Ed McBain (33 page)

He started up the iron brackets set into the sewer wall. He started up rapidly, but the rat was fast, too. He screamed aloud when it leaped onto his foot. He could feel it clinging to his shoe. He shook his foot, climbing up closer to the manhole lid all the time, but the rat clung, and it seemed as if every nerve ending in his body had suddenly moved into his foot. He forgot the pain in his arm, and he forgot the rusted rough edges of the brackets as he climbed closer to the lid. He was aware only of the rat's weight on his foot, of those glittering, pinpointed eyes down below him.

And then the rat began climbing up the tweed of his trousers, and Johnny screamed again, in real fear this time, fear that crackled into his skull. His head banged against the manhole lid, and he rushed up against it frantically, wedging his shoulders against the flat iron surface, trying to move it. He could not budge the cover. He tried it again, and he felt the rat's claws digging into his trousers, scraping against his flesh.

He tried to scream, but no sound came from his mouth. He pushed upward with his shoulders again, and this time the lid moved a little, and a fine sifting of dirt trickled down onto the back of his neck. He shoved again, and then tried to brush the rat off his leg. The rat clung, snapping at his hand, drawing fresh blood. Johnny's breath came fast now, crowding into his throat. He shoved at the cover and it moved aside, and the light from the street splashed down into the manhole, illuminating the rat.

It was a big animal, nine inches or so not counting the tail. It was covered with matted, filthy fur and the sight of the rat made Johnny's flesh crawl. But the manhole cover was off now and he thrust his head above the surface of the street, not caring about Bugs or his friends, not caring about anything now, wanting only to get away.

The rat pounced onto his arm, its teeth sinking into the sodden bandage. Johnny flipped up onto the asphalt and the rat clung, only now Johnny didn't have to worry about clinging to an iron bracket. He balled his left fist, terror shrieking inside him, and brought it down on the rat's head. The rat clung fiercely.

He got to his feet and ran across the street, stopping alongside the brick wall of a building. And then he began battering the bleeding arm against the brick, over and over again, slamming the tenacious rat against the wall.

And at last the rat's jaws loosened and it fell away to the pavement, a whimpering ball of fur with a long, twitching tail. He did not look down at the rat. He was crying now, crying as he'd never cried in his life. He ran up the street, sobbing and wondering why he'd had to run all his life, all his damn life.

And then he stopped running and fell to the pavement, and blackness closed in on him.

It was Marie who found him ten minutes later as she made her way down the street. It was she who carried him home, half dragging him, half pulling him. It was she who sent for the doctor.

The doctor treated and bandaged his arm, and Johnny slept all that night and through the next day.

Marie and Johnny's parents were by his bedside when he awoke, and the first thing he said was, "Why do I have to keep running? Why?"

And because they thought he was referring to Angelo's death, they said, "The police found the killer, Johnny. It's all right now. It's all right."

Only Johnny Trachetti knew that it wasn't all right, and that maybe it would never be.

This Richard Marsten story was first published as "Murder on the Keys" in the February 1956 issue of
Argosy.
I don't know why editors—especially magazine editors—insist on changing good titles to invariably lousy ones. I have always liked this story, and I have always liked my original title for it, which is what appears on it now.

T
HE STATE OF
F
LORIDA IS A
L
UGER.

You think of it as a broad beaver's tail jutting out into the Atlantic but it isn't that at all. There's a perpendicular bar of real estate on the northern end, spreading west to form the muzzle of a pistol, and the muzzle is narrow and thin in comparison to the broad grip of the gun, the way a Luger tapers down to a narrow, lethal grace. You'll find Sun City curling down like the trigger of the gun, and if you travel down the western side of the notched grip, you'll find the Gulf beaches. One of those beaches is called Pass-A-Grille, and it's as much a part of the Luger as the slide mechanism and the clip.

In Pass-A-Grille that week, they talked of nothing but the weather.

The snowstorm had swept through Ontario and Quebec, rampaged into New York State, and then ripped southward. In Tallahassee, Florida, a surprised citizenry awoke to find sleet and snow and a low temperature of thirty-four degrees—and in Pass-A-Grille, there was a cold, steady rain together with high winds.

