Runaway (10 page)

He struck a match and glanced down the long row of mailboxes. As in most apartment buildings in Harlem, there were three and four surnames on each letter box. He found the box marked C. Matthews. Apartment 42. He shook out the match and climbed the stairs.

The numbers on the door must have been bright and new at one time. They were tarnished and bent now, and the 2 dangled from one screw.

He looked for a bell button, and when he found there was none, he used his knuckles on the door. He rapped lightly because it was late at night, and he didn't want to cause more disturbance than he had to. When he got no answer, he rapped again.

“Miss Matthews?” he called softly.

A door opened, but it wasn't the door he knocked on. A man in his undershirt came out into the hallway, two doors down from Cindy's.

“Whutcha want?” he asked.

“I'm looking for Miss Matthews,” Trachetti said. “Cynthia Matthews. Would you know if she's home?”

“She ain't home,” the man said. He continued to stare at Trachetti suspiciously.

“Do you know where she is?”

“No,” the man lied.

“I'm not trying to harm her. I want—”

“I don't know where she is,” the man said.

“You're sure she's not home?”

“She ain't home,” the man said.

“Well. Thank you.”

The man walked into his apartment and slammed the door behind him, and Trachetti listened to the slam in the dim hallway, and he couldn't say he blamed the man very much. Still, he was trying to do the girl a favor. I mean, he thought, what the hell. I came here to help her.

Did she work nights? He wished he'd checked her card more carefully. He'd scanned it quickly for her address, before Palazzo could catch him at it and make some crack, and now he'd made a trip for nothing.

Oh, what the hell. What the hell is a man supposed to do, anyway?

He walked down the steps quickly and out onto the stoop. The old man and woman were still sitting there, breathing the cold November air. Trachetti saw the hostility in their eyes, and then he turned his head away and went to the squad car.

“I drew a blank,” he said to the driver.

The driver shrugged and opened the door for Trachetti.

Johnny knocked on the closed door urgently, and when he realized there was a bell, he saved his knuckles and pressed his forefinger against the button. He could hear the sound of laughter inside the apartment, and then the sound of the bell knifing the laughter, cutting it off. He kept his finger on the button and inside he heard Barney Knowles shout, “All right, stop leanin' on the damn thing!”

He shouldn't have done that, he shouldn't have leaned on the bell. The one thing he didn't want to do was get Barney sore at him. With the cops at Cindy's place, he needed Barney again. Barney would know what to do.

He heard Barney's heavy footsteps inside, and then someone laughed again, and then the door snapped back, and the chain pulled taut, and he saw Barney's face, plastered with a smile that dropped suddenly, leaving a mouth open in a small O.

“Johnny, for God's sake—”

“I had to come back. Believe me, Barney, I wouldn't have if I—”

Barney was already shaking his head. His eyes said no even before his mouth did. “Kid, go away. Now look, I'm not kidding. The answer is no. Whatever you want, it's no.”

“Barney, I ain't got a place to stay. I can't walk the streets. They'll pick me up, sure as hell.”

“Well, you can't stay here, kid. Now look, let's be sensible about this. I mean, even if you—”

“Who is it, Barney?” The Flower called from the living room.

Barney hesitated. “Nobody, Flower.”

“Must be
some
body,” The Flower called back.

“Now you done it,” Barney said. “
God
damnit, now you done it!”

“Hey, Barney!” The Flower yelled, “Who is it?”

“Look, kid,” Barney said hastily, “I gave you a fin. Use it. Here, here's another five. Get a room someplace. That'll keep you off the streets. Kid, I can't do no more than that for you. Now, here, take this. Come on, kid.”

“How can I get a room? Don't you think the cops are checking all the hotels and rooming joints? Barney, I wouldn't be here if I could've taken a room. I got dough, that ain't a problem.”

“You need any help, Barney?” The Flower called, and Johnny heard the scrape of a chair, and then footsteps approaching the door.

“Oh, Lord,” Barney muttered. He sighed heavily and then reached for the chain, pulling the door wide. “Come on in,” he said wearily.

