Ross Thomas - Chinaman’s Chance

“We didn’t say we know,” Betty Mae replied, her voice now coy.

“You know,” McBride said, and smiled. “By the way, I’d like to get your names to use in the story. You’re — uh?”

“Betty Mae Minklawn, that’s spelled with a Y in Betty, an E in Mae, and M-I-N-K-L-A-W-N, and this is Madge Perkinson and Silk Armitage is living right across the street from me, just a block from here at 2221 Breadstone.”

McBride tried to keep it from showing, the elation that roared through him as he wrote it all down. He made himself ask the two women a few more questions, mostly about themselves, and they responded eagerly now, vying with each other to be the first with the most details. Finally, McBride thanked them both, slid off the bar stool, turned, and started for the door.

Just as he was going out of the Tex-Mex another man came in, a fairly big blond man, dressed in a bright plaid polyester jacket, dark slacks, and a blue shirt with a loosened tie. The big man and McBride eyed each other, and through experience and possibly instinct one word automatically popped into McBride’s mind. Cop.

As the big man’s eyes took in McBride and memorized him for future reference, a single word came quickly to his mind: Trouble, although he wasn’t quite sure what kind. The big man was Lt. Marion Lake of Homicide.

Lt. Lake sized up the bar and automatically designated Betty Mae and Madge as his two most likely prospects. He moved down to them, ordered a beer, and then in a conversational tone said, “My name’s Bill Warren and I’m with the L.A. Times.”

Betty Mae and Madge looked at each other and then held a hurried whispered conversation.

After the quick consultation, Betty Mae turned back to Lt. Lake and said, “We’re not talking to any more reporters until we see him first.”

“See who first?” Lt. Lake said.

“Our agent.”

This time Solly Gesini had to get out of his car to follow McBride. But before he did he unlocked the glove compartment; took out the .38 Smith & Wesson Centennial; inspected it quickly, although he had done so only an hour before; and dropped it into his coat pocket.

McBride walked up Breadstone Avenue toward 2221 until he found what he wanted, a drugstore. He went inside and used the pay phone to call Otherguy Overby’s number. He let it ring five times and was about to hang up when Overby answered the phone, sounding a little breathless.

“It’s me,” McBride said.

“It’s the kid,” Overby said to Durant and Wu, who had just followed him into his apartment. Durant took the phone.

“Durant, Eddie.”

“I think I’ve found her,” he said. “But I think a cop may be right behind me.”

“What’s the address?” Durant said.

McBride told him the address and said, “What do you want me to do?”

“Get inside and keep her there for ten minutes.”

“You’ll be there then?”

“We’ll be there,” Durant said.

“What’ll I tell her?”

“Tell her you like the way she sings,” Durant said, and hung up.

When McBride reached 2221 Breadstone Avenue, he puzzled for a moment over the sign that said READINGS. But then he shrugged and went up onto the porch and knocked at the door. Through the door came Silk Armitage’s voice. “Who is it?”

“Tony Max, Miss Armitage,” McBride said. “I’m with The Washington Post. I’d like to talk to you.”

Inside, behind the door, Silk Armitage stood with her head bowed. Maybe this would be the best way after all, she thought. Maybe I’ll just tell them and then let them track it all down — all those loose ends. She’d give them what she had and then let them do it. I’m tired, she thought. I’m just too damn tired. She leaned her forehead against the door.

“Have you got any identification?” she said.

“Sure,” McBride said.

“Put it through the mail slot.”

McBride did as he was told. After a moment, the door opened. She was prettier than McBride remembered her as being from the photographs he had seen. Prettier and older and tireder.

“Come on back in the kitchen,” Silk said. “I was making myself a sandwich.”

“Sure,” McBride said.

In the kitchen McBride watched as Silk used a sharp chef’s knife to slice a tomato. “So you’re from the Post, huh?” she said.

“That’s right.”

“You want a sandwich?”

“No, thanks.”

“What about some coffee?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Instant?”

“Instant’s fine.”

Silk made McBride a cup of coffee and then went back to her sandwich. “Well,” she said, “what do you want to know? I haven’t got much time. Not here, anyhow. I’m just waiting for a letter.”

McBride tried to think of what a reporter would say, but nothing came to mind, so he said, “Why don’t you just start at the beginning and tell it from there?”

Silk used the knife to cut her cheese-and-tomato sandwich diagonally. “All right,” she said after a moment, “that’s probably as good a place as any to start.”

Solly Gesini studied the house at 2221 Breadstone Avenue and had a difficult time believing his good fortune. They’ve both gotta be in there, he told himself. I can do ’em both and be outa here and down the alley and into my car in less’n five minutes. Gesini knew the alley was there because he had checked it earlier.

Getting into the house presented no problem. From where he stood he could see that it was just an ordinary lock on the door. The lock would be a snap unless she had a bolt on the other side. Well, he would just have to see.

Gesini looked around to determine whether anyone was watching, and when nobody was he moved quickly up the steps of the porch to the door. He listened for a moment, then took out a case of picks and easily snapped back the lock He took one more fast look around and then cautiously opened the door and slipped inside.

He heard the voices then. Or rather, the woman’s voice. It was coming from the rear of the house. Gesini went through a pair of half-open sliding doors and into what he thought was a funny-looking room. It was the room where Madame Szabo had given her infrequent readings.

Gesini took the pistol out of his pocket. The voices were coming from the room on the other side of a swinging door. Gesini knew from experience the advantage that surprise gave him in situations like this. They freeze first and can’t do anything. Not for a couple of seconds. And that’s plenty of time.

He went through the swinging door fast, banging it open, and shot Eddie McBride twice in the back.

McBride knew it was coming. He had been given just a split second of warning by the startled expression on Silk’s face. And just as the bullets struck he grasped the chef’s knife.

He turned somehow, despite the pain, and saw Gesini, and the rage hit him along with the third round that Gesini fired, this time into McBride’s left arm just beneath the shoulder. McBride made himself move. He staggered toward Gesini for three feet and then lunged the final foot. The fucker won’t go down, Gesini thought, backing away. I hit him three times good and he won’t go down.

At the end of his lunge, McBride drove the chef’s knife deep into Gesini’s stomach, and as he did he cried a wordless cry, the one that the Corps taught in bayonet practice, the one that was half screech, half scream, and when that was done, McBride ripped the knife up until it ran into bone. And then McBride, in a curiously conversational, almost solicitous tone said, “Tell me where it hurts, Solly.”

McBride staggered back then and sat down on the kitchen floor with a thump. Solly Gesini looked down at the knife that was protruding from just below his breastbone. He dropped the pistol and touched the knife handle gingerly. Oh Jesus, does it hurt! Oh, why does it have to hurt so much? After asking the silent question that nobody ever answered, Solly Gesini sank to his fat knees and then toppled over on to the floor and went into shock and bled to death.