Nick O’Donohoe has worked as a surveyor, an English teacher and as an operator of a puppet show. He is presently working on his dissertation, in the Humanities Doctoral Program at Syracuse University. He plays the guitar and a poor game of poker and is teaching part-time at Virginia Polytechnic Institute. In addition to his Nathan Phillips-Roy Cartley series of short stories, he has completed two novels and is working on a third. He is very fond of his cat, who is sometimes fond of him.
It was the one day a week I could sleep late—so naturally the phone rang. I muttered, “Go away,” and tried to sleep through it. Nobody would keep trying me forever.
But the phone kept ringing, and suddenly there was a furry black tail swishing back and forth in my face. I sat up and dumped the cat off my chest. “Thanks a bunch, Marlowe.” He sneered. “You my answering service these days?” He stood on the bed, lashing his tail and waiting.
I gave in and picked up the phone. “Cartley and Phillips, home office. And Phillips speaking.”
“Nathan.” It was Cartley’s voice, as rasping as I’ve ever heard it. “Nate, I’ve got my living room blocked off, and I want to keep the kids out. It’s that time of the year, you know.” He was trying to sound lighthearted; I’ve heard lighter pile-drivers.
I’m slow at that hour. “And you want help in the living room, right? Ho-ho-ho! But it’s a whole week before—”
“Can’t say, Nate, there’s an extension phone,” he broke in sharply.
A high-pitched giggle came on the line. “Hi, Uncle Roy! Are you talking to Nathan?”
I got the idea, finally. “Who is this? Amy? Paul?” After two outraged denials I had it easy. “Aw, I knew it was you, Howie. Listen, I’ll be right over. Who said you could listen in on us?”
“I can be a detective, too.”
I tried to sound injured. “Why are you bugging me, Howie? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Not yet.” He was triumphantly confident. I was going to be a crook, and the kids would catch me. That always happened when they visited Uncle Roy before Christmas. I loved it.
I said goodbye and stumbled into the bathroom, where I nearly brushed my teeth with Ben-Gay. After that I drove over. By the time I hit the boulevard around Lake of the Isles I was awake enough to wonder why Roy had wanted me over right now.
At the front door I was surrounded; I knelt to hug Amy and Paul, then twisted my right arm forward just enough to shake hands with Howie. “Hi, Howie. Old enough to know better, yet?”
“Getting older,” he said, trying to look world-weary and not doing badly—for a ten-year-old. “Have you been behaving yourself, Nathan?” he added.
I narrowed my eyes and curled my lip. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” I wasn’t sure what kind of a bad guy to be just yet. “Only person I’ll talk to here is my accomplice.” I stood up and called to Roy, “Merry Christmas, almost. We have plans to make in the living room?”
“Sure.” I looked at him and suddenly knew we weren’t going to wrap presents. He edged through the living-room door, blocking the view with his body; I did the same. A haze of cigarette smoke drifted out over our heads. As I came through, Roy glanced behind me nervously. I shut the door quickly, braced it with the doorstop and turned around.
I spun back around, hung my coat over the doorknob to block the keyhole, then walked quickly over and shut the front curtains. Roy sat down in one of the chairs.
“Good thinking,” he said, and rubbed his face. “God, I haven’t been able to think of a thing.”
“Who is he?” I said. It was all I could think of to say.
“What do you mean, ‘who is he?’ ” Roy said irritably. “Don’t look at his chest; concentrate on his face.”
It was hard. My eyes were drawn to the knife wound. He was up against the chimney, his knees folded under him, his body somehow suspended upright. The flesh on his face was sagging. It made him look weary beyond belief.
Then I pictured the same face, slouched forward in the back seat of a squad car. “Gam Gillis!”
“Right.”
“What’s he doing here? You don’t even have a safe.”
Roy gestured at the fireplace, below the body. “He’s hung on the damper. Look at his jacket. The collar must be hooked in back, and all his weight’s on it. When the collar button pops off, down he’ll go.” Cartley felt his pockets methodically, then drummed his fingers against one knee in frustration. “Nate, you got any cigarettes?”
“Sorry.” For the first time in my life, I wished I smoked. Roy was a wreck. “Want me to go for some?”
“No, I want you to take the kids somewhere while the police are here.”
“When are they coming?” He suddenly looked stricken.
“Jesus, Roy, you forgot to call?”
