Black Dog

Sixty-Two

Sandy got out of a cab on the corner near her apartment and hoofed the last half block, clutching two large bags of groceries to her breast. Down the block she saw a man loitering across the street from her building. He looked familiar in a not-so-good way, but she couldn’t remember his name.

She set her groceries on a wrought-iron fence top and rested for a moment, waiting for developments. The man saw her waiting but didn’t come any closer. It was Eddie what’s-his-name. He was a usual at Clarke’s and a friend of Bryce’s. She didn’t like him. What was he doing by her building? She hefted her groceries again and started walking toward her building.

Bryce Newcomb found the service entrance, walked to the door, took out the remote control, and pressed the button that turned off the alarm system. He let himself in and, treading softly in his sneakers, made his way to the service elevator, encountering no one.

He got off at the eighth floor, stopped, and listened. He heard someone moving in the study, but no conversation. Joan was alone. Perfect. He pulled on his latex gloves and removed the .22 automatic from his pocket, then examined the chamber. Fully loaded. He moved slowly through the kitchen and laundry, then stopped at the door to the living room. He could see across a sofa toward the study, where Joan was opening and closing drawers and dumping some things into a wastebasket. Bryce cocked the pistol and took a couple of steps into the living room. He wasn’t masked, but that didn’t make any difference, since the only person who could identify him would be dead in seconds. He held the pistol in readiness and moved slowly past the sofa toward the desk where Joan sat.

Eddie stood across the street and waited for the woman with the groceries to go inside her building. He didn’t want witnesses, and he wasn’t going to shoot her in the street, creating a fuss. He leaned out and surveyed the street. He didn’t see her, but he heard a door slam in the building.

Sandy made it into her apartment, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it, taking deep breaths. Finally, she took the groceries into the kitchen and set them on the counter.

The outside doorbell rang. She went to the panel. “Yes?”

“Delivery from Cartier,” a male voice said. “It’s a gift. I need a signature for security.”

“Come in,” she said, pressing the button to release the front door. Then she went to her rolltop desk, opened a tiny drawer, and extracted a gift from her father, who worried about her. The apartment doorbell rang, and she checked the peephole. That guy, Eddie, stood there, holding a small pistol pointed at the door.

“Just a minute,” she said.

“No hurry, take your time.”

She cocked the derringer pistol, a relic from the Old West, which had over-and-under barrels. To fire the first round, her father had instructed, she was to pull the trigger halfway; to fire the second, pull the trigger all the way. She held the tiny pistol, with its two .45-caliber cartridges, out in front of her, reached down, grasped the doorknob, and opened the door.

Joan looked up and saw the man coming. Her hand was already on the button, and she pressed it. The steno shelf sprang open, and she got a hand on the Government .380.

“This will all be over in a minute,” Bryce said, “and then I’ll leave you in peace.”

“As in ‘rest in peace’?” Joan asked, racking the slide and thumbing down the safety.

Sandy held out the derringer and pulled the trigger all the way back. The weapon seemed to explode in her hand, and her hearing went blank, then, as if in slow motion, Eddie left his feet and floated backward, the pistol in his hand firing into the ceiling.

Joan fired a round as she raised the .380 and a red splotch appeared on his chest. Then, to her surprise, the man’s face exploded, and he didn’t have a nose anymore. She fired again as he fell, just to be sure.

Stone Barrington, who had been sitting on the sofa, got up and took the man’s right ankle and felt for a pulse, then shook his head.

“Who the fuck is that?” Joan asked.

“No facial characteristics evident,” Stone replied. “Call 911.”

“Is it Eddie?”

“Could be. We’ll let the police tell us. Call 911 now.”

Sandy sat in an armchair, gulping deep breaths, wiggling her fingers in her ears. The noise had been horrific. She yawned, then held her nose and blew. Nothing. Then gradually she began to hear things — a car door closing in the street, a bird tweeting in the back garden. She picked up the telephone and called 911. On the seventh ring, a woman answered, “911 operator. What is your emergency?”

“Uh, ah...” What to call it?

“What is your emergency?”

“Dead person, shot.”

“Are you all right? Are you safe?”

“Oh, yes. Now there’s no threat at all.” She gave the woman her address, then hung up.

Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone. I’d like to report a shooting.”

“Did you call 911?”

“Joan did.”

“That’s two shooting calls on the East Side, inside of sixty seconds. Has war broken out up there?”

“Sort of,” Stone said. “I’m at Joan’s house.”

“Who did the shooting?”

“Both of us.”

“Is it Eddie Jr.?”

“I don’t think so. The corpse doesn’t have a whole face, but he’s wearing sneakers. Eddie Jr. would never do that.”

He hung up and sat down to wait.