Эд Макбейн - Ice

“I told you,” Meyer said. “There ain’t no justice in this world.”

But maybe there was, after all.

There was hardly any packing left to do.

He had done most of his packing yesterday afternoon before he’d been interrupted by the man in the monk’s habit, whose name he now knew was Anthony Scalzo. Nothing had changed. He still planned to get out of here as soon as possible, out of the city and the state for sure, maybe out of the country as well. The only difference now was that his mother would be out the $100,000 she’d provided for his bail, a small enough price to pay for his freedom; anyway, he planned to pay her back as soon as he got settled someplace.

As he took his toilet articles from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, he replayed the little session with the mastermind sleuths of the 87th Precinct, four of them sitting there playing cat and mouse with him, each and every one of them knowing they didn’t have a chance in hell of getting him on those three murders unless he decided to fall to his knees in confession. He was tempted — almost, but not quite — to forget all about running, take his chances with a jury instead. They’d buy his plea of self-defense, and he’d end up spending a little time — maybe two years — in prison on the drug charge. But he supposed there was no such thing as a little time in prison; any time in prison was a lot of time. Better to do it this way. Jump bail, get out of the country, use the diamonds — but, ah, what a waste. Two years of medical school, what a waste. He wondered what his father would have said if he was still alive. Well, Dad, he thought, I saw my opportunity and I grabbed it. It would’ve all worked out fine, I’d have had the money and my medical degree besides, nobody the wiser, nobody hurt, Dad, if only...

The one person I thought I could trust.

Sally.

Would I have written to her otherwise?

Thought I could trust her. Told me we didn’t have to sell off all the stuff right away, we could — well, listen, who knew anything at all about cocaine? Babe in the woods down there in Miami, Portoles leading me by the hand, I will make you rich, amigo, for saving my son. Tested the stuff for me, I didn’t even know enough to do that. Paying fifty thousand a key, never thought to ask if it was real cocaine. Cobalt thiocyanate. Blue reaction. What’d he say? The brighter the blue, the better the girl. Referring to the coke. Called it girl. Best pure you can find, he told me. Yours now. Mine. Sally’s, too, sort of. Told me we could hold back two kilos, ounce them out, she knew somebody uptown who’d be interested, somebody who would put them on to other customers. Knew more about cocaine than I’ll ever know. Said she’d been shooting it even before it got fashionable, while she was studying dance in London, used to share what she called Cocaine Fucks with an oboe player she was living with. Shared those with her friend uptown, too, but who knew that at the time? Trusted her. One thing you should never trust is a woman in bed. Spread any woman’s legs, and secrets fly out of her like butterflies. Told him everything. Told him about our little cache, the two keys of cocaine we were milking. Our insurance, she called them. Sure.

He zipped up his toilet kit and carried it to the open suitcase in the bedroom. He stood looking down into the suitcase, as though he’d forgotten something. The gun? Funny how you became accustomed to having a gun around, accustomed to using it. Police property now, evidence tag on it, a lot of good it would do them once they realized he’d packed his tent, twenty-five carats worth of diamonds to turn into cash anywhere in the world. Still, if only...

If only she hadn’t shared our secret with him, if only he hadn’t come to me, slimy little Puerto Rican bastard, wanting a piece of the action, demanding a piece of the action, threatening to go to the police if I didn’t cut him in on a bigger piece of the pie, those dwindling two keys, greedy little bastard. Give away a piece of what I’d taken the risk for? Said he knew I had diamonds hidden someplace in the apartment, said he wanted those, too, otherwise he’d go to the cops. Said he had proof, said he knew where he could get proof. The letter, of course, she’d kept the letter. And I’d trusted her. So what was I supposed to do? Spend time in prison because Sally had babbled to the wrong lover, Sally in the heat of passion had — God, she was good in bed! Dancers, Jesus!

Bought the gun two days after he paid me his little visit. Contacted the guy I’d sold the six keys to, told him I needed a gun. Easy, he said. Cost me $200. Never used a gun in my life before then. Never even held one in my hand. Wanted to be a surgeon one day, good hands, steady, ah, well. Knew where he lived, hell, she used to deliver to him every Sunday, didn’t know she was also delivering pussy and secrets, waited for him outside his building, followed him, shot him. Easy. Killed him.

But then, you know, you start thinking, you know, you start thinking you’ve got to protect it. Not the coke, not the diamonds, but all of it. The future. I did want to be a doctor, Dad, I wasn’t just walking through it, you know, I was busting my ass, just the way you wanted me to, Doctor Timothy Moore, that’s who I wanted to be! So it had to be protected, you see, and if she’d told Lopez, then she couldn’t be trusted anymore, could she? And how long would it have taken her to realize that I was the one who’d killed that greedy little spic? How long before she herself went to the police? No, I had to — the radio, he thought. That’s what I’m forgetting. The radio.

He went into the living room, where the radio was still sitting alongside the telephone, picked up the radio, held it in the palm of his hand, and looked at it almost fondly. So simple, he thought. No way anyone in a million years could have connected the murder of a small-time coke dealer — well, Sally of course, Sally would have realized sooner or later. Which was why I had to, to, to do the same thing to her, you see. But with her, they’d find a connection. With her, they’d begin asking me questions — well, they did ask me questions, didn’t they? So I needed protection, the radio, needed someone to say I’d been talking to him on the phone and he’d heard my radio going, good old Karl, solid as a rock, make a good doctor one day. Took the phone off the hook before I left the house, called him from a phone booth, radio going, called him twice before I killed her, waiting for her, late as usual, called him again after I killed her, when I got home, kept calling him, radio going each time, good old reliable Karl.

He carried the radio back into the bedroom, and put it in the open suitcase. Anything else? he wondered. Anything I’m forgetting? So easy to forget things when you’re, when you, when you start something like this, all the things you have to do to protect it, keep your eye on the main goal, never mind the money, I wanted to be a doctor! Almost forgot about Edelman, last link in the chain, remembered him later. Suppose some IRS agent examined his books, wanted to know where he’d sold those diamonds, twenty-five carats, $300,000 in cash, who’d you sell them to, who? Tie me in with that kind of money, cops would be around asking more questions, where’d you get that kind of money, no. Had to protect myself. Had to kill him. Like the others. So I could be a doctor one day. Like my father.

He closed the suitcase.

So, he thought.

He looked around the apartment.