On Cone’s right, practically rubbing elbows, is a tall dude with the jits. He’s either scratching his acne or probing an ear with a matchstick. Both his little fingers have been lopped off at the second joint, and he’s got a greasy black ponytail bound with a rubber band.
A mustachioed bartender wanders up and stands in front of Cone.
“Yeah?” he says.
Cone looks around. Everyone seems to be drinking boiler-makers, but he includes himself out.
“Vodka,” he orders. “On the rocks.”
The mustache looks at him. “Bar vodka?” he asks.
“No, no,” Cone says hastily. “What have you got?”
“Bar vodka and Smirnoff.”
“Give me the Smirnoff,” Cone says. “And there’s an extra buck in it for you if you open a fresh bottle.”
The bartender stares at him. “We don’t water our booze in here, mister.”
“Didn’t say you did. Do you want the buck or don’t you?”
The mustache looks over at the watch cap.
“Give the man what he wants, Tommy,” fatso says. “The customer is always right.”
Grumbling, Tommy fishes out a fresh bottle of Smirnoff from under the bar and uncaps it in front of Cone.
“Okay?” he says truculently.
“Fine.”
He’s taking his first gulp when the tall dude on his right leans toward him.
“Hey,” he says, “I like the way you handled that. You got class.”
Cone shrugs, turns away. He sees tubby is giving him the double-O. He seems to approve of what he sees because he pushes his boilermaker closer to Cone and shifts his bulk onto the barstool next to him.
“You from around here?” he asks in a raspy voice.
“Used to be,” Cone says. “I been away for a while.”
“Yeah,” the guy says. “Ain’t we all. Need anything? Boom-boom? Wanna be a winner? Check it out?”
“Not tonight.”
“Merchandise?”
Cone stares at him. “That fell off the truck?”
“That’s right. Cassettes, TV sets, VCRs, microwaves. You name it. All in the original cartons. Sealed.”
The Wall Street dick considers that a moment, takes another swallow of his drink. “A motorcycle?” he suggests. “I got a buddy looking for a good buy.”
“You’re talking to the right man. You name it-make and model-and you got it.”
“I’ll send him around,” Cone says. “You hang here?”
“Every night. I own the joint. Name’s Louie.”
Cone nods, finishes his drink. He slaps a finif on the bar, turns to go. The tall gink has disappeared. Suddenly there’s a great crash behind him and he whirls. A wild, drunken fight has erupted between two men and two women seated at the tables. Screaming curses, they go at each other with fists, feet, elbows, weighty handbags. The melee grows more vicious, with bottles swung, tables upset, chairs splintered.
“Tommy,” the fat guy calls, and points under the bar. He’s handed an aluminum baseball bat. He slides off the stool and waddles into the donnybrook. He starts bouncing the bat off the skulls of everyone within reach. The hard guys in the booths are spitting with merriment. Timothy decides it’s time to leave.
He’s heading back to his car, walking along 45th Street, when someone calls, “Hey, mac.” He stops and turns slowly. The tall, jittery cat from Paddy’s Pig comes up close. He’s got a knife in his hand that looks to be as long as a saber.
“Let’s have it,” he says in a whispery voice.
Cone backs up a step. “Have what?” he asks.
The guy sighs. “Whaddya think? Money, credit cards, whatever you got.”
“Oh, my God!” Cone cries, clutching at his chest. “My heart! My heart!” He doubles over as if in agonizing pain, bending low. When he comes up, he has the S amp;W.357 in his fist. “Here’s what I got,” he says.
The man looks at the gun. “Hey,” he says, “wait a minute.”
“Drop the toothpick,” Cone says. “Drop it!”
The knife clatters to the sidewalk. The Wall Street dick steps in and kicks the stupe’s shin, just below the knee, as hard as he can. The mugger screams, bends, and Cone cold-cocks him behind the ear with the short- barreled Magnum. The guy goes flat out on the pavement, but Timothy takes him with his heavy work shoes, heeling the kidneys and family jewels.
He finally gets control of himself, tries to breathe slowly and deeply. He picks up the knife and drops it through the first sewer grating he comes to. He drives home to the loft, deciding he shouldn’t have given the guy the boot. That was overkill, and it wasn’t nice.
“Not nice?” he asks aloud, and wonders if he’s ready for the acorn academy.
“What did you do last night?” Samantha Whatley asks.
“Nothing much,” Cone says. “Had a few drinks, went to bed early.”
“Liar,” she says. “I called you around midnight; you weren’t in.”
“Was that you?” he says. “I was sacked out. I thought I heard the phone ringing, but by the time I got up it had stopped.”
“Uh-huh,” she says.
It’s Sunday afternoon, they’re lying together in her fancy bed, and she really is reading the Real Estate Section of the
“Will you listen to these rents?” Sam says. “A studio for twelve hundred a month. A one-bedroom for fifteen hundred. How does that grab you?”
“It’s just money,” he says.
He turns his head to look at her. “Sure I do. But I wouldn’t kill for it. Would you?”
“You’re the only one I want to kill, and you don’t have all that much gelt.”
“Bupkes is what I’ve got. No, seriously, would you kill for money?”
“Of course not.”
“Ever talk to a homicide dick about why people kill?”
“I dated a guy from Homicide for a while, but I had to give him the broom. Whenever he got bombed he started crying. But no, I never talked to him about why people kill.”
“I’ll tell you why,” Cone says. “Subtract the weirdos who murder because God told them to. And subtract the ones who kill because they find hubby or wifey in the sack with someone else. Those are impulse murders.”
“Crimes of passion,” Sam says.
“If you say so. Well, subtract those cases and just consider the murders that are premeditated-sometimes for a long while-and carefully planned. Now you’re dealing with two main motives. One is revenge, which isn’t too important unless you’re a Sicilian.”
“And the other is money,” she says.
“Bingo,” Cone says. “I’d guess that greed tops everything else. It may be for a couple of bucks in a muggee’s pocket or for a couple of billion in a corporate treasury.”
“Oh-ho,” Whatley says, peering at him through her half-glasses. “Now I know why I’m getting this lecture on mayhem on a nice, bright, Sunday afternoon. You’re brooding about the Dempster case, and you think greed was the motive for the industrial sabotage.”
“And for John Dempster’s murder. What else could it be?” he says fretfully. “I’m not saying other motives might not be involved, but it was greed that sparked the whole thing.”
“How do you know?” she asks.
“I don’t,” he says. “And that’s what’s sending me up the wall. I thought I had it figured, but I struck out.”
