Manslaughter (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #15) Page 2

  “You got a dog?”

  “I got a backyard. My wife got a dog.”

  “How’s your wife?”

  “Same as ever. There ain’t no pill for that. How’s yours?”

  “Not bad. Last summer I took her for vacation to a bed-and-breakfast in New Hampshire.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “Someone got killed.”

  “That sort of puts a damper on the trip.”

  “And she got sick.”

  “Acid reflux?”

  “I don’t recall. I think it was just a cold.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, it was really nice of you to drop in, catch up on old times.”

  “Fine. Be that way. I won’t tell you about meeting someone in a bar with a flower in my lapel.”

  “A flower.”

  “Yeah. A rose.”

  “This is for identification?”

  “Well, it ain’t for looks.”

  “Who you meeting? Man or woman?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “And they don’t know you?”

  “They don’t know my client. At least, I hope they don’t.”

  “Your client’s meeting someone in the bar?”

  “Hypothetically.”

  “Don’t start that again.”

  “Okay, my client’s not meeting someone in the bar. If my client were meeting someone in the bar—”

  “I said don’t start that.”

  “It’s not a hypothetical. I told you. I’m wearing the flower. My client was asked to be somewhere wearing a flower. He’s not going. I’m going instead. Now then, am I in trouble?”

  “You’re always in trouble. If it weren’t for me getting you out of trouble, you’d probably be in jail. That’s assuming you weren’t dead.”

  “I thank you for that egocentric, self-aggrandizing assessment. Do you think you could apply your finely tuned police mind to the current situation? If I were to follow the steps as I have outlined them to you, would I be in any legal trouble?”

  “I would say the odds are very good.”

  “I’m not talking odds. I’m talking facts. I do like I said. You got any grounds to arrest me?”

  “That would depend.”

  “On what?”

  “On what happens next. A guy walks up to you, says, ‘Hi, you Julius Gottsagoo?’ You gonna say, ‘Yes’?”

  “If I don’t the conversation’s over.”

  “No, it’s not. See, that’s where you fall down. You’re not devious enough. Your thinking is too logical, straightforward. But ‘Are you Julius Gottsagoo?’ is not necessarily a yes-or-no question. You can always say something noncommittal, like tell him to go fuck himself.”

  I smiled. “That’s a quote from W. C. Fields. Not from the movies, of course, not back then. But supposedly his reply on being told the producer wanted to know when he was going to stop drinking and get back to the set. I’m surprised you know it.”

  “I don’t know it,” MacAullif said, irritably. “I was suggesting what you could do.”

  “Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind. Anyway, despite this clever deflection you suggested, it seems to me entirely likely the perpetrator will see through the subterfuge and know he’s being had.”

  “In which case I would advise staying in the bar. He’ll have a harder time shooting you there.”

  “That’s encouraging.”

  “At any rate, I’d be very wary if the gentleman asks you to take a walk.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  MacAullif scowled, then reached in his drawer again. This time he came out with a cigar, and began drumming it on the desk. “This whole adventure strikes me as very high risk, low reward. I mean, what’s the best result? The guy takes you for your client, levels with you, tells you what he wants. It’s something absolutely simple, and your client handles it and the problem goes away. I would say the odds of that happening are at best a hundred to one.

  “Scenario two: The guy realizes you’re not your client, gets pissed off, and spills the beans to his wife and daughter. The chance of that happening: excellent, probably an even-money bet.

  “Scenario three: Guy could care less whether you’re you or your client, demands hush money to fade from the scene. Also an even-money chance.

  “Scenario four: Guy does not want money but has other demands. Requires that your client do things with or without knowing why they are being done. Odds of that, maybe one in four.”

  “You’re already over a hundred percent.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your odds don’t add up.”

  “Give me a break. I’m trying to help you here.”

  “Good. ’Cause I need your help. Only not in fixing odds.”

  “No? What did you have in mind?”

