The Killing Read online

  He had thought about it often enough, God knows. But it was only when Johnny got out and had approached him with the idea that the thought was anything but an idle daydream. Wel , if anything could be done about it, he reflected, Johnny was certainly the boy to do it. That night he'd know a lot more about the whole thing. He tried then to remember the address which had been written on the side of the scratch sheet the man had left at the bar. He couldn't remember it, but the fact didn't worry him. He had the sheet in his coat pocket.

  He did remember that the time had been set for eight o'clock. He'd have to hurry through his dinner to make it. Mary would be annoyed that he was going out for the evening. He had promised her he would talk with Patti.

  A worried frown crossed his heavy face as he thought of the girl. Lord, it seemed like only yesterday that she was a long-legged baby in bobby socks, her flaming red hair done up in two stringy braids.

  Patti was a good girl, in spite of what her mother, Mary, said. It was the neighborhood, that was the trouble.

  Money, money to get away from the Avenue and out into the country some place. That's al that was needed.

  Mike would like to move himself. He hated that long train ride from New York to the race track and back each day. Yes, a smal , modest little house with a garden, somewhere out past Jamaica—that would be the ticket. It began to look as though the old dream might real y come true.

  By the time the Long Island train was roaring through the tunnels under the East River, Mike had figured out that he'd lost a hundred and twenty-two dol ars on the day. His furrowed forehead was pale and beads of sweat stood out on it. A hundred and twenty-two dol ars—Jesus, it was a lot of money.

  Almost half what he had promised to get together for Patti so that she could take that stenographic course at the business col ege.

  Big Mike got to his feet while the train ground to a stop at Penn Station.

  What the hel , he thought, another month and he could be giving that kind of money away for tips. He was one of the first ones out of the car; he was in a hurry. He had a lot to do before eight o'clock that night and he didn't want to be late.

  * * *

  George Peatty caught the same train which had taken Big Mike back to Manhattan. He had even seen Mike, ahead of him in the smal crowd at the station, but he had made no effort to reach the bartender's side. He had known the other man for a number of years, but they were only acquaintances—

  not friends. This, in spite of the fact that Mike had been responsible in a way for getting him his job at the track.

  It wasn't that they didn't like each other; it was merely that they had nothing in common. Nothing, that is, except George's mother, who had been a girlhood friend of Mary McManus, who later became Mary Henty, Mike's wife. But George's mother was dead and it had been al of ten years since she had induced her friend Mary to intercede with Big Mike in order to get her son an introduction to one of the track officials.

  George had, of course, been duly grateful. But it had ended there. George had always felt a sense of embarrassment with the older man. Big Mike had known a little too much about him; had known about the early days when George was pretty wild. He had had a bad reputation for getting into scraps.

  But that had al been a long time ago; long before he'd met Sherry and fal en in love with her.

  Watching Big Mike enter the train, George turned and walked down the side of the car until he came to a second car. He climbed aboard and found a seat wel to the rear.

  At thirty-eight, George Peatty was a gaunt, nervous man, who looked his age. His brown eyes beneath the receding line of thin, mouse-colored hair, had a tendency to bulge. His nose was large and aquiline and he had a narrow upper lip which unfortunately failed to conceal his crooked, squirrel-like teeth. His chin was pointed and fel in an almost straight line to his overlarge Adam's apple.

  He had the long fingered hands of a pianist and kept them scrupulously clean. His clothes were conservative both as to line and price.

  The moment he was seated, he unfolded the evening paper which he had picked up at the station newsstand. He started to read the headlines and his eyes remained on the page, but in a second his mind was far away. His mind was on Sherry.

  After two years of marriage he stil spent most of his idle time thinking of his wife. He was probably, now, more obsessed than he had ever been, even in the very beginning.

  George Peatty's feeling toward his wife had never changed since the day when he had first met her, some year and a half before they were married.

