Abnormal Occurrences (7 page)

Dick deliberated on using the Internet for his quest. Perhaps law enforcement would be too distracted by its pursuit of cyber-sex criminals to identify and trace the spoor of the homicidally inclined, if the latter were delicate enough. There must be some Aesopian language in which to address a professional murderer without alerting the cops.
I’m only trying to do the right thing
, he said to himself in the mirror.
I really deserve a break in this matter
.

Kim would still not come clean with her shrink. Instead she repeated for the nth time her own interpretation of the basic difficulty in achieving a viable happiness: she was too trusting of others. When the doctor asked why that was, she could only, after eons of therapy, emit a baffled murmur. But she could be candid when her truths were privy to no one but herself: she really had a right to get rid of this guy who was poisoning her life.

Without any overt action of her own, Kim’s wish was granted. A man who billed himself as “Ralph” called on her cell phone one midday when she was lunching at her desk on a container of boysenberry yoghurt.

“I understand you want somebody whacked?”

Kim gasped. “Who gave you this number?” she asked, for only a select list of intimates possessed it, among whom was not her husband.

“Just let me worry about that,” said Ralph. “Let’s set up a meet.”

Impressed by his command of what sounded like the authentic lingo, Kim agreed—perhaps too quickly, she coldfootedly reflected after hanging up, but then she could always fail to show at the meeting place, a gyro cart just outside a certain entrance to the park, and what could Ralph do about it if she changed her cell-phone number? As a professional killer he could certainly not afford to call attention to himself by harassing her.

Meanwhile Dick had hardly gone online to enter a chatroom for gun owners when somebody with the designation HIT4HIRE asked, “U need me?” To which Dick prudently replied, “4 wot?” The response was “LOL.” Eventually, after a lengthy exchange of cryptic messages intended to lose any deliberate or accidental monitor, they arranged for a sit-down in Dick’s car, an Xterra SUV of recent vintage, parked in area C of a suburban Home Depot lot, with an opened hatch showing a cargo of attic insulation.

On meeting Ralph, who had arrived before her, Kim decided he looked exactly like what she had imagined he would: his mouth was ruthlessly tight-lipped, his eyes flinty, his ears small and close to his head.

“Wanna nosh?” he asked and when she declined they moved to the first unoccupied bench, where Kim gave him Dick’s description and daily itinerary and then inquired as to the cost, for though she earned a decent salary she was up to her tushy in credit-card debt.

“Hold on,” said Ralph, his stare becoming even more gimletlike. “You must have a good head on your shoulders to hold such a position where you work. Yet the only way you can handle a personal problem is to kill another human?”

“Humanely,” Kim said in reproach, resenting as she did the implied criticism by a career murderer.

Ralph winced. “I’ve got to question your values.”

So, though even further offended, Kim patiently explained why she saw no alternative.

But when she was finished Ralph shook his head. “Sounds to me like you’ve got a mighty superficial approach to life, based only on comfort, convenience, and a shallow hedonism. You don’t even claim to be in love with someone else.”

Kim could not put up with any more of this. Despite the several passersby, she rose to her feet in indignation. “
You
disapprove of
me
? You murder people for money, and... wait a minute: are you really an undercover cop, wearing a concealed wire or a miniature TV camera disguised as a jacket button?” She sneered. “Okay, take a look at the tape. I haven’t said one legally compromising word.”

Ralph chuckled. Kim had to admit his teeth were perfect, and the laughlines that now appeared around his eyes softened the grimness of his assassin’s aspect. “You got me wrong,” said he, recrossing his legs in the opposite direction. “With me business always comes first, but I learned the hard way you’ve got to have guidelines. Mine have always included that I don’t whack anybody who wouldn’t whack me if I didn’t get the jump on them.”

Kim thought about his point for a moment, then asked, “Why did you seek me out?”

“I was thinking of expanding.”

She smiled at him. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, Ralph, but there’s something warm about you that appeals to me. Would you like to go to a hotel?”

He looked wary. “This isn’t part of the deal, is it?”

“Oh, certainly not,” said Kim.

