said. "Do you know Detective Daniel Cahill?" Michael asked.

"Go call all these cops, why don't you?" Alice said. "Tell them your Chink girlfriend tried to kill me."

"How would you like a punch in the mouth?" Connie asked pleasantly.

"Go ahead, hit me. That'll look good on your record, too."

"Detective Cahill?" Michael said. "Ring a bell?" "There was a cop up Sing Sing named Cahill," Larry said.

"No, that was Cromwell," Silvio said. "Oh, yeah," Larry said, and nodded and smiled, as though fondly remembering Sing Sing.

"How about you, Alice?" Michael

389 asked. "How about me, what? I'm bleeding to death here, that's how about me." "Do you know anybody named Cahill?" "No." "How about Helen Parrish?" "No." "Charlie Nichols?" "No." "Did you kill Charlie Nichols?"

"How could I kill somebody I don't even know?"

"Charlie Nichols. Mama sent you to kill him, didn't she?"

"This man is deaf," Alice said to the air. "I'm telling you I don't _know anybody by that name." "Charlie Nichols. An actor."

"Is he related to Charlie Belafonte?"

"You mean _Harry Belafonte," Larry said. "I know because his name is almost like mine."

"Can you sing `Day-O`?" Silvio asked him. "Charlie Nichols?" Michael said. "Nice little apartment in Knickerbocker Village?" "Where's that? Westchester County?" "The Fifth Precinct," Connie said.

"Go ahead, call the cops," Alice said. "How about Judy Jordan?" Michael asked. "Call her, too." "Do you know her?"

"I don't know _any of these people. Go call the goddamn cops. Just for spite, I'll be dead when they get here." "Good," Connie said. "You don't know any of them, huh?" Michael asked. "You're deaf, am I right?" she said, and turned to Larry. "He's deaf."

"My uncle in Chicago is deaf, too," Larry said sympathetically.

"And I suppose you don't know anything about what happened to me on Christmas Eve, either," Michael said.

"The first time I laid eyes on you was through a telescopic sight. I was told to put you away because you'd been snooping around Benny's downtown, and that's all I know. Mama likes things clean

and neat."

391 "She's a neat, clean illegal alien, huh?" Michael said. Alice said nothing.

"Why would killing _me make things clean and neat?" he asked. "Go ask Mama." "I will. Where do I find her?" Alice shook her head. "Where is she?" Alice shook her head again. "You're that scared of her, huh?" Alice said nothing. "Tell me where to find her." She just kept staring at him. "Then it's the cops, right?" he said. "You want me to call the cops, right?" "Sure," she said. "Call them." The last time Michael had stood in this hallway outside the door to Judy Jordan's apartment, he'd been alone. And someone, either Larry or Silvio, had come up behind him and hit him on the head with one of his own guns. Or rather, guns that had previously belonged to Frankie Zeppelin and Arthur Crandall. This time, Connie was by his side. With Connie by his side, he figured he would not get hit on the head again. The only thing that happened to him when Connie was by his side was that he got shot. Or, at best, shot _at. He wondered if the police had ever before walked into a warehouse full of stolen goods to discover a safe full of a million dollars' worth of crack, and three thieves swathed in furs and trussed with the electric cords from sundry household appliances. He did not think Alice--despite her dire warnings or perhaps promises--could possibly have bled to death by the time the police arrived. An axiom of the killing and maiming profession was that if a person was feeling good enough to laugh he wasn't about to die in the next ten minutes. He wished, however, that Alice had chosen to tell him who Mama was. It was a little unsettling to know that somewhere out there in this wonderful city there was a woman who wielded enough power to order Ju Ju Rainey's murder first and next to order Michael's own, a woman who could generate such fear that three grown thieves had chosen to face the police rather than reveal who or

where she was. Michael wasn't sure

393 he _ever wanted to meet Mama. He knew intuitively, however, that before this was over he would have to look her in the face and demand to know all the whys and wherefores. He tried to visualize her. She would be fat, he knew that. As Connie had suggested, a woman named Mama _had to be fat. Bloated and fat and as pale as a slug, a female with a breath that reeked of gunpowder and piss. She would have breasts like dugs, and she would obscenely expose them to Michael, threatening to suckle him if he did not do as she commanded. Standing before Mama, he would search her slightly crossed eyes for some sign that here was reason, here was cause, here was sanity, but there would be none. The .22 caliber pistols he was now carrying in the pockets of the bomber jacket would be of no use to him. He would be staring into the darkest part of evil, and he would be doomed. He did not want to find Mama, did not want to face what he knew was inescapable if this ever was to be resolved--but he knew that he had to. Mama was fate. If you had an appointment in Samarra, you did not drive instead to Newark, New Jersey. But in the beginning, there'd been Judy Jordan. Or Helen Parrish, if you preferred. And to get to the end, you went to the beginning. And prayed that somewhere along the way--