Black Friday (13 page)

The old man nodded.

Charley brought his wristwatch toward his eyes and murmured, "Fifty-eight, fifty-nine--two minutes." He opened the car door and climbed out facing the old man. Then the old man climbed out, and then Hart. The three of them walked toward the side entrance. On the doorpanel there was a large mother-of-pearl button and Charley pressed it. A few moments later he pressed it again. He was pressing it a third time when the door opened and a middle-aged man wearing a bathrobe stood there and stared at them.

"We're the police," Charley said.

So then it was up to the old caretaker, and he nodded and said to the middle-aged man, "It's all right, Mr. Kenniston. These men are detectives from City Hall, and--"

"Come in, please." The middle-aged man moved aside to let them enter. In the hallway he switched on a light, and they followed him into a large room that had a Chinese motif. It was all ebony furniture and rose-quartz lamps and vases of delicately carved jade.

The middle-aged man was facing Charley and saying "Will you kindly tell me--"

"I'll hafta tell it fast," Charley said. "We're here to prevent a robbery. We got a tip. It might be happening at this very minute. I mean, they might be on the grounds right now, trying to break in. Or maybe they've broken in already. So you see we gotta move fast. There ain't time to do much explaining."

"But--"

"Look, mister. You got something very valuable in this house. You got a collection of oriental antiques worth maybe a million. We got it listed in our records, it's our job to protect that kind of property. But if you wanna lose it, that's up to you."

"But I don't understand why--I mean, you could have phoned--"

"We can get them with the goods this way."

The middle-aged man was frowning at the floor. The frown was more thoughtful than worried. For a long moment there was no sound in the room, and then all at once some sound came in from somewhere in the rear of the mansion. It was a mingling of footsteps and the scraping of chairs, and the middle-aged man gasped, "What's that?"

"It ain't mice, that's for sure," Charley said.

The middle-aged man became pale. "Why don't you do something? What are you waiting for?"

"I'm waiting for you," Charley said. "I can't protect your merchandise unless you tell me where it's stashed."

Then it was quiet again and the middle-aged man was biting his thumbnail. And Hart thought: It's gonna be yes or no, and what's it gonna be?

The middle-aged man said, "Please come with me."

Charley looked at Hart. "Wait here." And then he was following the middle-aged man across the room. There was a large ebony-paneled door at the far end and they were halfway to the door when something went wrong.

It started with the dogs. Hart heard the growls and then a scream from the rear of the house, the sound of glass crashing, a table overturning, and now the screaming was terrible and the growls were noises from very bad dreams.

The middle-aged man said happily, "The dogs got them."

Charley looked at Hart and didn't say anything.

Hart heard the sounds coming nearer and then a shoulder hitting a door. He turned and saw the door giving way, and Rizzio running in very fast with a Doberman pinscher flying after him and landing on his back. Rizzio went to his knees and the dog had its mouth opened wide to bite into his neck. The look on Rizzio's face was acute puzzlement, his eyes seemed to be saying: How could this happen? I know how to handle dogs.

Charley reached into his overcoat pocket and took out the gun. He shot from his waist and the bullet went along a path maybe two inches away from Rizzio's face, hitting the face of the dog, hitting it between the eyes.

The dog rolled over dead and the middle-aged man shouted at Charley, "Why'd you do that?"

Charley didn't answer. He was looking at Rizzio. And Rizzio looked back at him and said, "I'm sorry, Charley. I--"

"Charley?" the middle-aged man said it slowly and quietly. "Oh, so that's it. You're working together."

Charley shrugged. He moved the gun so that it covered the middle-aged man and the old caretaker. But now there were more sounds, a mixture of footsteps and voices from upstairs, and a feminine voice calling anxiously, "What is it, Merton? Are you all right?"

"Yes," the middle-aged man called back. "I'm quite all right, my dear."

"I'm coming down," she shouted.

"No, don't do that." The middle-aged man said it loudly but calmly. "Just lift the phone and call the police."

Charley smiled wearily at the middle-aged man and said, "Now why'd you hafta tell her that?" lIe moved the gun just a little so that it was pointed at the chest of the middleaged man. "You see what you've done? Now it gets sloppy. I hate when it gets sloppy."

Without sound Hart said: Don't, Charley. Don't do that. And then he saw the old caretaker running in to shield his employer, lunging at Charley with both arms raised high. As Charley pulled the trigger, Hart moved in very fast and hit his arm. The bullet went into the carpet. The old man made a grab for Charley's hand holding the gun, and Hart gave the old man a shove and sent him to the floor.

Charley looked at Rizzio. "Where's the other dog?"

"I don't know--I guess--"

"You guess," Charley said. "I thought you knew all about dogs. You're an expert with dogs."

Rizzio sighed. He shook his head slowly.

"Come on," Charley said. "Let's get out of here."

The three of them backed out of the room, Charley's gun covering the middle-aged man and the old caretaker until they were in the hallway. Then they walked to the sidedoor and out of the mansion. As they crossed the lawn, headed toward the parked Plymouth, Rizzio was pointing and saying, "There's the other dog. Over there, Charley. You looking?"

