Lawrence Block: A Walk Among the Tombstones

”That’s some picture.”

”But what I mean is it’d be a sort of boy’s night out, wouldn’t it, and who needs a girl along? Seriously, I don’t particularly want to go, and I know you’re restless and I think it would do you a world of good. You’ve never been anywhere in Europe?”

”Never.”

”How long has Mick been gone? A month?”

”Just about.”

”I think you should go.”

”Maybe,” I said. ”I’ll think about it.”

She wasn’t there.

Nowhere in the house. Kenan went compulsively from room to room, knowing it was senseless, knowing she couldn’t have gotten past the alarm system without either setting it off or disarming it. When he ran out of rooms he went back to the kitchen, where Peter was making coffee.

He said, ”Petey, this really sucks.”

”I know it, babe.”

”You’re making coffee? I don’t think I want any. Bother you if I have a drink?”

”Bother me if I have a drink. Not if you do.”

”I just thought — never mind. I don’t even want one.”

”That’s where we differ, babe.”

”Yeah, I guess.” He spun around. ”Why the fuck are they jerking me around like this, Petey? They say she’s gonna be in the car and then she’s not. They say she’ll be here and she isn’t. What the fuck’s going on?”

”Maybe they got stuck in traffic.”

”Man, what happens now? We fucking sit here and wait? I don’t even know what we’re waiting for. They got the money and we got what? Fucked is what we got. I don’t know who they are or where they are. I don’t know zip, and — Petey, what do we do?”

”I don’t know.”

”I think she’s dead,” he said.

Peter was silent.

”Because why wouldn’t they, the fucks? She could identify them. Safer to kill her than to give her back. Kill her, bury her, and that’s the end of it. Case closed. That’s what I would do, I was them.”

”No you wouldn’t.”

”I said if I was them. I’m not, I wouldn’t kidnap some woman in the first place, innocent gentle lady who never did anybody any harm, never had an unkind thought —”

”Easy, babe.”

They would fall silent and then the conversation would begin again, because what else was there to do? After half an hour of this the phone rang and Kenan jumped for it.

”Mr. Khoury.”

”Where is she?”

”My apologies. There was a slight change in plans.”

”Where is she?”

”Just around the corner from you, oh, uh,Seventy-ninth Street, I believe it’s the south side of the street, three or four houses from the corner—”

”What?”

”There’s a car parked illegally at a fire hydrant. A gray Ford Tempo. Your wife is in it.”

”She’s in the car?”

”In the trunk.”

”You put her in the trunk?”

”There’s plenty of air. But it’s cold out tonight so you’ll want to get her out of there as soon as possible.”

”Is there a key? How do I—”

”The lock’s broken. You won’t need a key.”

Running down the street and around the corner, he said to Peter, ”What did he mean, the lock’s broken? If the trunk’s not locked why can’t she just crawl out? What’s he talking about?”

”I don’t know, babe.”

”Maybe she’s tied up. Tape, handcuffs, something so she can’t move.”

”Maybe.”

”Oh, Jesus, Pete—”

The car was where it was supposed to be, a battered Tempo several years old, its windshield starred and the passenger door deeply dented. The trunk lock was missing altogether. Kenan flung the lid open.

No one in there. Just packages, bundles of some sort. Bundles of various sizes wrapped in black plastic and secured with freezer tape.

”No,” Kenan said.

He stood there, saying ”No, no, no.” After a moment Peter took one of the parcels from the trunk, got a jackknife from his pocket, and cut away the tape. He unwound the length of black plastic — it was not unlike the Hefty bags in which the money had been delivered — and drew out a human foot, severed a couple of inches above the ankle. Three toenails showed circles of red polish. The other two toes were missing.

Kenan put his head back and howled like a dog.

That was Thursday. Monday I got back from lunch and there was a message for me at the desk. Call Peter Curry, it said, and there was a number and the 718 area code, which meant Brooklyn or Queens. I didn’t think I knew a Peter Curry in Brooklyn or Queens, or anywhere else for that matter, but it’s not unheard-of for me to get calls from people I don’t know. I went up to my room and called the number on the slip, and when a man answered I said, ”Mr. Curry?”

”Yes?”

”My name’s Matthew Scudder, I got a message to call you.”

”You got a message to call me?”

”That’s right. It says here you called at twelve-fifteen.”

”What was the name again?” I gave it to him again, and he said,

”Oh, wait a minute, you’re the detective, right? My brother called you, my brother Peter.”

”It says Peter Curry.”

”Hold on.”

I held on, and after a moment another voice, close to the first but a note deeper, a little bit softer, said,

”Matt, this is Pete.”

”Pete,” I said. ”Do I know you, Pete?”

”Yeah, we know each other, but you wouldn’t necessarily know my name. I’m pretty regular atSt. Paul’s, I led a meeting there, oh, five or six weeks ago.”

”Peter Curry,” I said.

”It’s Khoury,” he said. ”I’m of Lebanese descent, lemme see how to describe myself. I’m sober about a year and a half, I’m in a rooming house way west on Fifty-fifth Street, I’ve been working as a messenger and delivery boy but my field is film editing, only I don’t know if I’ll be able to get back into it—”

”Lotof drugs in your story.”

”That’s right, but it was alcohol really stuck it to me at the end. You’ve got me placed?”

”Uh-huh. I was there the night you spoke. I just never knew your last name.”

”Well, that’s the program for you.”

”What can I do for you, Pete?”

”I’d like it if you could come out and talk with me and my brother. You’re a detective and I think that’s what we need.”

”Could you give me some idea what it’s about?”

”Well—”

”Not over the phone?”

”Probably better not to, Matt. It’s detective work and it’s important, and we’ll pay whatever you say.”

”Well,” I said, ”I don’t know that I’m open to work right now, Pete. As a matter of fact I’ve got a trip planned, I’ll be going overseas the end of the week.”

”Whereabouts?”

”Ireland.”

”That sounds great,” he said. ”But look, Matt, couldn’t you just come out here and let us lay it out for you? You listen, and if you decide you can’t do anything for us, no hard feelings and we’ll pay for your time and your cab out and back.” In the background the brother said something I couldn’t make out, and Pete said, ”I’ll tell him. Matt, Kenan says we could drive in and pick you up, but we’d have to come back here and I think it’s quicker if you jusTJump in a taxi.”

It struck me I was hearing a lot about cabs from somebody who was working as a messenger and delivery boy, and then his brother’s name rang a bell. I said, ”You have more than one brother, Pete?”

”Just the one.”

”I think you mentioned him in your qualification, something about his occupation.”

A pause. Then, ”Matt, I’m just asking you to come out and listen.”

”Where are you?”

”Do you know Brooklyn?”

”I’d have to be dead.”