Eight Million Ways to Die

Chapter 33

The LL train starts at Eighth Avenue, crosses Manhattan along Fourteenth Street, and winds up way the hell out in Canarsie. Its first stop across the river in Brooklyn is at Bedford Avenue and North Seventh Street. I left it there and walked around until I found his house. It took me a while and I took a couple of wrong turns, but it was a good day for walking, the sun out, the sky clear, and a little warmth in the air for a change.

There was a heavy windowless door to the right of the garage. I poked the doorbell but got no response, and I couldn't hear the bell sounding within. Hadn't he said something about disconnecting the bell? I jabbed it again, heard nothing.

There was a brass knocker mounted on the door and I used it. Nothing happened. I cupped my hands and shouted, "Chance, open up! It's Scudder." Then I pounded on the door some more, with the knocker and with my hands.

The door looked and felt awfully solid. I gave it a tentative nudge with my shoulder and decided it was unlikely I could kick it in. I could break a window and get in that way, but in Greenpoint some neighbor would call the cops, or pick up a gun and come over himself.

I banged on the door some more. A motor worked, and a winch began lifting the electrically operated garage door.

"This way," he said. "Before you knock my damn door down."

I went in through the garage and he pushed a button to lower the door again. "My front door doesn't open," he said. "Didn't I show you that before? It's all sealed shut with bars and shit."

"That's great if you have a fire."

"Then I go out a window. But when'd you ever hear of the firehouse burning down?"

He was dressed as I'd last seen him, in light blue denim pants and a navy blue pullover. "You forgot your coffee," he said. "Or I forgot to give it to you. Day before yesterday, remember? You were gonna take a couple pounds home with you."

"You're right, I forgot."

"For your girlfriend. Fine-looking woman. I got some coffee made. You'll have a cup, won't you?"

"Thanks."

I went into the kitchen with him. I said, "You're a hard man to get hold of."

"Well, I sort of stopped checking with my service."

"I know. Have you heard a newscast lately? Or read a paper?"

"Not lately. You drink it black, right?"

"Right. It's all over, Chance." He looked at me. "We got the guy."

"The guy. The killer."

"That's right. I thought I'd come out and tell you about it."

"Well," he said. "I guess I'd like to hear it."

* * *

I went through the whole thing in a fair amount of detail. I was used to it by now. It was the middle of the afternoon and I'd been telling the story to one person or another ever since I'd put four bullets into Pedro Antonio Marquez a little after two in the morning.

"So you killed him," Chance said. "How do you feel about that?"

"It's too early to tell."

I knew how Durkin felt about it. He couldn't have been happier. "When they're dead," he had said, "you know they're not going to be back on the street in three years, doing it again. And this one was a fucking animal. He had that taste of blood and he liked it."

"It's the same guy?" Chance wanted to know. "There's no question?"

"No question. They got confirmation from the manager of the Powhattan Motel. They also matched a couple of latent prints, one from the Powhattan and one from the Galaxy, so that ties him to both killings. And the machete's the weapon used in both killings. They even found minute traces of blood where the hilt meets the handle, and the type matches either Kim or Cookie, I forget which one."

"How'd he get into your hotel?"

"He walked right through the lobby and rode up in the elevator."

"I thought they had the place staked out."

"They did. He walked right past them, picked up his key at the desk and went to his room."

"How could he do that?"

"Easiest thing in the world," I said. "He checked in the day before, just in case. He was setting things up. When he got the word that I was looking for him, he went back to my hotel, went up to his room, then went to my room and let himself in. The locks in my hotel aren't much of a challenge. He took off his clothes and sharpened his machete and waited for me to come home."

"And it almost worked."

"It should have worked. He could have waited behind the door and killed me before I knew what was happening. Or he could have stayed in the bathroom a few more minutes and given me time to get into bed. But he got too much of a kick out of killing and that's what screwed him up. He wanted us both naked when he took me out, so he waited in the bathroom, and he couldn't wait for me to get into bed because he was too keyed up, too excited. Of course if I hadn't had the gun handy he'd have killed me anyway."

"He couldn't have been all alone."

"He was alone as far as the killings were concerned. He probably had partners in the emerald operation. The cops may get somewhere looking for them and they may not. Even if they do, there's no real way to make a case against anybody."

He nodded. "What happened to the brother? Kim's boyfriend, the one who started everything."

"He hasn't turned up. He's probably dead. Or he's still running, and he'll live until his Colombian friends catch up with him."

"Will they do that?"

"Probably. They're supposed to be relentless."

"And that room clerk? What's his name, Calderуn?"

"That's right. Well, if he's holed up somewhere in Queens, he can read about it in the paper and ask for his old job back."

He started to say something, then changed his mind and took both our cups back to the kitchen to refill them. He came back with them and gave me mine.

"You were up late," he said.

"All night."

"You been to sleep at all?"

"Not yet."

"Myself, I doze off in a chair now and then. But when I get in bed I can't sleep, I can't even lie there. I go work out and take a sauna and a shower and drink some more coffee and sit around some more. Over and over."

"You stopped calling your service."

"I stopped calling my service. I stopped leaving the house. I guess I been eating. I take something from the refrigerator and eat it without paying attention. Kim's dead and Sunny's dead and this Cookie's dead, and maybe the brother's dead, the boyfriend, and what's-his-name is dead. The one you shot, I disremember his name."

"Marquez."

"Marquez is dead, and Calderуn disappeared, and Ruby's in San Francisco. And the question is where's Chance, and the answer is I don't know. Where I think I am is out of business."

"The girls are all right."

"So you said."

