A Horse’s Head

14. Irene

The sound of furies howling in the cemetery beyond, am I dreaming or am I dead, voices mumbling, K’s and Purcell’s, “should have made sure he was dead before you started for the airport.”

“We thought he would suffocate in the closed coffin.”

“He didn’t.”

“Nor did we expect the coffin to be hijacked and opened.”

“You should have been more careful.”

“Are you in charge here, or am I?”

“You are, but...”

“Then keep quiet.”

“Here’re the new trousers.” Another voice, McReady’s. He dared not open his eyes, were they in McReady’s cottage again? Proximity to cemeteries makes me somewhat ill, Mullaney thought, or perhaps its only getting hit on the head so often.

“We wouldn’t have to be doing this twice if you’d done it right the first time,” Purcell said.

“We got the diamonds back,” McReady said, “so what difference does it make?”

“This time we’ll make sure he’s dead,” K said.

“Take off his shoes,” McReady said.

“Why?”

“So we can get these pants on him.”

“Is he still out?”

“Yeah.”

“Drag him over here, near the coffin.”

Someone’s hands clutched at his ankles. He felt the floor scraping beneath his shoulders and back, heard the rasping sound of cloth catching at splintered wood. They had not bound him, his hands and feet were free, he could still fight or run.

He wondered how they had located him in the basement room, and then remembered he had left the cab sitting at the curb outside the building, that had been a mistake, a terrible oversight; I have been making a lot of mistakes these past two days, he thought, and I am very tired. Kill me and put me in the goddamn coffin, get it over with.

“Take off his pants,” McReady said.

Purcell pulled at the pants he was wearing. It was cold on the floor of the cottage. He could feel the wind seeping under the front door, Why is it always so cold on the edge of cemeteries? he wondered.

“Polka-dot shorts,” Purcell said, and laughed. “That kills me.”

“Here,” McReady said.

Purcell pulled the new set of trousers over Mullaney’s feet and ankles, up over his legs.

“Doesn’t he need a belt?”

“No, the jacket will cover the trouser loops.”

“We’re lucky the buttons are still on it,” Purcell said.

“They’re fastened securely,” McReady said.

“We had a hole drilled through the pavilion of each diamond...”

“The what?”

“The pavilion,” K said. “The part below the mounting. Doesn’t he need a different tie?”

“A black one,” Purcell said. “You could have cracked those stones, you know.”

“An expert did the job. Don’t we have a black tie, McReady?”

“If you’d cracked the big ones...”

“I know.”

“... the value would have gone all the way down.”

“I’ll look in the other room.”

“We can’t put him in the coffin with a striped tie,” K said.

“How much did you say they’re worth?” Purcell asked.

“The three big ones?”

“Yeah.”

“Nine thousand dollars a carat.”

“And the smaller ones?”

“Five thousand a carat.”

“That doesn’t come to half a million, does it?”

“No one ever said it did.”

“You said it did.”

“I said four hundred and ninety thousand dollars.”

“You said half a million.”

“I said not quite half a million.”

“Are you getting that tie, McReady?”

“I could only find a black bow tie,” McReady said.

“Do they bury people in bow ties?”

“Why not?”

“This is a nice bow tie,” McReady said.

“I wonder what happened to his yellow shirt.”

“Jasmine,” McReady said, and chuckled.

“Jasmine,” K repeated, and chuckled with him.

“Let’s get the tie on him,” Purcell said.

“We’ll have to shoot him in the back of the head,” K said. “Otherwise it’ll show.”

“Yeah,” Purcell agreed. “I still say you should have done that in the beginning.”

“I told you we didn’t know the coffin would be hijacked.”

“You should have figured it might have been.”

“Why?” McReady said. “Gouda thought we’d already fenced the stuff and been paid for it.”

“How do you fasten this tie?” K asked.

“Isn’t there a clip or something?”

“No. Oh, wait a minute, is this it?”

“Yes, that’s it,” McReady said.

“I’ve never seen anyone buried in a bow tie,” Purcell said. “Bow ties are for weddings.”

“It’ll have to do,” K said. “You complain an awful lot, did you know that, Purcell?”

