The Best American Mystery Stories, Volume 17 (11 page)

She was holding herself up on him, and he was staring down at the knife in his chest as if he couldn't comprehend it.

“That's... mine.”

She didn't answer. She just turned the knife and drove it in deeper. His eyes widened. His mouth opened. And then he simply collapsed in on himself.

He fell right on top of Peg. She couldn't move; not while he gasped out his last breaths or while his heart faltered to a stop, never to start again. Her face was only inches from his staring, astonished eyes, and she waited, still not sure he wouldn't wake and go after her again. She struggled to get air in past her broken nose and ribs.

She couldn't stop shaking. She couldn't believe it. She'd hoped. She'd prayed so hard that his time away would have made him a better man. Would have washed away his need to hit and hurt. She'd sure had her answer, hadn't she?

She needed to do something. The kids were waiting back at the Peabodys'. No more than half a block away, New York was dancing. And she was lying here under a man whose blood was seeping out onto the asphalt, his body a dead weight.

She could feel the bruises swelling on her face. Her right eye was completely closed, and her lip was split. Blood stained her poplin shirt all the way to her waist, and she had to struggle to get enough air in.

“Help!” she screamed, finally pushing at Jimmy. “Oh, God, help! My husband!”

With a lurch, she pulled herself free of him, only to land on her knees. Her head spun. Her heart was thumping like a bass drum. She knew she was going to be sick. But she had to get to Officer Paretti. She had to...

“Hey, what's going on?”

She caught a blurry glimpse of a couple of Marines shadowed at the Forty-fourth Street end of the alley.

“Please. We've been mugged. Help my husband.”

Officer Paretti came running. Bending down next to her, he cradled her poor face in his hands and sighed. “I told you it wasn't safe.”

“Somebody came... came and tried to steal... I think they've hurt my husband... with his own... knife.”

“You sure?” one of the Marines asked. “We didn't see nobody.”

Officer Paretti laughed. “You have any other ideas? You think what, that Mrs. O'Toole beat herself up and then stabbed her husband? Look at her.”

And Peg felt the gaze of the Marines, who took in her tiny frame and battered features and gasping breath.

“Yeah,” one of them muttered. “I guess so. Sorry, ma'am.”

Peg blinked up at them. “I tried so hard,” she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I really did.”

“We know you did, Mrs. O'Toole,” Officer Paretti said. “Now, boys, you go find me some help. And tell 'em to bring an ambulance. I'll stay with the victims.”

He waited until the sound of the footsteps faded. Then he made it a point to give Peg a gentle frown. He looked over at Jimmy, who lay curled around the lethal knife that stuck from his chest. He looked at the blossoming damage on Peg's face. He took one more look at the angle of the knife, the design of the cut, the way Peg was shaking.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. O'Toole,” he said, his voice even gentler than his hands. Peg could see every thought going through his head. She saw him reach over, pull his handkerchief from his pocket, and wipe off the handle of the knife. “Whoever attacked you killed your husband. Little thing like you. Lucky you're alive.”

And Peg, who had survived, closed her eyes.

 

It was sixty years before she finally told the true story. She had just taken her granddaughter to the theater to celebrate her getting her master's degree in nursing. Her granddaughter was named after her, although this one was called Mags, a girl with Peg's red hair and Jimmy's brown eyes, who had always told Peg she wanted to be a trauma nurse just like her.

Well, she was now, and a good one. Which was why when they returned to Peg's retirement apartment in Brooklyn, Peg poured them both beers and asked Mags to listen to a story.

At first the confession was met by silence. Mags wouldn't even look at her. Peg had never felt so tired in her life.

Finally Mags looked up at the black-and-white photo that hung over Peg's head.

“
You
killed Granddad.”

Peg picked up her beer with shaking hands and took a sip. “I needed somebody to know.”

Somebody she trusted to understand. Somebody who saw the legacy of violence every day.

For a long moment, Mags looked out the front window. “Grams?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Did you carry that knife knowing he was coming home?”

“I did.”

