Lawrence Block: A Ticket To The Boneyard

"There was no note in the envelope?"

"Nothing."

"Maybe she wrote a note and forgot to put it in the envelope. People do that sort of thing all the time."

"And she forgot to put her return address on the envelope?"

"You have the envelope?"

"In the other room. It's a plain white envelope with my name and address hand-printed."

"Can I see it?"

She nodded. I sat in my chair and looked at the picture that was supposed to be worth fifty thousand dollars. Once I'd come very close to emptying a gun into it. I hadn't thought about that incident in a long time. It looked as though I'd be thinking of it a lot now.

The envelope was as she'd described it, five-and-dime stuff, cheap and untraceable. Her name and address had been block-printed in ballpoint. No return address in the upper-left corner or on the back flap.

"New York postmark," I said.

"I know."

"So if it was a friend of hers—"

"The friend carried the clipping all the way to New York and put it in the mail."

I stood up and walked over to the window. I looked through it without seeing anything, then turned to face her. "The alternative," I said, "is that someone else killed her. And her kids. And her husband."

"Yes."

"And faked it to look like murder and suicide. Faked a call to the cops while he was at it. And then waited until the story was printed in the local paper, and clipped it, and brought it back to New York and put it in the mail."

"Yes."

"I guess we're thinking of the same person."

"He swore he'd kill Connie," she said. "And me. And you."

"He did, didn't he."

" 'You and all your women, Scudder.' That's what he said to you."

"A lot of bad guys say a lot of things over the years. You can't take all that crap seriously." I went over and picked up the envelope again, as if I could read its psychic vibrations. If it held any, they were too subtle for me.

I said, "Why now, for God's sake? What's it been, twelve years?"

"Just about."

"You really think it's him, don't you?"

"I know it is."

"Motley."

"Yes."

"James Leo Motley," I said. "Jesus."

James Leo Motley. I'd first heard the name in that same apartment, but not in the black-and-white living room. I'd called Elaine one afternoon, dropped by shortly thereafter. She fixed bourbon for me and a diet cola for herself, and a few minutes later we were in her bedroom. Afterward I touched the tip of one finger to a discolored area alongside her rib cage and asked her what happened.

"I almost called you," she said. "I had a visitor yesterday afternoon."

"Oh?"

"Someone new. He'd called, said he was a friend of Connie's. That's Connie Cooperman. You met her, remember?"

"Sure."

"He said she gave him my number. So we talked, and he sounded all right, and he came over. I didn't like him."

"What was wrong with him?"

"I don't know exactly. There was something weird about him.

Something about his eyes."

"His eyes?"

"The way he looks at you. What is it Superman's got? X-ray vision? I felt as though he could look at me and see clear through to the bone."

I ran a hand over her. "You'd miss a lot of nice skin that way," I said.

"And there was something very cold about it. Reptilian, like a lizard watching flies. Or like a snake. Coiled, ready to strike without warning."

"What's he look like?"

"That may have been part of it. He's kind of strange-looking. A very long narrow face. Mouse-colored hair, and a lousy haircut, one of those soup-bowl jobs. It made him look like a monk. Very pale skin. Unhealthy, or at least that's how it looked."

"Sounds charming."

"His body was strange, too. He was completely hard."

"Isn't that something you strive for in your line of work?"

"Not his cock, his whole body. Like every muscle was tense all the time, like he never relaxed. He's thin, but he's very muscular. What you call wiry."

"What happened?"

"We went to bed. I wanted to get him into bed because I wanted to get him out of here as soon as possible. Also, I figured once I got him off he'd be calmer and I wouldn't be as nervous. I already knew I wasn't going to see him again. In fact I would have asked him to leave without taking him to bed, but I was afraid of what he might do. He didn't exactly do anything, but he was an unpleasant trick."

"Was he rough?"

"Not exactly. It was the way he touched me. You can tell a lot from the way a man touches you. He touched me like he hated me. I mean, who needs that shit, you know?"

"How'd you get the bruise?"

"That was after. He got dressed, he wasn't interested in taking a shower and I didn't suggest it because I wanted him O-U-T. And he gave me this look, and he said we'd probably be seeing a lot of each other from now on. That's what you think, I thought, but I didn't say anything. He was on his way out, and he hadn't given me any money, or left anything on the dresser."

"You didn't get money in front?"

"No, I never do. I don't discuss it ahead of time, not unless the man brings it up, and most of the time they don't. A lot of men like to pretend to themselves that the sex is free and the money they give me is a present, and that's fine. Anyway, he was ready to walk out without giving me anything, and I came this close to letting him go."

"But you didn't."

"No, because I was angry, and if I was going to have to trick a shitheel like that I was at least going to get paid for it. So I gave him a smile and said, 'You know, you're forgetting something.'

"He said, 'What am I forgetting?' 'I'm a working girl,' I said. He said he knew that, that he could tell a whore when he saw one."

"Nice."

"I didn't react to it, but I did say I got paid for what I did. Something like that, I forgot how I put it. And he gave me this very cold look, and he said, 'I don't pay.'

"And then I was stupid. I could have let it go, but I thought maybe it was just an ego thing, a matter of terms, and I said I didn't expect him to pay, but maybe he'd like to give me a present."

"And he hit you."

"No. He walked toward me, and I backed off, and he kept coming until I was backed up against the wall there. He put his hand on me. I was dressed, I had a blouse on. He put his hand right here and he just pressed with two fingers, and there must be a nerve there or some kind of pressure point, because it hurt like fury. There was no mark then. That didn't show up until this morning."

"It'll probably be worse tomorrow."

"Great. It's sore now, but it's not terrible. While he was doing it, though, the pain was incredibly intense. I went weak in the knees and I swear I couldn't see. I thought I was going to black out."

"He did that pressing with two fingers."

"Yes. Then he let go of me and I was holding on to the wall for support and he fucking grinned at me. 'We'll see a lot of each other,' he said, 'and you'll do whatever I tell you to do.' And then he left."

"Did you call Connie?"

"I haven't been able to reach her."

"If this clown calls again—"

"I'll tell him to shit in his hat. Don't worry, Matt, he's never getting in the door again."

"You remember his name?"

"Motley. James Leo Motley."

"He gave you his middle name?"

She nodded. "And he didn't ask me to call him Jimmy, either. James Leo Motley. What are you doing?"

"Writing it down. Maybe I can find out where he lives."

"In Central Park, under a flat rock."

"And I might as well see if we've got a sheet on him. From your description, it wouldn't surprise me."

"James Leo Motley," she said. "If you lose your memo book, just call me. It's a name I'm not likely to forget."

I couldn't find an address for him, but I did pull his yellow sheet.