tooted the horn. 'Let's go, sugar.'
When she climbed in next to me the newsboy sighed. 'Early, isn't it?' she grinned.
'Too damned.'
'You were going to tell me something today, Mike.'
'I didn't say when.'
'One of those deals. You're a fine one.' She turned her head and looked out the window.
I tugged at her arm and made her look back at me. 'I'm sorry, Velda. It doesn't make nice conversation. I'll give it to you all at once when we get back. It's important to me not to talk about it right now. Mind?'
Maybe she saw the seriousness in my eyes. She smiled and said all right, then turned on the radio so we could have some music on our way across the bridge to Brooklyn where Mother Switcher had her pie factory.
Mother Switcher turned out to be a short, squat guy with long handlebar whiskers and eyebrows that went up and down like window shades. I asked him if I could speak to a few of his drivers and he said, 'If you're a union organizer it's no good. All my boys already belong to a union and get paid better'n union wages besides.'
I said I was no organizer. 'So what is it then?'
'I want to find out about a guy named Moffit. He worked for you.'
'That dope! He owe you money?'
'Not exactly.'
'Sure. Go talk to the boys, only don't stop their work.'
I said thanks and took Velda with me when I went around behind the building where the trucks were lined up for their quota of pies. We waited until the first truck was filled then buttonholed the driver. He gave Velda a big smile and tipped his cap.
She took it from there. 'You knew Charlie Moffit, didn't you?'
'Yeah, sure, lady. What's he done now, crawled out of his grave?'
'I imagine he's still there, but tell me, what was he like?'
The guy frowned and looked at me for the first time. 'I don't get it,' he grunted.
I flashed my buzzer. So did Velda. 'Now I get it,' he said. 'Was he in trouble?'
'That's what we want to find out. What was he like?'
He leaned against his truck and chewed on a match. 'Well, I'll tell ya. Charlie was a queer duck.' He tapped his head and made a screwy face. 'Not all there, ya know. We were forever playing all kinds of gags on him. The dope would fall for 'em too. He was always losing something. Once it was his change bag and once it was a whole load of pies. He said some kids got him in a ball game and while he played they swiped his pies. Ever hear of anything like that?'
'No, I didn't,' Velda laughed.
'That wasn't all, either. He was a mean bast . . . son-of-a-gun. Once we caught him trying to set fire to a cat. One of the boys slugged him.'
It didn't sound right, that picture of Charlie Moffit. I was thinking while Velda popped the questions. Some of the other men came over and added a little something that distorted the picture even more. Charlie liked women and booze. Charlie molested kids in the street. Charlie was real bright for long periods then he'd get drunk and seem to fall into a conscious coma when he'd act like a kid. He wasn't right in his dome. He had rocks in his head. He sure liked the women, though.
I took Velda out of there and started back to Manhattan, my head aching from thoughts that were too big for it. I had to squint to watch the traffic and hunch over the wheel to be sure I knew where I was going. Away in the back of my mind that devilish unseen conductor was warming up his orchestra for another of those wild symphonies. I must be mad, I thought, I must be mad. I don't think like I used to. The little things won't come through anymore and it was the little things falling into place that made big things.
My mind rambled on until Velda said, 'We're here.'
The attendant was waving me into the parking lot. I took my ticket and handed him the keys while she flagged a cab. All the way to the office I sat with my eyes closed and kept the curtains down on the orchestra that was trying so hard to play. Whoever was at the drums wouldn't give up. He kept up a steady beat, thumping his drum with a muted stick, trying to make me open the curtain.
Velda brought out the bottle and handed it to me. I stared at the glass, filled it and drank it down. She offered me another and I shook my head. I had to sit down. I wanted to sit down and pull something over my head to shut out the light and the sound.
'Mike.' Velda ran her fingers through my hair.
'What is it, kid?' My voice didn't sound right.
'If you tell me I might be able to help you.' I opened my eyes and looked at her. She had her coat off and her breasts rose high against the folds of the blouse. She pulled up the big chair and sat down, her legs flashing in the light that streamed through the window. They were beautiful legs, long, alive with smooth muscles that played through the tight fabric of her dress as she moved. It was so easy to love that woman. I ought to try it more often. It was mine whenever I wanted it.
I closed my eyes again.
There wasn't any answer or any special way to tell her. I sat there with my eyes closed and gave it to her as it happened, bit by bit. I told her how I killed on the bridge. I told her about Marty and almost all about Ethel. I told her everything that happened and waited to see what she would say.
A minute went by. I opened my eyes and saw that Velda was watching me and there was no shame, no terror in her face. She believed in me. She said, 'It doesn't make sense, Mike.'
'It doesn't at that,' I said tiredly. 'There's a flaw in it that I can see. Do you see it too?'
'Yes. Charlie Moffit.'
'That's right. The man with a present and no past. Nobody knows him or knows where he comes from. He's just a present.'
'Almost ideal for an MVD operative.'
'That's right again. Almost. Where's the flaw?'
Velda's fingers made a little tap-tap against the arm of the chair. 'The act was too nearly perfect. It was too good to be anything but true.'
'Roger. Charlie Moffit was anything but MVD. I thought those Reds were figuring me to be the man who took his place. I was wrong. I was impersonating the wrong dead man. The boy on the bridge was MVD. Pat handed it to me on a platter but I let it slip by. His only identifiable mark was his bridgework because he had a stainless-steel tooth. There's only one country where they use stainless steel for teeth . . . the U.S.S.R. Fat boy was an imported killer, a checkrein on other agents in this country. Do you know how they knew he was dead?'
'Not from the sketch in the papers. He didn't have any fingerprints, either.'
'They wouldn't have found them if he did. I forgot to tell you, but I wore his fingertips to the bone on the concrete before I threw him over.'
Velda bit her lip and shuddered. She said 'Mike!' too softly.
'No, the reason they knew he was dead was because he dropped out of sight. I don't think they got the connection until later when some smart apple started to check the unidentified bodies in the morgue. Pat said they sent dental charts out. One of those that received them could have recognized what that stainless-steel tooth meant and there it was.'
'But they knew he was dead the next night . . . or so you supposed.'
'Uh-huh. Fat boy didn't check in. They must have a system for those things. There was only one answer if he didn't check in. He was dead. The dental charts only verified it.'
'What must they think? Why . . .'
I kept my voice low so I wouldn't get boiling mad again. 'They think it was a dirty democratic conspiracy. It was all too secret to be normal. They think it was our government playing them dirty. They're the only ones who are supposed to be able to kick you under the table.'
Velda said something dirty and she wasn't smiling.
I went on: 'The other night there was a new note in the party. Something happened to a courier of theirs, something about documents. They are missing. The party is very upset, the poor devils.'
Velda came up out of her seat, her face tight as a drumhead. 'They're at it again, Mike. Government documents and double-dealing. Damn it, Mike, why do these things have to happen?'