Dick arrived fifteen minutes early at the Home Depot lot, though he frankly did not expect his hitman to appear. In retrospect the chat-room exchange showed all the earmarks of a game if not a hoax, though if the latter, what could be the payoff?

But in fact the guy showed up precisely on time, opening the passenger’s door of the SUV and inserting himself into the seat. He looked physically fit, but his facial features seemed too soft to be those of a criminal. He initiated a flabby handshake. He had a receding hairline.

“I guess I’d first like to get some idea of what this is going to cost me,” said Dick. “I’m not exactly wealthy.”

“Neither am I,” the hitman said genially, a somewhat cryptic response for a killer.

Dick smirked for effect. “You wouldn’t just happen to be in law enforcement?”

Once again the hitman’s answer was a surprise. “No. Are you?”

“Are you wearing a wire?”

The killer raised his thin eyebrows. “Find the nearest men’s room and frisk me. But watch your hands.”

“Look,” Dick said defensively, “there are other reasons to get rid of your wife than being gay.”

“What are yours?”

Dick thought it really absurd that he should be questioned by a person of this sort as to his motives, but not wishing to offend the man, he explained. “I don’t care for her tastes in you-name-it. I realize now that she had the same ones when we lived together, but I thought then they were just assumed for the purpose of dialogue.”

The assassin wrinkled his nose. “I don’t have any idea of what that’s supposed to mean. You really are a silly sonofabitch.”

Dick lost his temper. “Get out!” he cried. “I didn’t come here to be insulted. You don’t seem tough at all. Maybe you’re just a conman.” But when the man reached under his jacket toward one armpit, a frightened Dick revised the speculation. “All right, I apologize.”

“Close that door,” said the other. If he carried a gun, he did not produce it. He seemed to be scratching himself. “Here’s what I want you to do: forget about killing Kim.”

“You know her name?” Dick was getting over the scare. They were in a public place in broad daylight. He left the car door open.

Ignoring the question, the man went on. “The husband is always the prime suspect. Motive? You’re having an affair with Stephanie Wechsler.”

“How did you know that?”

“
Everybody
knows that.”

“Then you should also know it’s only genital.”

“Let me tell you something: such distinctions don’t hold water in a court of law.”

Dick deliberated for a moment. Then he said, “All I actually have against Kim is she gets on my nerves with those diet fads, and I hate to go to the movies with her, because afterwards she wants to discuss what we saw when it’s self-evident, and—”

“Not much to kill somebody for?”

“You may be right...” Dick’s smile was quizzical. “But what I don’t get is why you approached me, if you were only going to talk me out of hiring you.”

The killer assumed a dreamy look, eyes floating. “I’m thinking about getting out of the profession. It takes its toll over the years. I thought maybe the time has come to give something back, like the show folk say at fund-raisers.”

Dick’s feelings were a mix of wonderment and relief. “It takes all kinds, I guess.” They shook hands. “You saved me from making a big mistake that I probably would have regretted the rest of my life. Thanks, uh—”

“Name’s Ralph,” said the former hitman, who had previously, after an afternoon of strenuous sex, also persuaded Kim to abandon her murderous plans.

Of course Ralph never disclosed to either of them that the other had been ready to contract for spousal murder, thus at the end of the year they were able to get divorced without rancor.

As to Ralph himself, he went into the witness protection program, moving to a suburb of Omaha, Nebraska, changing his name, and setting up shop as a marriage counselor, a profession he practiced successfully until the day he was killed, in a parking lot, by a shot to the base of the skull at close range, on the orders of the Mob family for which he had formerly worked. Actually, this
was
personal and not just business, for he had been like a son to the boss.

I
F I’VE LEARNED ANYTHING
in the years I’ve worn a shield, it’s that there are two things that have an irresistible attraction for animals. One is any kind of fad, the sillier the better. The other is breaking the law. I’m Sergeant Vinnie DiFalco of the Animal Crime Squad, NYPD. My partner is a goodnatured slob named Fogarty.

