Part 22 (1/2)

”Give me a refill,” I said.

The little man had cagy eyes and he used them on the whole room before he got around to me.

He came up the aisle, stopped at my booth, sat down across from me. ”You gotta be Ed London,” he said.

”That's right.”

”You got the dough, London?”

I patted the left side of my jacket and felt my .38 snug in a shoulder rig. I patted the right side and touched the roll of bills Rhona Blake had given me. I nodded.

”Then we're in business, London. This is a place to meet and not a place to do business. Too many distractions.”

He waved one hand at the bowling machine. I told him I had a drink on the way and he was willing to humor me. The bartender brought the drink. I paid for it. The little man didn't want anything and the bartender went back to tend the bar.

I studied the little man over the brim of my gla.s.s. He was a few years too old for the Ivy League s.h.i.+rt and tie. He had a low forehead to fit Lombrosi's theories of criminal physiognomy and a pair of baby-blue eyes that didn't fit at all. His nose was strong and his chin was weak and a five o'clock shadow obscured part of his sallow complexion.

”The broad could of come herself,” he said.

”She didn't want to.”

”But she could of. She didn't need a private cop. Unless she's figuring on holding out the dough.”

I didn't answer him. I'd have liked to play it that way, but Rhona Blake wouldn't go for it. You can pay a blackmailer or you can push him around, and if you pay him once you pay him forever. And the little man looked easy to push around. But I was just a hired hand.

”You almost done, London?”

I finished my drink and got up. I walked to the door and the little man followed me like a faithful dog.

”Your car here, London?”

”I took the subway.”

”So we use mine. C'mon.”

His car was parked at the curb, a dark blue Mercury two or three years old. We got in, and he drove up Remsen Avenue through the Canarsie flatlands. A few years back the area had been all swamps and marshes until the developers got busy. They put up row on row of semi-detached brick-front houses.

There was still plenty of marshland left. Canarsie by any other name was still Canarsie. And it didn't smell like a rose.

”This is private enough,” I said. ”Let's make the trade.”

”The stuff ain't with me. It's stashed.”

”Is that where we're going?”

”That's the general idea.”

He took a corner, drove a few blocks, made another turn. I looked over my shoulder. There was a Plymouth behind us...It had been there before.

”Your friends are here,” I said. ”In case you hadn't noticed.”

”Huh?”

”Your protection. Your insurance.”

He was looking in the rear-view mirror now and he didn't like what he saw. He swore under his breath and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. He leaned on the accelerator and the big car growled.

He said: ”How long?”

”Since we left Remsen.”

He grunted something obscene and took a corner on less wheels than came with the car. The Plym picked up speed and cornered like a wolverine. A good driver might have beaten them-the Merc had enough under the hood to leave the Plymouth at the post. But the little man was a lousy driver.

We took two more corners for no reason at all and they stayed right with us. We ran a red light at Flatlands Avenue and so did they. The little man was sweating now. His forehead was damp and his hands were slippery on the wheel. They chased us for two more blocks and I dug the .38 out and let my finger curl around the trigger. I wasn't sure what kind of party we were going to, but I wanted the right costume.

The Plymouth came alongside and I pointed the gun at it. There were three of them, two in front and one in back. I had a clear shot but I held it back-for all I knew they were police. They've got a strict law for private detectives in New York State: shoot a cop and you lose your license.

But he wasn't a cop. Cops don't tote submachine guns, and that's what the boy by the window was holding. The Plym cut us off and the little man hit the brakes, and then the submachine gun cut loose and started spraying lead at us.

The first burst took care of the little man. A row of bullets plowed into his chest and he slumped over the wheel like the corpse he was.

And that saved my life.

Because when he died his foot slid off the brakes and came down on the accelerator, and we went into the Plymouth like Grant into Vicksburg. The tommy-gun stopped chattering and I hit the door hard and landed on my feet. I didn't make like a hero. I ran like a rabbit.

The field had tall swamp-gra.s.s and broken beer bottles. I zigged and zagged, and I was maybe twenty yards in before the tommy-gun took up where it had left off. I heard slugs whine over my shoulder and took a dive any tank fighter would have been proud of, landing on my face in a clump of tall gra.s.s. I turned around so that I could see what was happening and crawled backwards so that it wouldn't be happening to me.

The tommy-gun threw another spasmodic burst at me, way off this time. I got the .38 steadied and poked a shot at one of the three silhouettes by the roadside. It went wide. They answered with another brace of shots that didn't come any closer.

Some more of the same. Then the tommy-gun was silent, and I raised my head enough to see what was happening. The hoods were off the road and in their car, and their car was leaving.

So was the blackmailer's Mercury. Evidently the collision hadn't damaged it enough to ground it, because it was following the Plymouth down the road and leaving me alone.

I waited until I was sure they were gone. Then I waited until I was sure they wouldn't be back. I got up slowly and dragged myself back toward the road. The .38 stayed in my hand. It gave me a feeling of security.

A car came down the road toward me and I hit the dirt again, gun in hand. But it wasn't the Mercury or the Plymouth, just a black beetle of a Volkswagen that didn't even slow down. I got up feeling foolish.

There were skid marks on the pavement, a little broken gla.s.s as an added attraction. There was no dead little man, not on the street and not in the field. There was no blood. Nothing but gla.s.s and skid marks, and Brooklyn is full of both. Nothing but a very tired private cop with a very useless gun in his hand, standing in the road and wis.h.i.+ng he had something to do. Wis.h.i.+ng he was home on East 83rd Street in Manhattan with a gla.s.s of Courvoisier in one hand and something by Mozart on the record player.

I stuck the gun back where it belonged. I found a pipe in one pocket and a pouch of tobacco in the other. I filled the pipe, got it going, headed over toward Flatlands Avenue.

The third cab I stopped felt like making a run to Manhattan. I got into the backseat and pulled the door shut. The cabby threw the flag down and the meter began ticking up expenses to be charged to the account of a girl named Rhona Blake.

I sat back and thought about her.

TWO.