Til Death (15 page)

“I’m a very lucky man today,” Tony said to the hushed guests. “My daughter Angela has married a wonderful boy. Tommy! Tommy? Where’s Tommy?”

He climbed down off the chair and searched for Tommy in the crowd, dragging him into the light that spilled from the bandstand.

“My son-in-law!” he shouted, and the wedding guests applauded. “A wonderful boy, and a wonderful wedding, and a wonderful night! And now, we going to explode fireworks. We going to make the whole night explode for my two children! Is everybody ready?”

And the wedding guests cheered as Marty Sokolin lowered the muzzle of the rifle to the window sill and leveled his sights on Tommy Giordano’s head.

If police work is half doggedness and half patience, it is also half luck and half blind faith. Four halves, obviously, equal two wholes. Two holes were what Meyer Meyer and Bob O’Brien needed in their heads the way they needed the legwork they were doing in tracking down Marty Sokolin.

Meyer Meyer would have been extremely content to have lingered in the delicatessen sniffing of the savory smells there, rather than to leave the place in search of a potential killer. The smells of a delicatessen, especially a kosher deli, had always been mysterious, intriguing scents to Meyer. When he was a boy, he had no idea that people actually went into delicatessens to make purchases. His mother would take him for a stroll away from their Gentile neighborhood, into the nearest ghetto, and there she would seek out a delicatessen. Standing in the door to the shop, she would allow little Meyer to sniff to his heart’s content. Until the time he was fifteen and bought his first
nickel a shtickel,
Meyer held the unshakable conviction that delicatessens were for smelling only. He still felt rather uneasy when making a purchase in one, somewhat like a heathen defiling a temple.

He did not make a purchase in the delicatessen on Dover Plains Avenue. He made inquiries concerning the man with the trombone case, was promptly rebuffed, and then went into the street in further search of what was beginning to look like a rather elusive needle. The search was conducted in a very scientific manner based on established investigatory technique. The search was conducted by stopping passers-by and asking them if they had seen a man carrying a trombone case.

Now such painstaking investigatory technique is surely recommended by Scotland Yard and the Nassau County Police and the Sureté and the Gestapo. It is calculated to separate, through a process of carefully phrased questions (such as, “Did you see a man with a trombone case walk by here?) those citizens who had and those who had not witnessed the passage of the sought suspect. It was important, of course, to snap off the questions with the properly authoritative and universally accepted police tone. Police tone is a part of police procedure. The sentence, “Did you see a man with a trombone case walk by here?” when delivered by a layman untrained in police tone could result in a plethora of confused answers. When delivered by a man who had attended the Police Academy, a man well versed in the ways of investigatory technique, a man skilled at the art of interrogation, the question assumed significance. Faced with its scientific inevitability, the person questioned was skillfully led to the point where only one of two answers was possible: yes or no. I did, or I did not see a man with a trombone case walk by here.

Meyer Meyer and Bob O’Brien, skilled inquisitors that they were, received a total of twelve “no’s” before they received a “yes.”

The “yes” led them up a street parallel to Charles Avenue. On the front stoop of a two-story frame dwelling, they got their second “yes” and began to feel that their luck she was running good. The second “yes” came from an old man with an ear trumpet.

“Did you see a man with a trombone case walk by here?” Meyer asked scientifically.

“What?” the old man yelled. “I’m a little deaf.”

“A man with a trombone case?”

“Got one inside if you want to use it,” the old man said.

“A trombone?”

“Yep. On the hall table. Just dial any number you want. This ain’t an out-of-town call, is it?”

“No, no, a trombone,” Meyer said patiently. “A musical instrument.”

“Oh, a trombone. Yes, yes. What about it?”

“Did you see a man carrying one?”

“Fellow that walked by earlier this afternoon, you mean?”

“You saw him?”

“Yep. Walked right up the street.”

“Thanks,” Meyer said gratefully. “That’s swell. Thanks a lot.”

“You can go to hell yourself, young man,” the man with the ear trumpet said. “I was only trying to be helpful.”

