16 Hitman (18 page)

And it didn't take place in a huge cathedral, with half a dozen
pallbearers loading a massive coffin into a hearse followed to the
cemetery by a parade of stretch limousines. No, the Victor Marsden
funeral was a quiet little affair at the Johnston Funeral Home on
Third Avenue, where a pneumatic elevator whooshed you up to
the fourth floor and spit you out into a thickly carpeted room just
large enough for the dead man and his guests.

The coffin was closed, probably a wise choice for a gentleman
who'd been shot in the head. Anyway, Victor was presumably in
the box, which looked to be somewhere between pine and
mahogany, not your dollar ninety-nine egg crate, but not your
plush-lined Stratosleeper with gold-embossed lid and built-in
stereophonic eternity tape. No, it was as plain as could be.

So was the woman dressed in black and seated off to the left,
the one the guests approached to pay their respects. She was clearly
Victor's mother, which disconcerted me. Hitmen didn't have
mothers. Except Tony Soprano, and she died after the first season.
Yet here, in all her white-knuckled grief, sat Mrs. Marsden,
clinging to the arms of the chair as if holding on to her son, pulling
him back from that awful place, keeping him safe, while mourner
after mourner knelt by her and reaffirmed the fact that he was not.

The gathering was so sparse that I stood out. Not that anyone
cared. Not that anyone was paying the least bit of attention.
Clearly, no one knew that much about their dear departed friend.
Nor did they know each other. People were talking in small
groups of two or three. There weren't more than twenty people
there at all.

Which made me rather conspicuous. At least I felt conspicuous,
just standing there with no one to talk to. Which was good,
because I wouldn't know what to say. But I could feel Mom's eyes
on me, trying to figure out who I was. Which, I realized, was just
in my head. The woman couldn't possibly have cared. Still, it
occurred to me someone else might notice that I was just hanging
out, that I didn't belong. Which was totally ridiculous. How would
they know?

I looked at Mom.

She was looking back.

I went up to her, knelt down, said, "I'm sorry. He was a good
man. I'll miss him."

She looked at my face, probably wanted to ask me who I was.
But didn't want to be embarrassed if I turned out to be someone
she should know. She just smiled a thin smile, said, "Yes, he was a
good man, wasn't he?"

"Yes, he was," I said. "I'm very sorry."

And I stood and moved on.

I could sense the woman's relief. She didn't have to go through
an awkward conversation, conceal the fact she couldn't place me when I told her I went to Swarthmore, or wherever the hell her son
went. Anyway, I was happy not to compound the woman's grief.

The next obstacle was the guest book, stationed between the
mother and the coffin. One couldn't really avoid it after paying
one's respects. It would be crass not to sign my name. It would also
call attention to me. So I had to sign.

My real name? Should I sign my real name? Leave a record of
the fact I'd attended this funeral? For the cops to find?

I could imagine Detective Crowley's blood pressure going
through the roof when he read the register and found my name.
But why would he? Was that the sort of thing Crowley would do?
It was the sort of thing MacAullif would do, if it were his case. Talk
about going through the roof!

I could sign John Doe. Or John Hancock. Or Jack Armstrong,
All-American Boy. I might as well sign my own name, a hollow
subterfuge like that.

Good Christ, I gotta sign something. I can't just stand here.
Signing my name shouldn't be this hard.

Fuck it.

I signed Stanley Hastings.

If that freaked anybody out, it was too damn bad.

Now what?

The minister. Or reverend. Or priest. Or whatever the hell they
called themselves. Was this Catholic? It didn't look Catholic.
Damn. That's what happens when an atheist marries a nonpracticing Jew. Not that Alice needs practice.

My god, I'm flipping out.Who is he, and do I need to talk to him?

I suddenly remembered I had to go to the bathroom. That is to
say, I pretended I had to go to the bathroom. Which sounds strange.
I didn't start wobbling my knees and grabbing my crotch. I just
mean I glanced around the room as if looking for the bathroom.
And I'm an actor. A method actor. What's my motivation?
Stanislavsky. I'm sure he went to the bathroom.

