Puterbaugh’s, facing away. A silhouette showed in the driver’s seat: the man raised a hand to his mouth and a cigarette coal glowed in the dark interior. Was it the same vehicle Toby had seen pull away after the murder? It was impossible to tell in the dark. If he inched closer to catch the license plate number, he might be spotted. Toby continued up the block, veered onto Charbold, and slowly approached 1413. The fence along the alley hid the car waiting there. The man in the car couldn’t see him either.
Three houses in the neighborhood showed signs of life. The bluish flicker of a television set came from a downstairs window of an insomniac’s house on the corner. Farther down the street an upstairs light came on—long enough for someone to visit a bathroom—before being extinguished. The third house was the Puterbaugh’s where a lamp burned in the den. As Toby neared, a figure moved between light and window, casting a blurry, human-shaped silhouette on the blinds.
Toby left the sidewalk and crept across the lawn into shadow beneath the window. The sash was raised to create a draft and a gentle breeze ruffled the blinds. From inside came the murmur of voices. Toby held his breath to hear the words.
“Keep playing dumb,” a man said. “Shouldn’t be tough for you.” The voice, which Toby had never heard before, was flat, calm and unemotional. By the way his words faded as he spoke, the man was moving away from the window.
“You have no right—” Sandy Puterbaugh said.
The unknown man interrupted. “I have every right. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you hadn’t been nosy, if you’d just done what you were paid to do.”
Mr. Puterbaugh said with an edge, “It would not have happened if your man here had not panicked, Leo.” He was at a distance, perhaps sitting at the desk.
Another man, somewhere deep in the room, said, “Hey, the guy jumped me.” He sounded young, his upstate accent broad and nasal, the tone of his voice as deadened as a cracked brass bell. “Get over it.”
“Artie was protecting our interests,” the man called Leo said. “He did what he thought was right at the time. He didn’t have lots of choices.”
“What was Artie doing here?” Sandy shrilled.
If anyone answered, Toby didn’t hear it. Just then, a car with a loud muffler accelerated down Charbold, blasted noisily through a succession of stop signs, flew sleek and red beneath streetlights, roared past the house and sped away.
A man came nearer to the window to listen. His shadow loomed on the blinds. Toby shrank back against the clapboards. “We knew you’d snooped the minute you delivered the package,” Leo said from above. “Our man down south packed the goods a certain way. It was different when you gave it to us. Which of you did it? And why?”
“Me,” Sandy said in a tiny voice. “I was curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat.” Leo emphasized the second word.
“We were worried it might contain drugs, that is why we opened it.” Mr. Puterbaugh sounded strained. “We had the children to think of.”
“Where are your kids, by the way?” Leo asked.
“They’re staying with friends in Mattydale,” Sandy said. “Why?”
“No reason. Just wondered.” To Toby, there was sinister purpose in Leo’s offhand question. But to be fair, the man’s cold voice might give that impression if he was talking about the weather.
Leo moved away from the window. “Let’s stick to reality, okay? You know we wouldn’t send you all the way down there after drugs that can be purchased off any street corner in the country.”
“Mr. G’s not into that,” the man named Artie added.
“He is more interested in other illegal activities,” Mr. Puterbaugh said.
“His business is none of your business, Jim,” Leo snapped. “You were hired to do a specific job. You were paid well for it. You agreed to do it our way. Right?”
“Right,” Artie answered when the Puterbaughs didn’t
Three houses in the neighborhood showed signs of life. The bluish flicker of a television set came from a downstairs window of an insomniac’s house on the corner. Farther down the street an upstairs light came on—long enough for someone to visit a bathroom—before being extinguished. The third house was the Puterbaugh’s where a lamp burned in the den. As Toby neared, a figure moved between light and window, casting a blurry, human-shaped silhouette on the blinds.
Toby left the sidewalk and crept across the lawn into shadow beneath the window. The sash was raised to create a draft and a gentle breeze ruffled the blinds. From inside came the murmur of voices. Toby held his breath to hear the words.
“Keep playing dumb,” a man said. “Shouldn’t be tough for you.” The voice, which Toby had never heard before, was flat, calm and unemotional. By the way his words faded as he spoke, the man was moving away from the window.
“You have no right—” Sandy Puterbaugh said.
The unknown man interrupted. “I have every right. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you hadn’t been nosy, if you’d just done what you were paid to do.”
Mr. Puterbaugh said with an edge, “It would not have happened if your man here had not panicked, Leo.” He was at a distance, perhaps sitting at the desk.
Another man, somewhere deep in the room, said, “Hey, the guy jumped me.” He sounded young, his upstate accent broad and nasal, the tone of his voice as deadened as a cracked brass bell. “Get over it.”
“Artie was protecting our interests,” the man called Leo said. “He did what he thought was right at the time. He didn’t have lots of choices.”
“What was Artie doing here?” Sandy shrilled.
If anyone answered, Toby didn’t hear it. Just then, a car with a loud muffler accelerated down Charbold, blasted noisily through a succession of stop signs, flew sleek and red beneath streetlights, roared past the house and sped away.
A man came nearer to the window to listen. His shadow loomed on the blinds. Toby shrank back against the clapboards. “We knew you’d snooped the minute you delivered the package,” Leo said from above. “Our man down south packed the goods a certain way. It was different when you gave it to us. Which of you did it? And why?”
“Me,” Sandy said in a tiny voice. “I was curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat.” Leo emphasized the second word.
“We were worried it might contain drugs, that is why we opened it.” Mr. Puterbaugh sounded strained. “We had the children to think of.”
“Where are your kids, by the way?” Leo asked.
“They’re staying with friends in Mattydale,” Sandy said. “Why?”
“No reason. Just wondered.” To Toby, there was sinister purpose in Leo’s offhand question. But to be fair, the man’s cold voice might give that impression if he was talking about the weather.
Leo moved away from the window. “Let’s stick to reality, okay? You know we wouldn’t send you all the way down there after drugs that can be purchased off any street corner in the country.”
“Mr. G’s not into that,” the man named Artie added.
“He is more interested in other illegal activities,” Mr. Puterbaugh said.
“His business is none of your business, Jim,” Leo snapped. “You were hired to do a specific job. You were paid well for it. You agreed to do it our way. Right?”
“Right,” Artie answered when the Puterbaughs didn’t
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