Coastown Princess Hotel.
Sitting pretty with a big supply of steaming coffee, kipper and eggs, fresh rolls and sweet butter, Carrie Rose was out on her loggia at the Princess.
She was just beginning to compose a long, personal entry in the million-dollar diary. When she wrote, she told about a particular late summer afternoon in Paris. An afternoon that had provided a key to the whole thing.
August 10, 1978; Paris
The place was called Atlantic City, and it was a trendy little bistro recently sprung up as a haven for Americans on the avenue Marceau.
The cafe was already famous for its twelve varieties of le hamburger. And, to a lesser extent, for its big wooden posters illustrating different trivial points about a seedy boardwalk resort in southeastem New Jersey.
DID YOU KNOW THAT?
THE FIRST EASTER PARADE IN AMERICA was HELD IN ATLANTIC CITY...
THE FIRST FERRIS WHEEL was OPER AT'ED IN ATLANTIC CITY....
THE FIRST MOTION PICTURE was MADE IN ATLANTIC CITY....
THE FIRST PICTURE POSTCARDS WERE FROM ATLANTIC CITY....
Floppy white hat covering half of her face, Carrie Rose walked back slowly into the dark bar. She heard 'Lady Marmalade' playing on the jukebox. 'Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?.
White butterfly stockings swished softly as she continued until she saw the wheelchair. Then Carrie realized that, for the first time in a long time, she was frightened.
'The incomparable, infamous Mrs. Rose.' Nickie Handy spoke to her from the corner of a candlelit booth. 'Now what could your pleasure be this lovely, shitty afternoon?'
As Carrie slid into the oaken booth, she kissed the top of Nickie's head. Her ex-partner. Then, as she settled in across from her old friend, she couldn't help staring at the crippled man's face.
Nickie Handy, still not thirty years old, had no left cheek now. No left side to his face. Just sagging flesh hanging off a cheekbone.
'I should come see you more than this,' she said softly. 'Both Damian and I are rats, Nickie. We really are bad.'
A waitress came and Carrie ordered a bottle of pouilly-fuiss6. Nickie made a remark about the French girl's breasts. 'Sow's teats,' he said with a crooked little smile.
'Let's have it. Let's have it.' He turned back to Carrie. 'Don't hand me this visiting-the-localVFW crap. Buying your hot-shit wines and all that......
'All right. I came to talk to you about the shooting. Saigon.'
A surprised look dropped over Nickie Handy's sad, Quasimodo face. 'Let's not,' he said. Then suddenly his face twisted up like a pretzel and he raised his voice.
II You're looking at me like a fucking cat, Carrie That disdainful look Siamese cats get. Bee-utiful! I love it, you cunt.'
'You're paranoid.' Carrie continued to speak softly, almost lovingly. 'Damian and I are doing a job with Harold Hill. Harry the Hack and your very goodfriend Brooks Campbell - Who would you suggest we go talk to?'
The cripple took his mug of beer and slowly spilled it out onto the pine-and-sawdust floor. 'Beeutiful! '
'Hey! Hey! Hey!' a dark-bearded French bartender called back. 'Behave yourself, Nickee!'
Handy screwed up his face again. Some kind of awful tic, apparently.
'Brooks Campbell was supposed to be paying me in that alley in Saigon. Blew my head off instead. Hello, Nick. Blam! Blam! Blam!... Left me for a fucking cold stiff in the sewer, Carrie.
'Dead chink mouse floated past my nose. I thought I was in hell already. Crippled in the sewer. Face messed up like it is. Your new partners, you say?'
'There was no provocation for what they did, Nickie? Privateering?... It was just a double cross?'
'Straight double cross! Me and a poor gook bastard. I think he even kept my money for himself. Brooks Campbell. Fucking movie-star face.'
'Those awful bastards, Nickie.'
'Your partners,' Nickie said again. 'I love it! I love it!'
Carrie and the crippled man sat drinking in the Americanized bar until after five o'clock. At that point American business types began to crowd inside. Tourists and backpacking hippies from the nearby L'Etoile. By 5:30 it was impossible to hear a normal conversation inside the tacky bistro.
Saying something about cigarettes, Carrie reached inside her shoulder bag. Then she leaned over deep into the dark booth and shot Nickie Handy dead. Two soft little pffits that were never heard over the din. Heart shots. Quicklike, because she didn't want him to hurt.
Nickie lay down on the scarred wooden table like a good little drunk.
CarTie's mind was racing as she elbowed her way out and onto the avenue. Two very good reasons for the murder.
First of all, poor Nickie was one of the few people left who could still identify her and Damian. Second, she'd liked Nickie too much to let him live like that. to let him go where he was obviously going.
