Time to Murder and Create
A Matthew Scudder Crime Novel
Lawrence Block
Therefore was a single man only first created, to teach thee that whosoever destroyeth a single soul from the children of man, Scripture charges him as though he had destroyed the whole world.
—The Talmud
Chapter 1
For seven consecutive Fridays I got telephone calls from him. I wasn't always there to receive them. It didn't matter, because he and I had nothing to say to each other. If I was out when he called, there would be a message slip in my box when I got back to the hotel. I would glance at it and throw it away and forget about it.
Then, on the second Friday in April, he didn't call. I spent the evening around the corner at Armstrong's, drinking bourbon and coffee and watching a couple of interns fail to impress a couple of nurses. The place thinned out early for a Friday, and around two Trina went home and Billie locked the door to keep Ninth Avenue outside. We had a couple of drinks and talked about the Knicks and how it all depended on Willis Reed. At a quarter of three I took my coat off the peg and went home.
No messages.
It didn't have to mean anything. Our arrangement was that he would call every Friday to let me know he was alive. If I was there to catch his call, we would say hello to each other. Otherwise he'd leave a message: Your laundry is ready. But he could have forgotten or he could be drunk or almost anything.
I got undressed and into bed and lay on my side looking out the window.
There's an office building ten or twelve blocks downtown where they leave the lights on at night. You can gauge the pollution level fairly accurately by how much the lights appear to flicker. They were not only flickering wildly that night, they even had a yellow cast to them.
I rolled over and closed my eyes and thought about the phone call that hadn't come. I decided he hadn't forgotten and he wasn't drunk.
The Spinner was dead.
They called him the Spinner because of a habit he had. He carried an old silver dollar as a good-luck charm, and he would haul it out of his pants pocket all the time, prop it up on a table top with his left forefinger, then cock his right middle finger and give the edge of the coin a flick. If he was talking to you, his eyes would stay on the spinning coin while he spoke, and he seemed to be directing his words as much to the dollar as to you.
I had last witnessed this performance on a weekday afternoon in early February. He found me at my usual corner table in Armstrong's. He was dressed Broadway sharp: a pearl-gray suit with a lot of flash, a dark-gray monogrammed shirt, a silk tie the same color as the shirt, a pearl tie tack. He was wearing a pair of those platform shoes that give you an extra inch and a half or so. They boosted his height to maybe five six, five seven. The coat over his arm was navy blue and looked like cashmere.
'Matthew Scudder,' he said. 'You look the same, and how long has it been?'
'A couple of years.'
'Too damn long.' He put his coat on an empty chair, settled a slim attache case on top of it, and placed a narrow-brimmed gray hat on top of the attache case.
He seated himself across the table from me and dug his lucky charm out of his pocket. I watched him set it spinning. 'Too goddamned long, Matt,' he told the coin.
'You're looking good, Spinner.'
'Been havin' a nice run of luck.'
'That's always good.'
'Long as it keeps runnin'.'
Trina came over, and I ordered another cup of coffee and a shot of bourbon.
Spinner turned to her and worked his narrow little face into a quizzical frown.
'Gee, I don't know,' he said. 'Do you suppose I could have a glass of milk?'
She said he could and went away to fetch it. 'I can't drink no more,' he said.
'It's this fuckin' ulcer.'
'They tell me it goes with success.'
