Ed Mcbain - Nocturne

"NO"

"Please."

"NO"

I'll pay you."

"No."

"I'll pay you ten thousand dollars."

"NO."

"Twenty thousand."

"No."

"Lorenzo, please. Please."

"No Svetlana. I'm sorry no."

"Twenty-five. To kill me and to take care of Irina afterward. Take her home with you, feed her, care for her."

"I can't. I won't."

"I would pay you more, but..."

"No, Svetlana. Please. Never. Not even for a million. Never. Please."

But that is before he loses the money to Bernie the Banker.

What Bernie is telling him, if he correctly under stands his very rapid English, is that he is going to kill Lorenzo unless he comes up with the money he owes by Sunday morning. Bernie is a Jew, he supposes, but he is beginning to sound very Italian with all this talk about swimming with the little fishes, very Italian indeed. Lorenzo has dealt with enough bookmakers, both Italian and American, to know that very often they won't necessarily kill you because then they will never get the money you owe them. On the other hand, having your legs broken or an eye put out is not a very cheerful prospect, either. He listens quite solemnly to what the little bookie is telling him, never doubting for a moment that Bernie himself or someone Bernie knows will hurt him very badly if he doesn't come up with the twenty thousand dollars he bet on those fucking Steelers, what are Steelers anyway, people who steal? The English language is sometimes mystifying to him, but he sure as hell understands what Bernie is telling him now. Bernie is saying "Pay me by Sunday morning, my friend, or you may have cause to be very sorry."

Is what B.ernie is saying.

Which is when he calls Svetlana to say that if she still wants him to do what she proposed earlier this month... "Yes," she says at once.

"Then I'm ready to do it," he whispers into the phone.

"When?" she whispers.

Both of them whispering in Italian like the conspirators they are.

"Now," he says. "Tonight."

"No. I have some things to do first." "Then when?" "Tomorrow night?"

"Yes, all right," he says. "Tomorrow night." All of this in Italian. Domani sera?

Si, va bene. Domani sera.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he says.

"Good. Call me. But not in the morning. I'll be out in the morning. I have some business to take care of." "Then when?" "Early afternoon." I'll call you." "Ciao," she says. "Ciao."

Two old pals signing off. No mention at all of murder.

It is a little before eleven when he arrives at her apartment that Saturday night. She is wearing a flowered cotton housedress and scuffed French-heeled shoes. She tells him she went to the bank this morning to withdraw the money she promised him... "I hate to take money for this," he says. "I would not expect..."

"I'm in serious debt," he says. "Otherwise I wouldn't accept this."

"Take it," she says, and hands him an envelope. "Count it," she says.

"I don't have to count it."

"Count it. It's twenty-five thousand dollars."

He shakes his head, puts the envelope into the pocket of his coat. It is eleven o'clock sharp now. "I had my hair done this morning," she says.

"It's very pretty," he says, admiring the finger wave. "You look beautiful."

"I would have put on along black concert gown," she tells him, "but I want it to look as if an intruder surprised me. So there'll be no suspicion cast on you. We'll open the window. It will seem that someone came in."

"Yes," he says.

He is wondering what kind of man he is, to be willing to do this to a poor old deaf woman. What kind of man? But he keeps remembering Bernie's threat. And he rationalizes what he is about to do, telling himself that with the twenty-five thousand he can pay off the twenty he owes Bernie and with the remaining five can perhaps pick a good horse or two in next week's races, parlay the money into God knows how much, a fortune perhaps. Besides, he tells himself he is not really taking a life. He is only doing what Svetlana herself wishes him to do. He is helping her to die with dignity and honor. He is helping her to leave this world with her memories intact. For this, God will forgive him. This is what he tells himself.

They open the bedroom window.

Cold air rushes into the apartment.

She goes to the bedroom closet and takes from it an old mink coat.

"I want it to look as if I just got back from the store," she says. "So no one will suspect you."

His hand is beginning to shake on the butt of the gun in the pocket of his coat. He is not sure he will be able to do this now that the time is so close. He is not sure at all.

"Would you help me, please?" she asks.

He holds the coat for her as she shrugs into it. He can smell fish on his hands. There is always the stench of fish on his hands.

He is beginning to shake all over now.

From the table just inside the front door, she take her handbag, begins searching in it, and at last finds what she's looking for, a white envelope with someone's name written on the front of it.

"Take this to the front desk at the Hotel Powell," she says. "My granddaughter's name is written on it. Ask the clerk to send it up to her suite. Make sure you say suite. She has a suite there, you know." He nods, accepts the envelope. "Promise me," she says. "I promise," he says.

He slides the envelope into the left-hand pocket of his coat, the one containing the envelope with the twenty-five thousand dollars in it. The blood money. His right hand is in the pocket where the gun is. He is sweating nw. His hand in the pocket is slippery on the handle of the gun.

It is now ten minutes past eleven.

The cat is in the hallway with them now. Looking up at them. First at Svetlana's face, then his. As if expecting to be fed.

"Her carrying case is in the kitchen," Svetlana says. "On the table. She's used to it, she'll think you're taking her to the vet."

He looks at her, nods. Looks down at the cat. The cat is rubbing herself against his leg. It gives him the chills. He is sweating and shivering at one and the same time.

"Swear to me you'll take good care of her." He says nothing for a moment. "Swear," she says. "I swear."

"Swear to me you'll feed her fresh fish every day." "I promise." "Swear." "I swear."

"On your mother's eyes."

"On my mother's eyes, I swear."

The apartment goes very still.

In the kitchen, he can hear a clock ticking.

He looks at his own watch.

It is almost twenty minutes past the hour.

From the same hall table, Svetlana picks up a brown paper bag with a bottle of whiskey in it. "I drink," she says in explanation. "Son" un " umbriaga," she says.

"I'm a drunk." "Everyone knows that."

As a matter of fact, he doesn't know this.

As a matter of fact, he doesn't know this woman at all.

But he is about to kill her. "Are you ready?" she asks. "Yes," he says.

She is standing just inside the door. The bag with the whiskey is cradled in her right arm. He removes the gun from his coat pocket. The cat keeps rubbing against his leg, purring. Sweat is beading his face, sweat is rolling down under the collar of his shirt, sweat dampens his armpits and the matted blond hair on his chest. His hand is shaking violently. "Thank you for doing this," she says. He steadies the gun in both hands.

"Take good care of Irina," she says, and closes her eyes.

The interrogation room went silent. Q: Did you shoot her at that time? A: Yes.

Q: How many times did you shoot her?

A: Twice.

Q: Did the shots kill her?

A: Yes.

Q: What did you do then? A: I shot the cat. Nellie looked at him.

"Why'd you do that?" she asked.

"I didn't want to take care of her. I know I promised

Svetlana. But cats are not to be trusted." Men, either, Nellie thought. "So you took her money..."