Ed McBain - Downtown

“It’s almost Christmas, you know,” Connie whispered.

Michael looked at his watch.

“Two minutes to Christmas,” Connie whispered.

His digital watch blinked away time, tossed time into the past.

“I want to give you a present,” she whispered.

It was one minute and twenty-two seconds to Christmas.

“Because you really do have a very nice face,” she whispered. “And also, I like kissing you.” She cupped his face in her hands. “You don’t have anything communicable, do you?” she asked.

“No, I...”

“I don’t mean like a common cold,” she said. “I mean like anything dread.”

“Nothing dread at all,” he said.

“Good,” she said.

He told himself that when this was all over and done with, if ever it was over and done with, he would remember this last minute before Christmas more than anything that could possibly happen afterward. Because in that slow-motion moment, Connie kissed him and murmured, “Merry Christmas, Michael,” and moved in so close to him that he could feel her heart beating, or at least his own, and then he heard bells going off and he thought he’d died and gone to heaven until he realized it was only the telephone.

The telephone kept ringing into the otherwise blinking stillness of the room.

Michael picked up the receiver.

“Crandall Productions, Limited,” he said.

“Arthur?” a woman’s voice said.

“Who’s this?” he said.

“Is that you, Arthur?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“You sound funny,” she said.

“Who’s this?” he said again.

“This is Albetha,” the woman said.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“Arthur?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Arthur, your children are waiting for Santa Claus, what are you doing at the office? It’s Christmas morning already, do you know that? It’s already five minutes past Christmas, do you know that? Now when do you plan on coming home, Arthur?”

Michael gathered she did not know he was dead.

“Did you get the roses?” he asked.

“Yes, I got the roses,” she said. “Thank you very much for the roses, Arthur, but I’m still getting a divorce.”

“Now, now, Albetha,” he said.

“Arthur, the only reason I want you to come home here tonight is because it’s Christmas and the children expect you to be here, that’s the only reason. Tomorrow I’ll explain to them how their daddy is a no-good philanderer, but this is Christmas right now, and you’d better come home here and get in your Santa Claus suit and be Santa eating the cookies and drinking the milk for your goddamn children, do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” he said.

“Or is she there with you?” Albetha asked.

“Is who here?” he said.

“Jessica,” she said.

“I don’t know who that is,” he said.

“Your blonde bimbo with her red panties,” she said.

“Oh, her,” Michael said.

“Come on home to your children, you louse! ” Albetha said, and hung up.

“Albetha?” he said. He jiggled the rest bar. “Albetha?”

“His wife, huh?” Connie said.

“Maybe I ought to call her back,” Michael said.

“No, I think we’d better get out of here,” Connie said. “Because I think I heard a police siren.”

Michael listened.

“I don’t hear anything,” he said.

“Not now,” she said. “While we were kissing. I thought it was a siren, but maybe it was just a cat.”

They both listened.

Nothing.

“It was probably just a cat,” she said.

“Let’s see if he’s got an address book,” Michael said, and went to the desk and began rummaging through the drawers again. “I want to call her back.”

“Although it sounded very much like a siren,” Connie said.

“Here we go. Do you think his home number might be in it?”

“I don’t know anyone who lists his own number in his address book. Did you just see a light in the backyard?”

“No.”

“I thought I saw a light,” Connie said, and went to the window. “Yep,” she said, “there’s a light moving around down there. You know what? I think that was a siren I heard. Because those are two cops with a flashlight down there.”

Michael went to the window.

“Shit,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Heading for the fire escape.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said.

“Don’t forget Crandall’s picture...”

“I’ve got it.”

“... and his address book,” she said, “the tall one’s starting up the ladder.”

He pulled her away from the window and together they hurried to the front door. He turned the thumb knob on the lock, opened the door, and then followed her down the steep flight of steps to the street-level door. Through the thick plate-glass panel on the door, they could see a police car parked at the curb in front of the limousine, its dome lights flashing. Freddie was sitting on the limo’s fender, looking innocent. The lock on the street-level door was a deadbolt. No way to unlock it on either side without a key. Michael backed off, raised his leg—

“Don’t cut yourself!” Connie warned.

— and kicked out flat-footed at the glass panel.

A shower of splinters and shards exploded onto the sidewalk. Freddie, startled, jumped off the fender of the car. From the office upstairs, one of the cops yelled, “Downstairs, Sam!”

Michael was busy kicking out loose shards.

Cold air rushed through the open panel.

He helped Connie climb through, her long legs flashing, green panties winking at him for only an instant as she jumped clear. He climbed through after her and began running toward the limo. Connie slapped a five-dollar bill into Freddie’s hand, ran around the limo’s nose, and began unlocking the door on the driver’s side. Behind him, Michael heard one of the cops yell, “You! Hey, you! Hold it right there!” The electric lock on his side of the car clicked open. He yanked open the door, climbed in, and slammed the door shut just as Connie stepped on the starter. There were gunshots now. He pulled his head instinctively into his shoulders, but the cops were only shooting at the deadbolt on the door to Crandall Productions, Ltd. The engine caught just as they kicked open the door and came running out of the building.

“Police!” one of them yelled. “Stop!”

Connie rammed her foot down on the accelerator. The car’s tires began spinning on ice, its rear end skidding toward the curb, and then the tires began smoking, and suddenly they grabbed bare asphalt, and the car lurched away squealing from the curb and into the night.

Behind them, Freddie said to the cops, “Clean your windshield, officers?”

The house on West Tenth Street was a three-story brown-stone just off Fifth Avenue. The address on the checks in Crandall’s personal checkbook. Presumably the house he shared with Albetha and the kiddies.

“Every light in the house is burning,” Connie said. “The lady’s waiting up for you.”

“For Crandall.”

“Too bad he’s dead,” Connie said, and looked at her watch. “My twelve-thirty pickup is in the Village,” she said. “Here’s a China Doll card, call me when you’re done here. If I’m free, I’ll come get you. Otherwise, here’s my home address. And here’s twenty dollars.”

“I don’t want to take any money from you,” he said.

“Then how are you going to get anyplace? If I can’t come pick you up? Take it.”

“Really, Connie...”

“It’s a loan,” she said.

He nodded, accepted the card and the money, and put both in his wallet. He now owed Charlie Bonano ten bucks and Connie Kee twenty. He was running up a big debt in this city.