John Lutz - Urge to Kill

“That might not mean shit. You mighta just lost it, and I’m talking to some clown pretending to be you.”

“I’m me, and not pretending.”

“What about the clown part?”

“It’s what I don’t want to waste time on now, Harley.”

“I tried to get in touch with you yesterday afternoon to tell you this movement to sympathize with Berty Wrenner is picking up steam, and you know what goes with steam.”

“Pressure,” Quinn said, trying not to yawn. The hot sun beating through the windshield was making him sleepy.

“Where were you yesterday, Quinn?”

“Pearl and I drove upstate to investigate a lead. Guy named Dwayne Avis. Nothing came of it, but I’ll get a report to you so it’s in the mix.”

“Seen TV news this morning?”

“I managed to avoid it.”

“Berty’s due to be arraigned today, so his supporters are having a big demonstration in the park. Signs, songs, the whole shebang.”

“You don’t hear that word very often anymore,” Quinn said. “Shebang.”

“Parse it,” Renz said, “and you got sexism.” He seemed to mean it. There were times when nothing seemed too trivial for Renz to worry over.

“I won’t mention you said it,” Quinn assured him.

“Thanks. The news says the shebang is growing larger.”

“That must be what’s causing the traffic mess I’m stuck in. So what does Berty’s army want?”

“Freedom for Berty.”

“Despite the murder charge with evidence and a confession to back it up?”

“All that doesn’t seem important to them. You know how it goes, Quinn. The little guy’s perfect to play the poor schmuck who’s a victim of the machine.”

“We the machine?”

“We’re part of it.”

“So you wanna turn Berty free?”

“Not me. But if certain politicians could think of an excuse, they’d be out there marching with Berty’s army.”

“You’re about the most opportunistic politician I know,” Quinn said, “and you’re not out there marching.”

“I’m also first and foremost a cop, or I wouldn’t associate with you and your fouled-up crew.”

“You including Vitali and Mishkin?”

“Mishkin’s Barney Fife with a brush mustache and Vitali’s turning into Columbo.”

“Television again,” Quinn said.

“Between the Slicer, and the Twenty-five-Caliber Killer, and this dueling bullshit, this friggin’ city’s gone nuts.”

“Always has been. That’s why we love it.”

“So you on your way to the Seventy-ninth Street office?”

“I’ve gotta make a stop first; then I’m going there.”

“Keep me better informed, Quinn. Give me some raw meat now and then to throw to the people who want to turn me into raw meat. You know how the game is played. That’s the reason why I hire you when we run into this kind of shit storm.”

“Would you throw them Vitali and Mishkin?”

“I can promise you they’ll go before you do.”

“You’re an honest evil man, Harley. That’s so rare in this world.”

“I’m working on the honest part.”

“And making progress. I’ll fax you that report.”

“You do that, the whole shebang. Whenever you find time in your frenetic schedule.”

That sounded like an exit line to Quinn. He broke the connection and stuck the phone back in his pocket.

The NYPD must have been getting the “Free Berty” demonstration under control. Traffic was creeping ahead steadily now, without the nerve-racking stop and go.

The city had caught its breath and was moving on.

Lavern removed the sheet from over her face and found a lance of sunlight aimed at her head, illuminating her pillow and igniting the pain in her ear where Hobbs had struck her last night. She moaned and glanced at the clock near the bed. Almost nine o’clock.

She recalled last night and shrank within herself. The apartment was quiet. Hobbs had left for work over an hour ago. At least there was that. She had some peace for a while. Some freedom from fear and fists.

And knives. Something new from Hobbs.

As she sat up in bed the pain in her ribs flared, and she drew a sharp breath. Her injured ear began to ring. She got both bare feet on the floor and stood up, dizzy at first so that she had to stoop slightly and touch the edge of the mattress to keep her balance. Then she worked her sleep shirt over her head and removed her panties. Every move hurt. It was as if she’d been in a terrible auto accident the day before and the pain and stiffness had caught up with her overnight. Knowing she was stooped like an old woman, she made her way toward the bathroom.

In the full-length mirror on the bathroom door she was shocked by how relatively unmarked her body was. Though her ear and the side of her head ached, there was only a slight discoloration at her temple and around the corner of her eye. Her sides were red and turning purplish and would be colorfully bruised, but not for a while. The bruising would be vivid but limited, and not visible when she was dressed. But if she looked as bad as she felt, someone would rush her to a hospital.

She was still proud of her body and thought that, considering what she’d been through, she looked all right, even sexy, though it was obvious something had happened to her ribs. As long as they were covered, she could pass for one of the world’s uninjured. Hobbs had it down to an art.

Lavern sometimes wondered how many other bruised but seemingly uninjured women she passed every day on the street, concealing their pain, holding it inside.

As she turned on the shower, she heard the rasp of the intercom. After hesitating a few seconds, she swiveled the white porcelain faucet handles to off. She dried her hands on a towel and put on a robe. Her hair looked like a birds’ nest from sleeping on it, but it would have to do.

Yanking the robe’s sash tight about her waist, she hurried from the bathroom and answered another, longer intercom buzz.

A metallic male voice from the lobby said there was a delivery for Lavern Neeson in 5C. She told the deliveryman she was the recipient and buzzed him in.

A few minutes later he was at the door, a young, acne-cursed man wearing dirt-crusted jeans and a gray T-shirt. The shirt had FLORA DORA lettered on it. Lavern knew it was the name of a small florist shop in the next block.

She accepted the narrow white box from the man, told him to wait a minute, and then dug a few dollars from her purse to tip him.

When he was gone, she carried the box to the coffee table and sat down before it on the sofa. Her ear began to ring louder, and her headache was pulsing. When she was finished here she’d take two Aleves with a glass of water, see if that helped.

She leaned forward in the quiet apartment and opened the box.

It was full of pink and red roses. There was a small white card affixed with a delicate pink ribbon to one of the stems. Lavern opened the card so she could read the blue-ink scrawling inside it and recognized the handwriting.

The roses were from Hobbs. The writing on the card proclaimed that he loved her.

The sad part about it, Lavern thought, was that he really did.

Martin Hawk sat back, sipped his espresso, and idly watched the pigeons scratching out their brief existence on the sidewalk outside the restaurant where he’d just enjoyed a delicious breakfast. He mused on how his life had changed for the better. Had it been luck? Fate? He preferred to credit it to design, but he was a realist.

At sixteen his intelligence had been obvious, especially in his knowledge of the outdoors and in the scores he accumulated on various tests meant to measure scholarly potential. Yet he’d been a hopeless student. His father had become concerned, and when Alma’s widowed and childless sister, Adriella, offered to take the boy into her home in Little Rock and see that he was enrolled in a better school and tutored, Carl thanked her for her generosity and told Marty it was time for him to become a scholar. Education was important, and he’d be a neglectful father if he didn’t see that Marty obtained some.