He wiped at his face, nodding. I picked up the phone and began dialing. “By the way, who do you think put Gillis here?”
“Who else? Petlovich.”
“Oh,” I said—but it was a big “oh”; Roy and I had gotten Gillis to turn state’s evidence on Petlovich two years ago, over a jewelry theft we’d been checking out for an insurance company. “You think Petlovich left Gillis as a message. In other words—” I stopped. I didn’t want any other words.
Just then the police answered. “Give me Lieutenant Pederson, please.” While I waited, I asked Roy, “You gonna tell your wife?”
“Hell, no! Her mother sprained her ankle at just the right time. Maybe this’ll be over before she’s back.”
“What about the kids—can you send them someplace?”
“Not a chance. My brother goes wilderness camping in California. The National Guard couldn’t get hold of him.” He felt his pockets again, automatically.
Just then the phone said, “Homicide. Pederson here.”
“Good to hear you. This is Nathan Phillips. How’s Minneapolis’s second finest?”
He answered levelly, “Phillips, any time you give me your full name and say it’s good to hear me, something’s Up. What’s up?”
I must have been as rattled as Roy. “There’s been a murder at Roy’s house. James Gillis, an ex-con; you can look up his connection with us. Oh, and bring a pack of cigarettes?”
Roy called out “Camels,” just as Pederson said, “Camels, right? Sure thing. Wait a minute, aren’t Jack’s kids Visiting Roy now?”
“Yeah. Can you hurry?”
“You bet.” He added too casually, “Did Roy do it?”
“I…” I turned to look at Roy. “Uh, Roy’s okay,” I said carefully. “No. No, of course not. You’ll see.” I hoped he would. “See you when you get here.” I hung up.
“Thanks, Nate. Now let’s go collect the kids.” He stared at the fireplace. So had I, on and off. We were both watching the collar-button hole stretching.
“Waiting for the other shoe to drop,” I said, “When the bough breaks—”
“Nathan, for Christ’s sake!” He glared, and I kicked myself.
“Sorry.” I edged out the door, and the kids jumped up. I said to them, “There wasn’t anything in there at all. He just wanted a quiet place to yell at me for not taking you guys anywhere. So we’re going sledding, right now.”
They scrambled for their coats. Los Angeles kids don’t get much chance for winter sports. Afterwards, I’d take them to my apartment for lunch, and call Roy from there.
Howie grinned and said, “You gonna crash sleds with opened my mouth and Cartley said, “Sure he will.”
Howie grinned and said, “you gonna crash sleds with me?”
“Nathan will love that.” It was the closest to a grin Cartley had managed all morning.
“Yeah,” I said, pulling on my stocking cap, “Nathan loves bruises.” We went.
Incidentally, Nathan got creamed.
The kids loved my apartment. I hadn’t put a thing away in weeks. All kinds of fragile, fascinating oddities were lying about within reach. I said. “Don’t break anything I haven’t already broken,” and went to the kitchen to heat soup and make sandwiches. While I was out there, I heard a giggling and the sound of a cat losing hold of the upholstery.
Before I could get to the door, Amy came into the kitchen, hugging Marlowe and holding him up by his armpits. Marlowe was hanging limp, purring frantically. He raised his pleading eyes to me. His claws, bless his heart, were in.
“Cats break, too, Amy.” I took Marlowe out of her arms, putting an arm under his back legs. He let his claws out just enough to show he was unhappy. “He looks like he wants to go out.” About as far out as Skylab. “Could you open the door?”
She ran over and reached up to the knob. When the door opened four inches Marlowe streaked out. Good enough. I could go down and let him all the way out later.
Paul peered around the kitchen door, then stepped in. “You done anything against the law yet, Nathan?”
“I’m not telling. What’s in your hand?” He opened his fist. Clutched in it was a glass cat.
I took it from him, held it up to the light and polished it, then put it back on his palm and played with the tail to make the cat dance. “That’s Marlowe’s girl friend. A friend gave her to me and said Marlowe needed a steady girl friend.”
Paul examined the statue. “How come she’s clear?”
“My friend said Marlowe’s girl friend should be hard to see, so his other girl friends wouldn’t get jealous.”
In came Howie, then, glancing quickly around the kitchen for signs of iniquity His eyes lit triumphantly on the scotch bottle next to all the dirty dishes.
