Эд Макбейн - ’Til Death

Tommy laughed. The joke had a beard, but he laughed anyway and he blushed slightly, and he watched his brother-in-law emerge from the bushes at the side of the property and rush toward the house, and then another joke started, the one about the midget who marries the circus fat lady, and this was followed by another, and then another, and then the jokes left the realm of scripted humor and took on an ad lib quality, each prankster, both married man and bachelor, coming up with top-of-the-head advice on the proper hotel-room behavior. Someone threw in the hoary story about the white horse who married a zebra and spent the entire honeymoon trying to take off her striped pajamas, and Tommy laughed, and someone advised him to bring along a lot of magazines because Angela would undoubtedly spend three hours in the bathroom preparing herself for the biggest moment of her life, and someone else said, “He only wishes it were the biggest moment,” and though Tommy didn’t quite get this one, he laughed anyway.

“What hotel are you going to, Tom?” one of the circle of jokesters asked.

“Uh-uh,” Tommy said, shaking his head.

“Come on!” someone shouted. “You don’t think we’d barge in on your honeymoon, do you?”

“I do,” Tommy said.

“Old pals like us? Don’t you want us to visit you?”

“No!”

“No? Why not? Have you made other plans for this evening?”

And so it went. And all the while, Jody Lewis scampered around the circle of jokesters, catching the expression on Tommy’s face each time a new joke was told, the shutter clicking, clicking, to preserve the blush or the grin or the fleeting look of realized manhood for posterity, Our Wedding Day.

“Don’t forget that wine when you leave!” someone shouted.

“What wine?”

“Somebody brought you wine. At the end of the table. One for the bride and one for the groom.”

“But don’t drink too much, Tommy. Too much wine, and

you’re going to have a very disappointed bride!” “Just a sip, Tommy! A toast! And then to work!” The crowd laughed. Jody Lewis kept his shutter clicking.

Night was falling with a frightening rush.

Oona Blake crouched on the floor over Cotton Hawes, her skirt pulled back over powerfully beautiful legs, the top of her dress torn to the waist. Darkness had invaded the small attic room of the Birnbaum house. The vanishing light of daytime filtered feebly through the attic window, catching her blond hair and then the white exposed flank of her thigh as she knotted the ropes securely around Hawes’s body and then went through his pockets.

Marty Sokolin, chewing on his cigar, one huge hand around the rifle barrel, watched her. She scared him somewhat. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever known in his life, but she moved with the power of a Nike rocket, and she scared him sometimes; but she excited him, too. Watching her flip open the man’s wallet, watching her hands as they quickly went through the contents, he was frightened and excited.

“A cop,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“A badge, and an ID card. Why didn’t you search him before?”

“I was too busy. What’s a cop doing here? How’d a cop—?”

“They’re crawling all over the place,” Oona said.

“Why?” His eyes blinked. He bit down more fiercely on the cigar.

“I shot a man,” she answered, and he felt a tiny lurch of fear.

“You...?”

“I shot a man, an old fart who was heading for this house. You told me to keep people away from here, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but to shoot a man! Oona, why’d you—?”

“Aren’t you here to shoot a man?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did you want someone coming up here?”

“No, Oona, but it’s brought cops. I’ve got a record, for Christ’s sake. I can’t—”

“So have I,” she snapped, and he watched the sudden fury in her eyes, and again he was frightened. Sweat erupted on his upper lip. In the gathering gloom, he watched her, frightened, excited.

“Do you want to kill Giordano?” she said.

“Yes. I... I do.”

“Do you or don’t you?”

“I don’t know. Jesus, Oona, I don’t know. I don’t want cops. I don’t want to go to jail again.”

“That’s not what you told me.”

“I know, I know.”

“You said you wanted him dead.”

“Yes.”

“You said you’d never be able to rest until he was dead.”

“Yes.”

“You asked for my help. I gave it to you. Without me, you wouldn’t know how to wipe your nose. Who got the apartment near the photography shop? Me. Who suggested this house? Me. Without me, you’d be carrying your goddamn grudge to the grave. Is that what you want? To carry the grudge to your grave?”

“No, Oona, but—”

“Are you a man... or what are you?”

“I’m a man.”

“You’re nothing. You’re afraid to shoot him, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“I’ve already killed for you, do you know that? I’ve already killed a man to protect you. And now you’re chickening out. What are you? A man or what?”

“I’m a man!” Sokolin said.

“You’re nothing. I don’t know why I took up with you. I could have had men, real men. You’re not a man.”

“I’m a man!”

“Then kill him!”

“Oona! It’s just — there are cops now. There’s a cop here, right with us—”

“There’ll be fireworks at eight o’clock...”

“Oona, if I kill him, what do I accomplish? I know I said I...”

“... a lot of noise, a lot of explosions. If you fire then, the shot won’t even be heard. No one will hear it.”

“... wanted him dead, but now I don’t know. Maybe he wasn’t responsible for Artie’s getting shot. Maybe he didn’t know...”

“You go to the window, Marty. You pick him up in your sights.”

“... there was a sniper in the trees. I’m clean now. I’m out of jail. Why should I fool around with something like this?”

“You wait for the fireworks to start. You squeeze the trigger. He’s dead, and we take off.”

“And the cop laying there on the floor? He’s seen both of us,” Sokolin protested.

“I’ll take care of him,” Oona Blake said, and she grinned. “It’ll be a real pleasure to take care of him.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Get to the window, Marty.”

“Oona—”

“Get to the window and get it over with. As soon as the fireworks start. Get it over and done with. And then come with me, Marty, come with me, baby, come to Oona, baby, Marty, get it over with, get it over with, get it out of your system!”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, Oona.”

Antonio Carella had perhaps drunk too much wine, or danced too strenuously. In any case, he was having difficulty standing. He had carried a chair to the center of the dance floor, and he stood on the chair now, wobbling unsteadily, his arms flailing the air, and he tried to maintain his balance and signal for silence simultaneously. The wedding guests had also drunk too much — perhaps — or perhaps danced too strenuously. They were a long time coming to silence and perhaps they never would have were it not for the fear that Tony Carella would fall off that chair unless someone began listening to him soon.

“I’m a very lucky man today,” Tony said to the hushed guests. “My daughter Angela has married a wonderful boy. Tommy! Tommy? Where’s Tommy?”

He climbed down off the chair and searched for Tommy in the crowd, dragging him into the light that spilled from the bandstand.

“My son-in-law!” he shouted, and the wedding guests applauded. “A wonderful boy, and a wonderful wedding, and a wonderful night! And now, we going to explode fireworks. We going to make the whole night explode for my two children! Is everybody ready?”