When the Sacred Ginmill Closes

Page 36

 

  I just looked at him.

  Chapter 25

  That was Monday night. I dont remember exactly when I talked to Jack Diebold, but it must have been Tuesday or Wednesday. I tried him at the squad room and wound up reaching him at home. We sparred a bit, and then I said, "You know, I thought of a way he could have done it. "

  "Where have you been? We got one dead and one confessed to it, its history now. "

  "I know," I said, "but listen to this. " And I explained, just as an exercise in applied logic, how Tommy Tillary could have murdered his wife. I had to go over it a couple of times before he got a handle on it, and even then he wasnt crazy about it.

  "I dont know," he said. "It sounds pretty complicated. Youve got her stuck there in the attic for what, eight, ten hours? Thats a long time with no one keeping an eye on her. Suppose she comes to, works herself free? Then hes got his ass in the crack, doesnt he?"

  "Not for murder. She can press charges for tying her up, but whens the last time a husband went to jail for that?"

  "Yeah, hes not really at risk until he kills her, and by then shes dead. I see what you mean. Even so, Matt, its pretty farfetched, dont you think?"

  "Well, I was just thinking of a way it could have happened. "

  "They never happen that way in real life. "

  "I guess not. "

  "And if they did you couldnt go anywheres with it. Look what you went through explaining it to me, and Im in the business. You want to try it on a jury, with some prick lawyer interrupting every thirty seconds with an objection? What a jury likes, a jury likes somebody with greasy hair and olive skin and a knife in one hand and blood on his shirt, thats what a jury likes. "

  "Yeah. "

  "And anyhow, the whole things history. You know what I got now? I got that family in Borough Park. You read about it?"

  "The Orthodox Jews?"

  "Three Orthodox Jews, mother father son, the fathers got the beard, the kids got the earlocks, all sitting at the dinner table, all shot in the back of the head. Thats what I got. Far as Tommy Tillary, I dont care right now if he killed Cock Robin and both Kennedys. "

  "Well, it was just an idea," I said.

  "And its a cute one, Ill grant you that. But its not very realistic, and even if it was, whos got time for it? You know?"

  I figured it was time for a drunk. My two cases were closed, albeit unsatisfactorily. My sons were on their way to camp. My rent was paid, my bar tabs were all settled, and I had a few dollars in the bank. I had, it seemed to me, every reason in the world to check out for a week or so and stay drunk.

  But my body seemed to know there was more to come, and while I did not by any means stay sober, neither did I find myself launched upon the bender to which I felt roundly entitled. And, a day or two later, I was nursing a cup of bourbon-flavored coffee at my table in Armstrongs when Skip Devoe came in.

  He gave me a nod from the doorway. Then he went to the bar and had a quick drink, knocking it back while he stood there. And then he came back to my table and pulled out a chair and dropped down into it.

  "Here," he said, and put a brown manila envelope on the table between us. A small envelope, the kind they give you in banks.

  I said, "Whats this?"

  "For you. "

  I opened it. It was full of money. I took out a sheaf of bills and fanned them.

  "For Christs sake," he said, "dont do that, you want everybody following you home? Put it in your pocket, count it when you get home. "

  "What is it?"

  "Your share. Put it away, will you?"

  "My share of what?"

  He sighed, impatient with me. He had a cigarette going and he dragged angrily on it, turning his head to avoid blowing the smoke in my face. "Your share of ten grand," he said. "You get half. Half of ten grand is five grand, and five grand is whats in the envelope, and whyntcha do us both a favor and put it the hell away?"

  "Whats this my share of, Skip?"

  "The reward. "

  "What reward?"

  His eyes challenged me. "Well, I could get something back, couldnt I? No way I owed those cocksuckers anything. Right?"

  "I dont know what youre talking about. "

  "Atwood and Cutler," he said. "I turned em in to Tim Pat Morrissey. For the reward. "

  I looked at him.

  "I couldnt go to them, ask for the money back. I couldnt get a dime from fuckin Ruslander, he already paid it all out. I went over and sat down with Tim Pat, asked him did he and his brothers still want to pay out that reward. His eyes lit up like fucking stars. I gave him names and addresses and I thought he was gonna kiss me. "

  I put the brown envelope on the table between us. I pushed it toward him and he pushed it back. I said, "This doesnt belong to me, Skip. "

  "Yes it does. I already told Tim Pat half of it was yours, that you did all the work. Take it. "

  "I dont want it. I already got paid for what I did. The information was yours. You bought it. If you sold it to Tim Pat, you get the reward. "

  He drew on his cigarette. "I already gave half of it to Kasabian. The five grand I owed him. He didnt want to take it either. I told him, listen, you take this and were square. He took it. And this here is yours. "

  "I dont want it. "

  "Its money. What the hells the matter with it?"

  I didnt say anything.

  "Look," he said, "just take it, will you? You dont want to keep it, dont keep it. Burn it, throw it out, give it away, I dont give a shit what you do with it. Because I cannot keep it. I cant. You understand?"

