Read Online Red Rag Blues by Derek Robinson - Free Book Online Page A

said to him, casually, as he sorted out money. “What would you do?”
    â€œI’d expect a good tip, sir.”
    â€œYes? Why?”
    â€œIt’s a bull market, sir. From what I hear.” He was quick and cheerful. Luis laughed, and added more to the tip.
    When they were outside, she said: “Smart kid. Just don’t judge everyone by him. Can we afford the movies? Then dinner?” He smiled, and waved down a taxi. “Don’t do that Russian spy crap again,” she said. “It gives me cramps.”
5
    The first man into the apartment wore Con Ed coveralls. He carried a Con Ed toolbox and, if pressed, he could show ID from Con Ed. He got in by using picklocks that were not Con Ed issue. He was a retired cop who did illegal entries for the FBI. He preferred the Con Ed identity because it let him search anywhere for gas leaks or
    faulty electric cables, including under the floorboards. Nine times out of ten, your amateur robber hid his stuff under the floor. Tenth time, he buried it in the back yard. People did what they saw in the movies. No imagination.
    But he found no scarred wood, or scratched nails, or disturbed dust: the floorboards hadn’t been moved since Pearl Harbor. He went down the hall and peeked at the backyard. Kids on a tree swing. Guy poking burgers on a barbecue. Forget it.
    He went back to the apartment. Somebody knocked on the door, so he opened it. Repairman from New York Telephone. “Name of Conroy?” the man said. “Fault on the phone?”
    â€œJoin the party. Hey … You’re with the Bureau, right?”
    They studied each other.
    â€œUsed to be,” the repairman said. “I remember you now. NYPD? Yeah. Small world. I retired, but the pension sucks, so I work freelance. Break-ins, bugs, taps. Same old stuff. British Intelligence hired me. They want to know, did this guy write his life story yet. You?”
    â€œLookin’ for bank robbery evidence. Hell, it’s all paper. Work shared is work halved, right?”
    Together they searched the apartment, inch by dusty inch, and found nothing. They were drinking Julie’s coffee when the landlord came in, followed by the two old guys Luis had offended on York Avenue. They were all drunk. The landlord was one boilermaker short of being fighting drunk.
    â€œThe fuck you two pricks doin’ in my buildin’?” he shouted.
    â€œFixin’ the leak in your worn-out gas stove,” the Con Ed man said.
    The landlord sniffed the air, hard. “You smell anythin’?” he demanded. The two old guys sniffed. “Ain’t no gas smell in here,” they said. “No, sir.” One of them clacked his teeth, which the excitement had loosened.
    â€œNo pleasin’ some people,” the Con Ed man said to the phone repairman. They were unworried. They had the force of injustice on their side.
    â€œGet your ass outa my buildin’, boy,” the landlord said. “Ain’t no gas smell here! Shoot your mouth at me, I’ll stick this fist in it.”
    â€œReason there ain’t no gas smell, pop, is because I just fixed the damn leak.”
    â€œThis
my
buildin’! Anythin’ leaks, I get told first!” He was so furious that he was spitting a fine spray. “How the fuck you get in here?”
    â€œDoor was open. Look, since you’re bein’ so damn reasonable, tell you what I’m gonna do. This your buildin’, you’re entitled to one hunderd percent of it, and that includes the lousy leak in your stinkin’ stove, so I’m gonna take this big heavy wrench an’ give a good hard smack, right where I fixed it. See? Where the gas smell came from. Your smell, right? You want it back? You can have it back.”
    â€œSure he wants it back,” the repairman said. “Belongs to him.”
    â€œCall a cop,” the landlord told the two old guys. One of them picked up the phone. “Dead,”