“So that’s what you’ve been doing, Nathan.” He pointed to the bottle, then to me, like the world’s smallest prosecuting attorney. “You’ve been drinking alone!”
Amy scurried to my defense—sort of. She stood on tiptoe, hanging onto the counter-top and peering over it. “No, he hasn’t,” she said primly.
“How do you know, Blondie?” For a ten-year-old, Howie had a hell of a sneer. I quit being that tough at nine.
She smiled triumphantly. “Anyone can tell, smarty. There are two dirty glasses by the bottle, and one of them has lipstick on it.”
“Nathan’s got a gir-ul, Nathan’s got a gir-ul.” That was Paul. God, they were cute! Suddenly I wished Roy would hurry up.
I picked up Amy and swung her over the counter. You want to have your soup,” I growled, “or shall I cook you up for the rest of us?”
She screamed and laughed, and I put her down. “Soup’s ready,” I announced. They all ran to the table, which Howie, to my surprise, had set. That’s why he hadn’t been in the kitchen earlier, uncovering my sins.
While I was in the kitchen making more sandwiches, there was a pounding on the door, and a deep, grim voice said deadpan, “Police.”
Howie ran to the kitchen and looked at me wide-eyed; I said, “It’s no use. Let them in, and I’ll give myself up.” Howie opened the front door dubiously, and Lieutenant Pederson walked in, grinning, Roy a step behind him.
After “Mr. Pederson” was re-introduced to the kids, and I’d served the sandwiches and the last of the soup, Pederson looked up and said innocently, “Things are kind of slow at the station. How would you like to tour it, and see the jail and the lab?”
They had their coats on before he had even pushed back from the table.
When Roy and I were alone I said, “Now that’s above and beyond the call of duty. What gives?”
Roy looked much happier with life. “Jon didn’t feel the police investigation would turn anything up very fast, so he offered to baby-sit for a couple of hours while we check out some possibilities.”
“Great. Do we have any?”
“Possibilities? Not many. We can’t question Petlovich till someone finds out where he is. His parole officer hasn’t seen him in a while.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Sounds dubious. How long till we can get ahold of him?”
“Maybe this afternoon. We’ll be seeing Gillis’s woman.”
“Long-standing?”
“Same one as when he helped us send up Petlovich. Her name’s Mary Jordan. Two shoplifting convictions and a bad-check charge, dropped later. Otherwise, she’s clean—not hard to be cleaner than the men she hangs around with. She might know where Petlovich is.”
“Fat chance.” I said, pulling on my stocking cap. Cartley looked at me oddly.
“You’re not going to shave?”
I shrugged. “We need to look tough. I always cut myself.”
He shrugged back. Out we went.
Gillis’s apartment was on the east side of 35W, not too far south of downtown. Farther down, in the plusher residential areas, along Minnehaha Creek, there were sound fences on either side of the highway, painted a tasteful, unobtrusive green. Up here, they wouldn’t have put a fence up, and someone would have stolen the paint.
Roy and I climbed up two flights of bowing, scarred stairs to a splintered door. The hallway had visible piles of dirt in the corners and along the baseboards. It looked like any other walk-up, only grimier. The baseboards had shrunk away from the linoleum, and I didn’t blame them.
Roy pounded on the door. We both had enough sense to stand aside. Inside there was a scuffling, and the volume on TV chortled appreciation.
Roy said with no patience, “Miss Jordan, we’re investigators, Cartley and Phillips. We worked with Gam a couple of years back—”
The laughter was cut off and a couple of seconds later the door was jerked open. A black-rooted redhead with booze breath and smeared mascara looked at us. “Come on in. I’d make you some eggs, but I only got fresh ones.”
Roy walked in, first looking through the crack between door and wall to see if anyone was waiting. I glanced out the window at the fire escape. Roy said, “I didn’t expect you to love us, but I didn’t expect you to be drunk in front of the TV today, either.” He was red-faced.
As I came in, she walked over to the encrusted sink-and-stove in the room’s corner, picked up a half-empty flat pint bottle, and stared at it argumentatively.
“Did you hear what he said?” she demanded of it, swaying. “He thinks I shouldn’t drink you.” Then she tipped it up and took a long pull. She giggled as she set it down. She had to be her own laugh-track now.
Cartley looked irritated. He opened his mouth, but I winked at him and he shut up as I said, “Don’t listen to him, lady—drink up. Gillis wasn’t worth staying dry for—why waste an afternoon crying for a down-and-out stoolie with just enough brains to get killed?”
