A Bomb Built in Hell

“Who?”

“In the library, Pet. There’s not but one way to do these things.”

“She’ll never see the writing, anyway,” the kid put in.

“That’s not the point,” Wesley replied. “What if they got an x-ray thing going, or something else we don’t know about? No risks if you don’t need to, right?”

“Who’s going to write the invitation?”

“None of us can do it, that’s for sure.”

The kid was studying the stationery. “I know an old woman who used to do this,” he said.

“Go to these parties?”

“No, write these invitations. She’s in a nursing home where they put me to work when I was on parole once. Those places are just like the joint, if you’re old. Anyway, she used to make money addressing these things for some rich people—it was part of her job before they said she got too old to work. Then they dumped her into that home. She’s still there.”

“How d’you know?”

“I go and see here every once in a while—she tells the other old people I’m her grandson. She used to sneak me extra food when I was doing time there.”

“She’ll address this for you?”

“Sure.”

Wesley looked at the kid. “After that, you got to leave her there.”

“No, the fuck I do! They already left her there—she’s already dead as far as the motherfuckers are concerned. She’d never rat me out.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. She don’t care about living anymore anyway—she knows what’s happening ... what happened to her, right? I could fucking tell her why we was doing this and she’d be okay even then. Wesley, she knows I steal; she’s old, but she’s not slow. She’s just doing time.”

“What’s she know about you?”

“Just what she thinks my name is, that’s all. And that I give a fuck about her. She’s not giving that up.”

Wesley looked at Pet. The old man nodded: “When I was Upstate, the only people who you could ever count on visiting you was your mother, or your sister, or your grandmother. What’s she got to gain by giving the kid up? Besides, they’re never going to find that envelope.”

Wesley gave the kid several envelopes and some stationery. “Here’s the address of the broad, okay?”

“Okay. I’ll tell her that I got a job for her, get her to address a whole bunch of them. She’ll never know what’s happening.”

The kid went out the door alone. He was back in ten seconds. “Wes. That dog...”

“I know. Be right there.”

50/

8:00 a.m., Thursday morning. Wesley stood in front of the giant mirror in his bedroom. He had shaved extra carefully; Pet had given him an immaculate haircut and a professional manicure. On his left hand was a heavy white-gold wedding band, on his right a college ring from Georgetown University, 1960. He wore a dark grey, summer-weight, silk-and-mohair suit, a soft green shirt with a spread collar, and a tiny-patterned grey tie with a moderate Windsor knot. He carried a slim attache case, complete with combination lock and owner’s monogram; the initials were “AS.” Wesley checked the gold-cased watch; it was right on time.

The El Dorado looked as if it had been polished with beige oil, gleaming even in the dim light of the garage.

Wesley was ostentatiously parking right in front of a plug on Sutton Place by 9:30, well within the doorman’s line of sight.

The doorman noted the El D with genuine approval. Too many of the high-class creeps in his building drove those foreign cars for his taste, anyway. He liked the looks of the guy getting out of the car, too. Calm and relaxed, not like those rush-rush faggots who breezed by him like he didn’t exist. And the way the guy parked the hog right in front of the plug and never looked back? That was real class, too.

Wesley smiled at the doorman—they understood each other.

“Will you please ring the Benton suite? Tell them Mr. Salmone is here.”

“Yessir!” snapped the doorman, pocketing Wesley’s ten-dollar bill in the same motion.

The lady in 6-G asked him to repeat the name a couple of times, then to describe the waiting man ... and finally said to allow him up. Wesley walked past the doorman and into the lobby. The elevator cages were both empty. He stepped in, pushed the button, and rode to the sixth floor.

“What about the elevator operator?” Wesley had asked. Pet answered, “No sweat, the cheap motherfuckers fired them both a year ago. They said it was for efficiency, right? But they left a couple of old guys without a job to do it.”

6-G was all the way in the right-hand corner, just as the floor plan had shown. Wesley raised his hand to the bell, but the door was snatched open before he could make contact.

“Who are you?” the woman demanded.