Ed Lacy - Shoot It Again

Downstairs I walked several blocks before phoning Nice from a drugstore booth, practically taking all the man's silver. The druggist was open-mouth impressed and I wondered if I was stupidly leaving a trail for the police—I actually didn't wish to involve Amy in anything.

About fourteen dollars and some ten minutes later the call went through: Hank's gallery didn't answer. I couldn't remember his home address—he slept around so damn much—but while I still had an open wire, I had the call switched to Syd's pension, person-to-person. I'd tell her to see Hank, have him call me back at this number at a certain hour tomorrow.

Syd's voice sounded so thin and unreal—long, long distance—as she asked, “Clay, on your way back here? Oh darling, did things work out for us?”

“I haven't been here long enough to see... anybody, yet. Listen to me Syd: you remember that art gallery across from the park, the Jardin Albert 1, where my water colors are on...?”

“Darling,” she cut in, “the police have been here asking some blasted questions about you. The silly blokes simply must have known you boarded a plane last night, yet they kept asking as if you were responsible for Monsieur Dupre's death. That's the same art gallery, I mean his...?”

“Hank... Henri Dupre is dead?”

“Brutally beaten to death during the night—found him in Mont-Boron, outside Nice. Big item in the bloody papers here.”

“But—what did the police want me for?”

“Exactly what I kept telling the ruddy bureaucrats—you had to be half across the Atlantic when the killing took place. Clay, forget that, what did you phone to tell me?”

“What could the French police possibly...? Syd, honey, I only phoned to say this may take more time than I first thought, and... eh... I didn't want you to worry.”

“Sweet, sweet, Clay darling! Now I know you love me!” Over the phone her voice sounded like a mechanical doll's.

“Yeah. In case I am delayed, why you go on to London, and I'll write you there. Goodnight, Syd.”

“Good, good night, my lover!” Syd made a kissing noise—a kind of animal squeal—as I hung up.

In a sweaty daze, I squared away the overtime charges with the operator, the coins dropping like a slot machine jackpot—in reverse. How could the French cops have connected me with Hank? Or had the flics been shadowing me all the time, after I was ordered to leave France?

The hell with the flics, I was in Queens now! But no wonder the 'ping' man and his runty partner had been on hand to kill Al Foster! Somebody —another 'they'—had tortured poor Hank until he spilled the details. Syd had said Dupre had been 'brutally beaten'... why couldn't his bad heart have stopped, saved him all that nightmare of pain?

One thing was now clear, when the tall man with the silencer had been looking around the hotel room, the closet, he'd been hunting for me. Either they had followed Foster to me, or they were waiting until he arrived, figuring on getting the fifty grand and the dope. But Hank had said he'd picked me as the courier on the spur of the moment, wouldn't let anybody else, even the contact here, know until my plane was about to land at Idlewild. How the devil did Foster know where to contact me, then? Hank was dead hours before the plane reached the States. This was supposed to be an informer-proof plan; or had I literally let the cat out of the bag, caused Hank's death? I certainly hadn't talked, but Parks saw the cat, so did Syd, madame, the porter's son... But how could they have possibly known what the cat held? That was the 'beauty' of the plan, I was merely bringing home souvenirs... like a glass cat.

Leaving thedrugstore I moved about aimlessly, my head aching. I hadn't the slightest idea where to go, what to do. I had less than thirty bucks on me. True, I was carrying three millions around...

I swung the little blue duffel bag over my shoulder. I ought to have Robert Parks recite The Ancient Mariner. The damn junkies talked about a monkey on their stupid backs... I had a seven kilo albatross around my fat neck—strangling me.

I opened my eyes to blink at the tower, now flecked with gold shadow from the sinking sun. Tall tower... the final jest for me... that phallus symbol slop? My sex castle...? Nutty talk. Lovely contrast, gold and white of the tower against the dirty grey of the rest of the castle. Call the color of sand, burnt sienna... or...? Doesn't matter, never did—for me, really.

The little boy stood up. Man's castle... no, no, the boy and his castle of 'boy.' Lu said cocaine was 'girl'... hit you like an orgasm. My newly found store of.... stupid knowledge.

White, white tower in the sun. Crazy road for a poppy to travel. Gorgeous poppy with your innocent coloring... and belly full of evil opium. Oh God, is beauty really the other face of evil? My God...? My God... am I about to see You? So much to forgive... Forgive?

Closing my eyes I listened to the relaxing music of the waves. Kept opening my eyes every few seconds—to be sure I could. Lu, face down in the sand beside me. Dead face down. Poor Lu.... Good Lu.... in our weird way, did we find love? Love—I'm a maudlin slob... dying next to a dead whore. What more fitting headstone for me?

The sand in her dark hair seemed like maggots. I glanced down at the deep white of the tower. The White Tower hamburger joints in New York... her torn breast like hamburger. Ugly tower!

Crazy last thoughts... crazy... crazy world I'm leaving. Bon Voyage, bastard world.

No more voyages for me. Still, this... the castle... the sun... the blue of the sky... the sea. Cemetery with a view.

CHAPTER 8

Riding the subway again gave me a slight sense of security. It wasn't only the protection of the crowd—being on the go always was my tonic. There wasn't any Robert Parks in the phone books, but I found a listing for his lawyer, Maxwell Wyckoff. On the off-chance he hadn't been hospitalized yet, I wanted to see Robert: I needed money—eating and room rent dough. I'd given up on the idea of moving to Europe: soon as the police learned I was Stanley Collins, all ships and planes would be checked. Hell, now I couldn't ever return to my hotel room, cash in my open boat ticket.

Later for Europe—and poor Syd.

There was another reason for seeing Parks: only one way I could contact the syndicate—or even Mr. Ping, if he'd stand still long enough to listen to a proposition before silently blasting away—was via a junkie. A user could put me in touch with his pusher, who could do the take-me-to-your-leader routine until I reached somebody big enough to buy what I had in my duffel bag. Robert was the sole hophead I knew and there was a strong possibility he'd been snowing me over in Villefranche, had been on the junk here. Certainly —if he wasn't in a hospital—Parks would have made some sort of dope contact by now: his habit would have forced him to.

Sitting in the reception room of his Wall Street office, I glanced at a fascinating copy of the Law Journal. Wyckoff didn't even ask me into his office —he came out to the reception foyer. “Yes, Mr. Biner?” he asked, a look of distaste on his round face. He shaved too often—the area under his double chin was blotchy.

“I've misplaced Robert's address and he isn't fisted in any phone book or...”

“Young Parks entered a private hospital yesterday. He can't be visited for several weeks.”

“What hospital? Lexington?”

“I'm not at liberty to divulge that. What is it you want, Biner?”

“Can you give me his mother's address?”

“I'll have to know exactly what you wish to see her about, first.”