I ducked, but shouldn’t have bothered. The glass went over me by three feet.
“Wait a—” Roy said and stopped as another glass flew by me, low and to the right. Two more tries, and there was nothing within her reach but the bottle. She hefted it, glared at me frustratedly, then took another drink.
Roy sounded like sweet reason itself. “Young Nate, here, came along with his own ideas, ma’am. I came to see if I could track down who killed Gillis.”
She looked at him, startled, and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “Petlovich.” If she had any doubts, they weren’t in her voice. “Nobody else would have killed him. Who would have wanted to?”
“I would,” I offered, keeping in character. “You would have, too, if he hadn’t been your meal ticket.”
She nearly did throw the bottle. “He ain’t given me a dime, you lying bastard. I paid for this place and our food and—hell, he ain’t even taken me out for dinner in two or three months.” She stopped, probably realizing that he wouldn’t, ever again.
Roy said quickly, “All I want is Petlovich’s address, Mary. Nothing else. You want him to go up for it, don’t you?”
She knotted her hands into spindly, white-knuckled fists. “You bet I do.” She pointed at me suddenly. “And I’d send him up, too, if I could!” She ran into the apartment’s tiny bathroom and slammed the door. It was loose in the frame; we could hear her weeping.
Roy said quietly, “Maybe it’d be better from here if you waited outside, Nate. Thanks for priming her.”
“You’re less than welcome.” I meant it. “I’m tired of playing the bad guy.”
On my way out I stopped and looked at a pair of polyester trousers with pulled threads poking out of them, draped over a chair. I glanced toward the bathroom door, then checked the trousers pockets.
No wallet—that had been on the body—but the right front pocket held his checkbook. I flipped idly but quickly through the stubs. For a man that lived off his woman, this guy had been living pretty high lately.
He had written three checks to good restaurants, one to a department store and one for a couple of hundred, marked simply “cash”—all dated within the last three months. He had the deposits recorded in the back. They had been made, one for each check, barely in time and barely enough to cover the amount.
I put the checkbook back. As I did, the bathroom doorknob turned. I gave a quick nod to Roy and edged out to the hall.
Through the door, I could hear him mutter and her snuffle and spit. I shuffled from one foot to the other, idly trying to guess what color the walls had been twenty years ago. I felt like taking a bath.
When Roy came out, he gave me an address in Saint Paul, and away we went. I told him about the checkbook.
“Oho!” he said. “So she was lying about the money.”
“Or else she didn’t know about it.”
Roy looked dubious. “How much were those restaurant checks again?” I told him. “It’s an odd amount, so you can bet he wasn’t cashing a check. Could you eat your way through forty-five dollars and thirty-eight cents’ worth of food at any of those places? Never mind—you probably could.”
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t—not alone. Or with a friend, either, unless I was in the money or thought I was going to be.”
“I know.” He grabbed the armrest as I took a right turn. “She found that address pretty fast, too. Well, we’re headed to see Petlovich, aren’t we?” Roy was cheerful again. On the way to Saint Paul, he made three rotten jokes and yelled at my driving at every other turn. It wasn’t fair. I had signaled at most of those turns, or meant to.
Saint Paul was a bust, a waste of time. We came up the stairs, we knocked from beside the door, we heard a scrambling in the room, we stood back. A slug ripped through the door; Roy let go of the knob, and we both flattened against the wall. After a minute of silence, Cartley threw the door open and we charged in, heads down and guns up.
There was nothing much in the room—a battered suitcase, a sack of groceries, a newspaper and some mail. The window was open, and the shade, jerked down, roller and all, hung half in the window and half out. I looked out. Ten feet below the window were the deep tracks where he had hit, and the footprints of a man sprinting away.
We turned back to the table. Cartley went for the mail and I checked the newspaper. He tossed the letters down in disgust. “Bills!”
“No Christmas cards? Funny, I thought he was on my list.”
“I haven’t gotten one from you either.” Cartley stared at the mail again. “If Petlovich has money, he isn’t paying off debts with it. I wonder why he waited so long to leave town. If the cops didn’t come for him, a collection agency would.”
“I don’t know about his bills, but I know why he didn’t blow town till now.” I showed Roy the Minneapolis Star, afternoon edition. In the lower right-hand corner of the front page was a human-interest story about the body that had been found hung by the chimney in an unnamed Minneapolis home. The article said the police suspected one Willem Petlovich, former second-story man.