"Mary Lou isn't going to be turning tricks anymore. She's glad she did it, she learned a lot from it, but she's ready for a new stage in her life."

"Yeah, well, I called that one. Didn't I tell you after the funeral?"

I nodded. "And Donna thinks she can get a foundation grant, and she can earn money through readings and workshops. She says she's reached a point where selling herself is starting to undermine her poetry."

"She's pretty talented, Donna. Be good if she could make it on her poetry. You say she's getting a grant?"

"She thinks she's got a shot at it."

He grinned. "Aren't you gonna tell me the rest of it? Little Fran just got a Hollywood contract and she's gonna be the next Goldie Hawn."

"Maybe tomorrow," I said. "For now she just wants to live in the Village and stay stoned and entertain nice men from Wall Street."

"So I still got Fran."

"That's right."

He'd been pacing the floor. Now he dropped onto the hassock again. "Be a cinch to get five, six more of them," he said. "You don't know how easy it is. Easiest thing in the world."

"You told me that once before."

"It's the truth, man. So many women just waiting to be told what to do with their damn lives. I could walk out of here and have me a full string in no more than a week's time." He shook his head ruefully. "Except for one thing."

"What's that?"

"I don't think I can do that anymore." He stood up again. "Damn, I been a good pimp! And I liked it. I tailored a life for myself and it fit me like my own skin. And you know what I went and did?"

"What?"

"I outgrew it."

"It happens."

"Some spic goes crazy with a blade and I'm out of business. You know something? It would have happened anyway, wouldn't it?"

"Sooner or later." Just as I'd have left the police force even if a bullet of mine hadn't killed Estrellita Rivera. "Lives change," I said. "It doesn't seem to do much good to fight it."

"What am I gonna do?"

"Whatever you want."

"Like what?"

"You could go back to school."

He laughed. "And study art history? Shit, I don't want to do that. Sit in classrooms again? It was bullshit then, I went into the fuckin' army to get away from it. You know what I thought about the other night?"

"What?"

"I was gonna build a fire. Pile all the masks in the middle of the floor, spill a little gas on 'em, put a match to 'em. Go out like one of those Vikings and take all my treasures with me. I can't say I thought about it for long. What I could do, I could sell all this shit. The house, the art, the car. I guess the money'd last me a time."

"Probably."

"But then what'd I do?"

"Suppose you set up as a dealer?"

"Are you crazy, man? Me deal drugs? I can't even pimp no more, and pimping's cleaner'n dealing."

"Not drugs."

"What, then?"

"The African stuff. You seem to own a lot of it and I gather the quality's high."

"I don't own any garbage."

"So you told me. Could you use that as your stock to get you started? And do you know enough about the field to go into the business?"

He frowned, thinking. "I was thinking about this earlier," he said.

"And?"

"There's a lot I don't know. But there's a lot I do know, plus I got a feel for it and that's something you can't get in a classroom or out of a book. But shit, you need more'n that to be a dealer. You need a whole manner, a personality to go with it."

"You invented Chance, didn't you?"

"So? Oh, I dig. I could invent some nigger art dealer same way I invented myself as a pimp."

"Couldn't you?"

" 'Course I could." He thought once more. "It might work," he said. "I'll have to study it."

"You got time."

"Plenty of time." He looked intently at me, the gold flecks glinting in his brown eyes. "I don't know what made me hire you," he said. "I swear to God I don't. If I wanted to look good or what, the superpimp avenging his dead whore. If I knew where it was going to lead-"

"It probably saved a few lives," I said. "If that's any consolation."

"Didn't save Kim or Sunny or Cookie."

"Kim was already dead. And Sunny killed herself and that was her choice, and Cookie was going to be killed as soon as Marquez tracked her down. But he'd have gone on killing if I hadn't stopped him. The cops would have landed on him sooner or later but there'd have been more dead women by then. He never would have stopped. It was too much of a turn-on for him. When he came out of the bathroom with the machete, he had an erection."

"You serious?"

"Absolutely."

"He came at you with a hard-on?"

"Well, I was more afraid of the machete."

"Well, yeah," he said. "I could see where you would be."

He wanted to give me a bonus. I told him it wasn't necessary, that I'd been adequately paid for my time, but he insisted, and when people insist on giving me money I don't generally argue. I told him I'd taken the ivory bracelet from Kim's apartment. He laughed and said he'd forgotten all about it, that I was welcome to it and he hoped my lady would like it. It would be part of my bonus, he said, along with the cash and two pounds of his specially blended coffee.

"And if you like the coffee," he said, "I can tell you where to get more of it."

He drove me back into the city. I'd have taken the subway but he insisted he had to go to Manhattan anyway to talk to Mary Lou and Donna and Fran and get things smoothed out. "Might as well enjoy the Seville while I can," he said. "Might wind up selling it to raise cash for operating expenses. Might sell the house, too." He shook his head. "I swear it suits me, though. Living here."

"Get the business started with a government loan."

"You jiving?"

"You're a minority group member. There's agencies just waiting to lend you money."

"What a notion," he said.

In front of my hotel he said, "That Colombian asshole, I still can't remember his name."

"Pedro Marquez."

"That's him. When he registered at your hotel, is that the name he used?"

"No, it was on his ID."

"That's what I thought. Like he was C. O. Jones and M. A. Ricone, and I wondered what dirty word he used for you."

"He was Mr. Starudo," I said. "Thomas Edward Starudo."

"T. E. Starudo? Testarudo? That a curse in Spanish?"

"Not a curse. But it's a word."

"What's it mean?"

"Stubborn," I said. "Stubborn or pig-headed."

"Well," he said, laughing. "Well, hell, you can't blame him for that one, can you?"