Stuart Kaminsky - Now You See It

“So?” I asked, washing down a French fry with a drink of Pepsi.

She brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead and said. “So, I think you should pull out a nickel, put it in the phone, call Phil and tell him what happened.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “But he’s got sick kids and …”

“He’s a big boy,” said Anita, taking my now-empty plate and walking over to put it in the bin of dirty dishes under the counter.

“Very big,” I said.

“Got a nickel?” I asked.

“It can be arranged. How’s that tooth?”

“Playful,” I said.

She reached into her uniform pocket, came up with a nickel and flipped it to me. I caught it in my palm and closed my fist on it.

“Just like in the movies,” she said with a smile.

I went to the phone in the back of the drugstore near the washrooms and called Phil’s house. Phil’s sister-in-law Becky answered.

“Me,” I said. “How’s everyone?”

“Doctor Hodgdon said we’ll all survive.” Her voice dropped. “How’s Phil been behaving?”

“Like Phil,” I said. “Well, not exactly.”

“Right,” Becky repeated. “Not exactly. He’s going through the motions, Toby. You have some good news for him?”

“Not exactly,” I said.

“I’ll put him on.”

I looked over my shoulder toward the counter. Anita was serving coffee to a guy in a brown delivery uniform. He was leaning forward and grinning. Anita was smiling. I was jealous.

“Toby,” came Phil’s voice.

I told him about Melvin Rand, my tap dance with the old guy Mrs. Gatstonsen had called.

“Where are you?”

I told him.

“Stay there.”

He hung up, and so did I. I went back to the counter. The delivery guy was a few years younger than me, a few pounds lighter and definitely better looking. He looked over at me and raised his cup of coffee. When he put it down, Anita refilled it. He winked at her. She looked at me and gave a shrug so small that only a trained detective or a half-blind bus driver could see it.

“How’s it going?” the delivery guy asked me.

“I’m waiting to be picked up by the police,” I said.

“That a fact?” he said, winking at Anita to let her know he knew a joke when he heard one, even a bad one. “Maybe I’ll just hang around and watch. Don’t have to make the next delivery for an hour and change.”

“Be my guest,” I said. “What do you deliver?”

“Appliances. The May Company,” he said. “Who’d you kill?” Another wink.

“You mean in my lifetime, or just today?”

“Let’s stick with today. Who do the cops think you killed?”

He was obviously enjoying himself. I wasn’t.

“A magician,” I said. “No, make that a waiter.”

“A magician? Hey, he do any tricks?”

“He plays dead,” I said.

The appliance delivery man looked at his watch and then at Anita. He kept looking, drinking coffee, and checking his watch. After about ten minutes of banter and a full bladder, he headed for the men’s room.

“You did the right thing, Toby,” Anita said. “Calling Phil.”

“Depends on who comes through that door,” I answered.

When a lone, lean man with slumped shoulders and a fedora pulled down over his eyes came in, I felt a little better.

Steve Seidman saw me, walked over, and sat. Anita brought him a cup of coffee. Seidman added three spoons of sugar and a lot of cream.

Steve was my brother’s former partner, and still a cop. The best thing about him was that he wasn’t Cawelti.

The delivery man came out of the men’s room tightening his belt.

“Hey, fella,” he called to Seidman. “Don’t sit too close to him. The police are coming to arrest him for murdering a waiter.”

Steve put down his coffee mug, reached into his jacket pocket, came out with his wallet, flipped it open and displayed his well-polished badge to the delivery guy.

The fellow dropped two quarters on the counter and left without looking at Anita.

“How’s Phil?” he asked.

“Could be better,” I said.

“You play it too cute, Toby,” he said, reaching for the sugar.

“It’s the imp in me,” I said. “Phil told you the story?”

“Officially, I haven’t talked to Phil,” he said. “You called me about an hour ago, said you went to see this guy Rand and found him dead. You were being a good citizen.”

“The old man,” I said. “The janitor.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Seidman said.

“Cawelti?”

“It’s my case,” Seidman said. “You called me. You might even wind up with the mayor giving you a good citizenship medal. Finish up and we’ll go take a look at the body, and you can fill me in on what this is all about.”

“It’s a long story, with two other dead guys,” I said, sighing.

“Is it interesting?” asked Seidman.

“I think so,” I said. I sighed again.

“Make it a short story.”

We both finished our coffees, left what we owed, and got up. I waved to Anita, who waved back, and we headed back to the Caliente Fountain Apartments. We went in Seidman’s unmarked car, and I kept the story short.

The old man was nowhere in sight when we stood in front of Apartment Six. Seidman turned the knob. The door was still unlocked. We stepped inside. Everything looked the way I had left it, except for one thing. But it was an important thing: Melvin Rand’s body wasn’t lying there looking up at the ceiling.

“Maybe he wasn’t dead,” said Seidman.

“He was dead.”

We looked in the bedroom, under the bed, in the closet. No Rand. No gun. No note.

“He was here,” I said.

Seidman was about to say something when the phone started to ring. We were standing in the living room. The telephone was on a small coffee table with a scratched top.

Seidman picked it up and said, “Hello.”

He listened for a moment, then held it out.

“It’s for you.”

“Phil?”

“No,” said Seidman.

I took the phone and said, “Hello.”

“I’m sorry,” the person on the other end said. The voice sounded high, maybe falsetto, filtered through a towel or a piece of cloth.

Seidman had already moved to the window and parted the blinds enough to get a look outside. Whoever was calling must have seen us come into the apartment, must have gone for a nearby phone. He or she couldn’t be more than a few minutes away.

“Where’s Rand’s body?” I asked.

Seidman nodded and mouthed, “Keep him talking.”

Then he went out the door and closed it behind him.

“Where it belongs,” the caller said, almost weeping. He seemed genuinely upset.

“And where is that?”

“Keller’s house.”

“Why there?”

“It’s where he belongs,” said the caller. “I didn’t think you’d find the body.”

“You saw me come in here earlier?”

“I followed you. I wanted to tell you to stay away, but how could I? Then you’d know I killed him. And then after that old man showed up … I had to move him.”

“And nobody saw you?”

“I put him in a trunk and … it doesn’t matter. I already called the police and told them to go to Mr. Ott’s. They’ll find the body and the note and the gun and it will all be over.”

“I don’t …” I began, but he cut in.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Wait,” I said. “You were with Rand at Columbia, weren’t you?”

“I had no choice,” the caller said.

“You always have a choice.”

“Yes.” There was a pause. “But sometimes the choice is a very, very bad one.”

“Just one more question.”

He hung up, and so did I. I went out the door and ran toward the street where I stopped and looked both ways. There was a phone booth about two blocks to my left. I could see Seidman running toward it. I started after him.