Anyway, in my head I was avoiding an uncomfortable and
potentially dangerous conversation with the minister by looking
for the men's room door. An Oscar-caliber performance. I'd like to
thank the Academy ...

Just about then it occurred to me that attending the funeral of
Victor Marsden had accomplished absolutely nothing.

And in walked my favorite perky-breasted teacher.

SHE LOOKED GOOD IN BLACK. A new trend. Grieving chic.

She didn't notice me. Though why should she? She breezed
right up to the mourning mother, knelt down beside her. Hugged
her, exchanged a few words. Then moved on, signed the guest
book. Right under my name. Which meant nothing to her. Unless
she didn't read it. Why should she? Why shouldn't she?

She spoke to the minister. He wasn't that old. His face lit up
when he talked to her. She had that effect on men. Even men of
the cloth.

I wondered if she knew anyone there. She finished with the reverend, looked around, gave no sign of recognition, and anyone
would have recognized her.

I wandered by the guest book, stole a casual glance.

The perky-breasted teacher was Sheila Blaine.

I sidled up to her, said, "Hi."

She looked at me as if I were trying to pick her up. Which, in a
way, I was.

She smiled, said "Hi," but her body language said "Do I
know you?"

"You'll excuse me if I'm forward, but I don't know anybody here"

"I don't either."

"You know the mother."

"I met the mother. I don't really know her"

"Let me take a wild stab. Ex-boyfriend?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Funerals aren't much fun. Not the type of thing you'd go to
for a casual acquaintance."

"Who are you?"

"I ask myself that every day. Sorry. Scratch that.You saw nle at
the school. I'm the one who pushed Martin Kessler out of the way.
Before he got shot at"

"Oh.You're the man who tripped."

"Amazing how that story stood up"

"Story?"

"So you're Victor's ex. Do you know what he did for a living?"

"He was in the stock market."

"Is that what he told you?"

"That's what he did."

"Dangerous work, the stock market"

Her eyes narrowed. "What are you saying?"

"I've known a few stockbrokers. This is the first one I've heard
of shot dead"

"It's not funny."

I wasn't joking"

"What were you doing? What are you trying to say?"

"You're also friends with Martin Kessler."

"He's a fellow teacher."

"He's a married fellow teacher"

"You have a dirty mind"

She was right. I did. But I wasn't the one messing around with a
married fellow teacher. I wondered if I should point that out to her. It occurred to me that if I were quicker on my feet, I'd have already
come back with a retort rather than wondering whether I ought to.

"I didn't see you interviewed on TV?"

"No. Just Marty and the hero cop"

"Marry."
?

"He's a colleague.You want me to call him Mr. Kessler?"

I wasn't making much headway with the young woman, except
she hadn't told me to go to hell. I wondered why not.

"What were you doing there?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Before you tripped."

I winced. "You trying to goad me?"

"I was joking before." She peered at my face. "But you're really
pissed about it, aren't you?"

I smiled. "No. It's fine if you think I fell down."

"What were you doing there?"

"That's the wrong question."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You should be asking me what I'm doing here"

"What are you doing here?"

"Paying my respects to the dead."

She pouted. "You're the one who said to ask you."

"Your two gentlemen friends-did they know each other?"

"Please! Martin Kessler isn't my gentleman friend."

"But Victor Marsden was"

"I said he was an ex-boyfriend."

"You go to the funerals of all your ex-boyfriends?"

"No. Only those who die"

"That's an interesting answer. I can't decide if it's cold and callous, or spunky."

"Maybe I don't care what you think."

I nodded. "There's absolutely no reason why you should. I
wonder if it's occurred to you yet"

"What?"

"So far, you're the only connection between Victor Marsden
and Martin Kessler. In a twenty-four hour period, someone tried
to kill 'em both."

"What about you?"

"What about nie?"

" You knew both of them."

"Yeah. As far as I know, we're the only two people here who
can make that statement"

"Are you a cop?"

I grimaced. "I get that in the projects a lot. I hoped for sonie-
thing better from you."

"So who are you?"

"Stanley Hastings. I'm a private investigator."

From her expression I had just shattered her illusions. She
thought a PI was Jack Nicholson in Chinatotvn. Only she was
probably too young for that.

