“Is he with you now?”
“No, I’m supposed to meet him right away at Grand Central Station. I have to go now, Joshua. I wanted to call you, though, so you wouldn’t worry when I didn’t come tonight.”
“Well. Thanks for calling.”
And that had been that.
The question, Joshua Crawford thought, was just where you went from here. His first reaction, one of cold fury for the little pipsqueak who had the colossal nerve to take his money and use it against him, changed to somewhat renewed respect crossed with determination. The little punk had guts, albeit his own brand of guts. He was putting up a fight, and whether or not that fight consisted of sticking a knife into an obliging back didn’t appear to be too relevant.
Whatever way you looked at it, Joshua Crawford was damned lucky. Because this fool Parsons hadn’t had the brains to tell her not to, Honour Mercy had given him a more or less complete run-down on their plans. Evidently, Parsons wasn’t sure enough of himself to let Honour Mercy know just what was coming off, and this was just fine with Joshua Crawford. The ball had been handed to him; now it was up to him to decide where to throw it.
He toyed with the idea of tipping off the Air Police. The Air Police were, he knew, a most efficient group of gentlemen. In addition to catching Richie as soon as they heard about him, they were almost certain to kick the crap out of him before turning him in. Which, when Joshua Crawford gave the matter a little thought, was just what the little son-of-a-bitch had coming to him. A fast arrest, and a good beating, and as long a sentence in the stockade as they were handing out these days, and Richie Parsons would disappear from his life like a pesty fly stuck on a ribbon of flypaper.
Crawford hadn’t even thought about it before, about what to do if Richie crossed him. The possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. Richie, a skulking sneak, a cowardly clod, would take the cash and run like the devil. Period. But things weren’t that simple.
Crawford thought about calling the Air Police, thought about Honour Mercy’s instant and obvious and inevitable interpretation of such a move, and tried to put himself in her place. If he were Honour Mercy, and if some son-of-a-bitch hollered copper on his own true love, he would be somewhat annoyed.
It stood to reason that Honour Mercy would react along similar lines.
This more or less ruled out the Air Police. Crawford sat at his desk, thinking, growing even more annoyed. He was beginning to realize that he had blundered, had perhaps done a seriously stupid thing. Everything had been going his way: Honour Mercy and Joshua Crawford were growing more and more together, Honour Mercy and Richie Parsons were sliding further and further apart. In time, with Honour Mercy seeing him constantly and discovering how much more enjoyable his companionship was than Richie’s, the battle would have been won.
But he had been too impatient, and in this case impatience and stupidity were identical. He couldn’t leave well enough alone — he was like a lawyer with a safe case who tries to bribe the judge for a dismissal instead of waiting for the jury to exonerate his client legally. By rushing things, by being a stupid man, he had forced Honour Mercy and Richie closer together.
Now, he realized, the question had been put. If Richie had a source of false identification papers in Albany, then he no longer had to fear Joshua Crawford, no longer had to be quite so much of a sneak. He would be in a position to offer serious competition to Crawford. It was, all in all, one hell of a mess.
Crawford sat and thought and smoked. The ashtray overflowed and he was developing a callous on his rear from sitting and doing nothing.
There wasn’t one hell of a lot he could do. That was the sad part, and it was very sad, but the fact remained that there wasn’t a hell of a lot he could do.
He could forget Honour Mercy Bane.
Sure, that’s what he could do. He could forget all about her, forget what she was like in bed, what she was like walking and talking and sitting and simply doing nothing but look beautiful. He could forget how he felt alive when he was with her and dead when he was without her.
He could forget her, just as he could forget his name, just as he could remember that he was married to a slob named Selma, just as he could forget that he was alive.
Or, damn it to deep hell, he could get rid of Richie Parsons.
Get rid of him. Get rid of him because he was in the way, because he was an infernal fool who did not fit in with Joshua Crawford’s plans. Get rid of him, squash him like the insect he was, use him up and throw him away like a discarded sanitary napkin. The image, he had to admit, was a damned good one.
Get rid of him. Who would miss Richie Parsons? Who could feel anything for him other than a mixture of com-passion and contempt?
Joshua Crawford thought some more, then opened his desk drawer and hunted around for a small book of telephone numbers. Acme Paper Goods was listed in that book, as was Honour Mercy’s home phone and a good many other numbers that didn’t belong in the official business telephone book. The number Joshua Crawford was looking for was the number of a man named Vincent Canelli. He found the number and dialed it, remembering who Canelli was and what Canelli had said.
Canelli had come to him once, years ago. Canelli did something, God knew what, and Canelli had some sort of mob connection. Along with whatever illegitimate racket the man ran, he also had a dry-cleaning route business that was having hearty tax problems. Crawford had saved the day for him, partly by legal means, partly by reaching people whom Canelli could not have reached on his own.
Canelli had paid a fat fee, which was fitting and proper, but Canelli had also said something else in parting. “Josh,” he had said, “you’re a right guy. Anything has to be done sometime, you let me know. The way I figure it you got a favor coming. You want a man killed, you just let me know.”
The phone was answered on the second ring. Joshua asked for Canelli.
“Who wants him?”
“Joshua Crawford,” he told the man, wondering whether Canelli would remember him. Canelli, as it turned out, remembered him perfectly.
He asked if the offer was still good.
“Your phone clear?” Canelli wanted to know. “This line’s safe. You sure yours ain’t tapped?”
“It’s okay, Vince.”
“Right. We still better keep it sort of up in the air. Even the telephones have ears. I make it you want to order a hit. Right?”
“Right.”
“Here in town?”
Crawford thought for a minute. “No,” he said. “Upstate. Albany.”
Canelli whistled. “I know people in Albany,” he said. “Not too many, but enough. You got somebody to finger the mark?”
The conversation was a little too far up in the air and Crawford had to ask for a translation of the question. “Somebody to point out the prospect so that we make sure we contact the right man,” was how it came out the second time around.
“Oh,” Crawford said. “Well, no.”
“You got his address?”
Crawford thought again. He did not know where Richie would be staying, and he did not know what name Richie would be using, and all in all he did not know one hell of a lot. He considered giving Vince a description, having him meet the train, but he realized that if there was one distinguishing characteristic about Richie Parsons, the insect, it was the utter impossibility of describing him.
“Vince,” he said finally, “I guess it won’t work. I can’t give you enough.”
“It’s rough without a finger, Josh.”
“Yes,” Crawford said. “I can understand that.”
“If he makes it back to the city—”
“Right,” Crawford finished. “I can always call you. In the meantime forget I ever did, okay?”