Lawrence Block - Manhattan Noir

In wide gold letters, the pack said Chrome Gold .

The detective felt his fingers tense under the blanket, felt the weight of the gun in his hand. What would he do if I said no? Would he find some other way to do it? Or would he just go off and pick someone else to kill?

“Sure,” the detective said. “I smoke.”

Arthur flipped open the top of the pack. There were twenty cigarettes inside, lined up in their perfect rows. Which should have been a tip-off that something was wrong, the detective realized: The pack was already unwrapped, but none of the cigarettes were missing. Why would someone have opened a pack of cigarettes but not have smoked even one of them?

He reached out from under the blanket with his free hand, gripped the pack of cigarettes firmly, and pulled it out of Arthur’s hand.

“Now hold on,” Arthur said, not losing his smile. “Leave some for me. I was just offering you one.” He reached for the pack.

“Oh, I won’t smoke them all,” the detective said. “Don’t worry about that.” He turned the pack over and shook the cigarettes out. Arthur caught a few; the rest fell on the pavement. He started scooping them up.

“Don’t bother, Art. You’ve got bigger worries.”

Arthur kept snatching up the loose cigarettes until he heard the gun cock. He looked up and the smile finally disappeared.

The detective moved the gun closer to the other man’s face. “I’m not going to shoot you, Arthur,” he said, “unless you make me.”

Arthur’s face was trembling. His hands shook. A few cigarettes slipped back onto the sidewalk. He looked left and right, but the street was deserted.

“Nervous?” the detective said. He picked two cigarettes off the sidewalk, wiped them roughly on the blanket. He leaned forward and put one between Arthur’s lips. It slipped out as Arthur opened his mouth to talk. “I don’t want-”

“Oh, you want,” the detective said. He leaned forward and put another cigarette in Arthur’s mouth. He pressed the gun against Arthur’s forehead, Arthur’s head against the wall. “Don’t spit it out.”

Arthur shifted the cigarette nervously to one corner of his mouth, but he didn’t spit it out.

“Good.” The detective groped through Arthur’s coat pockets until he found the lighter. He opened it. A flame leapt up. He brought it close to the end of the cigarette in Arthur’s mouth.

“Please, don’t-”

“Why not?”

Arthur shook his head.

“Why not?” Arthur looked at him miserably, but said nothing. “You’re going to tell me why not, Arthur, or you’re going to smoke that cigarette.”

“I don’t want to…”

The detective passed the flame over the end of the cigarette. The paper and tobacco were singed. A drop of sweat rolled down Arthur’s upper lip and onto the cigarette.

“Want me to guess why you don’t want to smoke this cigarette?” the detective said. “Okay. How about, because you poisoned it? Could that be it?”

Arthur nodded uneasily.

“Talk to me, Arthur.”

“Yes,” he said in a small voice. “That’s it.”

“And why are you going around offering homeless people poisoned cigarettes, Arthur? Do you dislike homeless people? Do you not want to see them around? Or do you just get off on killing people?”

“No,” Arthur whispered, “that’s not it at all.”

“Why don’t you tell me what it is, then?”

“They’re so miserable,” Arthur said. There were tears in his eyes. “Out here on the street, in the cold, on drugs, selling their bodies… No one should have to live like that.”

“So you kill them?”

“I give them a cigarette. They feel no pain. They never know what happened. They’re out of their misery.”

“In other words, you kill them.”

“They go to sleep and don’t wake up.”

“You kill them, goddamn it,” the detective said, pressing the gun harder into the man’s skull. “Say it.”

“I kill them,” Arthur said. “But they’re better off for it.”

Arthur and the detective sat silently, staring at each other. The detective saw no sign of understanding or of self-awareness. He saw terror, but no remorse.

He thought of the digital recorder in his pocket, quietly capturing a record of their words, and pictured this grandfatherly man standing in front of a jury, earnestly insisting on his innocence. He looked at Arthur’s well-cut suit and polished loafers, at the watch on his wrist, and pictured the caliber of lawyer he would hire to defend himself. He pictured a trial with no witnesses to the crimes, a case where the victims were on the margins of society and the defendant looked like a pillar of the community. He pictured the defense lawyer asking the jury if they could trust a policeman who had held a gun to this nice old man’s head. Of course he admitted the crime, ladies and gentlemen-wouldn’t you? With a gun to your head?

He pictured Harold Sladek, cold and wet, taking a cigarette from this well-dressed benefactor. He pictured Michael Casey passing time with his killer, thanking him for his kindness, whispering God bless.

He pictured all this in the time it took for Arthur to swallow, nervously, twice.

The detective passed the flame over the cigarette once more. This time he held it there. “Inhale.”

“You can’t-”

“Inhale!”

Arthur sucked in, as briefly as he could. The tip of the cigarette glowed red. The detective closed the lighter and pocketed it.

“Again.”

“Don’t-”

“Again.”

“Please-”

“This is the way it has to be,” the detective said. “You said the stuff you put in the cigarettes is painless. I hope it is, because I guarantee you, bullets are not.” The detective pulled the gun away from Arthur’s head and aimed it at his gut. “Not the way I’ll use them. Take your pick.”

“You’re a monster,” Arthur said, the cigarette gripped tightly between his lips.

“I can live with that,” the detective said. “Now decide.”

Arthur looked at the gun, looked into the detective’s eyes, and inhaled.

“Again,” the detective said.

When Arthur was dead, the detective packed all the loose cigarettes into one of his bags and then stripped the corpse down to an undershirt and briefs. A press of a button erased the memory of the digital recorder, but just to be safe, he’d record over it when he got home.

He bundled everything up under one arm, pulled his hat further down on his brow, and walked east on 38th Street. It was still dark. No one saw him.

The body was found shortly after 9 in the morning.

The papers reported that an unidentified homeless man had died during the night, presumably of exposure. In the Daily News it was mentioned that he’d had a thin blanket over him, apparently donated by a good samaritan.

But, the News reported, it hadn’t been enough to keep him alive.

Greenwich Village

Harry was late. No problem. Esther knew just what to do while she waited, lifting her hand and finally catching the waiter’s eye. He was new, she thought, just a kid, his face eager, as if it really mattered to him what Esther wanted, as if he really cared. Was it a waiter thing, that faux interest? Or just a guy thing, appearing to be listening, to be interested, when they’re not. Harry used to be like that. Harry used to be a lot of things. But no more. She’d see him tonight, give him what he asked for, then never see him again.

Esther pushed her empty glass toward the kid, a relative of Howdy Doody perchance, tapping the table the way you’d tap the bar, let the bartender know you were ready for another, let him know to keep them coming.