Cold Night

own disjoined self.

He grunted, staggering forward.

Dannon was next to him. That much he knew. Dannon was shouting, pointing with his long hand, and Paine fought his body and stood still and looked where Dannon was pointing.

Everything slowed as if he had been dropped into water. The alley was black but suddenly it became very bright. There was light ahead. Someone stepped out of the darkness, a man-boy with a leather jacket on. He pointed something at Paine. Paine remembered the man in the trench coat with the wedge of neck missing, the thick clotting flow of red that melted into the rain and made the man sleep. The man’s eyes had looked as though the life had been yanked out in one surprised pull.

'Paaaaaaaaaine!” he heard. The world slowed even more. The figure in front of Dannon’s pointing finger moved, stepped into the bright light, because part of it, the thing in his hand, the bright sun-flash of the thing in hand pointed at Paine. .

When Paine awoke in the hospital twelve hours later, Dannon was there to tell him what had happened. The boy with the leather jacket on was fifteen years old. The thing in his hand had been a four-cell Radio Shack flashlight he’d gotten for free that afternoon. He had stepped into the alley to try it out. His mother had told him not to go out but he had gone anyway. He was not the one they were looking for. Dannon told him that he had yelled for Paine not to fire; that Paine had taken out his gun and pointed it at the boy. Dannon told him how the alley had lit up like lightning when Paine fired his.38. He hit the boy in the head from five feet away, killed him instantly.

'You yelled, ‘Uncle Martin!’ when you fired, Jack, ' Dannon said, unsmiling. Later, at the inquest, unsmiling, Dannon said the same thing.

For a while, at twenty-five thousand feet in the air, Paine imagined the jet engine’s screams were his own.

SEVENTEEN

Paine's call to Bobby Petty went right through this time. No one told him Petty was out; no one put him on hold and made him listen to bad music.

'Kicked some ass, Bobby?' Paine asked. He noticed that Petty had taken his call in the quiet place again. No typewriters, no voices.

Petty grunted.

'Dannon been bothering you?'

'Dannon can fuck himself.'

'I'm sure he couldn't get it right.'

'That's a cheery thought, Jack. I got you something on Lucas Druckman.'

'Tell me about Druckman.'

Petty hesitated. 'Okay, I'll tell you about Druckman.' Paine could tell there was something else Bobby had to tell him, something that he was waiting for the right moment to say.

'Is Druckman dead?' Paine asked.

'Yes, Druckman's dead. Someone found him in the trunk of a car in L.A. seven years ago with his face blown off. Somebody must have been very mad at him. LAPD figured he had sharked the wrong guy, maybe borrowed a little too much himself. Maybe he wasn't very good with records. That's not the weirdest thing about this guy, though. Looks like he was another wash job.'

'Jeez. .'

'Nobody named Lucas Druckman existed before 1970. No birth records, nothing.'

'Morris Grumbach was involved with two wash jobs? Was he some sort of broker for the FBI?'

'It's possible.'

'But why? And if he was, why did the FBI let the scumbags they gave him run all over him?'

'I hit a wall on that, just like with Paterna.'

Paine had a sudden thought about the third photo that had been grouped with Paterna and Druckman. 'Think your person in L.A. would be willing to take a look at a picture, try to make an ID?'

'Sure, drop it off,' Bobby said. 'He owes me a couple of favors. Listen, Jack,' Bobby continued, 'there's something else I've got to tell you.'

'Something with Ginny? She call you or Terry?'

'Nothing like that. It's that friend of yours at the Barker Agency. Jimmy Carnaseca.'

'What did Jimmy do?'

'He got killed.'

'Oh, Christ Jesus.'

'He was taking money from some guy to check on his wife, and messing with her himself. The guy killed Jimmy, winged the wife.' Bobby continued sarcastically, 'The guy forgave the wife, says they're going to save their marriage.'

'Christ,' Paine said.

'I know you liked him, Jack. I'm sorry. They're going to wake him tomorrow night at Thompson's in the Bronx.'

'Sure, Bobby. Listen, I've got to go.'

'You'll be all right?'

Tonelessly, Paine said, 'Sure.'

'Like I said-'

'I'll call you if I need you, Bobby.'

He let the phone fall into its cradle.

'Oh, Jesus,' he said.

The night man recognized him this time and nodded briefly over the top of his Daily News as Paine signed in. The elevator up to the agency was noisier than usual. Paine thought of Gloria Fulman's elevator, the smooth, regularly oiled mechanism that pulled it gracefully up, the sour look that would cross Gloria Fulman's face if it dared make a noise ('Barbara, have someone look at that').

The elevator jarred to a stop and Paine yanked the rusting, lopsided gate back and pushed his way out into the lobby of the Barker Agency. The carpet was old. There was a flattened, shoe-worn tread in it that wound past Margie's reception desk and down the hall. Paine followed it to Jimmy Carnaseca's office.

'Hey, Jack, you should do what I do,' he almost heard Jimmy say.

Sure, Jimmy.

The door to Jimmy's office was locked. Paine tried to push it open, and then he took off his jacket and balled it around his right fist and put it through the glass. The cheap stenciled name on the door shattered, the J in Jimmy falling off into darkness.

He reached in and unlocked the door. The police had been here. Nothing had been removed, but he felt like a man whose house has been entered by a stranger in his absence and, though nothing is stolen, the atmosphere itself feels violated. Everything was almost in Jimmy's place for it-Paine knew that each item had been lifted, looked over and then put back. Soon someone would come and take everything away. Whatever the police didn't want would get thrown out. Jimmy had no family. He had run away from the circus at the age of thirty to become a private eye.

Paine flipped on the light switch.

The thing Jimmy had been building was on his desk. The cops must have puzzled over that one. It was a mass of odd angles. It still looked as though it might be some sort of bridge when finished. Paine decided that that was his final guess.

Paine picked up the box. It was empty of pieces. Maybe the police had taken them. He turned the box over. There was no picture on the cover; stenciled across the blank cardboard were the words 'Contents: 500 wood sticks.' The box had been filled with little sticks of wood that Jimmy had randomly glued together. A practical joke.