Johnny went into the apartment just as The Flower came from the living room. The Flower looked Johnny over and then asked, “Who's this, Barney?” At the same time his hand casually strayed to the lapel of his jacket, and Johnny saw the bulge of his shoulder holster under the cut of his suit.

“He's on the run,” Barney said, deciding to play it straight.

“Oh?” The Flower's eyebrows rose in interest. “What you done, kid?”

“Nothing,” Johnny answered. “They think I killed Luis the Spic, but I didn't.”

There was the sound of another chair being shoved back in the living room, and then more footsteps. Anthony Bart poked his head around the corner.

“What's goin' on?” he asked.

“Kid here on the lam,” The Flower said.

“Yeah?”

“They hangin' a frame on him.”

“What kind of frame?” Bart asked.

“Murder,” The Flower replied.

“What's he doin' here?” Bart asked Barney.

“He … he …”

“I ain't got a place to stay,” Johnny said. “I thought Barney could help me. Barney knows a lot of people.”

“This your cleanin' boy, Barney? That your coat he's wearin'?”

“Yes,” Barney said softly.

“You ain't got a place to stay, huh, man?”

“No,” Johnny said.

“You lead the bulls here?” The Flower asked.

“No.”

“You sure?” Bart put in.

“I'm positive.”

“Mmmm.”

“So you the one killed that spic, huh?” The Flower said.

“No, I didn't kill him.”

“You jus' now told me it was a frame,” Bart said to The Flower.

“I know. I was figurin' we might have a spot for somebody handy with a gun.”

“I didn't kill him,” Johnny said.

“Yeah, I know that. That's what you said, ain't it?”

“That's what I said.”

“Still …” The Flower paused. “What you think, Bart?”

“I don't know. What're you thinkin'?”

“Hate to see the cops get their mitts on anybody. I mean,
any
body. You know what I mean?”

“Keep out of it,” Bart said. “It's his headache.”

“Why, sure, no doubt about it. Still, I hate to see the cops happy. Don't you feel the same way?”

“I don't feel no way,” Bart said. “I ain't yearnin' for an accessories after.”

“Why, the boy just said he didn't do it!” The Flower said.

“They all say that,” Bart answered. “Man, if I had a cent for every time I said I didn't do it!”

“I didn't,” Johnny insisted.

“Yeah, I know. This guy just killed hisself.”

“I'll get rid of him,” Barney said. “You fellows go back to the game.”

“No, wait a minute,” The Flower said. “What you think, Bart?”

“I already told you what I think. This boy's hot. I don't want none of him to burn me.”

“Look, Johnny,” Barney said. “Why don't you go? Can't you see all the trouble you're causin'?”

“We don't have to touch it at all,” The Flower said meditatively. “We call some of the boys, and they'll take care of it. We don't have to come nowheres near it.”

“When there's a kill stinkin' up the joint.” Bart said, “it ain't possible to come nowheres near it. Some of it rubs off. Let it lie, Flower. Get rid of the kid.”

“No,” The Flower said slowly. “I don't think so.”

“Flower, I can handle this,” Barney said. “Just let me—”

“Shut up, Barney!” The Flower said. “Where's your phone?”

“In the living room. You … you think we should help him, Flower?”

“We ain't gonna help nobody,” The Flower said. “Jus' remember that. We never even seen this kid. We jus' gonna make a few phone calls, that's all.” The Flower walked into the living room.

“He's a crazy bastard,” Bart said, shaking his head. He looked at Johnny significantly. “Nex' time, tell your friends to stay away from here, Barney.”

“Is it my fault he come?” Barney asked. “Hell, I give him a coat and a fin. Ain't that enough? Did I tell him to come back here?”

They walked into the living room as The Flower dialed and waited for his party. In a moment he said, “This is Flower. Who's around?”

He listened and then said, “I need two boys and a car.… What?… No, a short trip.… No, nothin' like that. Look, this is a routine job, now don't give me a third degree.… Well, all right. I need them right away.… What?… Right away means right away, what the hell you think it means?… Right away, five minutes … Yeah, just a minute.”

