Manhattan Noir - Lawrence Block [34]
The cold smile on his face again, Shelby said, “Two perps down. Now we just have the last one. You.”
“What’re you going to do?” the cop whispered.
The wife said, “Our son’s got to have years of therapy. He’ll never recover completely.”
Schaeffer shook his head. “You’ve got evidence, right?”
“Oh, you bet. Our older son was outside of Mack’s waiting for you when you went there to get T.G. We’ve got real nice footage of you shooting him. Two in the head. Real nasty.”
“And the sequel,” the private eye said. “In the alley behind Hanrahan’s. Where you strangled Ricky.” He added, “Oh, and we’ve got the license number of the truck that came to get Ricky’s body in the dumpster. We followed it to Jersey. We can implicate a bunch of very unpleasant people, who aren’t going to be happy they’ve been fingered because of you.”
“And, in case you haven’t guessed,” Shelby said, “we made three copies of the tape and they’re sitting in three different lawyers’ office safes. Anything happens to any one of us, and off they go to Police Plaza.”
“You’re as good as murderers yourself,” Schaeffer muttered. “You used me to kill two people.”
Shelby laughed. “Semper Fi… I’m a former Marine and I’ve been in two wars. Killing vermin like you doesn’t bother me one bit.”
“All right,” the cop said in a disgusted grumble, “what do you want?”
“You’ve got the vacation house on Fire Island, you’ve got two boats moored in Oyster Bay, you’ve got—”
“I don’t need a fucking inventory. I need a number.”
“Basically your entire net worth. Eight hundred sixty thousand dollars. Plus my hundred fifty back … And I want it in the next week. Oh, and you pay his bill too.” Shelby nodded toward the private eye.
“I’m good,” the man said. “But very expensive.” He finished the scone and brushed the crumbs onto the sidewalk.
Shelby leaned forward. “One more thing: my watch.”
Schaeffer stripped off the Rolex and tossed it to Shelby.
The couple rose. “So long, detective,” the tourist said.
“Love to stay and talk,” Mrs. Shelby added, “but we’re going to see some sights. And then we’re going for a carriage ride in Central Park before dinner.” She paused and looked down at the cop. “I just love it here. It’s true what they say, you know. New York really is a nice place to visit.”
THE NEXT BEST THING
BY JIM FUSILLI
George Washington Bridge
He was a nasty bastard and everybody knew it, but she fell for him anyway. He had blue, blue eyes and he knew how to take his time and, of course, she loved the way he played piano. She thought everybody loved the way he played piano.
She didn’t know he’d been run out of Kansas City and that he worked in Jersey because he couldn’t cut it on 52nd Street, up at Minton’s or at the Café Bohemia in the Village. One time, she followed him to Broadway, knowing Bud Powell was playing Birdland, and she cozied up to him at the bar between sets and slid her hand onto his broad shoulder. He turned hard, his face going blank with a pure, powerful rage. Taking it simple, figuring he didn’t want her catching him doing something or hearing something he didn’t want her to know, she slid off the stool, pushed through the chattering crowd and walked back downtown, and she never asked why. She was learning it was better to let him be.
They were in Hell’s Kitchen, and she wore a slip, and his scent surrounded her like mist, and one evening she said, “Maxie, do you ever—”
“No,” he said as he brushed his shoes. Maxie put on his shoes before his trousers, and she liked that too.
Later, he slipped the straight razor into its leather sheath, dusted his face and neck with Pinaud talc, and headed out to Port Authority for the 8:05 bus to Fort Lee. Three sets at the Continental Lounge for six bucks a night and whatever ended up in the brandy snifter. He would’ve done better in tips if he wasn’t such a nasty bastard. He had those blue, blue eyes.
Maxie had his shot, but it didn’t take, and soon he was just another guy with his hat in his hand.
He wasn’t going to get a gig in New York City. He knew that before he caught the train.