Ed McBain - Downtown (11 page)

"Good," Frankie said, and pulled a gun from

a holster under his jacket and stuck it in

155 Michael's face. "You know what this is?" he asked Michael. Michael knew what it was. It was a Colt .45 automatic. He had handled many guns exactly like it while he was in the army. "Yes," he said, "I know what it is."

"Good," Frankie said. "You know how to use it?" "Yes." "Good. 'Cause I want you to use it." Michael looked at him.

"There is a person I would like you to kill," Frankie said. Michael kept looking at him. "Because I understand you're very good at that," Frankie said. Everyone in this city is crazy, Michael thought. "You already killed this movie guy," Frankie said, "so it ..."

"No, I _didn't kill this movie ..."

"Hey," Frankie said, "_listen, okay?" and put the gun to his ear as if it were a finger. "This is _me, okay?" he said, and winked. "Never mind what you tell nobody else, this is me. Now. If you already killed one guy and the cops are lookin' for you ..." Michael sighed. "... then it won't make no difference you kill another guy, 'cause the cops'll _still be looking for you, am I right?"

"No, you're wrong," Michael said. "Because killing _two people is a lot more serious than killing _one person."

"Well, you certainly should know," Frankie said. "And besides, I _didn't ... look, do me a favor, okay? It was nice meeting you, really, and I enjoyed being there at your union meeting ..." "We're not a union," Frankie said. "We're a social and athletic club." "Whatever, it was very nice. I'm glad business was so good, I'm very happy for you. And I appreciate your offer to drive me to St. Luke's Place ..." "So then take the gun and help me out," Frankie said. "I mean, that's the fuckin' _least you can do."

"You make it sound as if I _owe you

157 something," Michael said. "I'm not turnin' you in, am I?" "Goddamn it, I didn't _kill anybody!" "If you can't do the time, don't do the crime," Frankie said.

"Mr. Zepparino," Michael said, "I'm going to get out of this car now."

"Please take the gun," Frankie said, "or I'll blow your fuckin' brains out."

"All right, give me the gun," Michael said. "Now you're talkin' sense," Frankie said, and handed him the gun. "Thank you," Michael said, and pointed the gun at him. "And now I'm going to bid you a fond ..." "That won't do no good," Frankie said. Michael looked at him. "The gun ain't loaded," he said. "What?" "The clip's here in my pocket." "What? What?"

"Also, if a person asks you nice to kill somebody for him, why don't you just _do it?" "Because I ..."

"Instead of threatening that person with an empty pistol?"

Michael was thinking first Charlie Wong with his fake gun, and now Frankie Zeppelin with an empty one. He was thinking he had to get out of this city. He was thinking that he had to get out of here before he himself went crazy. "The person I want you to kill is Isadore Onions," Frankie said. "I'm not about to kill Mr. Onions or anyone else," Michael said wearily.

"There's a deli on Greenwich Avenue," Frankie said, "which is where he hangs out all the time. He should be there now, this is still very early in the day for Isadore, even if it's Christmas. What I'm going to do, I'm going to drive to that deli, it's called the Mazeltov All-Nite Deli. When we get there, Donny, I'll give you ..." "Michael," Michael said. "Michael, sure," Frankie said, and rolled his eyes. "What I'll do when we _get there, _Michael, I'll give you the clip to put

in the gun, and then I want you to go in and

159 blow him away. Does my calling you Michael make you feel better, _Michael?"

"I am not going to kill anyone," Michael said. "I admire a man who sticks to his guns," Frankie said, "but you don't understand. Isadore Onions _needs killing." "But not by me," Michael said.

"Then by who?" Frankie said. "Me? And then _I'll get in trouble with the law, right? When you're _already in trouble with the law. Does that make sense? Try to make sense, willya please?" "Mr. Zepparino, have you ever ...?was

"Isadore Onions is a very fat man with a Hitler moustache," Frankie said. "He usually dresses very conservative except he wears red socks. If you aim for the moustache you will probably kill him." "Probably. But ..." "Just don't let the socks distract you." "Look, Mr. Zepparino ..."

"You can call me Frankie. Now that we're doing business together. Did I mention that there is five bills in this for you? If you do a good job? Five big ones, Donny." "Mr. Zepparino, have you ever heard of a Mexican standoff?" "No. What is a Mexican standoff?" "A Mexican standoff is where _I have the empty gun and _you have the clip to put in it, and neither one of us can force the other one to do a goddamn thing. That is a Mexican standoff."

