Lawrence Block - Even the Wicked

After an hour or so I noticed, a key hanging from a hook on the wall next to the light switch. I guessed that it would unlock the door to the men’s room, and it turned out I was right. I used the John, and checked Whitfield’s office going and coming. It was still occupied.

I checked again an hour later, and an hour after that. Then I dozed off, and when I opened my eyes it was twenty minutes to twelve. The lights were out in the law office. I walked on past it and used the lavatory again, and the lights were still out when I returned.

The lock was better than the one on Barish’s door, and I thought I might have to break the glass to get in. I was prepared to do that — I didn’t think anyone was around to hear it, or inclined to pay attention — but first I used my pocketknife to gouge the door jamb enough so that I could get a purchase on the bolt and snick it back. I put on the lights, figuring that a lighted office would look less suspicious to someone across the street than a darkened office with someone moving around inside it.

I found Whitfield’s office and got busy.

It was around one-thirty in the morning when I got out of there. I left the place looking as I’d found it, and wiped whatever surfaces I might have left prints on, more out of habit than because I thought anyone might dust the place for prints. I rubbed a little dirt into the gouges I’d made around the lock, so that the scar didn’t look too new, and I drew the door shut and heard the bolt snick behind me.

I was too tired to think straight, and actually considered holing up in Barish’s office and napping in his easy chair until dawn, all that in order to avoid having to sneak out past the guard. Instead I decided to bluff my way past him, and when I went downstairs the lobby was empty. A sign I’d missed on my way in announced that the building was locked from ten at night to six in the morning.

This didn’t mean I couldn’t get out, just that once out I couldn’t get back in again. That was fine with me. I got out of there and had to walk three blocks before I could hail a cruising cab. Stickers on the windows in the passenger compartment warned me against smoking. In front, the Pakistani driver puffed away at one of those foul little Italian cigars. Di Nobili, I think they’re called. Years and years ago I was partnered with a wise old cop named Vince Mahaffey, and he smoked the damn things day in and day out. I suppose they were no less appropriate for a Pakistani cabby than for an Irish cop, but I didn’t let myself be transported on wings of nostalgia. I just rolled down the windows and tried to find something to breathe.

Elaine was asleep when I got in. She stirred when I slipped into bed beside her. I gave her a kiss and told her to go back to sleep.

“TJ called again,” she said. “You didn’t beep him.”

“I know. What did he want?”

“He didn’t say.”

“I’ll call him in the morning. Go to sleep, sweetie.”

“You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Find out anything?”

“I don’t know. Go to sleep.”

“‘Go to sleep, go to sleep.’ Is that all you can say?”

I tried to think of a response, but before I could come up with anything she had drifted off again. I closed my eyes and did the same.

Elaine was gone by the time I woke up. There was a note on the kitchen table explaining that she’d left early for an auction at Tepper Galleries on East Twenty-fifth Street, and reminding me to beep TJ. I had a shower first, and toasted an English muffin. There was coffee in the thermos, and I drank one cup and poured another before I picked up the phone and dialed his beeper number. When the tone sounded I punched in my own number and hung up.

Fifteen minutes later the phone rang and I picked it up. “Who wants TJ?” he said, and went on without waiting for a response, “’Cept I know who it is, Diz, on account of I reckanize the number. You believe it took me this long to find a phone? Either they out of order or somebody be on them, talkin’ like they gettin’ paid by the word. You think I should get a cell phone?”

“I wouldn’t want one.”

“You don’t want a beeper,” he said, “or a computer, neither. What you want’s the nineteenth century back again.”

“Maybe the eighteenth,” I said, “before the Industrial Revolution took the joy out of life.”

“Someday you can tell me how nice it was with horses and buggies. Why I don’t want a cell phone, they cost too much. Cost when you call somebody, cost when somebody call you. Top of that, you got no privacy. Dude’s chillin’ with a Walkman, he’s liable to pick up everything you sayin’. What makes it work like that?”

“How would I know?”

“Don’t even need a Walkman. People be pickin’ up your conversation on the fillings in their teeth. Next thing you know they think it’s the CIA, tellin’ ’em they supposed to go to the post office and shoot everybody.”

“You wouldn’t want that on your conscience.”

“Damn, you right about that.” He laughed. “I stick to my beeper. Hey, listen. I found that dude.”

“What dude is that?”

“Dude you had me lookin’ for. Dude who was on the scene when the one dude shot the other dude.”

“There’s too many dudes in that sentence,” I said. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Talkin’ ’bout Myron.”

“Myron.”

“Dude got shot in that little park? Dude had AIDS? Ring a little bell, Mel?”

“Byron,” I said.

“Byron Leopold. Wha’d I do, call him Myron? I been doin’ that in my head all along. Thing is, see, I never heard of nobody named Byron... You still there?”

“I’m here.”

“You didn’t say nothin’, so I beginnin’ to wonder.”

“I guess I was speechless,” I said. “I didn’t know you were still looking for the witness.”

“Ain’t been nobody told me to stop.”

“No, but—”

“An’ the man got me started in this detectin’ business, everybody say he like a dog with a bone. Once he get his teeth in somethin’, he ain’t about to turn it loose.”

“Is that what they say?”

“So I gettin’ to be the same my own self, like a dog with a bone. ‘Sides, it be somethin’ to do.”

“And you found the dude.”

“Took some doin’,” he admitted. “He wasn’t exactly lookin’ to be found. But he saw the whole thing, ‘cept it was more hearin’ than seein’. He wasn’t lookin’ at first, and when he did look he was seein’ it from behind. So he saw the back of the dude who did the shooting, and he didn’t see the gun, just heard, you know, pop pop.”

“That’s what he heard? Pop pop?”

“What he heard was gunshots. What else you gone hear when somebody shoots a gun?”

“Everybody who was there heard the gunshots,” I said, “and even if they hadn’t the bullets in Leopold’s body are fairly strong evidence that a couple of shots were fired. So if all this fellow did was hear the shots—”

“Ain’t all he heard.”

“Oh.”

“That was all the man heard, you think I’d be botherin’ you with it?”

“Sorry. What else did he hear?”

“Heard the dude say, ‘Mr. Leopold?’ Then he didn’t hear nothin’, so either Byron just nodded or his voice didn’t carry. Then he heard the dude say, ‘Byron Leopold?’ An’ maybe he looked up an’ maybe he didn’t, but the next he heard the dude was bustin’ caps.”

“Pop pop.”

“Like that.”

“When can I see this witness?”

“He might be pretty slow to talk to you. He already missed a few chances to talk to the police.”

“I don’t suppose the gentleman’s a vice president at IBM.”