“I hate sloppy jobs.”

“Gouda used to complain a lot, too,” McReady said.

“Yeah, but I’m not working for Kruger.”

“We hope not,” McReady said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Calm down,” K said.

“Well, tell him not to make those kind of remarks.”

“Don’t make those kind of remarks,” K said.

“It’s not my fault you were careless,” Purcell said.

“We were not careless.”

“We wanted Gouda to think we’d received payment.”

“We wanted him to steal the money.”

“We wanted him to think we were innocently shipping half a million dollars in paper scraps to Rome.”

“Yeah,” Purcell said sourly, “the only trouble is it didn’t work.”

“It almost worked.”

“Almost ain’t quite,” Purcell said. “The way four hundred and ninety thousand dollars ain’t quite half a million.”

“We had no idea Kruger would tip.”

“The counterfeit bills were very good,” K said.

“Excellent,” McReady said.

“They were so good, I hated to part with them.”

“Where’d you get them?” Purcell asked.

“Ladro’s New York people supplied them.”

“He was furious when I spoke to him,” McReady said.

“Well, he’ll be happy tomorrow morning,” K said. “Let’s get the jacket on him.”

“Let’s shoot him first,” Purcell said.

“You think so?”

“Sure. Otherwise we’ll get blood on the jacket.”

“What do you think, McReady?”

“Either way, let’s get it over with.”

Well, how about it? Mullaney thought, and would have made his move right then, but something still was bothering him, the same elusive something that had begun nagging him back in the Brooklyn basement before he’d started gambling with Melissa, the same something that was eluding him now. You had better move, Mullaney, he told himself, you had better move now and fast and figure out what’s bothering you later because if you don’t you’re going to be figuring it out in a coffin, dead this time, and I am told getting shot in the head is not a very pleasant death. Grandma told me that, however, and she has been proven notoriously wrong about a great many things.

“Lift him,” K said.

“Why?” McReady asked.

“So Purcell can get to the back of his head.”

“Oh,” McReady said. “Yes.”

McReady tugged at his hands, pulling him up into a sitting position. He could hear Purcell walking around behind him.

“Watch the angle now,” K said.

“What do you mean?”

“Make sure you don’t send the bullet through his head and into me.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Point the gun up toward the ceiling.”

“Right,” Purcell said.

With his eyes still closed, Mullaney felt something hard and cold against the back of his skull.

“No, tilt it more,” K said.

“Like this?”

“Can’t you tilt it?”

“Not without crouching down.”

“Then crouch down.”

“You’re behaving like an amateur,” McReady said.

“Tell him to stop making those kind of remarks,” Purcell said. “Stop making those kind of remarks,” K said.

The gun moved away from Mullaney’s head. In that instant, he yanked his hands free of McReady’s loose grip, and swung around in time to catch Purcell just as he was going into his crouch, knocking him back on his heels. There was a silencer on the gun, he saw, making it easier to grab, but rendering it none the less deadly. They can kill me here in this cottage as easily as whispering in church, he thought, and reached for the gun, missing. There was a short puffing explosion. A window shattered across the room. He clutched at Purcell’s wrist, grasped it tightly in both hands, and slammed Purcell’s knuckles against the floor, knocking the gun loose. He lunged for the gun, straddling Purcell as he did so, and then nimbly stepped over him and whirled to face all three men, the gun level in his hand.

“It is now post time,” he said, and grinned.

“Give me that gun, Mullaney,” K said.

“Ha-ha,” Mullaney said, “you are very comical.”

“Give me the gun.”

“No. You give me the jacket.” He extended his left hand.

“The jacket is ours,” K said.

“Correct. Give it to me anyway.”

“The diamonds arc ours, too,” K said.

“No, the diamonds belong to a jewelry firm on Forty-seventh Street,” Mullaney said, and suddenly realized what had been bothering him in the basement, what had continued to bother him all along. The diamonds were neither K’s nor his. The diamonds had been stolen.

He frowned.

“I...”

And hesitated.

“I want that jacket,” he said.

“Are you ready to kill for it?” K asked.

“What?”

“Because that’s what you’ll have to do,” K said. “You’ll have to kill all three of us.”

