Kiss Of Evil

71

The man is tall and thin, red-haired. He wears a cheap overcoat, sturdy black lace-up shoes. In the stale light thrown from the caged bulb on the wall in the underground service tunnel linking the Cain Manor and Cain Towers apartments, he looks tired and wan and deeply etched with worry. A man running on coffee, sugar, animal fat, liquor.

A cop.

“Evening,” I say, the barrel of the twenty-two up against Mary’s back. We stop walking. We are now about ten feet from the man.

“Evening,” the red-haired man replies.

I feel Mary tense, about to bolt. “What’s the weather like out there?”

“Getting pretty bad,” the man says, turning his body slightly away from me, the sort of move a left-hander would make if he were going to unsnap the holster of a gun on his left hip, a weapon hiding beneath his coat. His voice echoes slightly in the concrete tunnel. Above us, a water pipe clangs.

“Looks like we’re in for the evening,” I say. “Wife’s a little under the weather. Had to leave the party next door. Thank God for this walk-through, eh?”

“Oh yeah.” The cop takes a step forward. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

“Like I said, she’s a little nauseous. Bad shrimp or something, you know? Can’t trust those bargain basement caterers.”

“If you don’t mind sir, I’d like to hear it from her. Now, ma’am, are you-”

Suddenly, the crackle of two-way radio traffic bursts from inside the red-haired man’s coat.

Our eyes meet again. And we are linked forever.

Before he can make his move I step behind Mary, lock an arm around her throat, put the barrel of the gun to her temple. The redheaded cop freezes.

I say: “Put your hands behind your head and interlace your fingers. Officer.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he does. But he does not take his eyes from mine. His eyes are a deep green, unreadable, stoic in their calm. I know that this man can do me great harm.

“You have your handcuffs with you?” I ask.

The cop just stares.

I say: “Cuff yourself to the drainpipe.”

“No.”

I cock my weapon. Mary goes rigid beneath my hand. “Beg your pardon?”

“I’m not going to do it.”

“And why is that?”

The cop looks at me with a weariness I have never before seen in a man his age. A resignation of soul. “Because I’m a beat-up cop, pal. You hear me? A used-up old flatfoot. Letting you handcuff me is a nightmare far worse than anything you could do with that gun. Believe this.”

“Do you think I won’t kill her?”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” the cop says. “I think you’re going to kill her. I think you’re going to kill me, too. You’re just not going to do it to me while I’m cuffed to a drainpipe. I’m leaving my son more than that. Sorry.”

I do not want to hear anymore of this.

I shoot him three times.

He stumbles backward and goes down, hard, flat on his back.

Mary shrieks. I cover her mouth. I put the gun to her head until the reality of her own death becomes apparent in her eyes. I lead her to the service elevator, then hit the button with my elbow. The car soon arrives.

I hear fire engines in the distance.

As we step inside I can also hear the traffic on the cop’s radio. The elevator doors close just as a woman’s voice says:

“Greg… Greg… you’d better get out… all hell is starting to break loose out here… Bobby’s down… repeat… Bobby’s down…”