  “First off, I agree with you right down the line. This is a high-risk, low-reward game, and I think it’s entirely likely no matter how this is played that the perpetrator doesn’t tip his hand, even to the extent of letting us know who he really is.”

  “A-ha,” MacAullif said. “Your plan is to tail him after the meeting to see if you can get a line on him. Only problem is he’ll have met you. He’ll know who you are. If this deal is as unkosher as it sounds, he’ll be watching his tail to make sure you’re not tagging along behind.”

  “You happen to be free at six-thirty?”

  MacAullif rolled his cigar between his hands as if it were Play-doh. “You certainly took a long time to get around to it. My part in this whole wretched enterprise finally becomes clear. You want me to hang out in the bar, pick up the perpetrator when he contacts you, and tail him when he leaves.”

  “Not at all.”

  MacAullif frowned. “You don’t want me to tail the guy? So what the hell do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to wear the rose.”

  4.

  MACAULLIF LOOKED EMBARRASSED as hell sitting on the bar stool with a flower in his lapel. And for good reason. The Purple Onion wasn’t exactly a gay bar, but it wasn’t exactly a straight bar, either. In the half hour he’d been there, two guys had hit on him already. Growling at the second one had earned him a momentary respite, while others weighed the risk of coming over.

  I, on the other hand, had only been hit on once, and I hadn’t growled at anybody. I wondered if I should take it personally.

  I also wondered, belatedly, if the guy MacAullif had growled at could be our man. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the head? But surely a blackmailer would be somewhat more persistent.

  Anyway, I sat at the end of the bar, sipping a three-dollar Diet Coke, which I was damn well getting a receipt for and billing to Mr. Balfour.

  Yeah, I know. A TV detective would have worn the rose, made the contact, bluffed it through. But that works on TV because the script needs it to work, and the star has to have the big part. I’m not on TV and I don’t have to have diddly if I don’t feel like it. Besides, MacAullif was big and beefy, and looked like he could have killed someone with a punch. Indeed, at the moment, he looked very much like he might do it again.

  At any rate, if our man didn’t know what Balfour looked like, MacAullif ought to be able to make the sale.

  I glanced around. The bar was quite full, the customers enjoying happy hour, or whatever other come-on the joint had going. It was a trendy midtown bar, neither its high prices nor its purple walls having managed to drive the clientele away. Nor had the oil paintings hanging there, rather garish numbers depicting either French countrysides or rural America—my expertise in art extends only so far as being able to distinguish naked women from poker-playing dogs.

  The room was long and narrow, boasting a street frontage of no more than fifteen feet. The bar itself ran from shortly inside the door to halfway back to the men’s room. Per MacAullif’s instructions, he was sitting at the back end of the bar, and I was seated at the end nearest the door so that when our man left I would have no trouble following him out. This was a fairly obvious tactic—I flattered myself even
I would have thought of it.

  It was a quarter to seven when she showed. I spotted her the moment she came in the door. But I take no credit for it. I would have spotted her anywhere. She was a living, breathing Barbie doll, dressed to thrill.

  It was still quite warm for October, and she wasn’t wearing much. But what she was wearing was choice. Her maroon dress probably clashed with the purple decor, but who could care? It was of a thin fabric that hung loosely from her bare shoulders by narrow straps, a one-piece outfit, cinched at the waist by a fanny pack, and stopping just below the hip. If she was wearing panties, they must have been of the thong variety, as she was flashing plenty of cheek. She was certainly wearing no bra, clearly depriving Victoria’s Secret of a few C-cup sales. She was somewhere in that dangerous age between too-young-for-me and how-did-I-ever-get-to-be-so-old? Don’t get me wrong—I’m a happily married man, basically a noncombatant. Still, a cat may look at a queen.

  Anyway, there she was with her little ski-jump nose, her bright blue eyes, her medium-cut auburn hair bouncing along as if she hadn’t a care in the world, striding into the Purple Onion with determination on her face, and a manila envelope in her hand.