Night was falling. The sky was a multicolored bowl, light blue to the west where the sun had dropped below the horizon, a deeper blue above that, the blue of a sailor’s eyes, and above that a blue that was almost black, drenched with stars, the velvet, diamond-sprinkled sheath of a sexy blonde in an all-night bistro.

“We’re close to the Carella house, aren’t we?” O’Brien asked.

“Charles Avenue is the next block,” Meyer said.

“Think we’re getting close?”

“Maybe. I’m getting tired, that’s for sure.”

“There’s another customer,” O’Brien said. “Shall we ask him?”

“We’ve asked everybody else so far. Why begin discriminating at this point?”

The new customer was an eight-year-old boy. He sat on the curb with a penknife. He kept throwing the penknife into the air and watching it land, handle first, into the patch of earth in front of him. It did not seem to occur to him that a slight shift of the knife would have allowed it to enter the earth blade first. The boy seemed quite content to simply throw it into the air and have it land with a sickening thud. Over and over again, he repeated the impotent act. Meyer and O’Brien watched him for a while.

“Hello, little fellow,” Meyer said at last.

The boy looked up. His face was dirt-smeared in the fading light.

“Drop dead,” he said.

Meyer laughed feebly. “Now, now, little fellow,” he said, “we only want to ask you a question.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

Meyer phrased the question carefully. “Did you see a man with a trombone case walk by here?”

The boy pierced him with stiletto eyes. “Drop dead,” he said. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Trying to get the knife to stick into the ground?” O’Brien asked pleasantly.

“Don’t be a jerk,” the boy said. “Anybody can do that. I got a caterpillar here in this hole.”

“A caterpillar?” O’Brien said.

“Sure. I’m trying to see how many times I can clobber him before he dies. I clobbered him thirty-four times already, and he’s still moving.”

“Have you tried stepping on him?” Meyer said.

“Where’s the fun in that?” the boy asked.

“About this man with the trombone case, did you happen to see him go by?”

“Sure,” the boy said. He picked up the knife and dropped the stubby handle onto the caterpillar’s back. “Thirty-five,” he said.

“Where did he go?”

“Probably up to the wedding on the next block.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Thirty-six,” the boy said as he dropped the knife again. “I think he’s getting weak.”

“What makes you think the man went to the wedding?” Meyer said.

“Because he probably cut through the back yard. Either that, or he went into the house.”

“What house?”

“He was heading that way, anyway. He stopped on the sidewalk and turned in right there,” the boy said. “Thirty-seven. So he either cut across the back yard to play at the wedding, or else he went inside. What else could he of done? Thirty-eight. I can count all the way to a hundred.”

“Which house?” Meyer said.

“Birnbaum’s,” the boy answered. “The third house on your right.” He looked down into the hole. “I think I got the bastard,” he said. “Wow, look at all that gook come out of him.”

Meyer and O’Brien did not pause to look at the gook. Hastily, they started up the street toward the Birnbaum house. In the distance, they could hear the beginning of a faint rumbling sound—like faraway thunder.

“Can you see him?”

Him, him, him, him, him…

“Yes. I’ve got him in the sights.”

Sights, sights, sights, sights, sights…

Don’t miss this time, I won’t, take careful aim, I will, they’re starting the fireworks now, the little ones, I don’t like the sound of fireworks, reminds me of guns going off, I hate guns going off, Marty, shut up, concentrate on what you’re doing, I am, look they’re setting off the pinwheels, can you still see him, yes, don’t fire until the big ones go off, we need the cover of the explosions, don’t fire yet, Marty, I won’t, I won’t.

Won’t, won’t, words, words, people talking, jumble of words, thunder in the distance, gunshots, fire, don’t, won’t…

Cotton Hawes climbed the echoing tunnel of unconsciousness, voices and sounds blurred meaninglessly, reverberating inside his head as blackness gave way to brightness, pinwheeling brightness outside, fireworks, yes, fireworks going off outside in the…

He blinked his eyes.

He tried to move.

