Ed McBain - Downtown (6 page)

"We shootin' dice here?" Slam asked, "or we chattin' up Miss Shanghai?" "Miss Mott Street, you mean," the seaman with the watch cap said.

"Miss China Doll," the second Chinese man said. "Are you really all those things?" Michael asked. "No, I'm Connie," she said. "Willya please _roll 'em?" Slam said.

Grinning from ear to ear, Harry picked up the dice. He was good for the next pass, and three more passes after that, by which time Michael's initial ten

bucks had grown to six hundred and forty

75 dollars. He looked at his watch again--9:45 --and decided to let all of it ride on Harry's phenomenal luck. He wondered if he was risking the money just so he could stay here by Connie's side. All at once, the plane to Boston didn't seem too very important. Missing a plane to Boston wasn't the end of the world. On the television screen, Andy Williams began singing "Silent Night."

Harry rolled a ten, a tough point to make. Then Harry rolled a four ... And a nine ... And a six ... And an eight ...

And Michael began wondering how many numbers he could roll before a seven came up and killed them both dead? Michael had never in his life won a nickel in a Saigon gambling house, but he'd kept rolling number after number out there in the jungle, never sevening out while everywhere around him brief good friends were dying. "Tough point," he said. "Very," Connie said, and smiled. He smiled back. Harry was whispering to the dice again. This time I buy the farm, Michael thought. "Sugah, we need a six and a four," Harry whispered. It was almost ten o'clock.

On the television set, Andy Williams was saying good night to everyone, wishing everyone in America a Merry Christmas. Michael paid no attention to him. His eyes were on Connie and his six hundred and forty bucks were on the blanket.

"Two fives, baby," Harry whispered to the dice, and shook them gently in his fist, and opened his hand and said, "Ten the hard way, sugah," and the dice rolled out and away toward the wall.

On the television screen, the news came on. The headline story was a bombing in Dublin, but no one was listening to it. One of the dice bounced off the wall. A three. The second die hit the wall. Bounced off it. A four.

Shit, Michael thought, there goes my taxi.

"In downtown Manhattan tonight," the male anchor said, "motion-picture director Arthur

Crandall ..."

77 Michael looked up at the screen. "... was found shot to death in a rented automobile. Police report finding a wallet in the car, possibly dropped by Crandall's murderer. It contained ..." Everyone around the blanket was looking up at the screen.

"... sixty-three dollars in cash, several credit cards, and a driver's license identifying ..."

"Good night," Michael said, "thank you," and began walking toward the door across the room.

"... a man named Michael Barnes, who the Hertz company confirms rented the car at Kennedy last Fri ..." Michael closed the door behind him. The same man was still behind the stainless steel table, stuffing fortune cookies. "Have a nice holiday," Michael said.

"The down of white geese shall float upon your dreams," the man said. The door opened again. "Wait for me," Connie said.

4 It had stopped snowing.

She was wearing a short black coat over the green dress. The red rose was still in her hair. Black coat, black hair, green dress and shoes, red rose--all against a background of white on white. The silent night Andy Williams had promised. Still and white, except for the flatness of the black and the sheen of the green and the shriek of the red in her hair. "You've got trouble, huh?" she said. He debated lying. "Yes," he said, "I've got trouble." Their breaths pluming on the frosty air.

"Come on," she said, "I've got a limo around the corner."

He thought that was pretty fortunate, a rich Chinese girl with a chauffeured limo to take her hither and yon in the city. He didn't want to go anywhere in this city but out of it. Straight to Kennedy, where he would catch his plane to Boston and Mama, or else try to get a plane to Florida. Get out of this rotten apple as

soon as possible, call his lawyer the

79 minute he landed someplace. Dave, they are saying I murdered somebody in New York, Dave. What should I do? Hushed footfalls on the fresh snow. Everything looking so goddamn beautiful. But they were saying he'd killed somebody.

The limousine was parked outside a Chinese restaurant on Elizabeth Street. Long and black and sleek, it looked like a Russian submarine that had surfaced somewhere on an Arctic glacier. There were Christmas decorations in both front windows of the restaurant, all red and green and tinselly. The building up the street seemed decorated for Christmas, too, with green globes flanking the-- "Hey," Michael said, "that's a ..." "I know," Connie said, "the Fifth Precinct. Don't worry about it. Just get in the back of the car the minute I unlock it."