  It was like an old western movie when Black Bart entered the saloon. Conversation stopped. Heads turned. Even some of the gay guys gawked. Singles parted like the Red Sea as Barbie sashayed the length of the bar and straight up to MacAullif. She leaned in, smiled, and said something to him. MacAullif smiled and said something back.

  And she hauled off and slapped him across the face with the quickest right this side of Madison Square Garden. It was openhanded, but it had some muscle behind it. It was as loud as the crack of a bullwhip.

  I have never seen MacAullif quite so startled. Or quite so humiliated. His face was bright red where she had slapped him, and bright red where she hadn’t slapped him as well. He was so surprised, she was halfway to the door before he even caught his breath. He turned, jerked the flower from his lapel.

  That was our signal, but I didn’t need it. My radar was locked on before she traveled the length of the bar.

  Barbie came out the front door of the Purple Onion, headed for Fifth Avenue. I wondered what MacAullif had said to her. Of course, that made me no different than anyone else in the bar. I just had a little more to go on. Apparently, MacAullif’s deflection had not been as successful as he’d hoped. I wondered if he’d told her something noncommittal, like to go fuck herself.

  The girl crossed Fifth Avenue, headed for Sixth. I shouldn’t say girl, I’ll get trashed by feminists. She was a young woman. And how. She was turning heads and stopping traffic. I swear, a taxi driver almost drove into the back of a bus. Barbie took no notice, just smoothly strode along, creating havoc. She either didn’t care if she was followed, or hadn’t considered it, because she never looked back. Even so, I kept a good distance and stayed out of sight.

  As she walked along, Barbie whipped a cell phone out of her fanny pack and made a call.

  She didn’t talk long. Yet another reason to like her. Some women walk along with a cell phone plastered to their ear. Not her. Barbie was all business. She was on the phone less than a minute.

  Barbie kept walking west. At Broadway and Forty-fifth Street she went into the Virgin Megastore and headed for the side wall where the top fifty albums were arranged at listening stations. I ducked into the alphabetical rock-and-roll section and watched from a distance while she donned headphones to check out the latest popular music. While I watched she sampled the likes of *NSYNC, Destiny’s Child, and Britney Spears. I wasn’t sure if that was an indication of just how young she was, or just how old I am.

  When they show surveillance on TV they always resort to a dissolve, or cut-to, or a fade-out fade-in. Real life is different. There’s no time limit, no commercial interruptions. If a girl wants to listen to the whole CD rack, she can damn well do it. Luckily, Barbie hung up her earphone and turned to go.

  Only, she didn’t leave. Instead, she headed straight for me.

  I did what any good private eye would do in a situation like that. I had a moment of panic. I jerked a CD from the rack in front of me and pretended to look it over. In point of fact, I couldn’t even tell you the artist. I just wanted to put something between me and her. Here she comes right at me and what am I gonna do now?

  Actually, I stood there like a statue while she went right by, fanning herself with the manila envelope and humming some tune or other, probably by Britney Spears. Out of the corner of my eye I watched her pass me and disappear down a row of CDs. I tried to peer over the rack, but it was too high. I could just barely see the top of her head. That was okay, as long as I could keep her in sight and not lose her until she left the store.

  Assuming she ever left. The Virgin Megastore is indeed mega, boasting various levels, the bottom of which housed a multiplex movie theater. If she opted for a film, I hoped it was one I hadn’t seen.

  She took the escalator down to the lower level. I hurried to the railing, peered over just in time to see her head into the bookstore.

  Excellent. As far as I was concerned, that was my first break of the day. I had been in that bookstore before. It had only one exit, right out the same way she went in. I popped into the DVD section, settled down to watch the door.

  She was out five minutes later, sailed right by the cash register without buying anything, got on the escalator up. Good. At least she wasn’t going to the movies. Maybe she’d leave the store and go home.

  It sure looked that way. I hit the main floor just in time to see her going out the front door.