  "Why not?"

  "Oh, shit," he said. "Oh, fucking shit. I dont know why I did it. "

  "What are you talking about?"

  "And Id do it again. Thats whats crazy. Its eating me up, but if I had to do it all over again, Id fucking do it. "

  "Do what?"

  He looked at me. "I gave Tim Pat three names," he said, "and three addresses. "

  He took his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, stared at it. "I never want to see you do this," he said, and dropped the butt into my cup of coffee. Then he said, "Oh, Jesus, what am I doing? You had half a cup of coffee left there. I was thinking it was my cup and I didnt even have a cup. Whats the matter with me? Im sorry, Ill get you another cup of coffee. "

  "Forget the coffee. "

  "It was just reflex, I wasnt thinking, I-"

  "Skip, forget the coffee. Sit down. "

  "You sure you dont want-"

  "Forget the coffee. "

  "Yeah, right," he said. He took out another cigarette and tapped it against the back of his wrist.

  I said, "You gave Tim Pat three names. "

  "Yeah. "

  "Atwood and Cutler and-"

  "And Bobby," he said. "I sold him Bobby Ruslander. "

  He put the cigarette in his mouth, took out his lighter and lit it. His eyes half-lidded against the smoke, he said, "I ratted him out, Matt. My best friend, except it turns out hes not my friend, and now I went and ratted him out. I told Tim Pat how Bobby was the inside man, he set it up. " He looked at me. "You think Im a bastard?"

  "I dont think anything. "

  "It was something I had to do. "

  "All right. "

  "But you can see I cant keep the money. "

  "Yeah, I guess I can see that. "

  "He could get out from under, you know. Hes pretty good at squirming off the hook. The other night, Christ, he walked outta the office at my joint like he owned the place. The Actor, lets see him act his way outta this, huh?"

  I didnt say anything.

  "It could happen. He could pull it off. "

  "Could be. "

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I loved the man," he said. "I thought, I thought he loved me. " He took a deep breath, let it out. "From here on in," he said, "I dont love nobody. " He stood up. "I figure hes got a sporting chance, anyway. Maybe hell get out of it. "

  "Maybe. "


  BUT he didnt. None of them did. By the weekend they had all turned up in the newspapers, Gary Michael Atwood, Lee David Cutler, Robert Joel Ruslander, all three found in different parts of the city, their heads covered with black hoods, their hands secured with wire behind their backs, each shot once in the back of the head with a. 25-caliber automatic. Rita Donegian was found with Cutler, similarly hooded and wired and shot. I guess she got in the way.

  When I read about it I still had the money in the brown bank envelope. I still hadnt decided what to do with it. I dont know that I ever quite came to a conscious decision, but the following day I tithed five hundred dollars to the poor box at Saint Paul s. I had, after all, a lot of candles to light. And some of the money went to Anita, and some went in the bank, and somewhere along the line it stopped being blood money and became, well, just money.

  I figured that was the end of it. But I kept figuring that, and I kept being wrong.

  THE call came in the middle of the night. Id been asleep for a couple of hours but the phone woke me and I groped for it. It took me a minute to recognize the voice on the other end.

  It was Carolyn Cheatham.

  "I had to call you," she said, "on account of youre a bourbon drinker and a gentleman. I owed it to you to call you. "

  "Whats the matter?"

  "Our mutual friend ditched me," she said, "and he got me fired out of Tannahill & Co. so he wont have to look at me around the office. Once he didnt need me he just went and cut the string, and do you know he did it over the phone?"

  "Carolyn-"

  "Its all in the note," she said. "Im leaving a note. "

  "Look, dont do anything yet," I said. I was out of bed, fumbling for my clothes. "Ill be right over. Well sit down and talk about it. "

  "You cant stop me, Matthew. "

  "I wont try to stop you. Well talk a little, and then you can do whatever you want to do. "

  The phone clicked in my ear.

  I threw my clothes on, rushed over there, hoping it would be pills, something that took its time. I broke a small pane of glass in the downstairs door and let myself in, then used an old credit card to slip the bolt of her spring lock. If she had engaged the dead-bolt lock, I would have had to kick it in, but she hadnt, and that made it easier.

  I smelled the cordite before I had the door open. Inside, the room reeked of it. She was sprawled on the couch, her head hanging to one side. The gun was still in her hand, limp at her side, and there was a black-rimmed hole in her temple.

  There was a note, too, one page torn from a spiral notebook and anchored to the coffee table with an empty bottle of Makers Mark bourbon. There was an empty glass next to the empty bottle. The booze showed in her handwriting, and in the sullen phrasing of the suicide note.

  I read the note. I stood there for a few minutes, not for very long, and then I got a dish towel from the kitchen and wiped the bottle and the glass. I took another matching glass, rinsed it out and wiped it, and put it in the dish strainer on the counter.