Roy stared at it woodenly. “That shouldn’t have spooked him. He had to know he’d be a suspect.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But the paper ties him in explicitly. Maybe he figured he’d have a day or two before anyone knew where to look for him.”
“He’s that dumb?”
“He’s got caught once. By you, even.”
“By you, too. All right, quit the kidding. He got caught because he was ratted on.” We holstered our guns and left.
On the way back, I asked, “Want to report the shooting to Pederson?”
“And catch hell for playing cops without badges or a warrant?” He sighed. “Guess we better. Jon won’t like this. He didn’t take care of the kids so we could go break laws.”
“Yeah. Say, why don’t you drop me off at home? I ought to feed Marlowe, and—”
“Sure. Right after we talk to Jon.” He considered. “No. I’ll wait for you while you feed him now. Nate, I’d really appreciate it if you’d sack out on the couch at my house tonight. Bring your gun.”
It made sense. “Uh, yeah. Roy, while you talk to Jon, can I make a phone call?”
He grinned then. “Okay, coward. But after you talk to that woman nobody’s supposed to know about, you can come in and catch hell like a man.”
I ran a stop sign, unintentionally for once. “Damn it, is everyone on my private life? I suppose the kids told you while I was in the kitchen.”
He leaned back and hitched at his belt. “If you can’t fool visitors, you couldn’t fool your partner.”
“Yeah?” It wasn’t much of a crack, but it was all I had left.
The next morning I opened my eyes and found a pair of cool blue eyes, framed by blond bangs, not more than six inches from my face. I closed my eyes and tried to think. Wasn’t the hair sandier?
Then I remembered where I was and that only made it more confusing. I opened my eyes again and, after a few tries, focussed on the face around the eyes. I pulled the blanket up over my chest, feeling embarrassed and then silly about it.
“Oh! H’lo, Amy.” She was standing beside the sofa. “Sleep well?” She nodded.
I hadn’t. This house had more creaking boards and rattling windows than the House of Usher. “Had breakfast yet?” She shook her head. “What’s the matter, don’t you talk in the morning?”
She straightened her flannel nightgown and folded her arms self-assuredly. “I’m waiting till the others get up,” she said.
Great! I was guilty again. Ah, life as a hardened criminal! I went into the bathroom, brushed my teeth and changed my pajama bottoms for trousers.
I was throwing cold water on my face when I heard a whoop from Howie and a shriek from Paul. I tottered out and collided with Cartley, striding out in his bathrobe to collect the evidence and punish the wicked. He was boiling mad. He looked like a walking bathrobe with a ham roast in it.
In the living room, Amy was standing demurely by the front door while Paul tugged at it. She ran a hand over her blond hair to make sure she looked tidy and grown-up, then turned to Roy. “We caught Nathan. He’s trying to keep us shut in the house, isn’t he?”
Roy laughed, tried to unlock the door, then stopped laughing and threw his weight against it. It didn’t budge.
I was in the kitchen before he hit it a second time.
I rammed the back door with my shoulder, on the dead run. It jarred my teeth, snapped my head back, but the door barely rattled. I tried again. I might as well have hit Mount Rushmore.
I ran back through the sitting room and snatched my gun from under the sofa pillow. I could hear Roy going through closets downstairs; I charged upstairs. I flipped through every wardrobe with my gun muzzle, poked under every bed, even looked in the shower stall and the clothes hamper. Amy and Paul, watching from the living room, must have loved it.
I met Roy back in the sitting room, at the foot of the stairs. I called out before I came down—when I saw his eyes I was glad I had. He was staring every which way and pacing. His gun shivered in his fist like a live mouse.
I said in my calmest deadpan, “Nobody home, Roy. You should make your visitors sign a guestbook. You get such a lot of them.”
He relaxed. “Yeah,” he said and coughed. “I’m beginning to think I should sublet this place.”
“I—” I stopped as Howie came out of the kitchen and lounged against the doorway.
“Nice try, Nathan,” he said, looking sideways at Amy and Paul. He was pale. “Pretty good crime, huh? Lock us in, then finish us off.” He didn’t look like he enjoyed playing anymore. “I wouldn’t even have guessed, if I hadn’t poked around the basement.”
