Lawrence Block - The Specialists

Platt stared at him, then suddenly grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, you do that thing, Buddy. Throw the punk out. You want to mess him up a little while you’re at it, you go ahead.”

Buddy hadn’t shown any expression until then. Now he came close to a smile. His hand dipped inside his jacket and came out with a gun in it. “Out,” he said. “Now.”

“Jesus, take it easy! No problem!” Manso’s eyes were wide with terror, and his hands went up in surrender, and as they did his right foot also went up in the air. Buddy was still looking at the hands and the eyes when Manso’s foot caught his hand and sent the gun looping overhead.

Manso snatched the gun out of the air and pointed it at Platt.

And everybody froze.

“Bad,” Manso said. “Very bad. I’ll tell you, Mr. Platt, I heard good things about the other Buddy, but this one stinks on ice. Anybody who can’t even hold onto a gun deserves what he gets. But the main thing is a bodyguard doesn’t stand like a lump when somebody waves a gun at the body he’s supposed to be guarding. Now what I would have done, Mr. Platt, is thrown myself between you and the gun.”

Platt was nodding.

“And then, when I was in the way, I’d have rushed the gun. But standing like a lump, that’s no good at all.”

Gleason said, “Mr. Platt, all this prick is is tricky.”

Manso ignored him. “And another thing,” he said. “If my boss told me to throw somebody out, and the somebody was mouthing off that he could do my job better than I could, well, Mr. Platt, I wouldn’t toss him out by waving a gun at him. I would want to make a good impression in front of my boss and show how good I could be without a gun.” He turned the smile on Gleason. “You want another try, Buddy?” He turned and put the gun on a table behind him. “Ready when you are, tiger.”

Buddy blew his cool. Manso had played him to do just that, and he was ready for it. Buddy came straight on with his arms out and his head down, and Manso leaned to the left and jabbed the bunched fingers of his right hand into Buddy’s diaphragm.

Buddy doubled up and collapsed. He couldn’t get his breath. Manso smiled at him.

“Now tell Mr. Platt you resign, Buddy.”

Buddy caught his breath and got to his feet. His hand went inside his jacket again and Manso hoped it wasn’t another gun and that he could be fast enough if it was. But it was a knife, a switchblade stiletto. Buddy held it low, blade up. He came on in a crouch, arms out in front, eyes wary.

“Now that’s better,” Manso said. “That gives me a chance to look good, Buddy. I appreciate it.”

Buddy watched Manso’s eyes. That’s usually enough, but in this case it was a mistake and Buddy should have known better. He already knew Manso was good. With a good man, you forget the eyes and watch the feet. A good man feints with his eyes.

Manso glanced one way and moved another, and Buddy thrust with the knife and cut empty air. Manso had moved to his right, turning inward as he did so, and his right elbow dug into Buddy’s solar plexus. Manso’s left had fastened on Buddy’s wrist while his right hand caught the man’s arm just above the elbow.

Manso put his knee behind the elbow, applied pressure against the joint. The switchblade dropped to the floor.

He said, “He really stinks, Mr. Platt.”

“Yeah. He does.”

“Whether you hire me or not, Mr. Platt, you sure don’t want him working for you. He’s just no damned good.”

“He’s fired.”

“Maybe he wants to resign. Buddy, tell Mr. Platt you quit.”

Buddy didn’t say anything. Manso increased the pressure and repeated the order. Buddy was shaking, and saliva dripped from a corner of his mouth.

“I quit!”

“Jesus,” Platt said.

“You need him for anything at all, Mr. Platt? You got any further use for him?”

“I wouldn’t let him take out the garbage.”

“Well, then,” Manso said, and broke Buddy’s arm at the elbow.

He took Buddy outside, dropped him alongside the front entrance. He felt loose and cool. The conversational mannerisms he had adopted seemed to help; as long as he stayed in character it was easy to ride with the play. One thing was sure. He was absolute hell on Buddies.

When he got back in the entrance hall, Platt had the gun in his hand. It was pointed at Manso, and for an instant he thought he was going to be shot. He came perilously close to panic.

“I surrender,” he said lightly.

“Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Edward. I suppose I’ll have to change it to Buddy, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I think it’s a bad luck name.”

Platt’s mouth tightened. “You were very good there. You’re as fast as I’ve seen.”

“Thank you.”

“Shut up when I’m talking. You’re fast, and you played a long shot and you think it came in, and you’re busy being cocky. You don’t want to do that. I could shoot you right now and bury you in back. I could have you tied up and let half a dozen guys take turns with you until you told ’em things you didn’t even know you knew. You get the picture?”

“Yes, Mr. Platt.”

“I seen you somewheres. Where?”

“Vegas. The Desert Palms.”

“You were out there? Why?”

“To have a look at you.”

“For who?”

“For myself.”

“Why?”

“I wanted Buddy’s job.”

“Oh, cut the shit.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Did you kill Buddy?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know, but for my money you just answered the question. You said yes to it. What’s your angle?”

“I want Buddy’s job.”

“Why? God damn it, who are you?”

Manso hesitated.

“You said a name before.”

“Edward.”

“And a last name?”

Manso looked at the rug.

“You want Buddy’s job but you won’t even tell your name?”

“I didn’t want it to go like this,” Manso said quietly. “I thought I could start out working for you and then we could see where it went I thought I could—”

“See where what went?”

Manso sighed, then raised his eyes to meet Platt’s. “I thought my name was Edward Mann, Mr. Platt. For years I grew up thinking that was my name, that was me, Eddie Mann.”

“So?”

“Well, now it looks as though my name isn’t Mann after all. I’ve been trying to check on it, but I can’t get anywhere one way or the other. See, the way it looks, the last name ought to be Platt.”

He swallowed. “Don’t expect me to prove it,” he went on. “I can’t even prove it to myself. But well, you see, I think maybe I’m your son.”

“Her name was Florence Mannheim, but she cut it to Mann when I was still in diapers. That was the same time that we moved out to Astoria.”

“From where?”

“East New York. When she told me all this, when I started to check things out, I found out we lived on Pitkin Avenue. I went over and looked at the building. Nobody lives there now. All the windows broken, the door kicked in.”

“Pitkin Avenue,” Platt said.

“She always told me my father was dead. He died in the war, she said. Before I was born. She said his name was Edward like mine and he was in the Air Force and his plane was shot down over Germany. I checked that, too, and there was no record he ever existed. And Mannheim was her maiden name. She was never married, at least not in New York. There’s no record of it anywhere. So I don’t know if you’re my father or not, but whoever it was, he wasn’t married to my mother.”

“Florence Mannheim,” Platt said. He was no longer holding the gun. “This is crazy. I never had a son.”