People came into the diner with the collars of their coats high, their eyes watery from the angry winds that blew raw off the bay. It was a cold March in Florida, and people looked at the skies and said, "It'll break tomorrow"—but tomorrow never came.

David Coe watched the skies, too.

David owned a boat. It was a thirty-six-footer and not a yacht, but it had a good engine and it managed to earn its keep. When the weather was good, David carried fishing parties. He could usually get up a good party in Pass-A-Grille. "His rates were reasonable and he got all kinds of fishermen—when the weather was good. The weather was not good. The weather was lousy, and he was contemplating a pretty lean week when Leslie Grew came down to the docks.

Grew was a thin man with gold-rimmed spectacles, no more than thirty-eight but with the tired look of a man of seventy. His shoulders were hunched, and he took tentative, birdlike steps as he came down onto the wood planking. He glanced over his shoulder every now and then, almost as if he had a nervous tic. He had thin, sandy-brown hair, and it danced on top of his head, rising and falling with the fresh gusts of wind that whipped off the water. He seemed not to notice the rain. He walked directly to where David was squatting on the deck of the
Helen,
cleaning out the bait well.

"Mr. Coe?" Grew asked. He had a deep voice, surprising because it came up from such a narrow chest.

"Yes?"

"I want to rent your boat."

David squinted up at him. He was surprised by the unexpected windfall, but he was also suspicious of a man who wanted to go out in this kind of weather.

"How many in your party, Mr.—"

"Grew," he supplied, and he looked at David long and hard, as if trying to see whether or not the name meant anything to him. "Leslie Grew," he added and he kept looking, and David simply nodded because the name meant nothing.

"How many in the party?" David asked again.

"Two," Grew answered.

"How long do you expect to be out?"

"That depends. I'd say a week or so."

"You and your friend must be hardy fellows," David said.

"My friend is a woman," Grew answered. "My secretary."

"This is a fishing boat. Does your secretary fish?"

"Is the boat for hire or isn't it?" Grew asked impatiently. "I haven't the time to argue."

"I didn't say I was renting."

"I'm a friend of Sam Friedman," Grew said.

"Yeah?"

"Yes. He suggested I try you. He said you would rent us the boat for a week or so. It's really quite urgent."

"How well do you know Sam?"

"Not too well," Grew admitted. "He told me you were in the Army together. He said you were a man to be trusted. Are you?"

"It depends on what I'm entrusted with." David looked at his watch. "Come back at noon. I want to call Sam first."

"Certainly," Grew said. He paused and then added, "We'd like to get under way as soon as possible. We'll bring our stuff with us when we come."

"I'm not sure you're going yet," David said.

Grew allowed a tiny smile to briefly appear on his face. "I'm willing to gamble, Mr. Coe," he said.

***

David walked over to the diner and crowded himself into a phone booth. Sam Friedman worked on the Sun City afternoon daily, and David had known him for a long time. Sam knew the way David felt about things in general, and it sounded strange that he'd recommend Grew and his "secretary."

When Sam came on, David said, "Hi. David Coe. Sam, who's Leslie Grew? He wants to rent a boat. He's also got a girl with him. Why'd you send him to me?"

"I'd like you to take him aboard. I'd appreciate it a lot. It'll just be for a week or so. The secretary—it's not what you think it is."

"Is he in trouble with the law?"

"No."

"What then? Look, Sam, give it to me. All of it."

There was a long silence on the line. Sam sighed then and said, "I can't, David. Not even a part of it. If you take them aboard, you'll be doing a lot of people a favor. But I won't try to influence you. I don't want to be responsible for getting you involved."

"What's there to get involved in?"

"I can't say another word, David."

"I just wasted a dime," David said. He paused, sighing. "I'll think it over. In the meantime, have you got any other interesting business for me? Like smuggling in some Cubans, or heroin?"

"Go to hell," Sam said, a smile in his voice.

David hung up and went out of the booth and over to the counter. He ordered a cup of hot coffee, and Charlie went over to draw it while David mulled over Leslie Grew and Company. He was still mulling when the coffee came. The diner was empty except for him and Charlie. When the door opened, David didn't look around.