She hurried ahead of him on the sidewalk, struggling through the thick snow in her high-heeled pumps while up the street a Salvation Army band played "Adeste Fideles," and a man with a microphone pleaded with passersby to be generous. It was a little past ten-fifteen by Michael's watch, but the streets here in Chinatown were still crowded with Christmas Eve shoppers. He watched Connie as she stepped off the curb, walked around to the driver's side of the car, and inserted a key in the lock. She opened the door, nodded to him, and immediately got into the car. He came up the street swiftly, stopped at the back door on the curb side, opened it. He got in at once, closed the door behind him, and said, "Where's the chauffeur?" "I'm the chauffeur," she said. "This is your car?" "No, it's a China Doll car." She turned on the seat, looking back at him. "China Doll Executive Limousine Service," she explained. "I'm one of the drivers." To emphasize the point, she settled a little peaked chauffeur's hat on her head. The rose seemed suddenly incongruous. She handed him a card. Everyone in this city had a card. The card read: 81

CHINA DOLL

EXECUTIVE LIMOUSINE SERVICE

Charles Wong, President "Charlie Wong!" he said. "You know him?" "He tried to hold me up!" "Charlie? No. He's a respectable businessman. He has twelve limos."

"I don't care if he has a _hundred limos. He stuck a gun in my face." "Charlie?" "Well, a plastic gun. Yes, _Charlie! A big Chinese guy with ..." "No, you must be thinking of another Charlie Wong. Wong is a very common Chinese name. Sixty-two percent of all the people in China are named Wong." "Is that true?" "I think so. My name isn't that common. Kee. That's my family name. Connie is my given name."

"That's a very nice name," he said. "Connie Kee." "Yes, it's illiterate." "Alliterative."

"Yes. Although actually, it's Kee Connie. The same as it's really Wong Charlie. In China, they put the family name first." "Then what should I call you?" "Connie Kee. Because this isn't China, you know. This is America, you know." "Right now I'd rather be in China," he said. "Would you like to drive me to Kennedy?" "If you're going to China, you'll need a visa," she said. "In that case, I'll go to Boston."

"I've never been to Boston, so I don't know. But when my uncle Benny went to Hong Kong--this wasn't even mainland China--I know he needed a visa. Anyway, you don't want to go to Kennedy," she said, shaking her head. "How about La Guardia?"

"No good, either. They'll be watching all the bus stations, railroad terminals, and airports." "Then how would you like to drive me to Sarasota?" he asked. "I'd love to," she said, "but I have a

twelve-thirty pickup. Why'd you

83 kill that movie director?"

"I didn't kill any goddamn movie director," he said. "The police think you did." "The police are wrong."

"Right or wrong, everyone in this city knows what you look like." "How can they know what I ...?was "Because they showed your picture on television." "My _picture? Where'd ...?was

"Right on the screen, just as you were running out." "Where'd they get ...?was

"On your driver's license. Nice big close-up of your face." "Oh shit." "Actually, it wasn't _that bad a picture." "Then they _will be watching the airports." "Is what I said." "Because if they have my license ..." "Oh, they have it, all right." "Then they know I'm from Florida ..." "Oh, they know, all right." "And they have to be figuring I'll be heading down there." "Is what anyone would figure." "So I _can't head down there." "Not if you killed this guy Randall." "Crandall," Michael said. "I'm sure they said Randall."

"It was Arthur _Crandall," Michael said.

"Well, I won't argue with you. I guess you know who you killed." "I _didn't kill him. And it was _Crandall, damn it, I have his card right here." He fished into his jacket pocket. "See?" he said, and showed her the card that looked like a strip of film. "Arthur Crandall, there's his name in black and white." "There's his address, too," Connie said. The entrance to the building on Bowery was a door with a plate-glass upper portion upon which the words CRANDALL FILMS, LTD. were lettered in big black block letters. Michael wondered what kind of film company would have its New York office here in this bedraggled part of the city; he guessed that _War _and _Solitude had been a flop of even vaster dimensions than Crandall had

described. He tried the doorknob.

