Ed McBain - Cinderella

“Neither do I.”

“The reason I’m here... is there anything you can add to what you already told Otto? Anything that might shed some light on why he was killed? Because you see—”

“I told him everything. The girl stole my watch, I wanted him to find her.”

“Because you see, in his notes, Otto seemed to think there might have been some significance to the girl’s visit to a doctor’s office and her purchase of a book about a woman’s body. What I’m asking... is there anything Otto didn’t know, anything you didn’t tell him, that might have had some bearing on his murder?”

“Like what?”

“Like... Mr. Larkin, was the girl pregnant?”

“What?”

“Was she pregnant? Angela West, Jenny Santoro, Jody Carmody, Melissa Blair... Cinderella? Was she pregnant?”

“How the hell would I know? I only saw her that one night.”

“Never saw her after that, is that right?”

“Never.”

“Do you have any reason to believe she might have become pregnant that night?”

“Why would I believe that?”

“Well... forgive me... but was any sort of contraception used?”

“What kind of question is that?” Larkin said angrily and rose suddenly and began pacing the deck. Beyond him, out over the water, there were distant flashes of lightning.

“I’m sorry I have to ask such a personal question, believe me,” Matthew said. “But in his notes Otto speculated that perhaps the girl’s visit to an OB-GYN’s office, coupled with her purchase of the body-book, might indicate she suspected she was pregnant. Otto’s intuitions were usually pretty sound, Mr. Larkin. And since this happened almost two months ago, it is possible, after all, that—”

“The girl was a pro,” Larkin said. “Pros don’t get pregnant.”

“Well, you don’t know for a fact that she was a professional.”

“Amateurs don’t fuck a guy’s brains out and then steal his watch,” Larkin said.

“Maybe not,” Matthew said.

“Anyway, what if she is pregnant, which I doubt. What does that have to do with Otto’s murder?”

“I don’t know,” Matthew said.

“I don’t see any connection at all. Even if she...”

He suddenly stopped pacing.

“Or is that it?” he said. “Is that why you’re here?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Matthew said.

Larkin was standing before him now, hands on his hips, looking down at him. Lightning streaked the distant sky again. “You think I might’ve killed Otto, don’t you?” he said. “Or had him killed.”

“No, I don’t,” Matthew said.

“You come here asking me did I knock her up...”

“You’re misunderstanding my—”

“Bullshit. What is it you’re thinking? That Otto was about to learn the fuckin’ bitch got herself pregnant? That it was me who decided to take him off the case? Permanently? Is that what you’re thinking?”

“No. But if she is pregnant...”

“Who gives a shit what she is?” Larkin said. “I hope she is, you want to know. With a fuckin’ Mongolian idiot !”

His vehemence startled Matthew. Out over the water, there was more lightning, and now the sound of distant thunder.

“I’m trying to say if Otto was close to making such a discovery, then it’s possible that someone — maybe even the girl herself — wasn’t too keen on having the information made public.”

“Well, the someone wasn’t me. And you know something? You’re right, you did breach my privacy by reading those reports and I’m starting to get a little bit pissed, okay? So maybe you oughta just get the fuck out of here, okay? Do me that favor.”

“I was hoping—”

“You were hoping wrong.”

“Sorry to’ve bothered you then,” Matthew said and rose, and started for the steps leading down to the side of the house.

“And let me tell you something else,” Larkin said. “I’ve already put somebody else onto finding little Cinderella, and he’s not the gentleman Otto was. So I don’t think he’d appreciate your snooping around.”

“Thanks, I’ll remember that,” Matthew said.

“I think you better,” Larkin said.

Lightning flashed far out over the water.

From where they sat on a deck overlooking Calusa Bay, Ernesto and Domingo and the two other men glanced up briefly at the jagged yellow streaks and then turned away from the water and continued talking. They were conversing in low, controlled voices because they were discussing dope.

The two men with Ernesto and Domingo took turns addressing Ernesto. They had figured the other one didn’t have any English at all. If they’d been a bit more astute, they’d have realized Domingo was listening to every word and not missing very much. Instead, they kept everything going to Ernesto.

The one who was talking now was a hefty man wearing a short-sleeved sports shirt, tan slacks, and loafers with no socks. He was something like thirty years old, Ernesto guessed, and he brought to the selling of his dope the intensity an IBM salesman might have brought to the selling of a typewriter or a computer. He enjoyed his job, this man. He enjoyed the big bucks to be made in his job. His name was Charlie Nubbs. Ernesto didn’t think that was his real last name, Nubbs. But that was how the man introduced himself, “Hello, I’m Charlie Nubbs, we hear you’re looking to buy some heavy machinery.”

Heavy machinery was cocaine, Ernesto guessed.

Ernesto and Domingo had spread the word around cautiously. Told a few people here and there that they had cash and were looking to spend it on choice blow. Let it be known they were looking for at least ninety-percent pure, which is what the girl had stolen from Amaros. Two, three keys, they said. Actually, the girl had stolen four keys, no wonder Amaros wanted to hang her from the ceiling. Four keys of nine-oh pure? Shit, man!

Nobody knew they were looking for Jenny Santoro, of course. All anybody knew was they were looking for dope. What they were hoping was somebody would say “Hey, there’s this chick in town she fell into some very good stuff and she’s looking for buyers.” That’s what they were hoping. So far, nobody knew such a chick.

Charlie Nubbs was telling them that this Friday night they were expecting a shipment of very good stuff. Charlie Nubbs didn’t know how many keys would be on the boat when they met it. They never knew until it arrived, it was different each shipment. What they had to do, he said, taking Ernesto into his confidence, was be prepared to pay cash on delivery for however many keys were on the boat. The price depended on how pure the coke was. It had been running a very high pure content lately, he was expecting the new shipment would be at least ninety-percent pure, which was about as good as you could get.

“I understand you’re looking for very rich stuff,” he said to Ernesto.

“That’s all we will accept, yes,” Ernesto said.

“And in what quantity?”

“Two, three keys.”

“That’s all, huh? ’Cause I was hoping you might want to take more than that. We sometimes get ten, twelve keys in a shipment, that’s a lot of cash to come up with. We could lay some of it off, you know, it’d be easier for us.”

Voices lowered. The men facing the water, looking out over the water. Women eating salads at a nearby table. Sailboats out there on the water. All tranquil and lovely, white sails against the pale blue sky and deeper blue water. Sea gulls hovering. Tuesday in Paradise.

The men continued talking dope.

“What we’re talking here,” the man with Charlie Nubbs said, “is seventy-five a key, something like that, if it’s as rich as it’s been running lately.”