The fellow who sat down at the end of the counter didn't leave room for much else. He was at least six-two in his bare soles, and he probably tipped the scales at two-twenty, bone-dry. He was wearing a camel's hair polo coat and a brown porkpie hat. He had a thick, beefy-looking face with a lot of meat between the ears, and a nose that looked like a segment of corrugated tin roof. His eyes were almost black, set deep into his head. He sat down, and the stool creaked under his weight. He picked up the menu with a hair-shrouded hand.

Charlie ambled over and said, "Morning, sir. See anything you like?"

The man's voice was like the sound of a hacksaw, high and rasping. "Cup of coffee and a French," he said.

"Yes, sir," Charlie answered. "Some weather, huh?"

"Yeah," the man said. When Charlie brought him his coffee and doughnut, he leaned closer to the counter and said, "My name's Williston. Harry Williston."

"Pleased to meet you," Charlie said.

Williston nodded. "You know everybody in town?"

"Almost," Charlie answered.

"I'm looking for a friend of mine," Williston said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Don't know where he's staying, but I'd sure like to find him. Appreciate your help."

"Happy to help, if I can," Charlie said. "What's his name?"

"He's a tall guy," Williston said. "Skinny. Brown hair. Wears gold-rimmed glasses." Williston paused. "There's a girl with him."

David didn't look up. He was raising the coffee cup, and he kept on raising it while he listened.

"What's his name?" Charlie asked again.

"Put it this way,"Williston said. "He may be traveling incognito. I wouldn't want to give him away. Have you seen him around?"

Charlie shrugged. "Don't recall."

"Put it this way," Williston said. "It might be worth your while to recall."

"What's the girl look like?"

"Blonde, about five-four, good body, good legs."

"Lots of girls like that in this town."

"Yeah, but put it this way. They ain't all with a skinny guy wearing gold-rimmed glasses."

"Don't recall seeing either of them," Charlie said.

Williston turned on his stool. "How about you?" he asked.

David looked up. "How about me what?"

"You see the people I'm inquiring about?"

"I haven't been listening to your inquiries," David said. He turned on his stool, and he and Williston had a short staring contest, and then Williston's stare turned slightly ugly and he said, "I thought everyone in small towns listened."

"Not everyone," David said, and he turned back to his coffee.

"You mind listening now?" Williston asked, an edge to his voice.

"What do you want?" David said.

"I'm looking for some friends of mine. A tall, skinny guy with glasses, and a blonde girl. You see them around?"

"No," David said. "And I don't intend to."

"Put it this way," Williston said. "You can get too bright for your own good."

"Don't bother me," David said. "I came in here for coffee."

Charlie looked as if he were expecting trouble, and to tell the truth, David was expecting it, too. But people who barged in and started shoving their weight around had always annoyed him. Williston got off his stool and walked over to where David was drinking his coffee. He stood there with his hands on his hips, looking down at David as if he were a spider.

"I didn't know I was bothering you," Williston said.

"Put it this way," David said. "You were, and you are. Go find your friends by yourself. I don't know anything about them."

"This is a real friendly town, ain't it?" Williston said.

"As friendly as most."

"If you're an example of—"

David got off the stool and Williston stopped talking. David saw him clench his fists, so he guessed Williston expected him to take a swing. Instead, he reached into his pocket for some change to pay for the coffee. He saw Williston's hand move unconsciously toward the opening of his coat and linger there until he realized David was only reaching for money. David put his change on the counter. He was heading for the door when Williston put his hand on his arm and turned him around.

"Where you going?" he asked, smiling pleasantly.

"Outside. Take your hand off my arm."

"You're the sensitive type, ain't you?"

"Take your hand back while you've still got fingers, mister."

"Tough, too," Williston said mockingly, but he pulled back his hand.

David walked to the door and stepped outside.

Leslie Grew and the blonde were waiting on the dock, standing there with the rain coming down around them. The blonde was wearing a dark blue trench coat, the collar turned up against the wind. Her hair was in a long ponytail, and the wind whipped it over her shoulder and occasionally lashed it against her cheek. Her face was wet, a good face with strong cheekbones and a generous mouth. She was wearing black-rimmed eyeglasses.