that?”
“I never talked to him. His mouthpiece did the hiring. He didn’t say it in so many words but I figured it out.”
“Did you ever get a good look at Vesta?”
“Nice-looking piece. You can buy a couple of nice-looking pieces for a lot less than ninety K.”
“Could be he loved her. Some guys are strange that way. A King of England threw over his throne for that reason.”
“Not lately.” He blew his nose into the handkerchief and inspected the carnage. “What’s with this bug Catalin? He on the lam?”
“Maybe. His wife wants him back. Seen him around?”
“I might have. If the price fits.”
I shifted my weight on the seat. He sucked in air and covered his face with both hands. Grinning, I broke the little .22 and shook out the shells. I took the shiny automatic from the dash, kicked out the clip, and put it in my pocket. I ejected the shell from the chamber onto the floor on the passenger’s side. Then I shut both guns in the glove compartment and bolstered the Luger. I opened the door.
“Go back to wiring motel rooms, Phil. You’re not a money player. You don’t even have what it takes to be a good grifter. Bottom-feeders can’t fly.”
“I don’t see no Rolex on your wrist, pal.” He blew his nose one last time and flipped the gory linen over the back of the seat.
“Nice car. You ought to take better care of it.”
He lifted his lip. “Repo. Bank went bust and I took it in place of my fee. Fucking savings and loan.”
“Know anybody who drives a green Camaro?”
His eyes went right and left. “I might.”
“Yeah, yeah. If the price fits.”
I got out, slammed the door, and walked back up the street. The storms had let up for once. There was no moon, but the stars were as big as eggs. I didn’t see the Camaro. I didn’t have to; it was there. The light had gone out in Vesta’s window. The femme fatale was in bed, asleep. The streets belonged to the plucky hero, the heavy, and Mr. X.
Fadeout.
It was past midnight when I entered my street. I hadn’t spotted the Camaro, which meant exactly nothing. I didn’t bother with any circus tricks to throw it off. There didn’t seem to be much point to it. The driver knew where I lived.
Just as I swung into the short driveway I caught an orange arc in the darkness in front of the garage that could only belong to a cigarette being flipped to the ground. My first instinct was to throw the Cutlass into reverse and clear the hell out of there. My second instinct told me I wouldn’t get any answers that way. My third instinct was to go with my first, but by then it was too late. I coasted to a stop and set the brake. The metallic blue of a Detroit Police Tactical Mobile Unit shone in the beam of my headlamps.
“Mr. Walker?” A five hundred-candlepower flashlight shaft caught me full in the face. The officer behind it was a large indistinct hulk in a thin leather Windbreaker whose shiny surface gleamed softly in the backglow.
“If this is about that rented vcr, I’ve been too busy to return it,” I said.
If he found that amusing at all he didn’t tip it. “Would you come with us, please?” I had an impression of a broad face with blue-black skin, a heavy bar of moustache, and behind that of another uniformed figure in the darkness. “What’s the ruckus?”
“Would you come with us, please?”
“Is this a pinch or can I follow you in my crate?”
He seemed to consider that. “We’re going to the southeast side. Don’t get lost.”
“What street?”
“Ferry Park.”
“With or without air support?”
“Please keep up with us, sir. We wouldn’t want to have to double back and look for you.”
The flashlight snapped off and a pair of broad hips with a creaking gun belt strapped around them turned and started back toward the cruiser. His partner waited until he was inside the car on the driver’s side, then went around and got in beside him.
There is something about the way a cop in uniform says
“I never talked to him. His mouthpiece did the hiring. He didn’t say it in so many words but I figured it out.”
“Did you ever get a good look at Vesta?”
“Nice-looking piece. You can buy a couple of nice-looking pieces for a lot less than ninety K.”
“Could be he loved her. Some guys are strange that way. A King of England threw over his throne for that reason.”
“Not lately.” He blew his nose into the handkerchief and inspected the carnage. “What’s with this bug Catalin? He on the lam?”
“Maybe. His wife wants him back. Seen him around?”
“I might have. If the price fits.”
I shifted my weight on the seat. He sucked in air and covered his face with both hands. Grinning, I broke the little .22 and shook out the shells. I took the shiny automatic from the dash, kicked out the clip, and put it in my pocket. I ejected the shell from the chamber onto the floor on the passenger’s side. Then I shut both guns in the glove compartment and bolstered the Luger. I opened the door.
“Go back to wiring motel rooms, Phil. You’re not a money player. You don’t even have what it takes to be a good grifter. Bottom-feeders can’t fly.”
“I don’t see no Rolex on your wrist, pal.” He blew his nose one last time and flipped the gory linen over the back of the seat.
“Nice car. You ought to take better care of it.”
He lifted his lip. “Repo. Bank went bust and I took it in place of my fee. Fucking savings and loan.”
“Know anybody who drives a green Camaro?”
His eyes went right and left. “I might.”
“Yeah, yeah. If the price fits.”
I got out, slammed the door, and walked back up the street. The storms had let up for once. There was no moon, but the stars were as big as eggs. I didn’t see the Camaro. I didn’t have to; it was there. The light had gone out in Vesta’s window. The femme fatale was in bed, asleep. The streets belonged to the plucky hero, the heavy, and Mr. X.
Fadeout.
It was past midnight when I entered my street. I hadn’t spotted the Camaro, which meant exactly nothing. I didn’t bother with any circus tricks to throw it off. There didn’t seem to be much point to it. The driver knew where I lived.
Just as I swung into the short driveway I caught an orange arc in the darkness in front of the garage that could only belong to a cigarette being flipped to the ground. My first instinct was to throw the Cutlass into reverse and clear the hell out of there. My second instinct told me I wouldn’t get any answers that way. My third instinct was to go with my first, but by then it was too late. I coasted to a stop and set the brake. The metallic blue of a Detroit Police Tactical Mobile Unit shone in the beam of my headlamps.
“Mr. Walker?” A five hundred-candlepower flashlight shaft caught me full in the face. The officer behind it was a large indistinct hulk in a thin leather Windbreaker whose shiny surface gleamed softly in the backglow.
“If this is about that rented vcr, I’ve been too busy to return it,” I said.
If he found that amusing at all he didn’t tip it. “Would you come with us, please?” I had an impression of a broad face with blue-black skin, a heavy bar of moustache, and behind that of another uniformed figure in the darkness. “What’s the ruckus?”
“Would you come with us, please?”
“Is this a pinch or can I follow you in my crate?”
He seemed to consider that. “We’re going to the southeast side. Don’t get lost.”
“What street?”
“Ferry Park.”
“With or without air support?”
“Please keep up with us, sir. We wouldn’t want to have to double back and look for you.”
The flashlight snapped off and a pair of broad hips with a creaking gun belt strapped around them turned and started back toward the cruiser. His partner waited until he was inside the car on the driver’s side, then went around and got in beside him.
There is something about the way a cop in uniform says
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