I’d say the average citizen is totally unaware of our job, and those who have heard of us assume we enforce the various city ordinances that have to do with pets. Nothing could be further from the truth. We couldn’t care less about expired licenses, pooper scoopers, and cats that scream all night on the fire escape. We’re out to get the big fellows, like—But let me tell you about a typical case. You might learn something.

Now, at first, some people thought it was cute that a fox terrier would run a telephone-answering service, and in a few short weeks after this animal started his business, he had more subscribers than he could handle. So what did he offer that was so special? He answered the phone with a bark. That was it, and that was all. For the rest of it, he switched on the machine and recorded the message, if you were leaving one. Or, if you were picking up the messages that came in when you were out, he played them back for you. I mean, he wouldn’t say a word, now, would he? But you know how people are—fact is, you might say they love fads as much as any animal.

So all well and good at the beginning, but another trait of an up-and-coming critter is a tendency to go too far. Before long we began to get complaints that this fresh pooch was doing nothing but barking; in other words, didn’t bother to record the calls! Now, his ads continued to run in metro-area papers and he even started to buy radio and cable-TV spots. If he was taking money for a service he failed to provide, he was breaking the law. Speaking for myself, from the first moment I heard of this dog’s business, I figured it was only a matter of time before I’d be called in. Call me prejudiced, but I never saw a fox terrier who could keep his nose clean for long.

My plan was simplicity itself: to bust into his office by surprise and take the animal into custody with a minimum of fuss. We have one advantage that is not enjoyed by the rest of the force, and that is that a search warrant is not needed to enter premises occupied by a nonhuman tenant. In recent years PETA has lobbied for a change in the law, but it hasn’t happened yet.

The weakness of my plan was soon revealed: I could not discover the dog’s exact whereabouts. It ought to have been a simple matter to get the address from the telephone company, but I’m afraid Verizon decided at this juncture to pose as a defender of animal rights, and I was told in no uncertain terms to come up with a court order or I might as well go home and practice the harmonica.

But that experience did put me on my mettle. How to find one mutt in a city overpopulated with the fourfooted? I did have going for me the fact that mighty few dogs operated an answering service. Yet even so, it would take a pretty piece of investigatory work to corner this perpetrator. It might be tedious, but eventually had to prove effective if I went from door to door, street by street, until at some point I crossed the animal’s trail. Or again, I could save shoe leather by remaining at my desk at headquarters, dialing random phone numbers and asking the answerer if he happened to know of such a dog. Having taken on a bit of weight in recent years, I decided on the second of those tactics, but before I had begun to put it into effect, Fogarty came into the squad room, chewing on the inevitable unlighted cheroot. He had black circles around his eyes. His beefy face was haggard.

“I never got a wink all night,” he complained. “The phone kept ringing, and when I picked it up, it was a wrong number—but always a different wrong number, and the voice was different. If it was somebody out for revenge, he was a master at disguising his voice or went to the trouble of organizing coupla dozen friends. Didn’t wanna unplug, case it was finally you.”

“Huh,” I said, mostly for myself, “could there be a connection...?” To Fogarty, “You didn’t run across the bark of a dog anywhere?”

He glared at me. “You know, Vinnie, your idea of humor—”

“I’m serious, Fogarty. I’m working on that squeal about the dog who runs an answering service.”

“If you want,” Fogarty offered, “I’ll ask around.”

By this he meant among his regular informants, a motley crew of lowlifes, addicts of various kinds, and a good many phonies, perfectly respectable people who get off on being thought by the police to be petty criminals. I expected little genuine assistance from this quarter. But what harm could it do?

He sat down at his own desk and began to work the telephone, speaking to various persons, invariably greeting each with another obvious alias and a ludicrously outdated one at that. Who nowadays is known as Butch or Gertie or Slick? No matter: it was during his fifth or sixth such call that he gestured violently toward me. I raised my eyebrows. He took the phone away from his mouth for a moment and covered the instrument with a meaty fist.

“Pay dirt?” he asked, his lips forming the letter
Q,
of which the tip of his tongue made a little tail. “Maybe.”