Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

He glanced at his wife, who nodded nearly imperceptibly. Ross continued, “That’s how you have to look at it, Rose. And there’ll be no surprises the next time. We’ve all seen what they’ve got. Fred can work with that.” He patted her hand again. “You’ll see. Fred says there’s a decent argument for getting Marshall out on bail now. It ain’t gonna be cheap, honey. But think of it. Marshall free. That would be huge.”

Rosemary’s martini arrived, along with a pair of gin and tonics for the Rosses. The frog-faced man started to make nice with his customers, but Gloria caught his eye and waved him off with barely a movement.

Rosemary took up her drink. The Rosses followed suit.

“To Marshall,” Gloria said.

As they toasted-somewhat lacklusterly-Rosemary spotted two men sitting several tables away, staring at her. Good-looking men. Rosemary lowered her glass and picked out one of the olives, making just a bit more out of sucking it into her mouth than was called for.

God, she thought. I am such a cunt.

Gloria was talking now. Rosemary wasn’t tuning in fully. More about Marshall this, Marshall that, future this, future that. Rosemary trained her eyes in the direction of Gloria’s face, just to look as if she were listening. Who was this woman kidding? Future? Future ? Okay, Rosemary had a future. She had a lot of future, for that matter, as well as a lot of ideas about how she would like to spend it. She had no intention of bungling any more of her time than she already had. Rosemary was kind of surprised to hear Gloria talking that way. Gloria was in the business, she knew how a future could be cut short like that . She had to know full well that there would be no Marshall Fox after all this, whatever the outcome and whenever this endless tedious soap opera of a trial finally ran its course. Rosemary didn’t mean to be cold about it, only realistic. Marshall Fox was dead.

Rosemary finished off her drink. The frog-faced man appeared as if by magic, bringing her second martini on a tray.

“You tell your man he is making me happy,” Rosemary said.

The frog-faced man made a flourish. A laugh traveled about the table. The beautiful woman shared a smile with her dinner guests, both of whom responded eagerly. The good-looking men at the other table were still looking at her. Rosemary picked up her drink, tipping it ever so slightly in their direction, and allowed them the tiniest of smiles. Men. She thought about what was waiting for her back at the apartment. Her best-kept secret. She had to laugh. The lucky bastard would never have it so good again, that was for sure. He was probably not the future for too much longer, though that wasn’t important right now. Right now he was still there-that was the point-willing to cater to her whims. The power of a woman can be almost frightening. Rosemary never tired of marveling at it. She knew she’d have to start putting distance between the two of them. She’d waited way too long already. But for Christ’s sake, her husband was behind bars . What was she supposed to do, shave her head and find a convent? Rosemary anticipated some trouble when the time came for her to lay down the law. There’d be a scene; he’d already surprised her with his ability to make scenes. She realized she’d better start devising her plan of action now, just to be on the safe side.

The menus arrived. Yet another waiter. Rosemary held the single sheet down near her cutlery and looked over the options. The waiter was reeling off a list of specials, each one more elaborate and yummy-sounding than the next. There was an appetizer special of oysters. Rosemary envisioned the ugly little things. Floating in their own milky swill. Presented in those gnarly misshapen shells. The things people chose to consider special. The emperor’s new oysters. She thought they tasted disgusting. Squishy slime. Like swallowing someone’s mucus.

“I’ll have those,” Rosemary said. “The oysters.” A giddy thought came to her mind. No. Yes. Must be the martini. She reached out both arms, graceful and swanlike, and placed her fingers on Alan’s and Gloria’s hands, eliciting a smile from each of them. She looked back up at the waiter.

“And please. Offer a serving to every table here, could you? I’d like to do that for everybody.”

I NOTED THAT the faint scar running along Jigs Dugan’s jaw was picking up the blue from the neon Canadian beer sign in the window behind him. The man who had given Jigs that scar some fifteen years back had lived just long enough to regret it. Jigs shocked not a few people by attending the man’s viewing, at Campbell’s funeral home on the Upper East Side. His face half hidden in a sloppy bandage, Jigs had pulled out his knife while bowing his head at the casket and quietly run the blade along the polished mahogany. Gave it a three-inch cut. Just like his scar. Tit for tat, if you don’t take into account what Jigs had already done to the man.

Jigs was wearing a gray Irish sweater under a herringbone jacket. His cheeks were clean-shaven, and a comb seemed to have found a way into his hair. Argyle socks and black shoes that picked up the light. He handed me a slip of paper with an address jotted down on it.

“Our boy’s name is John Michael Pratt. He’s a painter, though not of the Rembrandt school. Mainly houses and apartments. That is, when he’s not enjoying the largesse of the state.”

“Largesse of the state. This would mean prison time?”

Jigs smiled across the table at me. “Maybe one day I’ll marry you, you’re such a smart fellow. Exactly. Our John Michael likes to steal things that don’t belong to him. Sometimes people try to stop him and he knocks them down. The last time he did this, he used an iron pipe. Two darling girls have a halfwit daddy as a result of that little maneuver.”

The address was on Nineteenth Street, near the FDR Drive. Jigs and I were at a bar on Twenty-first.

“I took a quick look,” Jigs said. “Door’s got a bit of a rattle. I wouldn’t want to be stashing the Hope Diamond or anything in there, if you see what I mean.”

I folded the piece of paper and put it in my shirt pocket. “You were fast on this.”

“I was. I gave you the full-court press. Belated Christmas gift.”

“I thank you.”

Jigs gave a two-fingered salute. “As the lady said to Bogie, if there’s anything else, just whistle.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Be sure you do. You’re not up to your hundred percent, that’s clear.”

“You’re looking sporty,” I said.

“It’s Saturday night, lad. Maybe you can’t remember anymore, it’s still the night for peacocks.”

“So what are your plans for the evening?”

Jigs ran a finger along his chin. “It’s the city that never sleeps. I suppose I’ll stay up and keep it company. Don’t you worry on my account. I can always put together a dance card.”

GETTING INTO Pratt’s building was a simple matter of leaning against the vestibule door and giving it a sharp shove. A sour smell greeted me in the hallway. A buzzing fluorescent tube sent a harsh white light down from the flaky ceiling. I took the stairs in front of me to the top floor. The sour smell was less pungent here than it was downstairs. The hallway was dimly lit by a half-dozen sad wall sconces that gave off a dull buttery glow.

I pulled my gun.

Pratt’s apartment was at the end of the hallway: 5C. A television was on in one of the apartments across the way. Chatter. Laughter. More chatter. More laughter. A nontelevised male voice called out something, and a woman’s voice answered, but I couldn’t make out what was being said.

I had a plastic bag with me. I set it down and put my ear to Pratt’s door. I heard nothing. I kept my ear there a full minute, picking up vibrations from the building, a few hums, a sound like distant ice breaking. Nothing else.