City Primeval

28

AT EIGHT O’CLOCK the next morning Raymond phoned Inspector Herzog to report on the surveillance. Herzog, he was told, had left a day early on his vacation. Raymond felt relief. Then tensed up again as he had the call transferred to Commander Lionel Hearn, who was a good police officer, quiet, reasonable, but did not smile easily and this bothered Raymond. Commander Hearn was black. Raymond told him about the surveillance of Sweety’s Lounge and residence and the purpose, without offering details. Commander Hearn said fine, and then asked Raymond where he had stationed himself.

Raymond said, “As a matter of fact I’m at Mansell’s lawyer’s place. It’s only about three or four minutes away.” Silence. “I want Ms. Wilder to be there if an arrest is made. I don’t want us thrown out of court on any surprise technicalities. We’re gonna do it absolutely straight.” Silence-while Raymond imagined Commander Hearn putting bits and pieces together in his mind and getting a picture of Raymond in his shirtsleeves, tie off but freshly shaved, a breakfast tray on the desk next to his holstered Colt automatic. The commander said he had never heard of this type of precaution before; was it necessary? Raymond said, “Well, actually Ms. Wilder’s not representing Mansell and won’t be if we bring him to trial. He hasn’t retained her and she’s willing to go along; so I think she could serve as a very valuable witness.” Silence again.

The commander said, “Well, if you think you know what you’re doing, good luck.”

Raymond turned to Carolyn and said, “I’m not this casual, not at all.”

“You convinced me,” she said.

Hunter had gone home at seven and returned just before noon. He kept in contact with Raymond using a phone that MCMU had taken out of Sweety’s residence and connected to a jack in the recently vacated flat next door. Along with Hunter there were six MCMU officers in the flat, three armed with shotguns, watching front and rear. There were no automobiles on the street that could be identified as police cars. Hunter called every hour.

At noon he said, “Everything’s cool. Sweety’s in the bar, the key’s under the mat.”

At 12:50 Hunter said, “Where’d you sleep, on the couch?… Yeah, how come you’re changing the subject?”

At 1:55 Hunter said, “I’m gonna have Herzog put you in for a citation. ‘Without regard for his own personal safety’… You getting much?”

At 2:25 Hunter said, “Black Cadillac went past, turned around up the street, coming back. Here we go. Parking right in front.”

“I’m on my way,” Raymond said.

“Shit,” Hunter said.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s not Mansell. It’s his dizzy girlfriend.”

She was supposed to walk through it, no problem, nothing to get excited about. Fine. Except it took forever to get the front door open while she danced around, dying to go to the bathroom. She couldn’t find the basement light switch. She tried to open the hot water heater before she realized it wasn’t the furnace. She found the gun, the Walther, and dropped it in the brown leather shoulder bag she’d brought along. Upstairs again when she went to use the phone, it wasn’t there. Hey, come on. She found a phone in the kitchen, dialed and said, “The way it’s going, I almost forgot why I fucking came in here. It just isn’t my day… Yeah, I got it… No, I haven’t seen a soul.” She listened to his voice that was almost a whisper and said, “Hang around for what? You want me to bring it or not?” She looked outside, studying the cars on the street as she was supposed to, and came out looking up and down, dragging the shoulderbag along by the straps, got in the Cadillac and drove off.

Raymond crossed over from Carolyn’s gray Mercedes as Hunter and the MCMU officers came out of the flat next to Sweety’s.

Hunter said, “You see her? She’s so stoned I bet she don’t even know she was here.”

When Toma looked out and saw the car, he thought of a time when he was sixteen and had sighted down the barrel of a Mauser on a Russian soldier who had got out of his truck to relieve himself-the same distance from the apartment window to the car across the street-and had killed the man with one shot. He had waited three days for a Russian truck. He had been in Skender’s apartment perhaps three minutes, getting some books to take to the hospital, and had not looked out the window with the hope or intention of seeing something of interest. But there it was, Skender’s black Cadillac.

Sometimes you had to work hard and sometimes it was handed to you. Toma put the books on the windowsill and took out his .32-caliber Beretta. Then saw that he wasn’t being handed everything. The person in the car was a young girl with funny looking golden hair. Smoking a cigarette. Taking her time.

Toma watched for several minutes. Finally the girl got out of the car and slammed the door. Then opened it again and bent over to reach inside, held this pose for nearly a minute, then came out again with a brown leather bag that appeared worn and soft. The girl held it at her side by the shoulder strap as she crossed the street, the bottom of the bag brushing the pavement, and entered the building’s courtyard. Toma stepped back from the window. She passed along the walk to the front entrance. Now she stood there. She didn’t go into the vestibule, she stood outside, waiting, not more than thirty feet from Toma, who was looking at her back now. She seemed relaxed but didn’t move. Toma turned, looking toward the street again.

A gray Mercedes passed slowly. A black Ford passed… another one.

He’s here, Toma thought.

But how could he be?

Then knew-as he turned to look at the girl again and saw the glass door open and Mansell step outside-in the basement. In the room made for hiding.

Or in the apartment upstairs Skender was preparing, furnishing.

Jesus, the man had nerve. Toma went to his knees to raise the window, slowly. The screen was still in place; he’d fire through it. Men with nerve died like anyone else if shot in the right place. But the girl was in the way. He could see only a small part of Mansell. The girl was holding up the big leather purse. Mansell, yes, had a gun in his hand. Toma aimed carefully. But Mansell would move, lean to look past the girl toward the street. Now he was reaching into the purse-Toma thinking, What is this? Is it a show? For a moment he thought he saw a different gun in Mansell’s hand.

Why doesn’t he hurry?

Now he was going inside, the glass door closing, the girl turning away but taking her time.

It was in Toma’s mind to run, now, meet him in the hall…

But something strange was going on. The girl was walking out of the courtyard with the same uncertain but uncaring stride… then stepping out of the way, onto the grass, and Toma saw familiar faces, Raymond Cruz, Hunter, homicide people, and some not familiar, a woman with them-coming quickly along the entrance walk, past his front-row seat.

Yes, like a show, Toma thought.

Raymond Cruz was looking at the girl. He seemed to hesitate. The girl nodded, once. Not nodding hello, but saying something with the nod. Cruz kept going with the others. All of them eager. Of course-because they know Mansell’s inside.

It is a show, Toma thought.

They were in the vestibule now. He could hear someone buzzing the door open for them.

The girl with the strange blond hair was still in the courtyard, forgotten-looking inside her big purse now, feeling in there like she was looking for her keys as she walked out to the street-past a uniformed policeman getting out of a squad car-and across the street to Skender’s Cadillac.

If she had given Mansell a gun and was leaving him here, of all places-No, not of all places, the only place!

Toma ran from Skender’s apartment down the hall to the back stairs, hearing others on the stairs above him. He turned off the light and started down, as quietly as he could, still not certain what the show was about, even though he had thought of a way to end it.