Til Death (7 page)

“Cotton Hawes.”

They shook hands. “That’s an unusual name,” Birnbaum said. “Very unusual. Cotton Mather? The Puritan priest?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not a religious man, myself.”

“Neither am I.”

“Did you come from the wedding?”

“Yes,” Hawes said.

“Me, too. It was the first time in my life I’ve ever been inside a Catholic Church. I’ll tell you something. It’s a
bubemeiseh.”

“What is?”

“That the walls will fall down if a Jew steps inside. I stepped inside and I stepped out again, and the walls—thank God—are still standing. Imagine if the walls had come down during my
tsotskuluh’s
wedding. A terrible thing to imagine!
Oi,
God, I would rather cut off my right arm. She looked lovely, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“A beautiful girl, Angela. I never had a daughter. I got a lawyer son, he’s now in Denver. My wife, poor soul, passed away three years ago. I’m alone in the world. Birnbaum. The neighbor. Well, at least I’m a neighbor, no?”

“A neighbor is a good thing to be,” Hawes said, smiling, liking the little man immensely.

“Certainly. But lest you think I’m a bum, I should tell you I am also a grocery store owner besides being a neighbor. Birnbaum’s
Grocery. Right up the street. And I live over there. See the house? Been here for forty years and believe me when I first moved in people thought Jews had horns and tails. Well, times change, huh? It’s a good thing, thank God.” He paused. “I know both the children since they were born. Tommy and Angela. Like my own children. Both sweet. I love that little girl. I never had a daughter of my own, you know. So Tony’s having fireworks! My God, what a wedding this will be! I hope I live through it. Do you like my tuxedo?”

“It’s very nice,” Hawes said.

“The least I could do was rent a tuxedo when Tony’s daughter got married. It fits a little snug, don’t you think?”

“No, it looks fine.”

“Well, I’m not as slender as I used to be. Too much easy living. I got two clerks in my grocery store now. It’s not easy to buck the supermarkets. But I get by. Get by? Look how fat I’m getting. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a theatrical agent,” Hawes said, relying upon the earlier fabrication. If someone meant to injure Tommy Giordano, he did not think it wise to advertise his profession.

“That’s a good business. Is Miss Maxwell in show business?”

“Yes,” he lied again. “She’s a dancer.”

“I thought so. A beautiful girl. But I’m partial to blondes.” He looked across the lawn. “I guess Jonesy isn’t. He’s left her.”

Hawes turned. Christine was walking back toward the fireworks platform. Alone. Jonesy was nowhere in sight. It suddenly occurred to him that Ben Darcy had disappeared, too.

I’m a fine cop,
Hawes thought.
I stand here talking to a grocer while the boys I’m supposed to watch vanish into the woodwork.

“You should take a look at the mermaid,” Christine said. “She’s quite lovely.”

“Where’d your escort go?” Hawes asked.

Christine shrugged. “Said there was something he had to take care of.” She paused. “I didn’t inquire further. I didn’t think it would be ladylike.” She paused again. “He’s rather cute, don’t you think?”

“Adorable,” Hawes said, and he wondered where both Jonesy and Darcy had gone.

And he hoped it was not too far.

The photographer’s shop was not too far from the Carella house in Riverhead. In fact, a fairly slow driver could make the journey in less than five minutes if he stopped at each
FULL STOP
sign on the way.

The photographer was called Jody Lewis, and a sign across the front of his shop read
JODY’S
simply because he did not wish to name his place
LEWIS’S
or
LEWIS’,
both of which he was certain would be mistakenly read as just plain
LEWIS.
The shop was a simple one-story brick building with a plate-glass front window behind which were displayed the photographer’s previous efforts. Across the street from the shop, sitting back some twenty-five feet from the sidewalk, was a two-story frame house. Six windows faced the street side of that house. From a window on the second floor of the house, the photographer’s shop was clearly visible.

The man stood at the window, peering across the street at the shop. The cars had not yet arrived. That was good. That gave him
plenty of time to set up. He lighted a cigar and then crossed the room to where the rifle was standing against the wall.

The rifle was a Winchester Model 70 target rifle that had been developed to meet the requirements of all long-range, highpower target shooting, and long-range shooting at small game. The stock was ample in size and weight, with a large butt stock, a well-rounded comb, and a large full pistol grip curving close to the guard. The gun also featured a target butt plate and a long, wide beavertail forestock.

He picked up the gun and studied it, the cigar smoke trailing up past his face.

A telescopic sight was mounted to the gun.

The sight was a blued steel tube, one inch in diameter, eleven and a quarter inches in length. It weighed only nine and a half ounces and was adjustable for internal windage and elevation with either a friction lock or a quarter-inch click.

The man carried the gun to the window and rested it on the window sill. He focused the sight on the door of Jody’s shop, so that the crosshairs were on the center of the doorway.

Then he sat back to wait.

The two limousines pulled up before he’d been waiting five minutes.

