Лоуренс Блок - Catch and Release

“No more worries about who’ll stand up. Down side, we’d have nobody to work with, either.”

“Why work?” George grinned. “You and me’d be splitting two million, six fifty.”

“Less Mike’s share,” Alan pointed out.

“Right,” George said.

They were planning it, working it out together, because it was not going to be easy to get the drop on Eddie, who was pretty shrewd and probably a little suspicious at this stage. And, while they were figuring it all out, Louis Creamer got in touch to tell them he’d just killed Eddie O’Day.

“He came by my house,” Louis said, “and he was acting weird, you know? He said you guys were going to pull a fast one and rat us out to the cops, but how could you do that? And he had this scheme for taking you both out and getting the money, and him and me’d split it. And I could see where he was going. He wanted me for about as long as it would take to take you both down, and then it would be my turn to go. The son of a bitch.”

“So what did you do?”

“I just punched him out,” Louis said, “and then I took hold of him and broke his fucking neck. Now I got him lying in a heap in my living room, and I don’t know what to do with him.”

“We’ll help,” said George.

They went to Louis’s house, and there was Eddie in a heap on the floor. “Look at this,” George said, holding up a gun. “He was packing.”

“Yeah, well, he was out cold before he could get it out of his pocket.”

“You did good, Louis,” George said, pressing the gun into Eddie’s dead hand and carefully fitting his index finger around the trigger. “Real good,” he said, and pointed the gun at Louis, and put three shots in his chest.

“Amazing,” Alan said. “They really did kill each other. Well, you said it would be convenient.”

“One of them would have cut a deal. In fact Eddie did try to cut a deal, with Louis.”

“But Louis stood up.”

“For how long?”

“That was nice, taking him out with Eddie’s gun. They’ll find nitrate particles in his hand and know he fired the shot. But how’d he get killed?”

“We’re not the cops,” George said. “Let them worry about it.”

We didn’t worry much. We looked at who was still standing, and we brought in the Walkers and grilled them separately. They had their stories ready and we couldn’t shake them, and hadn’t really expected to. They’d been through this countless times before, and they knew to keep their mouths shut, and eventually we sent them home. A week later they were at George’s house, in George’s basement den, drinking George’s scotch. “We maybe got trouble,” Alan said. “The cops in San Diego picked up Mike Dunn.”

“That’s not good,” George said, “but what’s he gonna say? They’ll throw the dame at him, Alfie’s wife, and they got him figured for the sister, too. He’ll just stay dummied up about everything if he knows what’s good for him.”

“Unless they offer him a deal.”

“That could be a problem.” George admitted.

Alan was looking at him carefully. George could almost hear what was going through Alan’s mind, but before he could do anything about it Alan had a gun in his hand and it was pointed at George.

“Now put that away,” George said. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Just put that away and sit down and drink your drink.”

“You’re good, Georgie. But I know you too well. I just told you they arrested Mike, and you’re not the least bit worried.”

“I just said it could be a problem.”

“What you almost said,” Alan told him, “was it was impossible, but you didn’t, you were quick on the uptake. But you knew it was impossible because you knew all along Mike Dunn was where nobody could get at him. Where is he, Georgie?”

“Buried. Nobody’s gonna find him.”

“What I figured. And what happened to his share? You bury it along with him?”

“I tucked it away. I didn’t want the others to know what happened, so Mike’s share of the money had to disappear.”

“The others are gone, Georgie. It’s just you and me, and I don’t see you rushing to split the money with your brother.”

“Jesus,” George said, “is that what this is about? And will you please put the gun down and drink your drink?”

“I’ll keep the gun,” Alan said, “and I think I’ll wait on the drink. Now that Louis and Eddie are out of the picture, you were gonna split Mike’s share with me, weren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why don’t I believe you, brother?”

“Because you’re tied up in knots. Because they grilled you downtown, same as they grilled me, and they offered you a deal, same as they offered me a deal, and we’re the Walkers, we’re not gonna sell each other out, and if you’d relax and drink your fucking drink you’d know that. You want your share of Mike’s money? Is that what you want?”

“That’s exactly what I want.”

“Fine,” George said, and led him to the furnace room, where he hoisted the duffle bag. They returned to the den, with Alan holding a gun on his brother all the way. George set down the bag and worked the zipper, and the bag was full of money, all right. Alan’s eyes widened at the sight of it.

“Half’s yours,” George said.

“I figure all of it’s mine,” Alan said. “You were gonna take it all, so I’m gonna take it all. Fair enough?”

“I don’t know about fair,” George said, “but you know what? I’m not going to argue. You take it, the whole thing, and we’ll split what’s in the storage locker. And drink your fucking drink before it evaporates.”

“I’ll take what’s in the locker, too,” Alan said, and squeezed the trigger, and kept squeezing until the gun was empty. “Jesus,” he said, “I just killed my own brother. I guess I’ll take that drink now, Georgie. You talked me into it.” And he picked up the glass, drained it, and pitched forward onto his face.

The room fell silent, but for the crackling of the fire and, after a long moment, a rumbling snore from the fireside.

“A fine story,” said the doctor, “though not perhaps equally engrossing to everyone. The club’s Oldest Member, it would seem, has managed to sleep through it.” They all glanced at the fireplace, and the chair beside it, where the little old man dozed in his oversized armchair.

“Poison, I presume,” the doctor went on. “In the whiskey, and of course that was why George was so eager to have his brother take a drink.”

“Strychnine, as I recall,” said the policeman. “Something fast-acting, in any event.”

“It’s a splendid story,” the priest agreed, “but one question arises. All the principals died, and I don’t suppose any of them was considerate enough to write out a narrative before departing. So how are you able to recount it?”

“We reconstructed a good deal,” the policeman said. “Mike Dunn’s body did turn up, eventually, in the well at the old farmhouse. And of course the death scene in George Walker’s den spoke for itself, complete with the duffle bag full of money. I put words in their mouths, and filled in the blanks through inference and imagination, but we’re not in a court of law, are we? I thought it would do for a story.”

“I meant no criticism, Policeman. I just wondered.”

“And I wonder,” said the soldier, “just what the story implies, and what it says about greed. They were greedy, of course, all of them. It was greed that led them to commit the initial crime, and greed that got them killing each other off, until there was no one left to spend all that money.”

“I suppose the point is whatever one thinks it to be,” the policeman said. “They were greedy as all criminals are greedy, wanting what other men have and appropriating it by illegal means. But, you know, they weren’t that greedy.”