And there it was again. Fallon. No matter where I turned the name came up. Fallon, Fallon, Fallon. Arnold Basil was an old Fallon boy. All the dames knew Fallon, Toady had some connection with Fallon. Damn it, the guy was supposed to be dead!
I didn't wait for Pat to come back. I told the cop to tell him I'd left and would call up tomorrow. Before I got to the door the reporter who was trying to make the most of being first on the scene tried to corner me for a story and I shook my head no. He dropped me for the cop and got the same story.
Something had gentled the rain, taking the madness out of it. The curious were there in a tight knot at the gate shrinking together under umbrellas and raincoats to gape at the death place and speculate among themselves. I managed to push myself through to the outer fringes of the crowd with about a minute to spare. Just as I broke clear the D.A. came in from the other side with his boys doing the blocking. His face was blacker than the night itself and I knew right away that somebody had crossed him up on another deal. His boat still had a hole in the bottom and if it leaked any more he was going to get swamped.
If it hadn't been so late I would have called Marsha to kiss her hand for pulling me out of a spot, but tonight I didn't want to see anybody and speak to anybody. I wanted to stretch out in bed and think. I wanted to start at the beginning and chew my way through it slowly until I found the tough hunk that didn't chew so easily and put it through the grinder.
Then I'd have my killer.
Two blocks down a hackie tooted his horn at me and I ran for the door he held open. I gave him my address and settled back into the seat. The guy was one of those Dodger fans who couldn't keep quiet about how the bums were doing and talked my ear off until I climbed out in front of my apartment and handed over a couple of bucks.
I got all the way upstairs and there they were again. Two of them this time. One was big as a house and the other wasn't much smaller. The little guy closed in with a badge flashing in his palm while the other one stood by ready to take me if I didn't act right. Both of them kept one hand in their pockets just to let me know that the play was theirs all the way.
The guy said, 'Police, buddy,' and stowed the badge back in his pants.
'What do you want with me?'
'You'll find out. Get moving.'
The other one said, 'Wait a minute,' and yanked my gun out of the holster. Under his flat smile his teeth were yellowed from too much smoking. 'You're supposed to have a bad temper. Guns and guys with bad tempers don't go together.'
'Neither do badges without those leather wallets a cop keeps them in.'
I caught the quick look that passed between them, but I caught the nose of a gun in my back at the same time. The big guy smiled again. 'Wise guy. You wanta do it the hard way.'
'That rod'll make a big boom in here. A nice quiet joint like this people'll want to know what all the noise is about.'
The gun pressed in a little deeper. 'Maybe. You won't hear it, buddy. Move.'
Those two were real pros. Not the kind of hoods who pick up some extra change with nickel-plated rods either. These were delivery boys, the real McCoy. They knew just where to stand so I couldn't move in and just how to look so nobody would get the pitch. One had a pint bottle of whisky outlined in his inside jacket pocket to pour over me so I'd smell like a drunk in case they had to carry me out. And they had that look. Somebody had given the orders to bump me fast if I tried to get rough.
That look was enough for me. Besides, I was curious myself.
We got downstairs and big boy said, 'Where's your car?'
I pointed it out. He snapped his fingers for my keys and got them. The other one did something with his hand and a car down the block pulled away from the curb and shot by us without looking over.
It didn't take much to see what was going to happen. I was getting a one-way ride in my own car. After I was delivered someplace first. I wasn't supposed to know about it. I was supposed to be a real good boy and act nice and polite so they wouldn't have any trouble with me. I was supposed to be a goddamn fool and let myself get killed with no fuss at all while a couple of pros congratulated themselves on their technique.
My head started banging with that insane music that was all kettledrums and shrill flutes blended together in wild discord until my hands shook with the madness of it. What kind of a simple jerk did they take me for? Maybe they thought they were the only ones who were pros in this game. Maybe they thought this had never happened before and if it had I wouldn't be ready for it to happen again.
By God, if they played this the way a pro would play it they were going to get one hell of a jolt. I had a .32 hammerless automatic in a boot between the seat and the door right where I could get at it if I had to.
They played it that way too. Big boy said, 'You drive, shamus. Take it nice and easy or we'll take it for you.' He held the door open so I could get in and was right there beside me when I slid under the wheel. He didn't crowd me. Not him, he was an old-timer. He kept plenty of room between us, sitting jammed into the corner with his arm on the sill. His other arm was in his lap pointing my own gun at me. The little guy didn't say much. He climbed in back and leaned on the seat behind my head like he was talking to me confidentially. But it was the gun he had pressed against my neck that was doing all the talking.
We took a long ride that night. We were three happy people taking a cruise out to the shore. To keep everybody happy I switched on the radio and picked up a disk jockey and made a habit of lighting my cigarettes from the dashboard lighter so they'd get used to seeing my arms move around.
My pal beside me was calling the turns and someplace before we came to Islip he said, 'Slow down.' Up ahead a macadam road intersected the highway. 'Go right until I tell you to turn.'
I swung around the corner and followed the black strip of road. It lasted a half-mile, butting against an oiled- top dirt road that went the rest of the way. We made a few more turns after that and I started to smell the ocean coming in strong with the wind. The houses had thinned out until they were only black shapes on spindly legs every quarter-mile or so. The road curved gently away from the shore line, threading its way through the knee-high sawgrass that bent with the breeze and whisked against the fender of the car with an insidious hissing sound.
Nobody had to tell me to stop. I saw the shaded lights of the house and the bulk of the sedan against its side