“Jesus!” I was closest. I ran to the kitchen and fumbled frantically with the basement doorknob. Roy was right behind me before I got it open.
It was in the corner near the hot-water heater. Not too surprising, since it was right in front of Roy’s fuel-oil tank. It was small, shapeless and attached to a clock. Anybody over three who watched television could see it was a bomb.
It didn’t look powerful. It didn’t have to be, so long as it set off the fuel-oil tank. I picked up a broom and was shoving the bomb along the floor gingerly, away from the tank, as Paul and Amy slipped past Roy and danced around me, chanting, “We caught Nathan!”
Howie looked relieved. I suppose I looked pretty silly, doubled over and poking delicately from a broom’s length away at a wad of clay, a battery and an alarm clock whose hands were nearly touching.
“Go back upstairs,” I said. Softly. Roy said it louder. They giggled and shook their heads. We couldn’t drag them all out. We might not have time, and if they kicked too hard—
I tossed the broom to Roy, saying, “Shove the bomb in the corner,” in a conspiratorial tone. Then I snatched up Amy and continued, “While I kidnap the girl. Ya ha ha.”
I tucked her under my arm and dashed up the stairs, with Amy laughing and struggling and Paul and Howie in hot pursuit. As I left I called out, “And set it off with your bowling ball!” I hoped he understood.
I only glanced at the front window. I’d never get the kids out in time if the boys caught up with me and tried to “arrest” me before I could break it open. I ran upstairs, to the kids’ bedroom in back; I locked the door for a second while I threw open the window and climbed onto the roof, still carrying Amy. The boys burst in and followed, right on out the window.
We were right over the pile of snow at the end of the driveway. Far below me, through the window, I could hear the muffled grind of a bowling ball rolling slowly across the basement floor; the sound was nearly covered by the hasty slap of flat feet on the basement stairs.
I snarled, “You’ll never take us alive,” wrapped Amy in my arms and rolled off the roof to land on my back in the snow nine feet below.
The wind was knocked out of me, and I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my right side. Above me, the boys were hesitating at the roof’s edge.
As Amy yelled, “Jump! It’s easy,” there was a loud boom from the basement, and the chime of broken glass on the other side of the house as Roy leaped through the front window. The boys jumped and sank in the snow almost to their waists.
I rolled Amy off me as Roy came running up, still in his bathrobe, bleeding from a small cut on his right hand. He felt my side where I was clutching it, said matter-of-factly, “Yep,” and slipped his bathrobe off to put under me.
Then he stood there in his pajamas, looking foolish and cold. “I’ll get you to a doctor. Thanks, Nate.” He shuffled, and looked at the kids, dazed. Amy was still unruffled, but her eyes were shining. Howie and Paul were jumping up and down with excitement.
He looked back at me. “Do you feel all excited too, Nate?”
Talking hurt. It felt that I should slip the words out edgeways. “Gee, Uncle Roy, can we do that again?”
He chuckled, but his jaw jumped as he looked at the back door. I rolled my head cautiously and looked myself. There was a two-by-four across it. Screwed into the doorframe at either end; a U-bolt went around the door knob. If that bomb had ignited the fuel oil, we’d never have gotten out in time.
Suddenly Roy was as cool as I’ve ever seen him. I said, “Roy”—quietly—but he didn’t hear me.
He added, even more quietly, “If it turns out that guy knew the kids were here, I’ll make sure he doesn’t see the inside of a courtroom myself.”
He was shaking, and he wasn’t cold, and even in his pajamas he didn’t look silly at all.
The hospital bed had the usual sheets—snow-white, rigid with starch and smelling like the underside of a band-aid. There was a single Christmas-tree ornament hanging on the bedside lamp, and a cardboard Santa lay on the night stand looking round and two-dimensional. Cut-out letters on the mirror read, Merry Christmas.
Roy looked at his reflection, rubbing his chin—he hadn’t shaved—and said, “You’re supposed to take it easy, and this is the easiest I can get for you.”
I scratched and winced; I could feel the pain all along my side. “My timing’s rotten. Sorry, Roy. You won’t even have the bandage on long. You cracked a rib, not broke it.”
“If you’re not gonna be cheerful, I’m not gonna talk.” I leaned back and sulked while he left, whistling.
