might even go into business on my own sometime," said Carnahan. “I’m getting tired of these divorce cases anyway. They leave a bad taste in my souL I’d like to work outside more.”
“You’d look great trailing somebody up 53rd Street.” Carnahan exhaled cigarette smoke. “This caper may get cut off sooner than you think.’’
Barry strode back to the bed. “What does that mean?” “There’s a contract out on Rasmussen,” said Carnahan. “The real Mafia doesn’t like the way the Amateur Mafia is cutting in on things here in Long Island. They’re going to hit Rasmussen.”
“You mean kill him?”
“Cancel him in lead,” said Carnahan. “Make him a candidate for the hoodoo wagon.”
Barry said, “I hadn’t seen anything about the rivalry being that intense.”
Carnahan said, “And you won’t read anything in the papers about the torpedoes who were parked across the street.”
“Gangsters across the street?”
“Most of this afternoon, sitting in one of those little electric sports cars,” the bed told him. “They’re not the boys who’ll make the hit, just a couple of gunsels staking Rasmussen out for Giacomo Maori’s Mafia family. Outside talent will be brought in for the real kill job.” Barry said, “You’re telling me that Mafia people are parking around outside our house in little electric sports cars and plotting to kill Wally Rasmussen?”
“Little red electric sports car.”
“No, they wouldn’t try to kill anybody in Harborland Estates.”
“Death doesn’t have much class sense, sweetheart." Barry put his palms flat on his chest. “But Janey might get hurt.”
Carnahan said, “She may not be the best dame in the world, but she’s a good kid at heart. Nothing’s going to happen to her while I’m around.”
Barry wandered toward the bathroom. “I’ll do something.”
“Yell copper?”
“Not the police yet, no. They might make more of a mess than you and Gores have. I’ll have to talk to Janey.”
The bed dropped the bourbon bottle. “Oops,” it said. “Okay, have it your way, sweetheart. You’re the client.”
“Another thing,” said Barry. “My agreement with Gores states you’re supposed to turn yourself off and not record when Janey and I are here. And I don’t think you’re keeping all your mechanisms well enough hidden under there. Janey’s bound to notice you when she makes up the bed.”
The bed chuckled. There was a faint click and Carnahan stopped talking.
Walking into the bathroom, Barry stood around.
The folding chair unfolded itself when Barry activated it, setting itself up on the sand. The copy of the weekend edition of Newsday flashed its headline when he tossed it into the chair. Prominent L.I. Hood Gunned Down, Barry had read the story already, found it wasn’t any of the prominent hoods he knew about. Gulls were sitting out on the buff colored rock near the shore. He turned from the headline and stood trying to concentrate on the brownish birds.
At the waters edge Janey, in a one piece black jersey swimsuit, was rambling in the shallow water. Barry set his lips in a firm position and was about to stride to her when he heard something in the thick brush of the hillside behind him. He turned. A wide swath of twisted bushes and scrubby grass was being agitated as something low and wide descended from above. Barry checked on Janey and saw her bend and skim a white pebble across the quiet water. He walked up toward the rattling underbrush. He jogged when he got to the rough path leading back toward their sea-edge home.
“The ocean looks like a great reservoir of sadness,” said Carnahan.
“What in the hell are you doing out here?” He hopped off the path and into the bushes. Carnahan was in there, tilted way over to the left and smoking a cigar.
“I just got a tip from a stoolie the Gores computer knows,” the bed told him. “This is a hot rip.”
Barry looked up toward the backs
“You’d look great trailing somebody up 53rd Street.” Carnahan exhaled cigarette smoke. “This caper may get cut off sooner than you think.’’
Barry strode back to the bed. “What does that mean?” “There’s a contract out on Rasmussen,” said Carnahan. “The real Mafia doesn’t like the way the Amateur Mafia is cutting in on things here in Long Island. They’re going to hit Rasmussen.”
“You mean kill him?”
“Cancel him in lead,” said Carnahan. “Make him a candidate for the hoodoo wagon.”
Barry said, “I hadn’t seen anything about the rivalry being that intense.”
Carnahan said, “And you won’t read anything in the papers about the torpedoes who were parked across the street.”
“Gangsters across the street?”
“Most of this afternoon, sitting in one of those little electric sports cars,” the bed told him. “They’re not the boys who’ll make the hit, just a couple of gunsels staking Rasmussen out for Giacomo Maori’s Mafia family. Outside talent will be brought in for the real kill job.” Barry said, “You’re telling me that Mafia people are parking around outside our house in little electric sports cars and plotting to kill Wally Rasmussen?”
“Little red electric sports car.”
“No, they wouldn’t try to kill anybody in Harborland Estates.”
“Death doesn’t have much class sense, sweetheart." Barry put his palms flat on his chest. “But Janey might get hurt.”
Carnahan said, “She may not be the best dame in the world, but she’s a good kid at heart. Nothing’s going to happen to her while I’m around.”
Barry wandered toward the bathroom. “I’ll do something.”
“Yell copper?”
“Not the police yet, no. They might make more of a mess than you and Gores have. I’ll have to talk to Janey.”
The bed dropped the bourbon bottle. “Oops,” it said. “Okay, have it your way, sweetheart. You’re the client.”
“Another thing,” said Barry. “My agreement with Gores states you’re supposed to turn yourself off and not record when Janey and I are here. And I don’t think you’re keeping all your mechanisms well enough hidden under there. Janey’s bound to notice you when she makes up the bed.”
The bed chuckled. There was a faint click and Carnahan stopped talking.
Walking into the bathroom, Barry stood around.
The folding chair unfolded itself when Barry activated it, setting itself up on the sand. The copy of the weekend edition of Newsday flashed its headline when he tossed it into the chair. Prominent L.I. Hood Gunned Down, Barry had read the story already, found it wasn’t any of the prominent hoods he knew about. Gulls were sitting out on the buff colored rock near the shore. He turned from the headline and stood trying to concentrate on the brownish birds.
At the waters edge Janey, in a one piece black jersey swimsuit, was rambling in the shallow water. Barry set his lips in a firm position and was about to stride to her when he heard something in the thick brush of the hillside behind him. He turned. A wide swath of twisted bushes and scrubby grass was being agitated as something low and wide descended from above. Barry checked on Janey and saw her bend and skim a white pebble across the quiet water. He walked up toward the rattling underbrush. He jogged when he got to the rough path leading back toward their sea-edge home.
“The ocean looks like a great reservoir of sadness,” said Carnahan.
“What in the hell are you doing out here?” He hopped off the path and into the bushes. Carnahan was in there, tilted way over to the left and smoking a cigar.
“I just got a tip from a stoolie the Gores computer knows,” the bed told him. “This is a hot rip.”
Barry looked up toward the backs
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