He thought This isn’t fair. He thought There’s half a million dollars’ worth of diamonds sewn to that jacket, what do I care whether or not they were stolen? I knew that all along, didn’t I? These men are thugs, these men are hoods, these men are killers. I knew that all along, and it didn’t stop me from making plans for Monte Carlo or London or Jakarta, why should I care now? Kill them, they’re enemies of society, he thought, kill them and get out of here with the loot, who cares? You are a winner, Mullaney, you are holding the winning hand at last.

He was sweating now, the gun in his right hand was trembling. He could see the jacket draped loosely over K’s arm, the middle button repainted black, an innocuous-looking burial garment that would be sent to Rome in exchange for four hundred and ninety thousand dollars, enough for a million and one Arabian nights, kill them, he thought, take the jacket, win!

Yes, Mullaney, he thought, kill them. You have done enough for possession of that jacket in these past two days, you have done enough over this past year, all of it part of the gamble, you have begged, you have borrowed, you have lied, you have cheated, you have stolen, you have Used, you have Taken, you have Grabbed, so what difference will it make if you perform one last slightly less than honorable act before you catch a plane out of the country, what the hell difference will it make?

Kill them, he thought.

Finders, keepers, winner take all, kill them.

He could not squeeze the trigger.

He stood facing them, knowing that he did not want to lose yet another time, but knowing he had already lost because he could not squeeze the trigger, he could not for the life of him commit this act that would finalize the gamble.

“No,” he said.

“What?” K said.

“Keep the jacket.”

“What?” Purcell said.

“But find yourself another corpse.”

“What?” McReady said.

He felt like crying, but he did not want to cry in the presence of these international people with high connections in Rome and God knew where else, did not want them to realize he was truly a loser. So he kept his mouth very tightly compressed, a trick he had learned as a boy when his grandmother told him frightening stories, it was easier not to cry when your lips were compressed that way. He backed toward the door of the cottage, keeping the gun trained on the three men, opening the door with one hand thrust behind him, fumbling for the knob, feeling the cemetery wind as it rushed into the room. “I would appreciate it,” he said, trying to sound calm and detached and debonair while knowing he had lost the final gamble, knowing he was a loser, “I would appreciate it,” he said, “if you would drop the burglary charge against me.”

K studied him solemnly for a moment. Then he said, “Well see, Mullaney.”

“Ciao,” Mullaney said, and went out of the cottage.

He threw the gun into a sewer outside the cemetery and then began walking slowly, the first time he had walked slowly in the past two days, it seemed, slowly and calmly, hoping they would not follow him, and really not caring whether they did or not. He thought his parting shot had been a very good one, “Ciao, “ he had said, losing the gamble, but showing what a sport he was anyway, a tip of the hat, a wave of the hand, “Ciao,” and it was all over. “Ciao,” and out the window went the past year, out the window went everything he had thought important, “Ciao,” goodbye to Monaco and Monte Carlo, goodbye to London and Epsom Downs, goodbye to Indonesia and Jakarta, where he had told the cab driver they ran cockroach races, though not at all sure they did. I’ll have to look it up, he thought, and remembered that he had been locked out of his room, and wondered where he would spend the night now that the gamble was over, wondered where he would spend all the rest of his nights now that he was definitely a loser. Well, he thought, at least Irene will get a kick out of this, Irene will grin all over that Irish phizz of hers if she ever finds out her former husband has blown it all in little more than a year; she will certainly have a few laughs telling her new and doubtless winning suitors that her husband was a fool, and a loser to boot.

No, he thought.

Not Irene.

Perhaps she wouldn’t do it on Ferris wheels, but he knew for certain she wouldn’t laugh at him, either, would instead allow him to weep if he wanted to, which he felt like doing right now, but did not do, his lips still compressed. I’ll bet any amount of money, he thought, I’ll give you twenty to one, a hundred to one that Irene would not be happy about this, Irene would say, “Well, Andy, that’s too bad, I’m terribly sorry to hear that.”

He wondered if she had ever told anyone that sometimes he was a fool.

