Ed Mcbain - Money, Money, Money

“Not that much,” Carella said.

“Not even in a good week,” Ollie said. “I keep tellin you, we’re in the wrong business.”

“Where’d you get all this shit?” Tigo said, shaking his head as if in disbelief.

“It’s all in the record. You were driving the tow truck. But you told the D.A. you were just a salaried employee who didn’t know anything wrong was going on, and they believed you. You were just a kid, they had bigger fish to fry. But guess what Joey King told me?”

“You talked toJoey?”

“Yeah, gee, I did. I figured I might need insurance if you got all pissy on me. So I called Castleview just before I left the squadroom, had a nice little chat with him. He told me they were paying you twenty bucks for every car you brought in. Three, four hundred bucks a night. Something like two grand a week. You were in on the deal, Tigo.”

“I was a salaried employee. Go look at my social security records.”

“Salaryplus,Tigo. You were part of a conspiracy. You should be up there at Castleview with them.”

“But I ain’t,” Tigo said.

“Ah, but you could be. Joey seems to think early parole sounds very nice indeed.”

Tigo looked at him.

“He’s ready to rat you out, friend, ah yes.”

“You’re full of shit,” Tigo said.

“Well, maybe so,” Ollie said affably.

“Tigo,” Carella said, “I think he’s got us.”

10 .

CHARMAINE LOOKED UP when the three of them came out of the elevator. The moment the doors closed behind them, guns came out from under their coats. She was reaching for a button on her desk when Wiggy said, “Don’t, Fatso.” This hurt. A moment later he slapped her across the face to let her know he was serious. This hurt even more. One of the Mexicans was already rushing down the long corridor flanked with posters of books nobody ever heard of. Wiggy went directly into Halloway’s office.

He was hunched over his computer keyboard, his jacket draped over the back of his chair, his bow tie hanging unknotted and loose around his neck, the top button of his shirt unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up. He jerked his head around the moment Wiggy burst into the room, and then immediately stabbed at one of the keys on the computer. Four key strokes would have allowed him to escape the program and the machine: the Windows key to the right of the space bar, the Up arrow, the Enter key, and the Enter key again. Once the computer was shut down, no one would be able to boot it again without the proper password. Halloway managed to hit the Windows key, and was about to tap the Up arrow when Wiggy said, “Don’t, Whitey.” Halloway hesitated. For a moment, it seemed he might complete the action, anyway. Just tap the remaining three keys, and shut down the computer, effectively locking it.

But the gun in Wiggy’s hand was very big and rather ugly.

THERE WERE EIGHT EMPLOYEES altogether, all of them seated around the long conference table now. Richard Halloway sat at the head of the table, as befitted his status as publisher. David Good from Publicity sat on his left, Karen Andersen from Sales on his right. There was an editor named Michael Garrity, and another editor named Henry Daggert. There was Charmaine, the fat receptionist, and someone named George Young from the stock room, and someone else named Betty Alweiss from the Art Department. Eight of them in all. They all looked frightened.

Wiggy and the two Mexicans leaned against three of the walls, weapons in their hands. Wiggy was holding a Cobray M11-9 he had purchased last night for five hundred dollars from a man named Little Nicholas in Diamondback. Villada and Ortiz were each carrying Mark XIX Desert Eagle pistols. The clock on the conference room wall read twenty minutes to ten. They had caught everyone by surprise, and now they were about to lay their demands on the table.

The Mexicans had decided to let Wiggy do all the talking. Ortiz had objected to this at first, on the grounds that his English was impeccable. Villada had convinced him at last. The men leaned against the walls nonchalantly. Their weapons—dangling casually in their hands—looked almost nonthreatening. The three of them figured they had nothing to worry about here with these bookish types. Little did they know.

“Now, this here’s the story,” Wiggy said. “Our grievance is a mill-seven for my frens here, and a mill-nine for me. We don’t know where you keep your stash, but one of you’s gonna go with one of us to get the cash an’ bring it back here. Then we’ll all be on our way, and you alls can go home to enjoy the ress of the holiday. Do I make myself clear?”

“We don’t have that kind of money,” Halloway said.

“We’re bettin you do,” Wiggy said. “We’re bettin you’ll go get it before …”

He looked up at the clock.

“Before six o’clock tonight. That’s eight hours from now, more or less. Cause for every hour we sit here without goin for the money, we’re gonna hafta shoot one of you. Eight hours, eight people. By six o’clock, you all be dead less’n we has our money. Do I make myself clear now?”

The room was silent.

“I’ll have to make some calls,” Halloway said.

“We’ll be listening,” Wiggy said.

The Mexicans were smiling.

Wiggy figured he had made himself clear.

THE MEN OF THE 87th Detective Squad couldn’t seem to keep their minds on business at their weekly Friday-morning, think-tank meeting. Carella was trying to tell them what he and Ollie had learned from Tito “Tigo” Gomez. He was trying to tell them that if Tigo could be trusted, a dope dealer named Walter “Wiggy” Wiggins was responsible for the murder of Jerome “Jerry”Hoskins, alias Frank Holt …

“Was that in this precinct?” Lieutenant Byrnes asked.

“No, but the murdered woman was.”

“What murdered woman?” Andy Parker asked.

He was dressed for undercover work today, which meant he hadn’t shaved, and he was wearing jeans and a black turtleneck sweater and a brown leather jacket and motorcycle boots. He thought he looked like an upscale drug dealer. Actually, he looked like a slob.

“The woman who got eaten by lions,” Meyer said.

“Ha-ha, very funny,” Parker said.

“This happened a week ago, where have you been?” Brown said.

“She got stabbed with an ice pick first,” Carella explained.

“What’s Hoskins got to do with her?” Byrnes asked impatiently. He was thinking if any of this had happened in some other precinct, he’d be glad to get it off his plate.

“He paid her to pick up some dope in Mexico,” Meyer said.

“Which he later sold to this Wiggy character,” Carella said.

“Who paidhim with a bullet in the head.”

“Here in the Eight-Seven?”

“No, the Eight-Eight. Fat Ollie caught it.”

“So let him keep it.”

“He also caught one-fifth of the Ridley case.”

“Who’s Ridley?” Parker asked.

“The lady who got eaten by lions,” Kling said.

“Ha-ha, very funny,” Parker said.

“How can you catch one-fifth of a case?” Willis asked.

“Her leg,” Meyer said.

“Am I supposed to be following this?” Parker asked.

“Nobody else is,” Byrnes said. “Why should you be an exception?”

“The point is,” Carella said, somewhat edgily, “we’re sending Gomez in with a wire.”

“Why?” Brown asked.

“Cause we’ve maybe got a line on the perp in a homicide.”

“This Wiggy character?”

“Right. Who maybe killed Jerry Hoskins, who for sure hired Cass Ridley to go to Mexico for him.”

“Andwecaught the Ridley case, is what you’re saying.”

“Four-fifths of her.”

“Why’s this so important, anyway?” Parker asked, and looked around the room, and shrugged, and said, “Don’t anybody want a bagel?” and went to help himself from the tray on Byrnes’s desk.