  He loved her, and was in love with her, but even beyond that, he was stil wildly infatuated with her. Marriage had served only to intensify the depth of his passion. He had never recovered from his utter sense of bewilderment when she had final y agreed to share his bed and his life. He stil believed that he was the luckiest guy in the world; notwithstanding the fact that he ful y realized that he was far from being happy. Luck and happiness were, for him, two completely different things, although he recognized that in his case they were the reverse sides of the same coin.

  Thinking of Sherry, he began, as he always did on the train ride back to his apartment on the upper West side, a silent prayer that Sherry would be there when he got home. As a man who had spent years unconsciously figuring odds, he knew automatical y that the chances were about one in ten that she would be.

  The heavy vein in the right side of his neck began to throb and there was a nervous tick at the corner of his eye as he thought about it. As crazy as George Peatty was about his wife, he was not completely blinded to her character or to her habits. He knew that she was bored and discontented. He knew that he himself, somehow along the way, had failed as a husband and failed as a man.

  In the hard core of his mind, he blamed the thing not on himself and certainly not on Sherry. He blamed it on luck and on fate. A fate which limited his earning capacity to what he could make as a cashier at the track. A fate which had made Sherry the sort of woman she was—a woman who wanted everything and everything the best.

  Not, George thought, that she didn't deserve everything. Anyone as lovely as Sherry should be automatical y entitled to the best that there was.

  Dropping the newspaper in his lap, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He was suddenly relaxed. It wouldn't be long. No, it wouldn't be long before he would be able to give her the things which she wanted and deserved.

  His lips moved slightly, but wordlessly, as he said the words in his mind.

  “Thank God for Johnny.”

  At the moment he was only sorry about one thing. He would have liked to have told Sherry about the meeting he was going to at eight o'clock that night. He would have liked to have told her about the entire thing. Even now he could see her smoldering eyes light up as he would outline it to her.

  But then, almost at once, he again began to worry about whether or not she'd be home.

  Getting off at the station in New York, he stopped at a florist shop in the Pennsylvania arcade and bought a half dozen pink roses before getting into the subway and taking the express up to a Hundred and Tenth Street.

  * * *

  Looking down at the shock proof silver watch on his large wrist, Officer Kennan noticed that it was twenty-two minutes before six. Carelessly he swung the wheel of the green and white patrol car and turned into Eighth Avenue. He would just have time to drop by Ed's for a minute before taking the car into the precinct garage and checking out for the day.

  Time for two quick ones and a word or two with Ed and then he'd be through for twenty-four hours. God, with the traffic the way it was in New York these days, he could sure use the rest. It was murder. He was not only thirsty but he was thirsty for a couple of good stiff shots. Thinking about Ed's he began to worry about the chances of running into Leo. Christ but he hoped that Leo wouldn't be around. He was into him now for wel over twenty-six hundred dol ars and he hadn't made a payment in more than three weeks.

  Not that Leo real y worried him; he wou
ld be quick enough to tel the little bastard where to get off. The only thing was that Leo had connections.

  Important connections with some of the big brass in the department. That was one reason Leo had not hesitated to loan him money when he needed it. It was the reason Leo confined the bigger part of his loan shark business to cops and firemen. He had political pul .

  For a moment Randy Kennan, patrolman first class, considered the possibility of passing up Ed's. But once more he shrugged. He wanted those two drinks and Ed's was about the only place he knew where he could walk in and get them without trouble and without embarrassment. Also, without money.

  He drove to Forty-eighth Street and turned east and went a half a block and then pul ed over to the right hand side of the street. There was a mounted patrolman leaning over the neck of his horse, talking to a cab driver, not far from the corner. The street was crowded with traffic and hurrying pedestrians, but Officer Kennan didn't bother to pay them much attention.

  He left the keys in the car and pul ed up the brake as he opened the door. A moment later he walked several hundred feet down the street and turned into a bar and gril .

