Peter Abrahams - A Perfect Crime

“Didn’t what?” said Whitey, who was thinking of his own bullfrog, and the crown-shaped ring of blood on its bumpy green head.

“Didn’t know his way around the woods.”

“No, huh?” Whitey conceived a brilliant question: “What were his qualifications, anyway?”

“Not the right ones, evidently. Do you know that saying about law and sausages, Whitey?”

“Law and sausages?”

“You don’t want to look too closely at how either of them is made. My work’s a bit like that.”

Law and sausages. Whitey didn’t get it. Was Roger trying to tell him he was a tough guy or something-dangerous? Whitey couldn’t see it. He, Whitey, was tough and dangerous-he thought of that stupid whore and her pimp with the baseball bat, and what had happened to them. Or was Roger trying to tell him that the assistant had to be tough and dangerous? Or maybe Roger checked his watch, his Rolex, stood up. “Better get you back to your post,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to put your job in jeopardy, would we?”

“Well, the thing is-” said Whitey, but Roger was already walking away and didn’t seem to hear.

Roger pulled over at the side of 441. He turned to Whitey, who’d been smelling the leather coat in the backseat, again gave him that look that seemed to see deep inside. “I said I’d pay you for your time.” And there was a one-hundred-dollar bill-not the same one, because there was no hole-held out for him. He was thinking all kinds of things to say, like it’s too much, and I didn’t really earn it, but while he was in the middle of thinking them, he grabbed it.

Roger smiled.

Whitey opened the door, started to get out. But how could he let this go without at least trying? What was there to lose? “This assistant thing,” he said, “are you looking for a replacement?”

Roger raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I hadn’t really thought about it yet.” He seemed to be thinking about it now, staring into the distance. “I’d need someone more discreet this time,” he said. “Discretion is the sine qua non in this business.”

That threw Whitey, and he licked his lips a couple of times before saying, “You never said what the business is exactly.”

“I thought I had,” said Roger, sounding disappointed in him for the first time. “It’s the recovery of valuable objects.”

“Such as what?”

“Paintings, shall we say.”

“Like that someone’s stolen?”

“Precisely like that.”

The DPW truck came into view, shimmering on the horizon.

Now or never. “I want the job,” Whitey said.

“Do you-”

“Swear to God.”

“-know the meaning of discretion, Whitey?”

“It means no questions and keep your fuckin’mouth shut.”

Roger nodded. He scribbled a number on his alligator farm ticket stub. “Call me tomorrow. We’ll set up an interview.”

Whitey stuffed the ticket stub and the money in his pocket, got out of the car. A job interview: he’d never had one. This was the big time.

The DPW truck dropped Whitey at the depot. He caught the number 62 bus, reached the stop a block from New Horizons at five to six. He was almost out the rear door, had one foot on the pavement, when he saw the cop car parked up the street. Did that mean anything? No. But he said, “Oops,” like he’d almost gotten off at the wrong stop, and stepped back on the bus. The driver, watching in his mirror, muttered something Whitey couldn’t hear.

The bus drove on, picked up speed, approached New Horizons. Whitey saw a cop on the sidewalk, talking to the social worker. As the bus drew closer, Whitey saw that the cop was showing something to the social worker, a piece of paper. And as the bus went right by, within a few feet of them, Whitey saw what it was: the artist’s composite, with nothing right except the fucking hair. Whitey stayed on the bus.

Roger was sleeping the deepest sleep he’d had in a long time when the phone rang. He fumbled for it in the darkness of the strange room, answered.

“Rog? It’s me, Whitey Tru-Whitey Reynoso. I’m calling like you said.”

“But it’s four in the morning.”

“Kind of anxious to get started, is all.”

Was he drunk? Stoned? Planning some scheme of his own? Was this not going to work, after all?

“Rog? You still there?”

“Yes.”

“So maybe you could come and pick me up.”

“Where are you?”

“On 441, of course. Where you picked me up before.”

Was he armed? Alone? His voice was full of impending surprise. “Very well,” said Roger.

His motel room had a kitchenette. Roger took the biggest knife from the drawer, hid it under the seat of his rented car, drove out to 441. Could he kill Whitey? Certainly. There was a deep, violent well of hatred in him, as he was sure there was in most people; he’d known it since boyhood. It made war possible, and perhaps all human civilization. The only problem was scheduling: Whitey wasn’t supposed to die yet.

Roger came to the spot where he’d found Whitey, saw a lone man in the headlights, slowed down, slow enough to bring any overeager accomplices out of the bushes, slow enough to see that Whitey was holding some sort of bundle, slow enough to hear him cry, “Hey, it’s me,” as Roger went by.

A few hundred yards beyond, Roger made a U-turn and drove back. He stopped the car, one hand on the knife. Whitey came out of the shadows, opened the passenger door, got in. His eyes were bright. “Hi, Rog. Had me concerned there for a minute. Here. I brought you something.”

Roger inched the knife out from under the seat. Whitey laid the bundle between them: something wrapped in a denim jacket. “Open it, why don’t you?”

With his free hand, Roger opened the jacket-and there was the baby gator, its mouth fastened shut with packing tape. Roger felt Whitey’s gaze on him, waiting for his reaction.

“You’ve done well, Whitey, very well.”

Whitey laughed with delight. “Feisty little bugger, that gator, let me tell you.”

“Not an alligator, actually,” Roger said. “It’s a crocodile-you can tell from the angulation of the jaw.”

“Whatever. Tore my jacket to shreds. My only jacket.”

Roger silently counted three and said, “You can have the one in back.”

“Cool,” said Whitey, donning the leather jacket right away. It felt great. The gator watched with its slitty yellow eyes.

“Any hints?” asked Anne, eyeing their opponents across the net as the players took their serves before the top-bracket semifinal of the club championships.

Francie checked them out: two wiry women wearing elbow braces and knee pads. She thought she recognized the taller one from her college days; she’d played for Brown, or possibly UConn-a distant memory, no more than a fragment, but unpleasant.

“How was your overhead in the warm-up?”

“I didn’t make a single one,” said Anne with alarm. “You think they’re going to lob us?”

“To death,” said Francie.

Francie was right. The wiry women, tireless, unsmiling, grim, fed them-Anne particularly, as they saw her game begin to fall apart-junk, chips, dinks, lobs; they served conventional, Australian, from the I, even both back for a point or two; and they called the lines very close. First set: 6–2, the 2 coming on Francie’s serve.

On the changeover, while the wiry women iced their elbows and knees, Anne turned her flushed face to Francie and said in a low voice, “I’m so sorry. They’re hitting every ball to me and I’m playing like shit.”

Francie put her hand on Anne’s knee, felt it trembling. “First of all,” she said, “it’s only tennis. Second, it’s not over.” She leaned forward, spoke in Anne’s ear. “This set we’re going to do a little lobbing of our own.”