He was trussed like Aunt Sadie’s roast; his hands tied to his feet behind him, he sprawled on the floor like the base of a big rocking horse. By turning his head, he could see the window. Beyond the window, the bright dizzy gleam of the fireworks split the night air. Silhouetted in the window was Neanderthal, squatting over the rifle, and standing above him, one hand on his shoulder, leaning over slightly, the red silk stretched taut over her magnificent buttocks, was the girl who’d clonked him with the shoe.

“Take careful aim, Marty,” she whispered.

“I am, I am, I’ve got him. Don’t worry.”

“Wait for the big ones. The noisy ones.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“You can do it, Marty.”

“I know.”

“You’re a man, Marty. You’re my man.”

“I know. Shhh. Shhh. Don’t make me nervous.”

“When it’s over, Marty. You and me. Take careful aim.”

“Yes, yes.”

He’s going to shoot Tommy,
Hawes thought helplessly.
Oh my God, he’s going to shoot Tommy, and I can’t do a goddamn thing to stop him.

“What…what happened?” Ben Darcy asked.

He pulled away from the wet cloth Carella held in his hand. He blinked and sat upright, and then suddenly clutched his head.

“Oh, my head. Oh Jesus, it’s killing me. What happened?”

“Suppose you tell me,” Carella said. “Here, keep this wet cloth on the swelling.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He blinked again, puzzled. “What’s…what’s all that noise?”

“They’re beginning the fireworks.”

“Have…have Tommy and Angela left yet?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh.”

“Tell me what happened,” Carella said.

“I’m not too sure. I was walking out back here when—”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“What were you doing back here in the bushes?”

“I wasn’t feeling so hot. All the confusion in there, and the row I had with Tommy. So I came here where it was a little more quiet.”

“Then what?”

“Somebody hit me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“You yelled first,” Carella said. “You yelled for help. Why’d you do that?”

“Because somebody grabbed me around the neck. That was when I yelled. My God, what did he hit me with? It feels as if my head is broken.”

“It was a man, Ben?”

“Yes. Yes, it felt like a man’s arm around my neck.”

“And you yelled for help?”

“Yes.”

“Did the man say anything?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘You lousy son of a bitch, I’m going to kill every one of you.’”

“What kind of a voice did he have?”

“Deep. Husky. He sounded like a big man.”

“How big?”

“Very big. His arm was strong.”

“How tall are you, Ben?”

“An even six feet.”

“Would you say he was very much bigger than you? From what you could tell?”

“No, not that big. I mean, maybe six-two, six-four, something like that.”

“And he said, ‘You lousy son of a bitch, I’m going to kill every one of you.’ Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“And then he hit you?”

“Yes.”

“On the head?”

“Yes.”

“Is that the only place he hit you?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t knock you to the ground and kick you or anything?”

“No.”

“He simply put his arm around your neck, pulled you backwards, and then hit you on the top of the head, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“What was he wearing?”

“A tuxedo, I think. I only saw his arm, but I think it was the sleeve of a tuxedo.”

“You saw this?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t too dark to see?”

“No. No.”

“What color was the tuxedo?”

“Black.”

“Not blue?”

“No. Black.”

“You could tell that? In the darkness here? Under the shade of the tree here?”

“Yes. It was black. I think it was black.”

“And the man spoke and then hit you? Or did you yell for help first? Which?”

“First he spoke, then I—no, wait. I yelled for help first, and then he cursed at me, and then he hit me.

“Only once, right?”

“Yes. He hit me on the head. That’s the last thing I remember.”

“And you fell down unconscious, right?”

“Yes.”

“One last question, Ben?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you lying to me?”

The pinwheels had sputtered out, and the Roman candles had filled the night with red. And now, standing behind the platform,
the caterers from Weddings-Fetes, Incorporated, stood at the ready, anxious to light the fuses for the grand finale. Tommy Giordano stood alongside his father-in-law and his bride, bathed in the light from the bandstand, waiting for the medley of explosion and light that would come in the next few moments. He did not know that the crosshairs of a telescopic sight were fixed at a point just above his left eye. He smiled pleasantly as the caterers rushed around behind the platform, squeezed Angela’s hand when he saw the first fuse being touched.