"Have you ever heard of a Russian hard-on?" Frankie asked. "A Russian hard-on is where _you have the empty gun and _I have the clip to put in it, but I also have _this," he said, and pulled another gun from inside his coat. "This is a .38 caliber Detective Special, and it is loaded. Which means that you are going to get out of this car outside the Mazeltov All-Nite Deli on Greenwich Avenue, and you are going to go inside and shoot Isadore Onions in the moustache or I will have to shoot you instead and throw you out on the sidewalk. On a very cold night." The car was suddenly very still. "Which they will prolly give me a medal for shooting a cold-blooded murderer," Frankie said. "Where's Greenwich Avenue?" Michael

asked.

161

7

In Vietnam, one of the first things Sergeant Mendelsohnn told him was, "When the going gets tough, the tough get going." This did not mean going home. Or going back. It meant going forward. Advancing. Blowing apart the whole fucking jungle as you moved _toward the enemy. Leaves flying, mounds of earth exploding, whole trees coming down as you trashed the countryside, rat-tat-tat, pow, zowie, boom, bang, Rambo for sure, only you didn't have glistening muscles you bought in a Hollywood gym. You were a lean, somewhat scruffy-looking eighteen-year-old kid from Boston, and you wore eyeglasses, and you just wished your glasses wouldn't get shattered in all that noise and confusion while you were bringing down the countryside hoping you'd get some of the bad guys. But you never refused to advance. And you never pulled back unless you were ordered to. This had nothing to do with patriotism. It had to do with the fact that Mendelsohnn or somebody even higher up would shoot you in the back if you either refused to advance or turned tail and ran back to safety when the shit began flying.

As Michael got out of that red Buick on Greenwich Avenue, he knew that Frankie Zeppelin was sitting there behind him with a .38 Detective Special trained on his back, and he knew that if he did not advance into the Mazeltov All-Nite Deli as ordered, he would be shot in the back. __Plus �change, plus c'est la m� _chose, as his mother had been fond of saying back in Boston each time winter howled in off the Common. His mother's ancestry was French. His father's was English. An odd match, considering that the English and the French had been traditional enemies even before Agincourt. Sometimes their house resembled a battlefield. Well, not really. Nothing but a battlefield even remotely resembled a battlefield. This empty, windblown, bitterly cold street was not a battlefield, either, even though Michael had one pistol in the pocket of his coat and another pistol trained on his back, and there was a man sitting inside whom he was expected to kill. Like fun. This was not a battlefield, and Frankie

Zeppelin was not a sergeant.

163 Michael opened the door to the deli. For a little past two o'clock on Christmas morning, the place was thronged. Men in suits or sports jackets or tuxedos; women in slacks or dresses or evening gowns. Radiators clanging and steaming. Wooden tables, no tablecloths on them, paper-napkin holders, salt and pepper shakers. Waiters in black jackets and unmatching black trousers, white shirts, no ties, running frantically back and forth, to and from a counter behind which a steam table added yet more warmth to the place. The sudden aroma of food reminded Michael that he hadn't had anything to eat since lunch with Jonah today--yesterday actually, although his mind-clock always considered it the same day until the sun came up in the morning, no matter _what time it really was. Jonah Hillerman of the Hillerman-Ruggiero Advertising Agency. Who had proposed a scenario for the upcoming Golden Oranges television campaign. Beautiful suntanned blonde girl doing the commercial, okay? Wearing nothing but a bikini. Sun shining. Eating an orange in the first scene, juice spilling onto her chin. "Eat 'em," she whispers, and wipes away the juice with the back of her hand. In the next scene, she's squeezing an orange. Frothy, foaming juice bubbles up over the rim of the glass. "Squeeze 'em," she whispers. "Mmmm, good," she whispers. "Mmmm, sweet. Mmmm, Golden. Mmmm, _Oranges!" "Subliminal sex," Jonah said. "The viewer thinks we're asking him to eat the blonde's pussy and squeeze her tits. We're telling him the blonde is good, she's sweet, she's golden. Eat her, squeeze her! What do you think?" "What about women?" Michael asked. "They're the ones who go shopping for the oranges."

"That's a sexist attitude," Jonah said.