Her granddaughter's eyes grew pensive. “And he'd beaten you before.”

“Yes.”

There was a nod, and Mags took a sip of her own beer. “Then I think it was a lucky stroke that you found that butchering job. Otherwise you might not have had the strength to gut the old bastard.”

Peg almost smiled. She had looked for that job for six months. “Honey,” she said, the confession finally complete. “Luck had nothing to do with it.”

DAVID EDGERLEY GATES

FROM
Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine

 

Tommy meadows was coming back down from Riverdale, where he'd gone to see his grandma, who was up there in an assisted living facility since May. Not the worst, either, the nursing staff cheerful, familiar with everybody by name, the meals okay, even if the food was mostly stuff you could gum, and the lawns sloped down to the Hudson, so if the weather was nice, you could take the old girl outside for a turn around the grounds in her wheelchair. But when it was rainy or too cold, all the
alter kockers
were lined up in the day room, watching
Judge Judy
, with blankets over their knees and oxygen feeds in their noses.

Better than state correctional, you might say.

Tommy had just done fourteen months in Dannemora, and he was out on probation but living with his mom, so although he had to make the weekly meet with his PO, at least he didn't have to get an actual job. His old lady was letting him stay in the apartment over the garage, and as long as he forked over four hundred a month, it didn't bother her where the money came from. She was long past caring how Tommy made the vig. He'd been in and out of Juvie since he was fourteen, and done hard time twice as an adult. For his part, he let her self-medicate with Old Mr. Boston, which was her idea of a hot date, and they got along just fine.

He was in the Oyster Bar at Grand Central, the seafood pan-roast combo and a glass of white wine. He'd started out on cherrystone clams and a bloody mary shooter, and he was thinking he'd finish off with a half-dozen local bluepoints.

A couple of stools down, two guys were talking.

“You know what a pack of smokes goes for in New York these days? Ten bucks.”

“You couldn't buy toenail clippers for less than ten bucks, and that's cheap,” the other guy said.

“You know what a
carton
of smokes costs down South, one of the tobacco-growing states? Thirty bucks. You load up a truck, you double your money, you sell it under the counter.”

“If you don't get caught with North Carolina revenue stamps on the product.”

“I'm just saying.”

“You just keep talking out your ass,” the other guy said.

The first guy dropped his voice. “This is money in the bank,” he said. “You make the investment, pay off the truck and the driver, it's gonna return fifty large, no downside risk.”

If it's not your money
, Tommy thought.

That's what the other guy thought, too. “Looks good on paper,” he said. “But the plain fact is, you've got nothing but a handful of gimme and a mouthful of much obliged.”

“Let me talk to my guy, Jack, see what he'll do for us.”

“You do that,” Jack said. He got up.

Tommy had made this kind of pitch himself. He knew it was a hard sell. Guys like Jack were at the top of the food chain and didn't need bottom feeders. It was the same the world over.

Tommy decided to order the bluepoints.

 

Tommy always had something working, nothing that was going to knock down fifty large, maybe, but it was better to stay under the radar. You got too ambitious, you attracted the wrong kind of attention. Which in fact was why he'd been inside. His brother Roy, rest in peace, had tried for a big score and gotten his dick handed to him. There was serious gang muscle involved and Tommy knew to take himself off the street until the heat blew over, so he pled to a bullshit accessory charge and went up the river for a year and change.

The thing about doing time is, your time isn't your own. In a max facility like Clinton, you're on the clock 24/7. So you get with the program. Wake up, chow line, work detail. And no such animal as privacy. Nights, there's bed check. If you got on the wrong side of the screws, you might as well kiss your ass goodbye.

It was an enormous luxury, then, for Tommy to just lie in bed in the mornings and watch the early light play off the ceiling. No bells, no PA system, nobody with a hard-on and a bad attitude ready to give him grief. He kept to a routine all the same. Brushed his teeth, started the coffee, made the bed. The studio apartment wasn't much, God's honest truth, but it was his, and he wanted his self-respect more than he wanted to hook up. Not that it was monastic, but he made the effort to keep it squared away.

