Эд Макбейн - Learning to Kill - Stories

I felt empty.

“Why’d anyone want to kill a bum, Matt?” one of the winos asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Across the street, the squat structure that was Cooper Union fought with the Third Avenue El for dominance of the sky. A boy and a girl hugged the shadows of the building, walking their way slowly toward the small park and the cluster of winos. There was a mild breeze on the air, a summer breeze that touched the skin with delicate feminine hands. There was a hum on the air, too, the hum of voices on fire escapes, of people crowding the streets, of the day dying as Joey had died.

And over the hum came the wail of a siren, and the winos faded back into the anonymity of the Bowery, blending with the shadows, merging with the pavements and the ancient buildings, turning their backs on the law.

I turned my back, too. I walked away slowly as the siren got louder. I didn’t turn for another look. I didn’t want another look.

Chink was waiting for me outside the flophouse I’d called home for close to three months.

He was standing in the shadows, and I’d have missed him if he hadn’t whispered, “Matt?”

I stopped and peered into the darkened doorway. “Who’s that?”

“Me. Chink.”

“What is it?”

“You got a minute, Matt?”

“I’ve got a lifetime. What is it?”

“Joey.”

“What about him?”

“You were friends, no?”

I stared into the darkness, trying to see Chink’s face. It was rumored that he came originally from Shanghai and that he could speak twelve Chinese dialects. It was also rumored that he’d been a big man in China before he came to the States, that he’d come here because of a woman who’d two-timed him in the old country. That gave us a common bond.

“You were friends, weren’t you, Matt?”

“We were friends. So?”

“You know what happened?”

“I know he was killed.”

“Do you know why?”

“No.” I stepped into the doorway. There was the sickish smell of opium about Chink, overpowering in the small hallway. “Do you?”

“No.”

“Then why the hell are you wasting my time?”

“I got an idea, Matt.”

“I’m listening.”

“Are you interested?”

“What the hell are you driving at, Chink? Spit it out.”

“Joey. I think he was killed for some reason.”

“That’s brilliant, Chink. That’s real...”

“I mean, I don’t think this was just an ordinary mug-and-slug, you follow? This was a setup kill.”

“How do you figure?”

“I think Joey saw too much.”

“Go smoke your pipe, Chink,” I said. I started to shove past him. “Joey was usually too drunk to see his own hand in front of...”

“Harry Tse,” Chink said.

It sounded like Harry Shoe. “Who’s Harry Shoe?”

“He was killed the other night, Matt. You heard about it, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“They thought it was a tong job. Harry was big in his own tong.”

“What is this, Fu Manchu?”

“Don’t joke, Matt.”

“Okay, Chink, no jokes. What makes you think they tie?”

“Something Joey said when I told him about Harry.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday. He said, ‘So that’s who it was.’ ”

“That doesn’t mean a damned thing, Chink.”

“Or it could mean a lot.”

“Stop being inscrutable. So it means a lot, or it means nothing. Who gives a rat’s backside?”

“I thought Joey was your friend.”

“He was. He’s dead now. What do you want me to do? The cops are already on it.”

“You used to be a shamus.”

“Used to be, is right. No more. Joey’s dead. The cops’ll get his killer.”

“You think so? They’re already spreading talk he fell and cracked his head that way even though there’s a bullet hole in him. They say he was drunk. You think they’re gonna give a damn about one bum more or less?”

“But you do, huh, Chink? You give a damn?”

“I do.”

“Why? What difference does it make to you?”

“Joey was good to me.” His voice trailed off. “He was good to me, Matt.” There was a catch in his voice, as if he were awed by the idea of anybody being good to him.

“The good die young,” I said. “Let me by, Chink. I need some sleep.”

“You’re... you’re not going to do anything about it?”

“I guess not. Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll think about it. Good night, Chink.”

I started up the stairs and Chink yelled, “He was your friend, too, Matt. Just remember that. Just remember it.”

“Sure,” I said.

It took me a long time to forget it.

I still hadn’t forgotten by the time I fell asleep.

The morning was hot and sticky. My shirt stuck to my back and my skin was feverish and gummy, and I wanted to crawl out of it like a snake. I dug up a bottle of wine, taking four drinks before one would stay down. I faced the morning then, blinking at the fiery sun, wishing for a beach, or a mountain lake, or even a breeze. There was none. There was only the El, rusted and gaunt, and the baking pavements. I started walking, heading for Chinatown because things can look different in the blaze of a new day.

I found Chink. He was lying on a pad, and there was opium in his eyes and the slack tilt of his mouth.

He looked up at me sleepily, and then grinned blandly.

“Hello, Matt.”

“This Harry Shoe,” I said.

“Harry Tse.”

“Yeah. Any survivors?”

“His wife. Lotus Tse. Why, Matt? You going to do something? You going to get Joey’s killer?”

“Where is she? Tse’s wife.”

“On Mott Street. Here, Matt, I’ll give you the address.” He reached behind him for a brush, dipped it into a pot of ink, and scrawled an address on a brown piece of paper. “Tell her I sent you, Matt. Tell her Charlie Loo sent you.”

“Is that your name?”

He nodded.

“All right, Charlie. I’ll see you.”

“Good luck, Matt.”

“Thanks.”

I knocked on the door and waited, and then I knocked again.

“Who is it?”

The voice had a singsong lilt, like a mild breeze rustling through a willow tree. It brought pictures of an ancient China, a land of delicate birds and eggshell skies, colorful kimonos and speckled white stallions.

“I’m a friend of Charlie Loo,” I said to the closed door.

“Moment.”

I waited a few more minutes, and when the door opened, I was glad I had. She was small, with shiny black hair that tumbled to her shoulders, framing an oval face. Her eyes tilted sadly, brown as strong coffee, fringed with soot-black lashes. She had a wide mouth, and she wore a silk blouse and a skirt that hugged her small, curving hips. “Yes, please?”

“May I come in?”

“All right.” The singsong made it sound like a question. She stepped aside, and I walked into the apartment, through a pair of beaded drapes, into a living room that was cool with the shade of the building that crowded close to the open window.

“My name is Matt Cordell,” I said.

“You are a friend of Charlie’s?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Sit down, Mr. Cordell.”

“Thank you.” I slumped into an easy chair, clasped my hands over my knees. “Your husband, Mrs. Tse. What do you know about his death?”

Her eyes widened a little, but her face remained expressionless otherwise. “Is that why you are here?”

“Yes.”

She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “He... was killed. Is there more to say?”

“How?”

“A knife.”

“When?”

“Tuesday night.”

“Today is Friday,” I said, thinking aloud.

“Is it?” she asked. There was such a desperate note in her voice that I looked up suddenly. She was not watching me. She was staring through the open window at the brick wall of the opposite building.