Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

“Everyday occurrence,” Phelps said.

Eyes alert again. Voice entirely too casual.

His phone buzzed. He picked up the receiver.

“Yes?” he said, and listened. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay, thank you.” He put the receiver back on its cradle. “Yes, a man named Peter Dodge was here last Monday afternoon,” he said to Reardon. “Lowell saw him. My partner, Lowell Rothstein.”

“Did he buy silver contracts?”

“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t know.” Phelps said. “If he talked to Lowell personally, then only Lowell would know about any silver position he took.”

“Where can I reach your partner?” Reardon asked.

“He’ll be out all afternoon. Can you try him tomorrow morning?”

“Sure,” Reardon said, and paused. “Mr. Phelps... just how heavy is heavy?”

“Well,” Phelps said, “I suppose that depends on how much loose change you have to spend, doesn’t it?”

They were sitting in the living room of the Kidd brownstone on East Seventy-first Street.

Lowell Rothstein and all three survivors of the Kidd family.

“I was worried,” Rothstein said, “I have to tell you. I didn’t know whether or not your father’s death might precipitate a change of plans.”

“Nothing has changed,” Olivia said.

“Well, fine then. We’re to continue with the purchases as scheduled, is that it?”

“Yes,” Olivia said.

“We have the money in our discretionary account...”

“Good.”

“... where either Joe or I can draw checks as needed. The price has gone up just a bit, and we’ve seen some raised eyebrows in the pit, but so far nothing that would indicate a stampede.”

“How much is still in the account?” Olivia asked.

“Oh, I would have to check on that,” Rothstein said. “By the close Friday, we’d bought something like three thousand contracts, I believe it was. I’d guess we still have a bit more than four million, something like that.”

Olivia nodded.

“Again, I want to express my sympathies on the death of your father. The funeral will take place in Phoenix, I expect...”

“His body has already been cremated,” Olivia said.

“Oh, I... I see,” Rothstein said. “Well, I... because Joe and I had planned to fly out, you see...”

“There’s no need,” Olivia said.

“Well,” Rothstein said, and nodded.

There was an awkward silence.

He put on his hat and coat.

“Sarge,” he said. He took Jessica’s hand. “Miss Kidd,” he said. “Nice to’ve met you. Olivia.”

He went to the front door. There was silence in the living room until the door closed behind him.

“What are you buying?” Jessica asked. “What’s this schedule you were talking about?”

“You’ll know Wednesday night,” Olivia said, and put on her mink.

“Pop would’ve told me now,” Jessica said.

“I sincerely doubt that. In any event, he’s dead now, Jessica. And I’m in charge. Don’t ever forget that.” She went to the front door. “I’ll see you back at the hotel, Sarge,” she said, and went out.

“Bitch,” Jessica said.

“Well,” Sarge said, “she’s got a lot on her mind right now.”

“Tell me about it.”

“No.”

“Would you like a drink? I’m going to have a drink.”

“I guess,” he said.

“What would you like? Do you know how to mix martinis?”

“I guess.”

“Don’t guess so fucking much, Sarge. You either know how to mix a...”

“I know how to mix one.”

“Then mix two,” Jessica said.

He went to the bar. She watched him as he located the bottle of Beefeater and the vermouth. He reached into the ice bucket, began dumping cubes into the pitcher.

“Make them very dry,” she said.

“Okay.”

“I know a man who has a secret for dry martinis,” she said. “This is a man I met in Acapulco. What he does...”

“I don’t want to hear about your boyfriends,” Sarge said.

“This isn’t a boyfriend, he’s just a man I met. Why?” she asked suddenly. “Do my boyfriends make you jealous?”

“No. they don’t make me jealous.”

“They do. I’ll bet they do,” she said, and grinned. “Anyway, what he does, when he buys his bottle of olives, he pours out all the water, all the salty water in there, you know? And he fills the bottle of olives with vermouth. In place of the water. And he lets the olives sit in the vermouth. Then, when he’s mixing a martini, he just uses gin, and instead of the vermouth he drops one of the olives into it. That’s soaked with vermouth, you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Which makes a very dry martini.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I ought to keep a bottle of olives like that.”

“What do you do if you prefer a twist?” Sarge asked.

“Don’t ask me hard questions,” Jessica said.

He was pouring from the pitcher now. He came to where she was sitting and handed her one of the glasses.

“Thanks,” she said. “Here’s to the big deal, whatever it is.” She sipped at the drink. “Mmm, good,” she said, “you really do know how to make a martini.”

“I told you I did.”

“Do you know how to make a fire, too?”

“I have to be leaving soon.” he said.

“Nobody asked you to stay, I only asked if you know how to make a fire.”

“Of course I know how to make a fire. Everybody knows how to make a fire.”

“Not me.” she said. “Make a fire for me, Sarge.”

He sighed and went to the fireplace.

“Poor put-upon bro,” she said. “Tell me what we’re buying that’s so hush-hush.”

“No,” he said.

“You have to put paper under the logs,” she said.

“I know.”

“I don’t see you using any paper.”

“I always put the paper in last.”

She watched him as he set the logs in place over his kindling, cross-hatching them.

“So neat,” she said.

“If you want a good fire, you have to lay your logs right,” he said.

“Oh, my, you’re such a good log-layer,” she said. “When are you going to put the paper in?”

“Now,” he said, and began tearing Sunday’s Times into long strips.

“You’re tearing up the story on Pop,” she said. “Also you’re supposed to crumple the paper, not strip it.”

“I prefer stripping it,” he said.

He struck a match and held it under the grate.

“I hope you’ve got a good flue here,” he said.

“I haven’t had any complaints,” she said.

The paper caught.

“Fahrenheit four-fifty-one,” he said.

“What?”

“The ignition point of paper. It was also a story by Ray Bradbury.”

“Who’s Ray Bradbury?”

“Forget it,” he said.

“Tell me about the deal,” she said.

“You’ll find out Wednesday.”

The kindling caught now.

“You should buy some Georgia fatwood,” he said.

“What for?”

“Makes a good fire.”

“That’s a pretty good one, anyway,” she said. “Come sit here beside me, Sarge.”

“I have to be going. Olivia’s expecting me.”

“Fuck Olivia,” Jessica said. “Come sit here, warm your toes.”

She took off her shoes, stretched her legs toward the fire.

“Mmm,” she said.

He sat beside her.

“So tell me,” she said.

“I can’t. Stop asking me, Jess.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because too much is at stake.”

“How much? Mmm, that’s a good hot fire,” she said.

“Billions,” he said. “Trillions. After it starts.”

“After what starts?”

“Well, never mind,” he said.

“You make a good fire,” she said, and suddenly giggled. “You give great fire, Sarge.”