85 The door was locked. A dim light inside showed a steeply angled flight of steps leading upstairs. To the right of the door was a store selling plumbing appliances. To the left was a hotel that called itself the Bowery Palace. Michael stepped back and away from the door. He looked up at the second-story windows, where the name of Crandall's company was positioned in yet larger block letters. Not a light was showing up there. Apparently, the police hadn't got here yet. Either that, or they'd already come and gone. A traffic signal was on the corner, and several enterprising Christmas Eve businessmen had set up shop there with buckets and chamois cloths, pouncing on the windshield of any car unfortunate enough to get caught by a red light. There was even less traffic in the streets now; the storm had frightened off all but a few hearty adventurers, and the rest were already home for Christmas. The windshield-washers on the corner kept looking up the avenue for signs of fresh customers. Meanwhile, they kept passing around a pint bottle of something that looked very dark and very poisonous. When one of them spotted the black limo, he started for it at once, bucket in his left hand, chamois cloth in his right. Connie waved him off. He kept coming. "My windshield's clean," she said. "I'm Freddie," he said. "Clean your windshield?" "I just told you it's clean." "Clean your windshield for a dollar?" "A dollar!" Connie said. "That's outrageous!" "So make it half a buck," Freddie said, and shrugged. "Now you're talking," Connie said, and Freddie dipped the chamois into the bucket and slapped the cloth onto the windshield. A greasy film of ice immediately formed on the glass. "Terrific," Connie said sourly.

"I want to find the backyard," Michael whispered. "Why?" Connie asked. "See if there's a fire escape." "I'll come with you," she said. "Are you a movie star?" Freddie asked Michael. "No."

"'Cause you look familiar," he

87 said. "You wouldn't happen to have a scraper, would you?" he asked Connie.

"In the trunk," Connie said, and went around to the back of the car. "Haven't I seen you on television?" Freddie asked. "No," Michael said. "In a series about Florida?" "No." "You sure look familiar."

"I have a very common face," Michael said.

"Ah, thank you," Freddie said, and accepted the scraper from Connie. "This should do the trick." She was no longer wearing the green satin, high-heeled pumps she'd had on a few minutes ago. Black galoshes were on her feet now, the tops unbuckled. She looked like pictures Michael had seen of flappers in the Twenties, except that she was Chinese. She saw him looking down at the galoshes. "I changed my shoes," she said.

He looked up into her face. So goddamn beautiful.

"I bought these in a thrift shop," she said, "to keep in the trunk. For inclement weather." On her lips, the word "inclement" sounded Chinese. She shrugged, and turned to where Freddie was already scraping the windshield. "You want to watch the car for me?" she asked. "No, ma'am, I don't wash entire cars," he said, "I only do windshields."

"You keep an eye on the car for me, I'll give you that dollar you wanted." "Make it two dollars."

"Two dollars, okay," she said, and locked the car and then turned back to Michael and said, "Let's go." Michael looked at the Bowery Palace Hotel. He nodded, and then started toward its entrance door. Connie followed immediately behind him.

"Ask for room five-oh-five," Freddie called after them. "It has a mattress."

The hotel lobby was done in what one might have called Beirut Nouveau. Plaster was crumbling from the walls, electrical outlets hung suspended by dangling wires, the bloated ceiling bulged with what was certainly a water leak, wooden posts and beams seemed on the imminent edge of collapse, wallpaper was peeling,

framed prints of pastoral scenes hung

89 askew, and ancient upholstered furniture exposed its springs and stuffing. Altogether, the place looked as if it had recently been attacked by terrorists with pipe bombs. The clerk behind the scarred and tottering desk looked like a graying, wrinkled Oliver North who had just made his last covert deal with the Iranians.

"Good evening, Merry Christmas," Michael said to the clerk, and walked directly past the desk, and then past a hissing, clanging radiator that seemed about to explode and then past two men in long overcoats who were flipping playing cards at a brass spittoon against one of the flaking walls. It took Michael a moment to realize the spittoon wasn't empty. Behind him, he heard Connie clanking along in her unbuckled galoshes. "Merry Christmas," she said to the clerk, and he replied, "Merry Christmas," sounding somewhat bewildered, and then--as Michael approached a door under a red-and-white EXIT sign--"Excuse me, sir, may I ask what you think you're ...?was "Building inspector," Michael said gruffly, and would have flashed his driver's license or something if he'd still had it in his possession. "Merry Christmas," the clerk said at once, "I'm sure you'll find everything in order." "We'll see about that," Michael said, and opened the exit door, and stepped out into the backyard. Telephone poles grew from the snow-covered ground, their sagging wires wearing narrow threads of white. Fences capped with snow spread raggedly north, south, east, and west. Where tenements rose to the starry night, there were clotheslines stiff with frozen clothes. Not a breeze stirred now. Moonlight tinted the backyard world a soft silvery white. "It's beautiful," Connie said beside him. "Yes," he said. He sighed then, and looked up at the back of the hotel, getting his geographical bearings, and then turned his scrutiny to the building on its left. A fire escape zigzagged up the snow-dusted, redbrick wall.