Ed McBain - Downtown

“There’s a deli on Greenwich Avenue,” Frankie said, “which is where he hangs out all the time. He should be there now, this is still very early in the day for Isadore, even if it’s Christmas. What I’m going to do, I’m going to drive to that deli, it’s called the Mazeltov All-Nite Deli. When we get there, Donny, I’ll give you...”

“Michael,” Michael said.

“Michael, sure,” Frankie said, and rolled his eyes. “What I’ll do when we gel there, Michael, I’ll give you the clip to put in the gun, and then I want you to go in and blow him away. Does my calling you Michael make you feel better, Michael?”

“I am not going to kill anyone,” Michael said.

“I admire a man who sticks to his guns,” Frankie said, “but you don’t understand. Isadore Onions needs killing.”

“But not by me,” Michael said.

“Then by who?” Frankie said. “Me? And then I’ll get in trouble with the law, right? When you’re already in trouble with the law. Does that make sense? Try to make sense, willya please?”

“Mr. Zepparino, have you ever...?”

“Isadore Onions is a very fat man with a Hitler moustache,” Frankie said. “He usually dresses very conservative except he wears red socks. If you aim for the moustache you will probably kill him.”

“Probably. But...”

“Just don’t let the socks distract you.”

“Look, Mr. Zepparino...”

“You can call me Frankie. Now that we’re doing business together. Did I mention that there is five bills in this for you? If you do a good job? Five big ones, Donny.”

“Mr. Zepparino, have you ever heard of a Mexican standoff?”

“No. What is a Mexican standoff?”

“A Mexican standoff is where I have the empty gun and you have the clip to put in it, and neither one of us can force the other one to do a goddamn thing. That is a Mexican standoff.”

“Have you ever heard of a Russian hard-on?” Frankie asked. “A Russian hard-on is where you have the empty gun and I have the clip to put in it, but I also have this,” he said, and pulled another gun from inside his coat. “This is a .38 caliber Detective Special, and it is loaded. Which means that you are going to get out of this car outside the Mazeltov All-Nite Deli on Greenwich Avenue, and you are going to go inside and shoot Isadore Onions in the moustache or I will have to shoot you instead and throw you out on the sidewalk. On a very cold night.”

The car was suddenly very still.

“Which they will prolly give me a medal for shooting a cold-blooded murderer,” Frankie said.

“Where’s Greenwich Avenue?” Michael asked.

In Vietnam, one of the first things Sergeant Mendelsohnn told him was, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” This did not mean going home. Or going back. It meant going forward. Advancing. Blowing apart the whole fucking jungle as you moved toward the enemy. Leaves flying, mounds of earth exploding, whole trees coming down as you trashed the countryside, rat-tat-tat, pow, zowie, boom, bang, Rambo for sure, only you didn’t have glistening muscles you bought in a Hollywood gym.

You were a lean, somewhat scruffy-looking eighteen-year-old kid from Boston, and you wore eyeglasses, and you just wished your glasses wouldn’t get shattered in all that noise and confusion while you were bringing down the countryside hoping you’d get some of the bad guys. But you never refused to advance. And you never pulled back unless you were ordered to. This had nothing to do with patriotism. It had to do with the fact that Mendelsohnn or somebody even higher up would shoot you in the back if you either refused to advance or turned tail and ran back to safety when the shit began flying.

As Michael got out of that red Buick on Greenwich Avenue, he knew that Frankie Zeppelin was sitting there behind him with a .38 Detective Special trained on his back, and he knew that if he did not advance into the Mazeltov All-Nite Deli as ordered, he would be shot in the back. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose, as his mother had been fond of saying back in Boston each time winter howled in off the Common. His mother’s ancestry was French. His father’s was English. An odd match, considering that the English and the French had been traditional enemies even before Agincourt. Sometimes their house resembled a battlefield. Well, not really. Nothing but a battlefield even remotely resembled a battlefield. This empty, windblown, bitterly cold street was not a battlefield, either, even though Michael had one pistol in the pocket of his coat and another pistol trained on his back, and there was a man sitting inside whom he was expected to kill.

Like fun.

This was not a battlefield, and Frankie Zeppelin was not a sergeant.

Michael opened the door to the deli.

For a little past two o’clock on Christmas morning, the place was thronged. Men in suits or sports jackets or tuxedos; women in slacks or dresses or evening gowns. Radiators clanging and steaming. Wooden tables, no tablecloths on them, paper-napkin holders, salt and pepper shakers. Waiters in black jackets and unmatching black trousers, white shirts, no ties, tunning frantically back and forth, to and from a counter behind which a steam table added yet more warmth to the place. The sudden aroma of food reminded Michael that he hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch with Jonah today — yesterday actually, although his mind-clock always considered it the same day until the sun came up in the morning, no matter what time it really was.

Jonah Hillerman of the Hillerman-Ruggiero Advertising Agency. Who had proposed a scenario for the upcoming Golden Oranges television campaign. Beautiful suntanned blonde girl doing the commercial, okay? Wearing nothing but a bikini. Sun shining. Eating an orange in the first scene, juice spilling onto her chin. “Eat ’em,” she whispers, and wipes away the juice with the back of her hand. In the next scene, she’s squeezing an orange. Frothy, foaming juice bubbles up over the rim of the glass. “Squeeze ’em,” she whispers. “Mmmm, good,” she whispers. “Mmmm, sweet. Mmmm, Golden. Mmmm, Orange s!”

“Subliminal sex,” Jonah said. “The viewer thinks we’re asking him to eat the blonde’s pussy and squeeze her tits. We’re telling him the blonde is good, she’s sweet, she’s golden. Eat her, squeeze her! What do you think?”

“What about women?” Michael asked. “They’re the ones who go shopping for the oranges.”

“That’s a sexist attitude,” Jonah said.

Michael was almost faint with hunger. He went to the counter and ordered two hot dogs with sauerkraut and mustard, a side of French fries, a Coca-Cola, and a slice of chocolate cake. Isadore Onions — wearing a dark suit, red socks, a Hitler moustache, and the worst hairpiece Michael had ever seen in his life — was sitting at a table with a blonde wearing a very tight fluffy white sweater and a narrow black leather mini-skirt. Michael figured she could make a fortune doing orange-juice commercials. Or even working for Frankie Zeppelin.

“Two dogs,” the man behind the counter said. “Fries, a Coke, and a slice a chocolate. Pay the cashier.”

Michael picked up his tray and went to the cash register.

The cashier tallied the bill.

“Seven-forty,” she said.

Michael reached into his pocket for his wallet.

His wallet was gone.

Not again, he thought.

He patted down all his other pockets. No wallet. He wondered if Frankie Zeppelin had stolen his wallet. The cashier was looking at him.

“Seven-forty,” she said.

“Just a second,” Michael said.