"Oh," she said. "I'm-"

"Sheila Blaine," I said smoothly. "Pleased to meet you."

"How do you know my name?"

I jerked my thumb. "You wrote it in the book."

She frowned. Disappointed.

"Yeah," I said. "Tricks aren't much fun when you know how
they do them."

She adjusted her parameters, said, "Are you here on the job?"

"No"

"How about at the school? Were you on the job then?"

"No:

"I don't understand."

"I don't either. But I'm trying to."

"Why?"

I sighed. "Lady, I wish I knew."

I TOOK HER TO A small coffee shop on Lexington, bought her an
iced latte, tried to calm her down.

It wasn't easy.

"Why?" she said. "Why would anyone do this?"

"You know what Victor did for a living?"

"I told you. He was in the stock market."

"Yeah," I said dryly. "Very cutthroat business."

"Are you mocking me?"

"Sorry. Were you aware Victor had a sideline?"

She grimaced. "That's what I hear. Ties to the mob. I can't
believe it"

"How long were you involved with him?"

"Two years."

"You get to know a person pretty well in two years."

"I thought I had"

"And now?"

"I don't know what to think."

"That's a little different from, `I can't believe it. Victor wouldn't
do such a thing."'

"He wouldn't."

"And yet you don't know what to believe."

Her eyes flashed. "No, I don't. You wanna make something of
it? I went with the guy for two years. I thought I knew him. Suddenly he's shot, and I start hearing reasons why. You wouldn't be
upset? You wouldn't be confused? You wouldn't wonder what to
believe?-

"Did he ever give you any indication he had another life?"

"No" She bit her lip. "There were times. A dinner or a show,
canceled on short notice. I remember calling around seeing if
anyone wanted to go to Spamalot."

"What excuse did he give?"

"He had business."

"Stock market business?"

"You're saying I was stupid?"

"You were in love. Credulous."

"I wasn't in love," she protested.

I wondered if that was true. Or merely an opinion formed since
the breakup.

"What about Martin Kessler?"

"What about him?"

"What's he to you?"

"A colleague."

"Good word! In one way. Bad in another."

"What do you mean?"

"You had it ready. In case you were asked. Which means you
expected to be asked. Now, why would that be?"

"Sometimes I have lunch with Marty. People talk."

"1)id Victor know about Marty?"

"No! I mean, there's nothing to know. Marty is just a friend."

"Victor ever see you at lunch with Marty? Maybe stop by your
table casually? You say people talk? Could Victor have gotten the
wrong impression?"

She frowned. "What are you saying? Victor saw me with Marty,
got jealous and attacked him, and Marty killed him in self-defense?
Is that what you think?"

I sighed. "I don't know what I think."

"Because that is just about the stupidest thing imaginable. I
mean, look at Marty, look at Victor. You think Marty takes him?
Come on!"

"With a gun?"

"Give me a break! Marty never fired a gun in his life. Even if
he did, it would never happen."

"If he was cornered ..."

"Victor wasn't like that" She took a sip of her latte. "I
remember one party he thought I was flirting with another guy.
He didn't say a word. Not to him. I got an earful. Victor could be
very sarcastic. But to the guy he just smiled and nodded. Nice as
could be. Next time I see this guy he's having all kinds of trouble.
His car wouldn't start. His credit card got cancelled. And Domino's
delivered twenty pizzas to his apartment."

"And you think it was Victor?"

"Of course it was Victor. Real practical joker. It didn't bother
him the guy never knew. He knew. Son of a bitch."

"So, if he knew about you and Marty ..."

"There's nothing to know about me and Marty."

"But if he thought there was ..."

"He might have sent him a pizza. Believe me, it wouldn't have
gotten him killed."

I was sure it wouldn't have.

I was learning nothing of importance from the perky young
schoolteacher, and it occurred to me I wasn't apt to. I had been
seduced, not by the woman but by the coincidence of her knowing both my client and the man my client was supposed to
kill. Only that's all it appeared to be. Coincidence. She hadn't
known them at the same time. If she were telling the truth, she
was, at best, an unlikely source of information. In light of which,
my taking her out for coffee had served no useful purpose, except
to bathe in her perkiness.