Read Online The Big Killing by Annette Meyers - Free Book Online Page A

went off, blinding her. She ducked her head and put her hand over her eyes.
    “What’s your name?” someone demanded roughly, pulling at her arm. “Did you do it?”
    “Get back, get back!” There were more uniforms. Wetzon felt dizzy, blinded by the flash, confused by the crowd. She faltered, then felt herself lifted by strong arms. She was in the back of a car. She was sitting on something lumpy. She raised herself slightly and reached underneath and pulled out a leather mitt. A baseball mitt. She put it aside; everything took so much effort.
    “There, miss,” Jimmy said. “You’ll be all right now. I’ll get you out of here.” He closed the door and she sank back in the seat. If this was Silvestri’s car, it was a mess. In the dim light from the street, she saw beside her, under the mitt, what looked like a bundle of laundry. On the floor near her feet were a pair of very dirty torn sneakers and two baseball bats. She leaned forward to see what was going on outside. A face pressed against the window. People were staring. Some carried cameras. The street seethed with police activity. There were barricades, blinking lights, shouts.
    Jimmy got into the car. “I’ll have you up to Seventy-eighth Street in no time,” he said cheerfully. “Just sit back so you don’t get hurt.”
    She sank back next to the bundle of laundry. Right now she felt like a bag of dirty laundry, too, and her longing for a hot bath intensified.
    Traffic on Third Avenue was heavy, but Lyons drove quickly, as if he was in a hurry to get back to the action. She peered into the darkness, trying to see where they were, looking for a familiar store front. There was so much construction going on now on Third Avenue; a giant crane seemed perched on almost every corner.
    Barry. What had he gotten himself into? She wished she could stop thinking about it.
    Then Jimmy Lyons pulled up in front of Smith’s building.
    “I’m all right, really,” Wetzon said to the young policeman as he helped her out of the car. He was very conspicuous in his uniform and she felt mildly embarrassed, as if she had done something wrong. It was the “what would people think” syndrome. “Bourgeois nonsense,” her friend Carlos called it.
    “I’ll see you upstairs,” Jimmy Lyons said.
    “No, no, it’s really all right,” she assured him. “Tony is here, and he’ll take care of me.” Smith’s doorman was coming toward her with a big welcoming smile and a greedy curiosity in his eyes.
    “Okay, miss.” Jimmy seemed pleased to be rid of her, chafing to get back to the excitement at the Four Seasons.
    “Hello, Ms. Wetzon,” Tony was saying. “She got in about an hour ago.” He was hovering obsequiously.
    “Thanks, Tony,” she said. “What time is it anyway?”
    “Almost nine o’clock. Are you okay?”
    “Yes, I’m fine.” Her voice seemed to belong to someone else.
    They were in the lobby when Jimmy Lyons was suddenly back beside her, very big and very blue. In the bright light of the lobby she noticed that he had a skimpy blond mustache. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? “I almost forgot your case,” he said, putting it on the floor beside her. He beamed at her. The elevator door slid open.
    “Here, I’ll take that for you,” Tony said, putting the attaché case into the elevator.
    “Wait,” Wetzon said, hand extended toward Jimmy. “Wait ... this ...”
    “It’s okay, miss,” Jimmy said modestly, assuming he was being thanked.
    Tony held the elevator door, blocking her from Lyons. A blowsy woman with a beribboned French poodle came sailing through the lobby, staring at Jimmy, staring at Wetzon, disapproving her way past the group and into the elevator. Now she said, indignantly, “You are holding us up, if you please.” She was wearing a mink coat, yards of mink. The poodle sniffed haughtily. Its toenails were painted red.
    Wetzon—nervous, upset, tired—giggled. Tony let the door go. “Tell Sergeant Silvestri ...”