I settled back into the pillow, wishing I felt like taking it easy. There was a murderer loose who wanted to kill Cartley, one who wasn’t losing any sleep over killing a few kids in the process. I was in the hospital for twenty-four hours and restricted for much longer. And my partner and best friend was thinking seriously about murder. I tried to take it easy, feeling cold-blooded.
Painful as it was, I shifted restlessly and tried to think. The bombing had been disturbingly amateurish. The bomb itself had been inefficient and the house-barricade childish. Even the first murder smacked of cheap detective shows. Only the break-in showed any professionalism; the first break-in had all the class of Gillis’s and Petlovich’s best effort.
Irrelevantly, I wondered what Gam and Mary did with those nights out on the town. It couldn’t have been anything much; apparently Mary had enjoyed herself, or else wasn’t talking. I pictured a tired thug and a bored woman, eating something Cordon bleu and taking turns reading each other their rights.
I was dozing when the phone rang. I could have ignored it, since Marlowe wasn’t on duty, but I remembered where I was and what was going on before it stopped ringing.
“Yeah?”
“Boy!” It was Howie. “You sure took a long time to get to the phone.”
“Don’t whine. It’s a big room. I was clear across it, dusting the grand piano. What’s up, Howie?”
“Just wanted to tell you I figured out what you’re doing, and why.” He sounded half lighthearted, half scared—strained. I was reminded of Cartley’s call the other morning.
I said, “What?” then had a thought. “No, I take it back. Howie, Amy and Paul aren’t on the extension, are they?”
“No.”
“But they’re in the room behind you.”
“Yes.” On cue I heard them talking in the background, a long way from the phone.
“Howie,” I said cautiously, “you’re pretty sure that bomb this morning wasn’t anything your uncle and I did, aren’t you?”
He let out a quick sigh, then said, “Sure.”
“Do the others know?”
“No way.” He was very firm, almost military.
“Right. Well, we’re not playing, and you know it, so what did you call about?”
He tried to sound. “I’ll bet anything Uncle Roy has gone to see some woman that helps you.”
“Why?”
“’Cause he said he had to see a girl about a restaurant, just after he got a phone call. I thought you’d know about it,” he added in real surprise. “I figured it was your girl helping you.”
I was irritated. “Doesn’t he know any other girls?”
Howie said self-righteously, “He’s married. And if you’ve got more than one girl, I bet you’re in trouble.”
“Not if the first one never finds out—oh, wait. Of course. Sure.” Funny how things fall together when you’re not looking for them. “Howie, thanks for calling. What you just told me was important. But why did you call me? What made it important to you?”
His whisper was moist and breathy; he must have had the mouthpiece right against his lips. “’Cause when Uncle Roy left he took two guns and all kinds of bullets, and I’ve never seen him do that before.”
The sheets weren’t just snowy—suddenly they felt like ice. I said, “I’ll do something about it right now. Howie, nobody ever said you weren’t on the ball, and nobody’s ever going to.”
“Thanks, Nathan,” he said seriously, then hung up.
Right after the click I called Pederson. I was lucky enough to find him in.
“What do you want?” he groused. “Phillips, I thought if you took a rest, I’d have one.
“Fat chance. Are you doing anything?”
“Plenty.”
“Drop it and pick me up at the hospital. Roy needs someone from Homicide.”
“There are other cops besides me, you know.” I could hear the whuff as he lit up one of his cigars and pulled at it. “Some of them are even Homicide.”
“He needs a friend—two of them. He’s in trouble, and some rookie with a gun won’t get him out of it.”
“Why not?”
“Because his own gun’s getting him into it right now.”
That was as close as I could come without committing myself.
It worked. There was a moment’s silence, then Pederson said roughly, “I don’t understand, and I’ll be right over. Be downstairs and ready in ten minutes, even if it hurts.”
Ten minutes later he was there. I was ready, and God, did it hurt! I gave him the address, and he drove faster than I’d have dared through downtown, even with a siren. We skidded onto Lake Street, wove through traffic till we shot under 35W, then screeched into a right turn we almost skidded out of. I filled him in the whole time, not stopping when I grabbed the dash for support.
He interrupted twice. “How do you know all this?”
“The restaurant bills. The man who kept a woman in that slum didn’t show her three good nights on the town.”
He grunted, and we went on. A little later he said, “You know, Phillips, I wish you could have done without me. My badge is sticky; it doesn’t pull off just because a friend’s involved.”