He pulled back the bolt and slammed it home, rested the gun on the window sill again, and took careful aim at the entrance to the shop. He looked up from the sight once to make sure he knew which of the people coming from the cars was Tommy Giordano.

Then he waited again.

Tommy stepped into the door of the shop.

The man’s finger began to tighten on the trigger. And then Tommy pulled his bride to him, her back to the street, kissing her soundly. The finger hesitated. Tommy pulled her into the shop. The moment was gone.

Cursing, the sniper stubbed out his cigar and prepared to wait for their exit.

Jody Lewis was a dwarf of a man who looked like something that had popped out of a trick box camera when the shutter was clicked. Bouncing around his shop with undiminished energy, he said, “These are the only posed pictures we’ll take. Of the bride and groom. This is your story, the bride’s and groom’s. That’s why I don’t want any posed shots of the best man or the maid of honor. Who needs them? This is your story. That’s what it’ll say on the cover of the album. ‘Our Wedding Day.’ Not the best man’s wedding day, but the groom’s. Not the maid of honor’s, but the bride’s. And all I want here in the studio with the good lights is one perfect picture of the lovely bride, God bless her, and one perfect picture of the handsome groom, and one of you together. And that’s all. And then we go off to the reception. But is that the end of Jody Lewis? Not by a long shot. Not by a closeup, either. I’ll be with you every minute of the way, taking pictures of you when you least expect it. Click, click, click goes my shutter. A candid record of your wedding day. Right to the hotel, right to a shot of Tommy carrying you over the threshold, and you putting your shoes in the hallway. And then back to develop and print, so that when you return from your lovely honeymoon, you’ll have this candid album titled ‘Our Wedding Day’ as a keepsake forever, as a memento of events you might otherwise forget. Who can remember all the little things that have happened or are going to happen today? Nobody has a memory like that except a camera. And I am a camera! Me, Jody Lewis, from the play and movie of the same name. Now sit right here, little ones. The two of you together. That’s it. Look as if you love each other, I’m joking, God only knows you’re crazy in love with each other, that’s it, smile a little, Tommy, my God, don’t look so serious, the girl loves you. That’s better. Take his hand, Angela. That’s the girl, now look over there, not at the camera, over there where the picture’s hanging on the wall, that’s it, hold it, click! That’s going to be beautiful Now turn a little on the seat, Tommy, that’s it, and put your arms around her waist, oh she’s nice to hold, my friend, that’s it, don’t blush, you’re married now, that’s it, now hold it, hold it…”

“How do you feel, Teddy?” Carella asked.

Gently, Teddy touched the mound that began just below her breasts. Then she rolled her eyes heavenward and pulled a weary face.

“It’ll be over soon,” he said. “Is there anything you want? A glass of water or something?”

Teddy shook her head.

“Massage your back?”

She shook her head again.

“Know I love you?”

Teddy grinned and squeezed his hand.

The woman who answered the door at the private house in Riverhead was in her late fifties and didn’t care. She wore a wrinkled housedress and scuffed house-slippers. Her hair hung limply on her head, as if it had followed its owner’s directive and given up the struggle.

“What do you want?” she said. She pierced Meyer and O’Brien with eyes chipped from green agate.

“We’re looking for a man named Marty Sokolin,” Meyer said patiently. “Does he live here?”

“Yes, and who the hell are you?”

Patiently, Meyer took out his wallet and opened it to where his shield was pinned to the leather. “Police department,” he said.

The woman looked at the shield. “All right, Mr. Detective,” she said. “What did Sokolin do?”

“Nothing. We just want to ask him a few questions.”

“What about?”

“About what he might be planning to do.”

“He ain’t here,” the woman said.

“And what is your name, madam?” Meyer asked patiently. If there was one attribute Meyer possessed, it was extreme patience. An Orthodox Jew born in a predominantly Gentile neighborhood, he’d been further handicapped by the vagaries of a whimsical father who thought it would be a good joke to give his son a double-barreled moniker. The family surname was Meyer. And old Max Meyer decided to name his change-of-life offspring Meyer Meyer, just to get even with the powers that dictated offseason births. The joke was played. It was not a very practical one. It provided the young boy with a ready-made millstone. To say that Meyer Meyer’s childhood had been only an endless round of fist fights provoked by either his name or his religion would have been a complete understatement. For coupled with the fist fights came the slow development of a diplomat. Meyer learned that only
some
battles could be won with his hands. The rest had to be won with his tongue. And so he acquired a veneer of extreme patience to cover the scars of his father’s little jibe. Patiently, he even learned to forgive the old man before he died. Now, at the age of thirty-seven, the only scar he carried from an excruciatingly anxious childhood (or, to be more precise, the only scar that
showed)
was a head as bald as the famed American eagle.

Patiently, he repeated, “And what is your name, madam?”

“Mary Murdoch. What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” Meyer said. He glanced at O’Brien. O’Brien stepped back a pace, as if anxious to sever whatever national ties bound him to the woman. “You said Mr. Sokolin was not in. When did he leave, might we ask?”