He covered the mouthpiece with one hand and asked Barney, “What's your address, man?”

“They're going to come
here?
”

“Where you think they going—Grant's tomb?”

“I just thought it might be better—”

“What's your address?”

Barney gave him the address, and The Flower repeated it into the phone.

“You got that now?… Have them come up and ring the bell.… What?… Oh, just a secon'.”

He covered the mouthpiece again. “What's your apartment number?”

“Three-C,” Barney said.

“Three-C,” The Flower said to the mouthpiece. “I'll 'spec you in five minutes.… Yeah, yeah, all right.… Yeah, that fine. Just get them here, that's all.”

He hung up abruptly. “They'll be here in five minutes,” he said.

“Thanks,” Johnny said.

“You want to play a few rounds while we wait?” The Flower asked. “Watched pot never boils, you know.” He waited for his laugh, and when he got none, he provided it himself.

The boys arrived in seven minutes flat. One stayed at the wheel of the black Buick downstairs. The other rang the doorbell and stepped into the apartment as soon as the door was open. The Flower told him where to go, and the big man just nodded and then led Johnny out of the apartment.

Neither of the two men spoke during the ride.

When Johnny asked, “Where we going?” they both shrugged. He sat between them uneasily, wondering whether or not The Flower's idea of helping was the same as his own. He began to recognize landmarks then, and he said, “Hey, we going to the river?”

The driver nodded.

“I don't get it,” Johnny said.

“A boat,” the driver said, and that was all he said until they reached the Harlem River. They doused the lights on the car and then worked their way over the discarded oil drums and assorted garbage leading down to the riverbank. There was hardly any moon, and Johnny didn't see the boat until they were almost upon it.

“That it?” he asked.

“Mmm,” one of the men said.

“Won't the cops look here?”

“This boat's been here for years. Hole in the back end,” one of the men said. “You sleep up front, and you won't get wet. Don't worry about cops, they won't look for you here.”

“I don't know,” Johnny said dubiously.

The driver laughed. “Only thing you got to worry about here is rats.”

“Rats!”

“Size of your head.” The driver laughed again. “You get down there, boy. We got to cut out.”

They helped Johnny into the gutted boat, and he watched them climb back up to the car. He stood in the bow until the car pulled away. They did not turn on their lights until they were several blocks in the distance.

The boat was not a large one. Its bow was pulled up onto the bank, and Johnny could hear the water lapping against the stern plankings, inside the boat. A cold moistness blew off the river, and he bundled his coat around his throat and tried not to smell the aroma of garbage. There was a small cabin up forward, and he went into it and tried to make himself comfortable on the deck. The windows of the cabin were shattered. The entire boat, in fact, looked as if it might slip into the water at any moment, giving up the struggle with the elements. Well, at least it was safe from the cops, and a place to spend the night.

If only the cops hadn't been watching Cindy's place. Damnit, why were all the breaks running against him? A rat like Luis gets … Rats, they said.

Only thing you got to worry about here is rats.

He didn't like rodents. He hadn't liked them since he was seven years old, shortly after his mother had died. There used to be a big vase on the mantel, and Molly used to drop nickels and dimes into it. He'd wanted an ice-cream pop one night, and Molly wasn't home, so he'd pulled a chair over to the mantel and reached into the vase for a nickel. He'd felt sharp teeth clamp onto his middle finger, and he'd screamed and yanked his hand out of the vase. A mouse was clinging to his finger. It was a tiny little thing, gray, and it loosened its grip almost instantly, falling to the floor and scurrying away for its hole.

But terror had struck deep within Johnny when he'd felt that mouse's teeth and seen its furry shape. The terror had remained with him. He could not even
think
of mice or rats without feeling a shudder of apprehension.

Thinking of them now, he felt a cold chill start at the base of his spine and travel up his back until he brought the wings of his shoulders together in an involuntary tremor.