The Night and the Music - Lawrence Block [40]
When he got back, I said, “Herrera.”
“Changed his story. Made a full confession.”
“And pinned the killing on Cruz.”
“Why not? Cruz wasn’t around to complain. Who knows which one of ‘em did it, and for that matter, who cares? The thing is, you gave us the lever.”
“For Cruz,” I said. “To get him to kill himself.”
“And for Herrera. Those kids of his in Santurce. Drew spoke to Herrera’s lawyer and Herrera’s lawyer spoke to Herrera, and the message was, ‘Look, you’re going up for burglary whatever you do, and probably for murder; but if you tell the right story, you’ll draw shorter time, and on top of that, that nice Mr. Tillary’s gonna let bygones be bygones and every month there’s a nice check for your wife and kiddies back home in Puerto Rico.’ ”
At the bar, a couple of old men were reliving the Louis-Schmeling fight, the second one, where Louis punished the German champion. One of the old fellows was throwing roundhouse punches in the air, demonstrating.
I said, “Who killed your wife?”
“One or the other of them. If I had to bet, I’d say Cruz. He had those little beady eyes; you looked at him up close and you got that he was a killer.”
“When did you look at him up close?”
“When they came and cleaned the house, the basement, and the attic. Not when they came and cleaned me out; that was the second time.”
He smiled, but I kept looking at him until the smile lost its certainty. “That was Herrera who helped around the house,” I said. “You never met Cruz.”
“Cruz came along, gave him a hand.”
“You never mentioned that before.”
“Oh, sure I did, Matt. What difference does it make, anyway?”
“Who killed her, Tommy?”
“Hey, let it alone, huh?”
“Answer the question.”
“I already answered it.”
“You killed her, didn’t you?”
“What are you, crazy? Cruz killed her and Herrera swore to it, isn’t that enough for you?”
“Tell me you didn’t kill her.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“Tell me again.”
“I didn’t fucking kill her. What’s the matter with you?”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Oh, Jesus,” he said. He closed his eyes, put his head in his hands. He sighed and looked up and said, “You know, it’s a funny thing with me. Over the telephone, I’m the best salesman you could ever imagine. I swear I could sell sand to the Arabs, I could sell ice in the winter, but face-to-face I’m no good at all. Why do you figure that is?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know. I used to think it was my face, the eyes and the mouth; I don’t know. It’s easy over the phone. I’m talking to a stranger, I don’t know who he is or what he looks like, and he’s not lookin’ at me, and it’s a cinch. Face-to-face, especially with someone I know, it’s a different story.” He looked at me. “If we were doin’ this over the phone, you’d buy the whole thing.”
“It’s possible.”
“It’s fucking certain. Word for word, you’d buy the package. Suppose I was to tell you I did kill her, Matt. You couldn’t prove anything. Look, the both of us walked in there, the place was a mess from the burglary, we got in an argument, tempers flared, something happened.”
“You set up the burglary. You planned the whole thing, just the way Cruz and Herrera accused you of doing. And now you wriggled out of it.”
“And you helped me — don’t forget that part of it.”
“I won’t.”
“And I wouldn’t have gone away for it anyway, Matt. Not a chance. I’da beat it in court, only this way I don’t have to go to court. Look, this is just the booze talkin’, and we can forget it in the morning, right? I didn’t kill her, you didn’t accuse me, we’re still buddies, everything’s fine. Right?”
Blackouts are never there when you want them. I woke up the next day and remembered all of it, and I found myself wishing I didn’t. He’d killed his wife and he was getting away with it. And I’d helped him. I’d taken his money, and in return I’d shown him how to set one man up for suicide and pressure another into making a false confession.
And what was I going to do about it?
I couldn’t think of a thing. Any story I carried to the police would be speedily