“Early this morning. He took his damn horn with him, thank the good Lord.”

“His horn?”

“His trumpet, his trombone, his saxophone, whatever you call the damn thing. He practices it morning and night. You never heard such unholy screeches. I wouldn’t have rented him the apartment if I’d known he played a horn. I might kick him out, matter of fact.”

“You don’t like horn players?”

“Put it this way,” Mary Murdoch said. “They make me vomit.”

“That’s a unique way of putting it,” Meyer said, and he cleared his throat. “How do you know Sokolin left with his horn?”

“I seen him. He’s got a case for the thing. A black case. That’s what he carries the damn thing in. A case.”

“A trumpet case?”

“Or a trombone, or a saxophone, some damn thing. It sure makes an unholy racket, whatever it is.”

“How long has he been living here, Miss Murdoch?”

“Mrs.
Murdoch, if you please. He’s been living here for two weeks. If he keeps blasting away on that damn saxophone, he won’t be living here much longer, I can tell you that.”

“Oh, is it a saxophone?”

“Or a trumpet, or a trombone, or some damn thing,” she said. “Is he in trouble with the police?”

“No, not really. Do you have any idea where he went when he left this morning?”

“No. He didn’t say. I just happened to see him go, that’s all. But he usually hangs out in a bar on the Avenue.”

“What avenue is that, Mrs. Murdoch?”

“Dover Plains Avenue. Everybody knows the Avenue. Don’t you know the Avenue?”

“No, we’re not too familiar—”

“Two blocks down and under the elevated structure. Dover Plains Avenue. Everybody knows the Avenue. He hangs out in a bar there. It’s called the Easy Dragon, that’s some name for a bar, isn’t it? It sounds more like a Chinese restaurant.” Mrs. Murdoch grinned with death’s head simplicity.

“You’re sure he hangs out there?”

“Sure, I’m sure.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Put it this way,” Mrs. Murdoch said. “I’m not above taking a little nip every now and then myself.”

“I see.”

“Which don’t make me a drunkard.”

“I know.”

“All right. You finished?”

“I guess so. We may be back.”

“What for?”

“You’re so pleasant to talk to,” Meyer said, and Mrs. Murdoch slammed the door.

“Well!” O’Brien said.

“Luckily, she didn’t start shooting,” Meyer said. “With you along, I always expect bullets.”

“Maybe she’ll shoot when we come back.
If
we come back.”

“Maybe so. Keep your fingers crossed.”

“Where to now?”

“The Easy Dragon,” Meyer said. “Where else?”

The Easy Dragon was named the Easy Dragon for no apparent reason. The decor was not Chinese. There was not a Chinese in sight anywhere. The Easy Dragon looked like any tavern in any suburban neighborhood, peopled with the usual sprinkling of Sunday afternoon drinkers. Meyer and O’Brien entered the place,
adjusted their vision to the dimness after the brilliant sunshine outside, and walked to the bar.

Meyer flashed the tin instantly. The bartender studied his shield with great dispassion.

“So?” he said.

“We’re looking for a guy named Marty Sokolin. Know him?”

“So?”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes. So?”

“Is he here now?”

“Don’t you know what he looks like?”

“No. Is he here?”

“No. What’d he do?”

“Nothing. Are you expecting him today?”

“Who knows? He’s in and out. He’s only been living in the neighborhood a short time. What’d he do?”

“I told you. Nothing.”

“Is he a little crazy?”

“How do you mean?”

“You know. A little crazy.” The bartender circled his temple with an extended forefinger. “Cuckoo.”

“What makes you think he’s crazy?”

“He’s got a fanatical gleam in his eyes. Especially when he’s drinking. Also, he’s a big bastard. I wouldn’t want to ever tangle with him. This guy chews railroad spikes and spits out carpet tacks.” He paused. “Pardon the cliché,” he said. He pronounced it “cleesh.”

“You’re pardoned. Do you happen to know where he might be right now?”

“You tried his house?”

“Yes.”

“He ain’t there, huh?”

“No.”

“What’d he do?”

“Nothing. Would you mind, if you know, telling us where he might be?”

“Well, I’m not sure I know. You tried his girl’s pad?”

“No. Who’s she?”

“A dame named Oona. Oona I don’t know what. How’s that for a fancy name? You should see her. She’s like a regular bombshell. Perfect for a nut like Sokolin.”

“Oona, huh? And you don’t know her last name.”

“That’s right. Just Oona. You won’t miss her if you see her. She’s a blonde with bazooms like pineapples.” He paused. “Pardon the cliché,” he said.

“You’re pardoned. Any idea where she lives?”

“Sure.”

“Where?”

“Up the street. There’s a rooming house on the corner. She’s new around here, too. The only reason I know where she lives is she mentioned she was at a place served meals. And the place on the corner is the only place serves meals. I mean, of the rooming houses.”

“I see,” Meyer said. “Can you describe her a little more fully?”