  There were a couple of dozen customers lining the bar but Randy Kennan walked directly through to the back room. Ed saw him as he passed opposite the cash register and looked up with a nod and a friendly smile. Randy winked at him.

  He liked Ed and Ed liked him. It wasn't like shaking a bartender down for a couple of fast shots. They were friends. Had been friends now for a good many years. In fact from the time they were kids together over at St. Christopher's.

  He was about to push through the swinging doors into the kitchen when he heard his name cal ed. He didn't have to look.

  It was Leo and Leo was sitting where he usual y sat, in the very last booth at the left. He was alone.

  Randy hesitated a second and looked over at him. Then he sort of half nodded his head toward the kitchen door. He didn't want to go to the booth, even if Leo was alone. It would be bad enough if some passing lieutenant or captain wandered in, finding him there at al . It would never do to be found sitting in a booth in uniform.

  There were two Italian chefs and a dishwasher in the kitchen but Randy gave them not the slightest attention. He walked over to a counter and picked up a slice of cheese from a plate. He was munching it a minute later when the swinging doors opened and Ed came in. He carried a bottle of rye in one hand and a glass in the other.

  “Hot day, kid,” he said as he sat them on the table next to Randy. “I see your pal Leo outside. He wants to talk to you.”

  Randy smiled at his friend, sourly.

  “Tel the sonofabitch to come in here and talk,” he said. “He knows damn wel I can't...”

  “I'l tel him, Randy,” Ed said.

  “How about joining me in one,” Kennan said, looking up from the drink he was already pouring.

  “Hel boy,” Ed said, “I'm just coming on. You're going off, aren't you?”

  Randy nodded.

  “Yeah.”

  Ed left a half minute later to get back to the rush of customers. Leo passed him in the doorway.

  Everything about Leo Steiner was bland. His soft brown eyes were almost childlike in their innocence; the large, un-wrinkled face was heavy with good nature and friendliness. He always spoke as though he were half laughing. Leo wore a nylon sports shirt with the top button fastened and no tie. He affected sports jackets and flannel trousers. There wasn't a thing about him which wasn't completely deceptive.

  “Randy boy,” he said. “How's tricks?”

  Officer Kennan nodded in a noncommittal way. He indicated the bottle of whiskey with a nod of his head.

  “Drink?” he asked.

  “You know I never touch the stuff,” Leo said and laughed as though it were a joke. “My nerves. It gets my nerves.”

  Randy smiled wryly. Nerves? Hel , Leo Steiner had about as many nerves as a hippopotamus.

  Leo leaned back against the table so that he half faced the other man.

  “You know, kid,” he said, “I'm in a little trouble. Maybe you can help me out.”

  Randy nodded again. Here it comes, he thought.

  “Yeah,” Leo said, looking anything but like a man in trouble. “It's money. Gotta raise some quick dough. What do you...”

  “Look, Leo,” Randy said. “You don't have to beat about the bush. I know I'm late and I know just what I owe you. But I gotta have a little more time.

  Things have been breaking bad lately. I need time.”

  “Boy,” Leo said, “I know just how it is. I sure want to give you al the time in the world. But the trouble is, I just can't do it. I need to get up some cash and right away. Guess I'l have to get say around five notes from you this week.”

  Randy reached for a second drink and swal owed it hurriedly. He turned to the other man and spoke quickly.

  “Leo,” he said, “I can't do it. I just can't make it this week!”

  “You get paid this week,” Leo said.

  “Yeah, I get paid. But I'm in hock to the pension fund for a loan and when they take out theirs, I got just about nothing left at al . I gotta have a little more time.”

  Leo shook his head, sadly.

  “How much time, Randy?”

  Randy looked directly at the other man and spoke slowly.

  “Listen,” he said. “I got something good coming up. Real good. But it takes time.”

  “What is it,” Leo asked. “Not another horse, Randy?”

  Kennan shook his head.