"No," Charley said. "You look."

"Aw, don't, Charley. Don't be that way."

"What way?" Charley asked mildly. "I'm just telling you to look, that's all. I want you to have a good look."

"Jesus," Rizzio said. And then he sobbed it. "Oh Jesus--"

And Hart was looking and seeing the broken window, with the Doberman standing under the window at the side of his prey. In the moonlight the body of Mattone was very white where his flesh shoved through his ripped clothes. His clothes were almost entirely ripped from his torso. He was resting on his back, his chin tilted up at an acute angle, showing all that had been done to his throat. Much had been done and there was little of his throat remaining.

They were getting into the Plymouth. Rizzio slid in behind the wheel and Charley said, "Get a move on. There's gonna be red cars here in a few minutes."

Hart leaned back against the rear-seat upholstery. He heard the engine starting, he felt the car moving. It moved fast going across the lawn onto the private road. On the road and headed toward the highway bordering the estate, it was hitting fifty on the curves. Then later, on the highway, it was hitting eighty and eighty-five and ninety.

They were on a narrow street in the West Oak Lane area when Charley told Rizzio to stop the car and get out and change the license plates. A few minutes later they were in Germantown and the car moved slowly past red cars. There were a lot of red cars around and the policemen were looking at all small black sedans that drove past, and checking the plates with the written numbers they had in their books.

The car came onto Tulpehocken, going very slowly into its parking place in the row of closely parked cars. They got out and walked north on Tulpehocken toward Morton. On Morton the wind came screeching at them and it was like the blast of a trumpet going up very high.

19

"Want some coffee?" Frieda asked.

"No," Charley said.

"It'll do you good," she said. "You could all use some coffee."

"All right." Charley was sitting on the sofa. He was still wearing his overcoat and muffler and hat. Rizzio and Hart had taken off their coats and they were sitting in armchairs on the other side of the room.

"I'll make it good and strong and you'll drink it real hot," Frieda said. "It'll do you the world of good."

Then she walked out, going toward the kitchen. The three of them sat there and Charley began to unbutton his overcoat. He freed one button, then the next one, and then forgot about the third. He began to fumble with his muffler, got it halfway off, and let go of it and pressed his hands flat and hard against the sofa pillows.

Rizzio said, "I'm trying to put it together and see how it happened. I just can't understand how it happened."

"It's all right," Charley said. "Forget about it."

Rizzio was quiet for some moments. Then he said, "You know what I think? I think there was something wrong with them dogs."

"Do you hafta talk about it?" Charley asked softly. "Can't you let it drop?"

"I had them dogs under perfect control," Rizzio said. "And then, for no reason at all they get agitated and start all that hell. Or maybe--"

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe there was a reason," Rizzio said.

Charley leaned back against the sofa cushions. He folded his arms. He looked a question at Rizzio.

And Rizzio said, "The date, Charley. Friday the thirteenth."

Then it was quiet.

Finally Rizzio said, "What about it, Charley? You think I got a point there?"

"I'm playing with it," Charley said. He looked at Hart. It was the first time he'd looked directly at Hart since they'd come back to the house. He spoke very softly to Hart, saying, "What's your opinion?"

Hart shrugged. "It wasn't Friday when we made the try. It was after midnight, so that makes it Saturday morning. This is Saturday the fourteenth."

"He's right," Rizzio said.

"No, he's wrong," Charley said. "It's still Friday the thirteenth." And he went on looking at Hart.

Rizzio frowned and scratched the back of his head.

Charley said, "It's Black Friday and for certain people it's a day that never ends. They carry it with them all the time. Like typhoid carriers. So no matter where they go or what they do, they bring bad luck."

"Meaning me?" Hart murmured.

Charley nodded slowly. Then very slowly he reached into his overcoat pocket and took out the gun.

"What's all this?" Rizzio said. "What's the matter, Charley? What are you doing?"

"He's getting superstitious," Hart said.

"That's part of it," Charley said. There was no tone or color or anything in his voice. "The other part is, you're not in our bracket, you can't work the way we work."

Hart shrugged again. He was looking at the wall behind Charley's head.

He heard Charley saying, "What it amounts to, you're not a professional. I found it out when the old man jumped at me and you hit my arm to ruin my aim."

Hart smiled. He knew there was no use arguing the issue. He said, "I guess that did it."

"It sure did," Charley said. "With that one move you gave yourself away."

And Hart thought: So this is the way it usually happens. It doesn't need a Frieda to spill the beans. Sooner or later we do it ourselves, we give ourselves away.

Then he heard himself saying, "Can I ask a favor?"

"Sure," Charley said. "You can ask."

"I'd like to see Myrna."

"Myrna?" Charley's eyebrows went up slightly. "Why Myrna?"

Hart didn't answer.

Charley went on looking at him for some moments, then looked at Rizzio and said, "Go upstairs and wake up Myrna. Bring her down here."

Rizzio got up and headed for the stairway. From the kitchen Frieda was calling, "Coffee's ready," then calling it again some moments later, and finally coming in to see why they didn't answer. She saw the gun and she said, "What's this?" And Charley said, "He's going."

