Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

“What do you want to tell me about Robin Burrell?” I jerked on his lapels. “What do you want to tell me, Pratt? You can either tell me or you can tell my friend here. Are you clear on this? It’s your choice.”

There was a stench of beer mixed in with the smell of blood. I had to turn my head to get a hit of fresh air. Jigs was on his feet, wiping gravel off the back of his pants. Pratt made a sound.

“What was that? I missed that.”

“Never. Touched her.”

“Never touched who ? Never touched Robin? Or are you talking about Michelle now?”

“Nobody. Never touched nobody.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you? Is that it? Just take your word for it?” I rattled him again. He moved in my hands as if he were boneless. “You don’t have a healthy take on women, John. You’re aware of that, aren’t you? Did Robin Burrell excite you? Did she piss you off? What was it? Were you jealous because she was friends with Michelle? Did you want to be friends with Michelle? Was that it? Was Robin standing in your way?”

His eyes found a semblance of focus on my face, one eye more than the other. “You’re out of your mind.”

I jerked my hands and brought his head down hard on the roof. It bounced once, then fell back to the gravel. I stood up and went back down to Pratt’s apartment and fetched the roll of duct tape I’d used to rig up the dead bolt. I noticed a skylight in the kitchen. I went back into the bedroom and got a half-dozen T-shirts from the dresser. Back on the roof, I knotted the T-shirts together. I located the skylight over Pratt’s kitchen and kicked in some of the glass. Along with the duct tape and the knotted T-shirts, Jigs and I secured the man to the metal framing of the skylight. Jigs wanted to snap his knees and tape his legs up in a funny way, but I persuaded him to back off.

Before we left the roof, I taped one of the police sketches to Pratt’s back. I scribbled a note on it: SPECIAL DELIVERY. JOSEPH P. GALLO. Jigs and I made our way downstairs and called the police from an all-night diner on Twenty-third Street. We told the woman on the other end of the phone that there was a package for Joe Gallo and where to find it. I was famished and asked Jigs if he wanted something to eat. I planned on something with lots of carbs and lots of protein and lots of fat. Jigs demurred.

“I’ve got to see a man about a dog,” he said, producing a comb and moving it over his wavy black hair.

“What man?”

“Well, it’s not really a man,” he said. He gave me the smile so many mothers fear. “Not really a dog, either.”

THE ACTRESS Greer Garson was balanced on the branch of an apple tree, laughing that little-bells laugh of hers and jogging the branch in order to send a cascade of apples falling to the ground. That’s where I was, standing below her. Scores of war planes darkened the sky overhead, but the lovely Miss Garson was oblivious. Look out belooow , she sang as the apples plummeted earthward. I’d just caught one of them and was about to bite into it when the ringing telephone fought its way into my consciousness. Greer Garson and her apples dissolved.

I dragged the phone onto the bed, hoping in my guilty haze that it wasn’t Margo. It wasn’t. It was Joe Gallo.

“Did I wake you?”

“You ask that with a smile in your voice.”

“I wanted to thank you for the package.”

“The…? Right. Anytime.”

“I’m not going to ask you how you were able to track down our friend so quickly.”

“I have elves.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

I threw the blankets off and brought my feet to the floor. I don’t use the word “rarified” too often, but that was how the light in my room felt. I cranked my eyes open. Snow was falling steadily outside the window.

“Your special delivery arrived pretty banged up,” Gallo said. “I guess he offered some resistance.”

I took the phone to the window. It was a beautiful snowfall. “Joe, it was so long ago.”

“So do you want to ask me the sixty-four-dollar question, or should I just tell you?”

I knew the answer already. “Pratt didn’t do it.”

“Is that a guess, or do you actually know something?”

“It’s a guess,” I said. “What I do know is that it’s probably a good one. This guy had a hard-on for Asian women. Robin Burrell was zilch to him. Not to mention Riddick.”

“He’s got an alibi for Robin. His parole officer.”

I shouldered the phone to crack the window. White sparks of snow leaped in under my fingers, along with a welcome blast of cold air. “That’s a good alibi. One of the best.”

“We’re filing attempted murder charges against Mr. Pratt. I hope that makes you happy.”

“My heart frolics on sylvan clouds.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing, I’m just being not so clever. So tell me, any word on Bruce Spicer? Have you hauled him in?”

“Not yet.” Gallo paused. “Not that I’m on silver clouds about that.”

“Sylvan.”

“Whatever. We’ll get him. He’s been making calls to the media. He’s talked three different times that we know of to Jimmy Puck. If you want to call it ‘talk.’ More of the raving-lunatic garbage Megan told me about yesterday.”

“How’s Nancy Spicer doing? What’s her condition?”

“It looks like she’ll be fine. We’re having Saint Vincent’s hang on to her until we’ve tucked her husband away.”

“Let’s hope that’s soon.”

“Sooner than soon,” Gallo said.

“Right.”

I hung up the phone and stood another minute or so watching the snowfall. It really couldn’t have been prettier. A part of me wanted to stand there all day watching it coming down. That’s the part that the other part of me always disappoints.

ROSEMARY FOX LEFT the man lying in bed. He didn’t stir as she slid out from under the deadweight of his arm. She crossed to the closet and put on the green satin robe. As she knotted the sash, she saw that one of her nails had broken.

“Shit.”

She looked over at the bed. He hadn’t moved. He was lying on his front, diagonally across the bed. Hog, Rosemary thought. One of his feet jutted out over the edge of the mattress. Size thirteen, as he was always so fond of remarking. The foot had patches of dark hair along the top, as well as wiry tufts sprouting below the toe knuckles. I’m fucking an ape, Rosemary said to herself. I moved from a cowboy to an ape. Where do I go from here? She laughed inwardly as she thought about the Turkish race-car driver she’d met recently. Maybe I can get him to run over my dear little ape. She thought of the Turk’s hands and the strength it must take to keep control of a machine tearing around a track at those insane speeds. She imagined the strong hands gripping her shoulders and how much she’d have to struggle to free herself from them. That had been one of the disappointments with Marshall; he’d been nowhere near as physical as she’d anticipated. She thought they grew ’em tougher out there on the ranch. Marshall had never lacked for invention, she’d grant him that-a hell of a lot more sexual creativity than the sleeping ape-but in the end, ideas are only as good as their execution. At least the ape had delivered. You couldn’t take that away from him.

Rosemary moved into the front room, where she saw that it was snowing. She crossed the checked tiles, grabbing up matches and a pack of cigarettes from the glass table as she swept by, and stopped at the sliding glass doors that led out to the patio. I should be in fucking Vail, Rosemary thought. She scooted a cigarette from the pack, imagining the mountaintop crawling with people in their garish skiers’ garb. The parties. All that laughter. She lit her cigarette and blew the drag out to the side. This is like being under house arrest, she thought. Marshall’s in a jail cell, and I’m in my penthouse prison. Standing by my man. This is how it’s done. She knew the tedious script, and she hated it.