  “No—not a horse. This is a sort of private deal. Al I can tel you is, just give me say another thirty days, and I think I can take care of everything.”

  Leo nodded slowly.

  “It's twenty-six hundred bucks now, Randy,” he said. “Al right, suppose we say another thirty days—let's say I can do that. And we'l cal it an even three grand—thirty days from now.”

  Randy Kennan's eyes narrowed and there was a mean line around the corners of his mouth.

  “Three grand—Jesus Christ! What kind of goddamned interest is that to ask a man.”

  “It's your idea, Randy,” Leo said, his voice soft and almost sympathetic. “You want the thirty days—not me. I just want my money. In fact, Randy, I gotta go out now, on account you're not paying me anything, and borrow the dough. I gotta probably borrow it from my friend the Inspector—and you know how tight he is.”

  Kennan caught the ful significance of the threat. He would have liked to grab the fat man by his lapels and slap him until he was sil y. But he didn't dare. He knew what Leo could do; he knew Leo's connections.

  “O.K.” he said. “O.K. Shylock. Three grand in thirty days.”

  Leo reached over and patted the big man on the shoulder.

  “Good boy,” he said. “I know I can count on you, pal.”

  He turned and went back into the barroom.

  Randy Kennan took a third drink. His hand was shaking and he gritted his teeth in anger as he poured from the bottle.

  “The bastard! The fat bastard,” he said under his breath.

  Wel , in thirty days he'd pay him. He'd pay the sonofabitch his three grand.

  He began to dream of the future. He'd stay on the force for another six months, he figured, once it was al over and done with. Yeah, that would be the safest bet. But then, when things quieted down, he'd get out and get out fast. Someday, someday in the next few years he'd catch up with Leo. He smiled grimly when he thought of what he'd do to Leo Steiner.

  He sat his glass down and looked again at his wrist watch. It was getting on and he'd have to hurry. He stil had to turn in the patrol car, sign out and get showered and dressed in his street clothes. He wanted to find time to get something to eat, too, before he showed up for the eight o'clock appointment.

  He was looking happier as he left Ed's place. He was thinking of that appointment.

  It was luck, real luck. Running into Johnny like that, the very day he'd been sprung upstate, was the best thing t
hat had ever happened to him. Yeah, that was the break he'd been waiting for for a long, long time now.

  Chapter Two

  He's changed, she thought. Stretching out her slender, naked arm, she reached over to the night table at the side of the bed and fumbled around until she found the pack of cigarettes. She brought it over to herself and hunched up so that she was half sitting. She shook out a cigarette and then leaned over again to find the lighter. With the lights out, the room was only half dark as the mid afternoon sun filtered through the almost closed Venetian blinds.

  She lit the cigarette and drew a deep lungful of smoke, slowly expel ing it. Her eyes went to the man lying beside her. His own eyes were closed and he lay completely stil , but she knew that he wasn't sleeping.

  Once more she thought, he's changed. It was odd, but something about him was different. Physical y, the four years hadn't seemed to have altered his appearance in the slightest. There was, of course, that new touch of gray over his ears. But he was stil a lean, hard six feet one, his face stil carried the sharp fine lines, his gray eyes were as clear and untroubled as they had always been. No, the change wasn't a physical one.

  For that she was glad. She wouldn't have been able to stand it if those four years had done to him what they do to most men who go to jail and come out shattered and embittered.

  Johnny had been right about one thing; he had done it on his ear. He'd taken the rap and put it away and he hadn't let it hurt him.

  No, it wasn't a physical change. It was something far more subtle. Not that the time behind bars had soured him. It hadn't even taken that almost boyish optimism and wild enthusiasm from him.

  He stil talked the same and acted the same. He was stil the same old Johnny. Except that in some way or another he seemed to have settled down.

  Now, there was a new, deep, serious undercurrent to him which hadn't been there before. A sort of grim purposefulness which he had always lacked.