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Authors: Jeremiah Healy
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alley and stopped. Both uniforms, a man and a woman, came out of their respective doors and drew and pointed their revolvers at me, bracing their gun hands with their free hands.
”All right, leave the broom there and come down real slow,” said the woman, who had been driving.
”Is it all right if I just drop the broom over the side?” I said. ”It’ll save us having to stand on each other’s shoulders to pull the flight down to climb back up after it.”
The male uniform muttered something to her. Neither took their eyes off me.
She spoke. ”Drop the broom. Then cut the shit. Then come down.”
I dropped, cut, and came.
They studied my investigator’s identification and compared it to the address information in my wallet several times before grudgingly buying my explanation of Marco’s dishonorable intentions. It seemed that a woman sitting in her apartment across the alley had spotted me climbing up the fire escape. As they got back into their cruiser, I felt encouraged by neighborhood security and embarrassed by personal ineptitude, with the edge to embarrassment.
I walked around to the front of the building. I keyed open the door and approached my apartment more conventionally.
Once inside I checked my telephone tape. There were two hang-ups and two messages. The first message was:
”John, it’s Nancy Meagher returning your call at three-forty p.m. I’ll be in my office tomorrow between eight-thirty and nine-thirty.”
The second message was a little redundant:
”Hi, John. How are you. Oh, you’re fine. That’s nice.”
I rewound and then levered out the message cassette. I replaced it with a spare and put the tape into a heavy manila envelope. I checked my watch. Four-thirty. I called Nancy’s office. She was gone for the day and so was her secretary. I looked for her home phone number in the book, but if I remembered her address correctly, she was unlisted. I penned a quick explanatory note and slipped it in next to the tape. I addressed the envelope to Nancy at the DA’s office, stamped it, and left it on a table near the door for mailing.
Then I called Lieutenant Murphy’s office. I got Daley, my companion at the morgue. He said Murphy was out of the office, but that Murphy had told him to tell me that Traffic had found Al’s rental car on Myrtle Street on Beacon Hill and about five blocks from where Al’s body had been dumped. Elapsed mileage exceeded by about fifty miles the business visits they could confirm Al making. None of the business contacts knew where he was going that evening. The final autopsy report confirmed death by smothering, no further information. I thanked Daley and told him I would be in Pittsburgh for a few days and would call in once in a while. I rang off and walked into the front hall.
I went to the closet and pushed most of the garbage aside. I pulled out the old Samsonite three-suiter, even though I would have to pack only one outfit. A dark, somber one.
After I packed, I carried the suitcase to the door and looked down at the envelope. I pocketed it and went downstairs.
I walked to the rental and returned it to the agency. I carried my burdens to the Szechuan Chinese restaurant in the next block. The decor was red leather with faintly illuminating Chinese lanterns. There were few patrons. I was shown to a small booth by a hostess in a cocktail dress, slit discreetly up the side. I ordered a vodka and orange juice.
One screwdriver makes me thirsty for two. Two make me hearty and gregarious. Three make me unnecessarily aware of little things, like the exact shade of a woman’s lipstick. Four make me morose.
I stopped at three and ate my dinner. I also decided not to mail the tape envelope. I settled up and stepped out into a howling wind. I hailed a cab, giving Nancy’s address in Southie.
The taxi driver had country and western music on the radio. The back seat was black vinyl with little tufts of white, puffy stuffing poking through. I thought of
”All right, leave the broom there and come down real slow,” said the woman, who had been driving.
”Is it all right if I just drop the broom over the side?” I said. ”It’ll save us having to stand on each other’s shoulders to pull the flight down to climb back up after it.”
The male uniform muttered something to her. Neither took their eyes off me.
She spoke. ”Drop the broom. Then cut the shit. Then come down.”
I dropped, cut, and came.
They studied my investigator’s identification and compared it to the address information in my wallet several times before grudgingly buying my explanation of Marco’s dishonorable intentions. It seemed that a woman sitting in her apartment across the alley had spotted me climbing up the fire escape. As they got back into their cruiser, I felt encouraged by neighborhood security and embarrassed by personal ineptitude, with the edge to embarrassment.
I walked around to the front of the building. I keyed open the door and approached my apartment more conventionally.
Once inside I checked my telephone tape. There were two hang-ups and two messages. The first message was:
”John, it’s Nancy Meagher returning your call at three-forty p.m. I’ll be in my office tomorrow between eight-thirty and nine-thirty.”
The second message was a little redundant:
”Hi, John. How are you. Oh, you’re fine. That’s nice.”
I rewound and then levered out the message cassette. I replaced it with a spare and put the tape into a heavy manila envelope. I checked my watch. Four-thirty. I called Nancy’s office. She was gone for the day and so was her secretary. I looked for her home phone number in the book, but if I remembered her address correctly, she was unlisted. I penned a quick explanatory note and slipped it in next to the tape. I addressed the envelope to Nancy at the DA’s office, stamped it, and left it on a table near the door for mailing.
Then I called Lieutenant Murphy’s office. I got Daley, my companion at the morgue. He said Murphy was out of the office, but that Murphy had told him to tell me that Traffic had found Al’s rental car on Myrtle Street on Beacon Hill and about five blocks from where Al’s body had been dumped. Elapsed mileage exceeded by about fifty miles the business visits they could confirm Al making. None of the business contacts knew where he was going that evening. The final autopsy report confirmed death by smothering, no further information. I thanked Daley and told him I would be in Pittsburgh for a few days and would call in once in a while. I rang off and walked into the front hall.
I went to the closet and pushed most of the garbage aside. I pulled out the old Samsonite three-suiter, even though I would have to pack only one outfit. A dark, somber one.
After I packed, I carried the suitcase to the door and looked down at the envelope. I pocketed it and went downstairs.
I walked to the rental and returned it to the agency. I carried my burdens to the Szechuan Chinese restaurant in the next block. The decor was red leather with faintly illuminating Chinese lanterns. There were few patrons. I was shown to a small booth by a hostess in a cocktail dress, slit discreetly up the side. I ordered a vodka and orange juice.
One screwdriver makes me thirsty for two. Two make me hearty and gregarious. Three make me unnecessarily aware of little things, like the exact shade of a woman’s lipstick. Four make me morose.
I stopped at three and ate my dinner. I also decided not to mail the tape envelope. I settled up and stepped out into a howling wind. I hailed a cab, giving Nancy’s address in Southie.
The taxi driver had country and western music on the radio. The back seat was black vinyl with little tufts of white, puffy stuffing poking through. I thought of
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