The other thing he tried to keep neat was his perimeter. One of the conditions of his probation was that he not associate with known felons. This was, of course, a joke, since pretty much everybody in Tommy's circle of friends, going back to grade school, had gotten jammed up with the law, one way or another. Mostly petty theft, but a couple of guys in the heavy. He knew to steer wide of them. There was no point in giving his PO reason to violate him. Basically, he was keeping his head down.

Not that he didn't keep his ear to the ground. There was always some graft you could put your hand to. A week ago, he'd been down in Maryland. He wasn't supposed to leave the state, not without permission, but what the hey? The old lady expected her rent.

He picked up his beard in Gaithersburg, and they trawled some local gun shops. Browning nines were pricey, Glocks were a glut on the market. Gangbangers were into the Brownings, the more pimped out the better. He even found a nickeled 1911, not his own weapon of choice, if he had to choose, but covering a rough circle of two hundred miles, they picked up two dozen guns Tommy could take back to New York. He cleared fifty a pop with his wholesaler. Easy in, easy out. It wasn't up to him to meet the buyers. Shooters weren't always the most pliable clients.

On the low end, he fenced credit cards. This was only good for about forty-eight hours, until the issuing bank closed them down. Still, it was bread and butter. He knew he was coasting.

And then it fell in his lap.

 

Brooklyn South was sucking hind tit, and Babs DiMello was taking heat from her lieutenant.

“I'm not trying to be a complete jerk, here, Detective,” he asked her, “but why are we stuck on the dime?”

Whenever somebody tells you they're not trying to be a complete jerk, they probably mean the exact opposite, Babs knew, but she was as frustrated as he was. The problem was the Russians. These days the Russian mob had their hooks into everything from white slavery to identity theft, and they took no prisoners. They were brutal with the competition. A war of attrition with a rival Jamaican posse known as the Dreads was just coming to a long and bloody close, mostly because both sides were exhausted by it, and turf wars were bad for business all around. Somebody, maybe whatever was left of one of the old Mafia families, had brokered a grudging lay-down. The
capos
had lost much of their juice, but you could still go to them for remediation. They knew from settling scores. Then there were the new kids on the block, Mara Salvatrucha, MS-13, a Salvadoran gang that had interpenetrated the other crime syndicates, with an enormous presence in the federal prison system, where they recruited fresh meat. They hired out as muscle. Unhappily, the learning curve wasn't steep.

“Babs, tell me, please, that you've turned up something, or
anything
, on the hijack at Kennedy.”

She understood the fork he was in. Homeland Security, the FBI, Port Authority, NYPD's counterterrorist unit. They were raking the ground. Scorched earth. A shipment of military munitions, 5.56, bound for the Gulf, had been boosted. Not an armed robbery. The entire manifest had simply disappeared. It had to be an inside job. There was a leak, obviously, but who had the ammo now? On the open market, it was worth a million bucks. And there were motivated buyers. But it wasn't the sellers so much that bothered the feds. The real question was the identity of the end user.

Babs wasn't the only one to think the Russians had a hand in it, and with a buyer already lined up, but she had absolutely nothing to go on.

“I'm getting hammered,” the lieutenant said.

“I know that,” she said.

“Sorry to take it out on you.”

“Don't do it, or don't apologize,” she said.

He smiled. “I should have been looking for that,” he said. “You're ornery, Babs, but that's what makes you a good cop.”

“I've still got diddly-squat, Lieutenant.”

“I thought you had an inside guy at ATF.”

It was the kind of thing the lieutenant would remember. “Treasury agent named Chapin,” she said, “but he's probably been shipped off to Missoula, Montana.”

“How come?”

“That thing a year and a half ago. The cell-phone scam. ATF had an oar in the water, and we stepped on their skirts. My guy took the fall for it. Senior in the office.”

“There was a low-end guy, too,” the lieutenant said.

“Roy Meadows.”

“Which started the pissing contest between the Russians and the Dreads.”