“What’s with you?” Washington said. “We’ve cleared a big case! The biggest! We get to work, there’ll be champagne. Did you see Chief on TV this morning?”
“Missed it,” Armand said.
And then he knew exactly how the case would play out. Beispiel might as well cop to all five. Four or five vics, it didn’t matter. If he kept it simple, cooperated, he might just get life. If he didn’t... They wanted him to plead to five, he’d plead to five. Who cares?
Armand thought about Jerry Farber, the bandaged arm, the insurance policy he’d called about that morning, the upside down pictures and cracked glass owl that now, weeks later, looked like a struggle put hastily aright in an otherwise spotless house. It was, none of it, proof. And only Armand had noticed. He’d made no notes, taken no photos, hadn’t told Washington. The bite mark beneath the bandage was probably almost healed by now.
They were pulling onto 350 now, past Unity Temple, past Berbiglia Liquors and I-435. When he closed his eyes, Armand could see how the game had played out for Jerry Farber. He’d strangled his wife. For the money? Sure, for the money. And what did it matter? He’d wrapped something around her neck, a rope or a tie, and pulled it tight. But she was stronger than he thought and they tussled, knocking over a few pictures, the glass owl. She bit him on the elbow. Or he elbowed her in the mouth, breaking her tooth in his skin. Armand looked out the window.
And then he’d loaded her into the car — somewhere, her shoes had fallen off — driven her down to the River Market and posed her there, on a quiet bench, the way Beispiel had done the others. It would look like a screwup, but it was no mistake.
Armand sighed. He’d liked the old man too much. They were passing the Nelson Gallery, the Kemper, approaching the Plaza, then right again down Broadway.
When they’d arrived at his house, Jerry Farber’d probably only had time to clean the place up hastily. He’d put the pictures upside down, replaced the owl with the other animals. Armand remembered he’d been sweating. What else had he missed? He hadn’t been looking.
And later the old man had written the letter to the Star — he had to write it, but he couldn’t match the typewriter or the paper.
Washington had taken them the long way, and now they were approaching Thirteenth Street, the enormous, concrete convention center, the hotels, the Criminal Investigation Bureau.
And a lucky coincidence all around that the media showed up so quickly to cover the murder. Of course, Beispiel, who killed in his own neighborhood, would want to come out and see who was imitating his handiwork. Of course he would. And it was his undoing.
Armand sighed. It was best for everyone — the chief, Beispiel, Armand, Washington — that no one brought Jerry Farber into it. The case looked clean the way it was, and the Department badly needed the press. He smacked the dashboard with his palm.
He was going to confront Farber, he was going to try to put him away. But he already knew he’d lose. The game was rigged now. “Sometimes,” he told Washington, “sometimes this job works out to bullshit.”
But Washington had no idea what he was talking about. He just sang along to his CD as they drove the last few blocks to their heroes’ welcome.
Twenty-Five Large
by Jas. R. Petrin
“This is how I get beat up,” Benny said. “Because I try to be a nice guy.”
They were in the Rob Roy on Agricola Street. Benny was sitting at the end of the bar, just where it curved around to meet the wall by the VLT machine. The same place he always sat, so he could see what went on behind the bar, and who came in or out the door to the street. Especially who came in.
“There’s a simple solution,” Beemer said, picking the bar rag up, sniffing it, and folding it tidily over the edge of the sink: good for a few more wipes. “The solution is, don’t be so nice.”
“I can’t stop myself,” Benny said. “It’s the kind of guy I am. Somebody comes to me with a hard story, and before I know it, there I am in the middle. No different this time.”
“Yeah, but jeez, Harvey Halderson? You can see that guy coming with your eyes closed. You ought to know better.”
“I do. I know what they say about him. But he can help you out, you know? And he gives me this story about being a good citizen — me, not him — and before I know it, I’m up there in the North End handing over thick envelopes to rat-faced guys I never saw before. ‘Thank you on behalf of the party,’ I’m telling them, and that’s when the cops come outta the woodwork and arrest us.”
“But not Harvey, he doesn’t get arrested?”
“Harvey? He’s not even there. Besides, he’s a party organizer. No chance he’ll be arrested. He did pay for my lawyer, though, or at least the taxpaying citizens did, with his assistance.”
“Another fat envelope.”
“You guessed it. And now he wants it back. Plus the cash I was supposed to hand out that night, which was taken by the cops as evidence.”
“How much?”
“Fifteen thousand is what he says was in the envelopes. I have to take his word for that. And ten thousand for the lawyer. Twenty-five large, the total amount.”
“I guess he’s anxious to reimburse the taxpayers.”
Benny grunted. “Yeah, right. No chance he’d keep it. Use it to pay down that BMW he rolls around in.”
“I wouldn’t mind one of those,” Beemer said, a BMW being his dream car, something he talked about a lot, and how he got the name.
“Then you need to go into politics,” Benny said fast, before the bartender could get going on the subject. He glanced around and lowered his voice. “Or come in with me on this deal I got lined up.”
“What deal is that?” Beemer said, cocking an eyebrow. “Or should I even ask? Last time I was into something with you, I wound up getting run over and shot, all on the same night.”
Benny looked at him, narrowing his eyes. “Your big toe got run over is all, and you didn’t get shot, you got shot at. There’s a difference. And besides, you got paid, didn’t you?”
“I think I got, what was it, three hundred dollars? You said I’d get three thousand.”
“Excuse me? I said you could get up to three thousand, all depending on what the take was. The take was small. You got your share. More than your share, in fact.” He sniffed. “Hell, all you did was drive the forklift. And once I replaced that rear window that got shot out, I didn’t make nothing. I think I was short a few bucks, as a matter of fact.”
“The things you get up to,” Beemer said, “you should have bulletproof glass.” He walked down to the end of the bar to serve an elderly man wearing red earmuffs, poured him a Coke with lots of ice, then came back and leaned against the wall. “I tell you, it’s one of them nights. You’d think if a guy was that cold he’d be drinking hot rum, not soft drinks. No tip there.”
“I just gave you a tip,” Benny said, “the best tip you’re gonna get. You come in with me and drive the forklift, we go halves. You get half of my half.”
“That’s a quarter, if I remember my math.”
“Come on. You get half of what I get. The guy that planned the job, who did all the lead-in work, he gets the rest.”
“And how much is that?”
“Fifty thousand. The whole take is one hundred grand.”
Beemer didn’t say anything for a minute. He kept leaning against the wall. Then he moved to the sink, picked up the rag, swabbed the bar a few times, then replaced the rag over the edge of the sink.
“Say again?”
“One,” replied Benny, enunciating carefully. “Hundred. Grand.”
“That’s what I thought you said. So this other guy would take fifty, you and me would split the rest—”