"What?" She whispered it. "What?"

"I said he's going. He's gotta go. We can't use him."

"Oh," Frieda said. She looked at Hart. She saw he wasn't looking at her. His eyes were focused on the stairway. There were footsteps in the hall upstairs, then Rizzio was coming down, and then Myrna.

Charley was looking at Frieda and saying, "He asked me to do him a favor. He said he wanted to see Myrna."

Frieda took a step toward Hart. "Damn you," she said. "God damn you."

He didn't hear that. He lifted himself from the armchair, smiling at Myrna as she came down the stairs. She wore a white satin quilted robe. Her hair fell loosely onto her shoulders, the black strands lustrous against the white fabric. Her eyes were bright, fully awake, so he knew she hadn't been sleeping. He knew somehow that she couldn't sleep because she'd been thinking about him.

And now for a very long moment there was no Charley, no Frieda, no Rizzio. It was just the girl and himself, looking at each other, their eyes saying things that couldn't be said with the spoken word. They stood a few feet apart but he felt her presence very deep inside himself. It was a fine feeling.

He heard Charley saying, "You wanna talk to her?" "We're talking," he said. But then he knew the talk was ended because Myrna had turned her head and she was looking at Charley and the gun.

Hart thought: Well, maybe I can tell her a lie and maybe Charley will back me up. He said to her, "It's all right, there's nothing to worry about. It's just that Charley is sending me away for a while--"

"That's right," Charley nodded.

But it was no good, it didn't fool her. She went on looking at the gun.

And then there was a laugh. It came from Frieda. It was the closed-lip laughter of negative thinking, negative enjoyment. Frieda let it out and breathed it in, savoring it. She said to Charley, "Do it now, while she's here. I want her to see this."

"No," Charley said. "There's no point in that."

"The hell there ain't," Frieda told him. "Go on, do it now."

"You keep quiet," Charley said. He sounded tired and gloomy.

Frieda made a gesture of frantic impatience. "I'm telling you to--"

"You're not telling me anything," Charley said. "I told you to keep quiet."

Hart wasn't listening to that. He was measuring the distance to the vestibule door. The door was halfway open and he estimated it was less than five feet away. He told himself it was near enough and there was nothing to lose, he might as well try it. He looked at Myrna and her eyes said: Of course you'll try it, you gotta try it.

Frieda was saying, "Shoot him, Charley, shoot him. What are you waiting for?"

"Can't you keep quiet?" Charley said it slowly.

Hart lunged for the vestibule door. In the same instant Myrna threw herself across the path of the bullet coming from Charley's gun. Hart had not yet reached the door and as he saw her going down he lost all interest in getting past the vestibule.

She rested face down on the floor. There was a hole in her temple and a thin stream of red came out and formed a pool on the carpet.

For some moments none of them did anything or said anything. Then Rizzio walked toward the body and knelt beside it and felt the wrist.

"She's gone," Rizzio said.

Hart looked at the corpse. But then his eyes were closed and he was seeing inside himself and she was there.

"Pick it up," Charley said to Rizzio. "Take it down the cellar."

Rizzio lifted the small skinny corpse and carried it out of the room.

Charley was looking at the bloodstains on the carpet. He said to Frieda, "I don't want that there. Get some cleaning fluid--"

"I'll do it in the morning," Frieda said.

"You'll do it now."

"Why can't I do it in the morning?" Frieda whined. "Jesus Christ, I'm all played out."

"So am I," Charley said. And then he sighed. "I think it's caught up with me."

It was quiet for some moments and then Frieda gestured toward Hart and said, "What about him? Whatcha gonna do with him?"

"Does it matter?" Charley murmured. The gun was loose in his hand and it wasn't aimed at anything. "Does it really matter?"

Frieda frowned. "What is it, Charley? What's happening to you?"

Charley didn't answer. His shoulders drooped and his head went down low. The gun fell out of his hand and dropped over the side of the sofa onto the floor.

"Charley--" Frieda went to the sofa and sat down beside him. She put her arms around him and pulled his head down to her bosom.

"I'm so tired," Charley mumbled. "I'd like to fall asleep on a train going away--away--"

"Poor Charley."

"Yeah, you're right. That's what it all comes down to. Poor old Charley."

Frieda looked at Hart. Her voice was lifeless. "Put on your overcoat," she said. "Get out of here and don't come back."

"Oh, let him stay," Charley murmured. "What the hell's the difference?"

"No," she said. "I don't want him here."

The bright green coat was draped over the stairway railing. Hart took it and put it on and walked out of the house. As he came down off the front steps onto the pavement he remembered the money he'd won in the poker game, telling himself there was more than four hundred dollars rolled up in his trousers pocket.

And maybe that'll help, he thought.

But somehow it wasn't an important thought, and after some moments he let it fade. He was walking very slowly, not feeling the bite of the cold wind, not feeling anything. And later, turning the street corners, he didn't bother to look at the street signs. He had no idea where he was going and he didn't care.