Ed Mcbain - Money, Money, Money

Jassim took this as a personal affront. He gave Nikmaddu what he hoped was a disdainful look, and then lighted a cigarette.

“When will this happen?” Nikmaddu asked.

“After the intermission,” Akbar said.

“Preciselywhen?” Nikmaddu asked.

“The Jew is the guest artist in the second half of the evening. We now know he will be playing Mendelssohn’s violin concerto in E Minor. The bomb will be set to go off sometime during the first movement.”

“When, precisely, during the first movement?”

“It is difficult to time the music precisely,” Akbar said. “The first movement is about twelve and a half minutes long, depending.”

“Depending on what?”

“The performer, the conductor—artistic license. But it will rarely run much longer than that. In any event, the bomb will be set to go off at nine-thirty.”

“Atpreciselynine-thirty?”

“Precisely, yes. It will explode toward the end of the first movement, trust me.”

Nikmaddu was beginning to realize that although this man looked as if he belonged in a tent on the desert, he was perhaps more intelligent than any of the others.

“What do you mean by movement?” Jassim asked. The stupidest of the lot. And the one with the most responsibility. The one who would go in with the bomb. “What does movement mean?”

“The Mendelssohn concerto has three movements,” Akbar explained.

“But what is a movement?”

“It’s not important that you know,” Akbar said. “You will place the bomb and leave the hall. The rest is up to Allah.”

“Will Jassim have enough time to get back to his seat, leave the bomb, and make his departure?” Nikmaddu asked.

“A good point,” Mahmoud said. “Have you timed all this?”

“I have been to six concerts this season,” Akbar said. “And hated them all. I know exactly how long it takes to get from the street to the lobby, and from there back to the seat in row F. Without rushing, Jassim should be out of there before the bomb explodes.”

“At nine-thirty precisely,” Nikmaddu said, seeking confirmation yet another time.

“Yes, at nine-thirty precisely,” Akbar said. “A fitting climax to the first movement.”

The men laughed. All but Jassim, who found nothing humorous in any of this.

“What kind of bomb are you using?” Nikmaddu asked.

“A simple pipe bomb. Two of them actually. Taped together and packed with black powder, nails, and screws. Similar to the one in Atlanta four years ago.”

“And the timer?”

“A battery-powered clock.”

“How will he carry it in?” Nikmaddu asked.

“In a handbag,” Akbar said.

“I’ll be carrying ahandbag?” Jassim said.

“Aman’shandbag. Europeans carry them all the time. Besides, I’ve taken one into the hall on six different occasions now. There is no security check. Women go in with handbags, even shopping bags, men carry briefcases. They are very sure of themselves, these Americans.”

“That will all change tomorrow night,” Nikmaddu said.

“Yes, it will,” Akbar said.

“Inshallah,”Mahmoud said.

“Inshallah,”the others said in unison.

MAN SEEMED TO HAVE disappeared from the face of the earth.

First place Tigo tried was the crib on Decatur. Thomas—who on the night of the murder had been chatting with Mr. Jerry Hoskins, alias Frank Holt, while Tigo and Wiggy tested the dope in the other room—was watching television when Tigo waltzed in.

“Hey, man,” he said.

“Whut’choo watchin?” Tigo asked.

This was ten to eleven in the morning, man was sittin here watching television.

“I don’t even know,” Thomas said. “Suppin with Sylvester Stallone.”

Tigo watched the screen for a moment.

Sylvester Stallone was dangling from a rope.

“Where’s Wiggy?” he asked.

“You got me, man.”

“You seed him today?”

“Nope.”

“When’d you get here?”

“Bout an hour ago.”

“He wasn’t here?”

“Nope.”

“He come back, you tell him I’m lookin for him, okay?”

“Peace, brother,” Thomas said.

My ass, Tigo thought.

Next place he tried was Wiggy’s barber. This was a man named Roland, who cut mighty fine hair and also took in numbers on the side. Or vice versa. Tigo figured Wiggy might be here gettin a trim, New Year’s Eve comin up and all. He could use a trim hisself, matter of fact. Roland said he hadn’t seen hide nor hair—

“You get it?” he asked.

—of Wiggy since a week ago today when he last cut the man’s hair.

“Try L&G,” he suggested.

L&G was short for Lewis and Gregory, who were two brothers owned a haberdashery on Chase Street. Both brothers were there when Tigo arrived at eleven that Friday. The shop was packed with people returning ties, and shirts and shit they’d got for Christmas and had no use for. Greg told him he hadn’t seen Wiggy since before Thanksgiving, was the man all right? He usually came in here and splurged two, three times a year. Tigo told him Wiggy was fine, just’d been busy was all. Greg said, “Tell him I said happy new year, hear?”

“I’ll tell him,” Tigo said.

He was wondering had Wiggy vanished from sight?

This business, vanishing from sight was always a distinct possibility.

He tried a bar called the Starlight, which was already doing very good business at a quarter past eleven, two days before New Year’s Eve. Tigo could just imagine what the place would be like on the big night itself. But John the bartender told him he’d seen Mr. Wiggins on Christmas night, when he was sittin here at the bar hittin on a blonde who’d come in out the cold, and again just yesterday aroun this time.

“Is that so?” Tigo asked. “A blonde?”

It was too bad the tape recorder wasn’t turned on because first it missed a hair joke from Wiggy’s barber, and now it just missed a thickening of the plot with Wiggy working a blonde on Christmas night. He told John if Mr. Wiggins came in again to tell him he was lookin for him, okay, and then—so it shouldn’t be a total loss—he tossed off a shot of Dewar’s before he went out into the cold again.

It was beginning to snow.

No snow for Christmas, but now it was coming down to beat all hell.

Tigo looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes past eleven. He didn’t know where to go next.

He tried the pool hall on Culver and Third, but nobody there had seen Wiggy, and then he tried The Corset Lady on South Fifth, which was run by a foxy chick named Aleda who made very fine ladies’ underwears and who used to go with Wiggy, but not for six months or so now, but she hadn’t seen him and didn’tcare to see him, thanks. Then he tried the First Bap on St. Sab’s because believe it or not Walter Wiggins was a religious man who went to church every Sunday, but the Reverend Gabriel Foster hadn’t seen him since, in fact, last Sunday, had anything happened to him? Foster was always looking for something that had happened to anybody in the black community, some cause he could champion on his radio show, some put-upon black he could go march to City Hall about. Tigo was beginning to think maybe somethinghad happened to Wiggy. This business, things happened.

He finally tried a man named Little Nicholas, who did business out the back of a laundromat he owned and operated on Lyons and South Thirty-fifth. Little Nicholas was about five-feet, eight-inches tall and Tigo guessed he weighed something like three, four hundred pounds. What Little Nicholas did was sell guns. He told Tigo that Wiggy had been in there late last night, and had purchased a beautiful submachine gun called the Cobray M11-9, would Tigo be interested in seeing some very fine banned weapons and silencers that had come in from all over the nation only yesterday? Tigo asked had he seed Wiggy anytimetoday? Little Nicholas said No, he hadn’t had the pleasure.