Эд Горман - Murder on the Aisle

Tobin said, “Maybe.”

“She said you’re screwed up. Tonight I’m finding out how right she is.”

Dailey meant to hurt him and it worked. Hearing your ex-lover’s nasty words from the mouth of her new lover is the worst kind of punishment. Tobin sighed, depleted of talk and contrivances.

He turned away from Dailey and went over and picked up the phone. In the moonlit silence, chicken blood and feathers strewn all over, the dial tone was very loud.

“What are you doing?” Dailey said sharply.

“Calling the police.”

“Damn you.”

“Just shut up, Michael. Please.”

He had punched out three digits when Michael came over and grabbed him by the shoulder. “All right,” he said, “I’ll tell you.”

“Then tell me right now. No more crap.”

“It was the reviews.”

“What reviews?”

“The reviews Richard did of Peter Larson’s movies.”

“What about them?”

“My God, are you really that naive?”

“Don’t get pissy with me, Michael. I’m in no mood.”

“I need a cigarette.” It was, of course, a Gauloises. Filtered.

Tobin drifted back to the phone. “Tell me. Now.”

Dailey exhaled smoke pure as frost in the moonlight. “My dear wife Joan paid Richard to give Larson’s films good reviews.”

“Jesus. Payola.”

“Exactly. Richard gave them good reviews in all his newspaper pieces and on the TV show.”

“So why was he killed?”

Dailey shrugged. Had some more of his French cigarette. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“Why are you here?”

“If the publishing company ever gets wind of the fact that Richard sold his influence, the book project will be off. I came here because our dead friend over there called me tonight and said he knew all about the reviews and wanted three thousand cash.”

“Three must have been his lucky number.”

“Why?”

“That’s what he wanted from me. Three thousand. I brought my checkbook.”

From inside his dazzling coat, Dailey took a white envelope. “I brought cash.”

“I want to see your gun.”

“Why?”

“To see if it’s been fired.”

“For God’s sake, you don’t still think I killed Ebsen, do you?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m a creature of restaurants and salons, Tobin. Not this.”

“The gun.”

He held it, smelled it, handled it, without quite knowing what he was looking for. The gun didn’t smell as if it had been fired recently. He handed it back. “What’s this all about?”

“The gun?”

Tobin nodded.

“I don’t usually come into neighborhoods like this one alone.”

“Did you find anything?”

“The tapes?”

“Right.”

“No.”

Tobin thought of the cabbie. Waiting. And most likely wondering. “Have you looked around?”

“Everywhere.”

“Damn.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t have time to look for myself.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve got a cab waiting.”

“Oh, Christ, I forgot about you and your cabs.”

“And he’s going to be getting damned curious about what’s going on in here. I’d better get out of here. The police are going to find out about this soon enough.”

Dailey said, “You know that we wish you the best.”

“We, Michael?”

“Jane and I.”

“Oh. Yes. Sure.”

“We do. I mean, in case you were being sarcastic. And I hope you wish us the best, too.”

Tobin sighed. “Michael, don’t ask me to be good-hearted at the moment, all right?”

He had just taken what he hoped was his final morbid look at Ebsen’s corpse and was getting ready to head back outdoors, when the phone rang.

For three rings Tobin and Dailey just stood by the phone and stared at it. Then Tobin went to the phone, putting a finger over his mouth to shush Dailey.

Tobin lifted the receiver, said nothing.

“Did you get the money?”

Now he knew what it was like to be in the electric chair. At the moment the man threw the switch.

He recognized the voice. Of all the voices in the world, why did it have to be this one?

Again, “Did you get the money?” Then, “Damn, Ebsen, are you playing games or what?”

Then, “Shit, that isn’t you, is it, Ebsen?”

Then the line went dead.

“Who was it?” Dailey asked.

“Nobody important,” Tobin said.

Five minutes later he was in the back seat of the cab giving directions.

1:47 A.M.

Tobin stopped at an outdoor phone booth and called his answering service and had the woman look up a certain address in the phone book.

By cab he was half an hour away. When he arrived he found himself on the fringe of Soho. The building he wanted was a two-story warehouse that had been converted to apartments, as had most of the other buildings surrounding it. There was one difference. The windows of the building he wanted glowed with light and music and laughter. Party.

When he reached the front door, he saw that there was an entranceway inside, so he tried the doorknob and walked straight in. A couple was entangled just outside an apartment door, the party was furious inside. Tobin envied them. It was always fun at parties to stand in the hall and neck. Over the man’s shoulder the woman’s eyes opened and crinkled a smile at Tobin in recognition. The party had probably just been upgraded from B to A with the arrival of a small-time celebrity.

She pulled away from her boyfriend. “Look. It’s him.”

Her boyfriend, obviously not much giving a damn who anybody was at the moment, turned angrily around and said, “Whoop — fucking — ee.”

“Don’t you know who he is?”

“Of course I do. Now ask me if I give a shit.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Tobin said.

“Then leave,” the boyfriend said. He was trying awfully hard to look like a beach bum who’d been washed up on chill Atlantic shores. He wore an eye-punishing Hawaiian shirt so he could show off all his chest hair and his biceps.

Tobin looked at the woman. “Does Marcie Pierce live here?”

“Upstairs. But I’m not sure she’s home. I thought I saw her go out a few minutes ago.”

“How about her mother. Is she home?”

The woman seemed confused. “Her mother? Marcie lives alone. Are you sure this is the right Marcie?”

“From Hunter? A film student?”

“Yes, that’s Marcie.”

“But her mother doesn’t live with her?”

The boyfriend decided to put his hands on his hips and have a go at looking threatening. “That’s about enough.”

Tobin was ready. His blood and his brain were about to transform him into “Yosemite Sam.” The guy who took a punch at his partner. The guy who dragged his motorcycle up five flights of stairs to a party. The guy who pushed a dishwasher downstairs. Hitting Michael earlier tonight had felt wonderfully good. But it had only been a slap, and slaps rendered only so much satisfaction. This jerk would render a great deal of satisfaction. Tobin knew the guy would eventually beat his head in, but Tobin would have a great time losing.

The girlfriend wisely set herself between the two men. “Marcie’s parents died in a car accident when she was fifteen. She’s lived alone since then.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Is that all?”

Tobin smiled at the woman. “You seem like a pretty decent woman. You could do a lot better than this jerk.”

She had to hold back her boyfriend till Tobin got out of the door. “I really like your show,” she called as he hit the cold again. “Merry Christmas.”

12:28 A.M.

The first person he met at Hunter was a security guard who could have doubled as a villain in a pro wrestling setup. “I can’t let you in,” he told Tobin.