  There she went with long, purposeful strides, turning heads again, her full breasts bouncing underneath the thin fabric, both arms swinging free as she—

  Uh-oh!

  Where the hell was the manila envelope? Had she lost the manila envelope? Had she forgotten she was carrying the manila envelope? Had she set it down and walked away without thinking? Could she really be that careless with the blackmail evidence?

  What the hell did I do now? Go back inside the megastore, try to retrace her steps, see if it was still where she left it? That envelope was pretty damn important. Or I could follow her and see where she went. No choice there. I’d lost the envelope, an embarrassingly bad move. But there was no way to rectify it. I had to stay with the girl.

  Yeah, I know I said girl again. I’m upset. I’m not going to apologize every time. I’ll try to remember to call her Barbie. Though that’s even worse.

  I came out on Broadway into the crush of a million tourists moving through Times Square. Ah, Forty-second Street, once a hallowed haven for hookers, smut, and pornography, now transformed by Disney and Warner Brothers and The Lion King into a mecca of movie shops and multiplexes. I cannot walk through Times Square these days without a sense of loss.

  I followed Barbie as she mingled her way downtown through the tourists. At Forty-third Street she hailed a cab. That might have been a good move, if there hadn’t been another cab just two cars behind. I hopped in, and made the driver’s day.

  “The cab up there,” I said. “Don’t lose it.”

  The cabbie had a turban and a beard and a name with no vowels on his license. I was sure he was going to ask me for identification, but he just reached up and touched a button on his meter, lighting up the fare, a two-dollar base charge, plus the fifty-cent surcharge some cabs charge after dark—in twenty years in New York I still haven’t figured out for what.

  The light changed. I waited for the cab ahead of us to pull out.

  It didn’t.

  Instead, the girl hopped out and disappeared into the crowd, heading up Broadway, back the way she came.

  I tried to hop out of my cab, but it was no use. The driver, wily bastard that he was, hit autolock, a device designed to keep passengers from beating him out of his fare. It worked well. There was no way I was getting out of his cab without coming up with two dollars and fifty cents.

  Cursing mightily, I dug in my pants pocket, fumble
d for change. The fifty cents I had. The two bucks I didn’t. I had to break a five. I handed it to him, said, “Give me three bucks back.” He didn’t look pleased, but I was damned if he was getting a tip.

  Freed from the cab, I fought my way up Broadway, searching for Barbie. Naturally, she was nowhere to be found.

  On a hunch I headed back to the megastore, in case her cab maneuver had not been to ditch me, but because she suddenly remembered she forgot her envelope. It was a good theory, it was just wrong. There was no envelope, no Barbie, no nothing.

  In attempting to tail Barbie, I had done the worst possible job. What was I going to say to my client?

  I had no idea. But that was the least of my worries.

  What was I going to say to MacAullif?

  5.

  “YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

  “MacAullif—”

  “You hang me out to dry and then you lose the girl?”

  “I didn’t hang you out to dry.”

  “I suppose you didn’t lose the girl, either?”

  “Actually, the word girl isn’t politically correct.”

  “Hey, a girl smacks me in the face for no reason at all, I’ll call her whatever I want.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t say a goddamned thing. Girl walks up to me, says, ‘Who are you?’ I say, ‘Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,’ and she gives me the mitten.”

  “Probably tired of cliché pickup lines.”

  “I wasn’t trying to pick her up and she knew it. I was the guy with the flower.”

  “You were the wrong guy with the flower.”

  “No shit. You should have been the guy with the flower, and I should have been the guy on her tail. Then we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

  “Think you wouldn’t have lost her?”

  “That piece of work? Please. Take ninety-nine out of hundred PIs, put ’em in Times Square, and if they wound up followin’ someone, it would be her.”

  “Yeah, MacAullif. But if she wanted to ditch you, she would.”

  “She wanted to ditch you and she did.”

  “Yeah, and why did she want to ditch me?”