He went into a phone booth on the corner sidewalk, took a dime from his pocket and dialed Irene’s number. At first he thought it might be too late to be making a phone call, but there were still lights on in the private houses bordering the cemetery, so he guessed...

“Hello?” she said.

“Hello, Irene?” he said.

“Yes?”

“This is Andy,” he said.

“Andy?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, hello, Andy,” she said.

“I didn’t wake you or anything, did I?”

“No, I was watching television,” Irene said.

“What time is it?”

“About ten-thirty,” she said.

“Oh.”

“What is it, Andy? Why are you calling?”

“Well,” he said, “you were right.”

“About what?”

“Well,” he said, “I blew it all, Irene. It took me a year, Irene, but I blew it all. I’ve got five cents in my pocket after this phone call, and that’s it. I’m stone broke after that, though I’ve got to tell you I almost had half a million dollars just a few minutes ago.”

“Really, Andy?” she said. “Half a million?”

“Yes, I could have had it, Irene, I really could have...” He stopped. “Irene,” he said, “I never came close to having it.”

“Well, Andy,” she said, “That’s too bad, I’m terribly sorry to hear that.”

“I knew you would say that, Irene.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

The line went silent.

“Irene?” he said.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m here.”

“Irene, did you ever tell anybody about the time with the hat?”

“No,” she said.

“Do you know which time I mean?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Irene...” he said.

“Yes?”

“Irene, do you remember the night we got caught in the rain on Fire Island?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you remember the time we were cleaning out cockroaches...”

“Yes, yes...”

“... and found the Cache?”

“Yes, and got drunk.”

“Yes,” he said.

“And tried to make love.”

“Yes.” He paused. “Irene, would you do it on a Ferris wheel?”

“No,” she said.

“Irene?”

“Yes?”

“Neither would I.”

The line went silent again.

“Well,” he said, and sighed.

“Well... well, what are you going to do now?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you have any plans?”

“No. I thought...” He hesitated. “I don’t know what I thought.”

“What did you think, Andy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did you call, Andy?”

“I guess to...”

“Yes?”

“To ask, Irene, if you would be willing to... to...”

“Yes?”

“Take a gamble.”

“A gamble?”

“On me.”

He said the words so softly that she did not hear him.

“What?” she said.

“On me,” he repeated.

“Oh.”

She’ll say no, he thought. She’ll say no, and I’ll walk off into the night with a nickel in my pocket, fifteen cents less than I started with yesterday morning. Please don’t say no, he thought. Irene, please don’t say no.

“Irene?” he said.

“What is it, Andy?”

“Please don’t say no. I know I’m a fool, I know I’m...”

“No, no,” she said. “You’re...”

“Irene, did you ever tell anybody I was a fool?”

“Andy, I don’t think you’re a fool.”

“I am, Irene, I am.”

“No, Andy.” She paused. Her voice was very low when she spoke again. “Andy, you’re a very nice person,” she said, “if only you would grow up.”

“Irene...” he said.

“Yes?”

“Gamble.”

“I’m not a gambler, Andy.”

“Neither am I,” he said, and the line went silent. For a moment, he thought she had hung up. He waited for her to speak again, and then said, “Irene? Irene, are you...?”

“I’m... I’m here,” she said.

“Listen... listen, you’re not crying, are you? Irene...”

“Andy, Andy,” she said.

“Should... should I come there?”

She did not answer.

“Say yes, Irene.”

Still, she did not answer.

“Irene? Say yes. Please.”

He heard her sigh.

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m crazy.”

“I love you,” he said.

“All right,” she said.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he said.

“All right,” she said.

“Well, not in a minute, because all I have is a nickel. It may take some time.”

“Time we have,” she said.

“Yes,” he answered. “Time we have.”

“But hurry, anyway,” she said, and hung up.

He put the phone back onto the hook, and sat unmoving in the booth, feeling the April breeze that swept through the open doors, watching the eddying paper scraps on the floor. He sat that way for a long time, with the paper scraps dancing at his feet, and he thought about the gamble he had taken and lost, and he still wanted to weep. And then he thought about the gamble he was about to take, the biggest gamble of them all perhaps, and he simply nodded, and rose at last, and went out of the booth and began walking back to Manhattan.