Ed McBain - Hark!

'We hope.'

'. . . and if we're too dumb to figure it out, that's our own hard luck.'

'Wanna go for some coffee or something?' she asked.

Yes,' Willis said, but he was just gathering steam.

As they walked up the avenue toward a coffee shop on

the corner, and while they ordered, and even after they'd been served, he went on to say that a lot of the movies he saw nowadays claimed to be mysteries in one way or another, and being a cop whose profession was investigating crime, he felt like shooting the damn auteur directors who made these films.

'Uh-huh,' Eileen said. 'Like which movies do you

mean?'

'Any movie that says "written and directed by.'" 'You've got a real thing about that, huh?' 'No, it's just that. . . well, figure it out for yourself. Most writers can't direct, am I right? And most directors can't write. So when you get a movie that's both written and directed by the same person, run for the hills!' 'You really think so, huh?'

'I really think so. Male or female, if it's written and directed by, that's exactly like "Conspiracy to Commit," or "Criminal Facilitation," or "Hindering Prosecution," all of them pretty damn serious crimes.' 'My, such passion!' Eileen said.

'Well, it just isn't fair,' he said, and ducked his head and smiled sheepishly, as though he'd revealed something about himself that might better have stayed concealed. Again, she felt like reaching across the table and taking his hand.

Outside the coffee shop, they went their separate ways. After all, this hadn't been a real date. This had just been two cops having dinner together, and seeing a movie afterward, sharing coffee, sharing a bit of movie

criticism.

She hadn't asked him anything abut Marilyn Hollis. And he hadn't asked her anything about Bert Kling. And tomorrow was another working day.

'STARTING TOMORROW MORNING,' the Deaf Man was saying, 'there'll be notes delivered to the 87th Precinct every day but Sunday.'

'Why not Sunday?' Melissa asked.

'Because even God rested on Sunday.'

'Oh, I see. And what will these notes say?'

You don't have to know that.'

'Starting tomorrow, you say?'

Yes. And continuing through Saturday.'

'That means . . . what's today?'

'The fourth.' He looked at his watch. 'Well, it's almost midnight, almost the fifth.'

'That means the last notes will be delivered on June twelfth.'

Yes.'

'Is that when you're going to do this thing, whatever it is? On June twelfth?'

Yes.'

'What is it you're going to do?'

You don't have to know that.'

'Then why are you telling me all this?'

'Because you'll be delivering the notes.'

'Oh no. Me walk into a police station? Not on your life!'

'Not you personally,' he explained patiently. You'll have to find people who'll deliver the notes for you.'

'It'll still come right back to me. There's no way I would ever do anything like that. Why would I want to do anything like that?'

'Because I'm going to give you thirty-five thousand dollars to do it.'

You are?'

'I am. Five thousand dollars a day for tomorrow, and the six days next week.'

'Gee,' she said.

'That should be enough to buy you the people you need, don't you think?' 'Well, I guess so, yes.' "With quite a bit left over for your trouble, I would

expect.'

'I would expect.'

'You could buy yourself some nice lingerie.'

'I certainly could.'

'Or something.'

'Or something, yes.'

'And there's a lot more coming, Lissie. We're talking seven figures in the coffers here.'

She was remembering that she'd taken eighteen million out of that safe-deposit box for him. Was he talking about seven figures in addition to that? Should she ask? Why not?

'In addition to the other money, you mean?' she said. 'The money from the bank?' 'In addition, yes.' 'Seven figures has to be at least another million,

right?'

'At least,' he said.

'And what's my share of that?' she asked.

'Mustn't be greedy, girl,' he said.

Why not? she thought. And don't call me girl, she thought. But did not say.

'How does a vacation in Tortola sound?' he asked. 'After this is all over?'

'A vacation in Tortola might be very nice,' she said,

'but. . .'

'I've already booked the flight,' he said. 'We leave at nine-thirty Sunday morning, the thirteenth of June. Doesn't that sound nice?'

'Not as nice as a piece of seven figures.'

He chuckled. Actually chuckled. Still chuckling, he said, 'Well, I suppose one can never be too rich or too thin.'

'I'll say.'

'Do you know who said that, Lissie?'

'No, who?'

'The Duchess of Windsor.'

'Who's that?'

A king gave up an empire for her.'

'She must have been very beautiful.'

'Not half as beautiful as you.'

Melissa wondered if he was telling her he'd give up an empire for her. Maybe cut her in on that seven figures he'd just mentioned? She didn't ask. Play the cards you're dealt, she thought. So far, she was a hundred thousand K richer than she'd been before she picked him up in that hotel bar. Or vice versa. Not to mention the sable coat and the mink stole.

'Do you think you can get those notes delivered when they're supposed to be delivered?'

'I think so, yes,' she said. 'But. . . uh . . . these people I hire to deliver them?'

'Yes?'

'They'll be able to describe me, won't they? They'll tell the police exactly what I look like.'

'That's where the wigs come in,' he said.

6.

MELISSA FIGURED THIS WAS what she usually did, anyway, except in reverse. Haggle over a price, that is. What usually happened, the john said, 'Two hundred for the night,' and then you said 'Five hundred.' He said 'Three,' you said 'Four.' You settled for three and a half and everybody was happy - especially you, if he fell asleep after the first go-round.

This was Saturday morning, the fifth day of June. Very early Saturday morning.

Before she left the apartment, Adam had given her five thousand bucks in hundreds. Five thousand dollars! Which didn't seem like very much when you broke it down to a mere fifty $100 bills, oh well.

'That's your outside limit for the day,' he'd told her. 'You get your people for less than that, whatever's left over is yours, you can buy yourself that lingerie we were talking about.'

She had a better idea of what to buy with what was left over, but first she had to buy what she needed to make this work at all.

She figured, correctly as it turned out, that not too many people would be eager to take a letter into a police station. Not with the anthrax scare still a very much alive issue. Would've been different if any of the brilliant masterminds in Washington - some of them should meet Adam Fen, they wanted mastermind — knew what to do about it except stick their thumbs up their asses. As it was, the first three men she approached said flat out,

'What are you, crazy?' This after she'd offered two hundred bucks just to carry a friggin letter inside a police station and hand it to the desk sergeant!

The next person she approached was in a coffee shop on Jefferson. Six in the morning, the girl sitting there drinking coffee was a working girl like herself, Melissa could spot them a hundred miles away. Black girl with hair bright as brass, nail polish a purple shade of Oklahoma Waitress. She'd had a hard night, too, judging from the bedraggled look of her. Melissa started low, no sense spoiling her, and the hell with sisterhood. Turned out the girl was nursing a horrendous hangover, figured Melissa was looking for a little early-morning girlie-girlie sex, told her any muff-diving would cost her two bills.

Melissa tried to explain that no, what she wanted was a letter delivered to a police station. She showed her the letter. It was addressed to Detective Stephen Louis Carella. Melissa told the girl this was her boyfriend. She told the girl they'd had an argument last night. She told the girl she was desperate to make up with him. The girl said, 'Honey, you a hooker same as me. If yo boyfrien's a police, I'm the queen of England.'