Michael was almost faint with hunger. He went to the counter and ordered two hot dogs with sauerkraut and mustard, a side of French fries, a Coca-Cola, and a slice of chocolate cake. Isadore Onions--wearing a dark suit, red socks, a Hitler moustache, and the worst hairpiece Michael had ever seen in his life--was sitting at a table with a blonde

wearing a very tight fluffy white sweater

165 and a narrow black leather mini-skirt. Michael figured she could make a fortune doing orange-juice commercials. Or even working for Frankie Zeppelin. "Two dogs," the man behind the counter said. "Fries, a Coke, and a slice a chocolate. Pay the cashier." Michael picked up his tray and went to the cash register. The cashier tallied the bill. "Seven-forty," she said. Michael reached into his pocket for his wallet. His wallet was gone. Not again, he thought. He patted down all his other pockets. No wallet. He wondered if Frankie Zeppelin had stolen his wallet. The cashier was looking at him. "Seven-forty," she said. "Just a second," Michael said. He left the tray at the cash register, walked over to Isadore Onions's table, pulled out a chair, sat, and said, "Mr. Onions?" "Mr. Ornstein," the man said. "No relation." "To who, honey?" the blonde asked. "Nick Ornstein, the gangster who was Fanny Brice's husband."

"That was Nick _Arn-stein," the blonde said.

"Exactly," Ornstein said. "So who are _you?" he asked Michael.

"Mr. Ornstein," Michael said, "there's a contract out on you." "Thank you for telling me," Ornstein said, "but what else is new?" "What else is new is that I'm the one who's supposed to shoot you," Michael said.

"Don't make me laugh," Ornstein said.

"But you won't have to worry about that if you give me seven dollars and forty cents to pay for my food over there." "Who is this person?" Ornstein asked the blonde. "Michael Barnes, sir." "You look familiar," the blonde said. "You've probably seen me on television," Michael said. "I'm already wanted for a murder

I committed earlier tonight. So another one

167 won't matter at all to me. I work cheap, Mr. Ornstein. All I want is seven dollars and forty cents to forget the whole matter." "Get lost," Ornstein said. "Mr. Ornstein, I'm a desperate man." "Who isn't?" "I'm starving to death ..." "So starve."

"If I don't get something to eat soon, I'll fall down on the floor here." "So fall."

"I think it was nice of him to tell you," the blonde said, and shrugged.

"Sure, very nice," Ornstein said. "He comes in, he sits down, he tells me he's supposed to shoot me, this is a nice thing to say to a person? And then ask him for a loan besides? This is nice by you?" "He only asked for seven dollars," the blonde said.

"And forty cents, don't forget," Ornstein said. "On my block, seven dollars and forty cents don't grow on trees." "Come on, Izzie, it's Christmas." "Too bad I'm Jewish." "If this man falls down on the floor ..." "Let him, who cares?"

"If there's a commotion, there'll be cops in here." "I hope not," Michael said.

"Me, too," Ornstein said. "Here," he said, immediately taking out his wallet and reaching into it and handing Michael a ten-dollar bill. "Get lost." "Thank you, Mr. Ornstein," Michael said, "thank you very much, sir," and got up at once and went to the counter to pay for his order and to pick up his tray. He looked around the room. The only vacant chair was at Ornstein's table. He went to it, said, "Hello, again," sat, and began eating. "I thought I told you to get lost," Ornstein said. "No, it's better he came back," the blonde said. "Why?" "Because now he can tell us who put out the contract on you."

"Yeah, who?" Ornstein asked Michael.

Michael was busy eating.

169

"I never seen such a fresser in my life," Ornstein said.

"He's cute when he eats," the blonde said, and smiled at him.

Michael had the distinct impression that she had just put her hand on his knee.

"Who sent you to kill me?" Ornstein asked. In the army, they had told Michael that if he was ever captured by the enemy, he should tell them nothing but his name, rank, and serial number. He was not to tell them where the Fifth Division was, or the Twelfth, or the Ninth, he was not even to tell them where the nearest latrine was. "Frankie Zeppelin," he said.

"Of course," Ornstein said, and nodded to the blonde.

"Of course," she said, and her hand moved up onto Michael's thigh. "Excuse me," he said, "but I don't believe we've met." "Irene," she said, and smiled. "You know why he wants me killed?" Ornstein asked Michael. "No, why?" "Because of _her," Ornstein said. "Really?" Michael said.

"He's insanely jealous," Ornstein said. "So am I."

"I think I'd better go," Michael said. "If you'll let me have your name and address, I'll ..."

"Finish your meal," Irene said, and smiled again. Her hand was still on his thigh. "What I was going to say ..." "Yes?" Irene said. "... was I'll send Mr. Ornstein a check. When I get home." "Frankie Zeppelin will kill anyone so much as _looks at this girl," Ornstein said. "That's true," Irene said, and smiled again at Michael. Michael was very careful not to look at her. "So you can imagine how he feels about us sleeping together," Ornstein said. "I can imagine," Michael said. "But who can blame him?" "Not me," Irene said.