How do you answer that? “I know. I’m hoping we’ll get there before anything too bad happens.” He sped up then. I hadn’t thought it possible.
We pulled in across the street from the building. Roy’s car was nowhere in sight, but maybe he’d stowed it. Pederson headed for the front door, but I pulled at his arm and pointed. We ran to the fire escape and started climbing.
We hung back from the window at first. It was three inches open; we couldn’t hear anything in the apartment. Finally, we looked in. Roy wasn’t there. The only person there was Mary Jordan, a .44 held against her right leg, sitting in a chair and staring at the door.
All three of us tensed; we heard, dimly, footsteps in the hall. I had my gun out again. This time it might do me some good. The woman locked her fingers on her gun and raised it. I steadied my .38 on my left arm. This had to be perfect.
Pederson clamped onto my wrist. I pointed with the gun barrel towards the door, and he understood. He nodded, raised his gun and aimed faster than I could when I was already set, then fired. My own shot was barely behind his.
The shots were a foot apart, three inches from the top of the door. Mine was too far to the side; Pederson’s must have gone right over Roy’s head, if Roy was in front of the door. He was—we heard him drop to the floor; a second later Mary’s gun jumped in her hand, nearly knocking her chair over backwards. The bullet went through the center of the door.
Then we dropped below the sill while she turned, spitting fury, and fired four shots out the window at us. One bullet hit the window frame; it ripped the board loose and powdered an already crumbling brick. Then the door burst open and the spitting sound got louder.
Pederson shoved up the broken window and vaulted over the sill, a virile fifty-odd. I hobbled after him, a doddering old gent of thirty-one. Cartley had her around the waist with one arm and had pinned her arms to her body with the other.
He had lifted her off the floor, turning his hip between her legs to spread them and keep her from kicking backwards. Pederson reached for the handcuffs. I reached for a chair, and sat in it, emptying her handbag on the table.
Inside were matchbooks, still unused, from all the restaurants Gillis had written checks to, plus a receipt—dated two days back—from the store where he had done his previous buying. I looked up.
“Playing detective, Mary? Did you find out who she was?”
She clammed up, then. Pederson looked at her with interest. “Aren’t you even waiting to shut up till I read your rights? You are an amateur.” That stung, but she stayed quiet.
Roy was looking back and forth. He tossed his gun on the table and said, looking tired, “All right, what is it I don’t know?”
I gestured at Mary. “Only what she finally knew. I’m not the only one with an invisible lady friend.”
“Lady friend?” Pederson stared at me. “You? You never even shave—” He shut his mouth as Roy began chuckling.
“I’ve had a busy day—I put off shaving.” I turned to Mary. “One thing I can’t put off, Mary—what’s the name of the girl that aced you out?” I wanted her to make a scene and keep Pederson occupied.
“If I’d ’a known,” Mary said, “the cops’d know by now.”
Roy looked back at me helplessly, then suddenly understood. “The bills?”
I nodded. “If you hadn’t been so worried, you’d have seen it, too. Gam must have been a real bastard, borrowing from Mary to take out some other woman. Mary found out, convinced him to break into your house—probably by saying you had evidence against him—” I glanced at her, but she wasn’t reacting, so I went on— “and stabbed him after backing him up to the fireplace with her gun.
“He did the breaking in. That’s why that was professional, but everything else—the bomb, the bolted doors, the red herring to Petlovich—was amateur. Deadly amateur, but amateur.” Still no reaction—Pederson was looking at me strangely.
I tried my last shot. “He really wiped the floor with her before she got him, though. What a rotten, low-life—”
She tried to swing at me, ignoring Pederson, Roy and her own cuffed wrists. “You wouldn’t dare talk that way if he was here!” she snapped.
Pederson grabbed her. I sidled over quietly, picked Roy’s gun off the table and said politely to him, “Roy, I’d like to shake your hand. We made it.”
Roy still had one hand in his coat. He looked at me narrowly, then grinned and stuck out his empty hand. His pocket hung limp. “Thanks for trying, Nate, but the other gun’s in the glove compartment. I cooled down on the way over here. One of the kids tipped you off?”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling silly. “That Howie is growing up fast; he and Amy make a hell of a team. She’s sharper than he is, but he’s trying to turn pro.”
Roy glanced at Mary Jordon. She was sobbing in frustration as Pederson edged her towards the door. “Tell him not to try too hard, will you?”