“Just before he died, he moved it out of here. A heavy metal behemoth, like the others in the storage room. I came in one day and it was missing. He called later and told me he’d taken it home. He was living on Panama Street then. His wife still lives there.”
“See what you can come up with when you think hard, Laszlo? Did he have any children?”
“No, they couldn’t. Cissy Byrne was . . . Oh, wait, there was one. A son. Illegitimate.”
“The boy at the funeral.”
“That’s right. Were you there?”
“What’s his name, this boy?”
“Kyle. The woman gave him his father’s last name even though they weren’t married. An impudent act, which fit her personality. Kyle Byrne. It’s a shame about him.”
“How so?”
“Talented kid, but things never worked out. He dropped out of college, has gone from job to job. Last I heard, he was bartending at some dive and living off friends.”
“What dive?”
“Don’t know.”
“Where?”
“Here. Philadelphia. Near South Street.”
“Okay. Now, Laszlo, answer me as truthfully as you are able. And I don’t expect much. Did you make any copies of this file after you found it?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes, of course I’m sure. What are you implying?”
“What I am implying,” said Robert, “is that you are a stinking Hungarian blackmailer who might not be satisfied with one dip from the bucket.”
“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. Is that what she thinks?”
“No,” he said. “She considers you a loyal friend who is looking out for the best interests of her family.”
“And she’s right. She is. You should be ashamed of yourself, thinking the worst of everyone.”
“Not everyone.” Robert closed the file and lifted his briefcase onto the desk. He opened it so that the top lid stayed upright as a barrier, blocking Toth from seeing what was inside. Toth shifted to his right and tried to peer around the open lid.
“Uh-uh,” said Robert, wagging a finger.
Toth sat back in his chair and waited.
Robert reached into the case, took out a thick bundle of bills bound with a rubber band, smacked the bundle onto the desktop. He thought for a moment and smacked another right on top of the first.
Laszlo stared at the stack of money, rubbing his lips with the good fingers in his left hand.
“I figure that should do it,” said Robert.
As he gazed at the money, Laszlo’s demeanor changed. All his careful obfuscation of motive seemed to pass away as if the money itself had chased it, like the sun chasing the clouds. He turned his gaze to Robert and let the slightest smile twist his lips. “For the roof, maybe,” he said.
Robert stared back, shook his head sadly, reached into the briefcase. With his left hand, he took out two more bundles. He tossed them onto the table toward the others. As Laszlo Toth’s eyes tracked the cash, Robert took an automatic pistol out of the briefcase with his right hand and placed it on his lap.
“And now we have a living room,” said Laszlo.
Robert took out three bundles and lobbed them at Toth. “Here are the kitchen and two bedrooms,” he said.
“We’ll need a porch—and a view.”
“You already have more than you need.”
“But the view is the most expensive part.”
“Why don’t I just give you everything in the case?”
“I would think that should do it, Bobby,” said Laszlo Toth.
Robert stared for a moment before he spun the briefcase around, so that it faced Laszlo with the top still raised. Laszlo’s eyes lit as he reached both hands into the case.
Robert pointed the gun directly at the raised lid.
“Don’t call me Bobby,” he said.
And then he fired.
Later, after he had undone his cuff links and pushed up his sleeves and slipped his rubber gloves back on, as he moved about the office searching and obscuring, setting the scene, as he danced around the dead body of Laszlo Toth, the taste of acid in Robert Spangler’s mouth was so strong and bitter he could feel it rotting his teeth. She had done it to him again. He didn’t need that file to prove the impossibility of his ever gaining what he most desired from her; his life was proof enough. Every step toward her took him further and further from what he had sought to become. He had dreams, hopes, he had fervent plans for his future. But she had made of him an errand boy, a thug, a murderer. And all he ever wanted from her was her love. Was that too much to ask?
Evidently.
CHAPTER 3
KYLE BYRNE SPIED his father watching him play in the seventh inning, which was a little disconcerting considering that his father had been dead for fourteen years.
It was on the diamond at the Palumbo Recreation Center at Tenth and Fitzwater, during a lethargic Monday-night beer-league-softball battle between Dirty Frank’s and Bubba’s Bar and Grill. The field was scabrous, the fence surrounding the lot was close and high, the bleachers were dotted with family and friends getting a start on the evening imbibitions. Kyle, Bubba’s shortstop, was sitting on the bench, having a few swigs of his own from a can of Rolling Rock as Bubba Jr. looked on disapprovingly.
“What’s the rush?” said Junior. “I need you sober.”
“Dude.”
“Don’t dude me, dude. I been duded enough by you to last me
through the rest of the decade. What I need from you is to close my bar tonight.”
“Junior, I’m finding your lack of faith in me frankly dispiriting. I said I’ll be there.”
“You said the same thing last Monday.”
“But you should have seen her. I mean, my God. And she had these little puppy-dog eyes.”
“Puppy-dog eyes?”
“You know, the ones that are just saying, ‘Pet me, pet me.’ How could I resist that?”
Bubba Jr. tried to stare Kyle down.
“ ‘Pet me,’ ” said Kyle in his little-dog voice.
“You seeing that puppy again?”
“If I can find her number. It’s in some pocket or other, I don’t know.”
“But you do know you’re going to see me again. Think about that next time you’re deciding who to screw.”
Bubba Jr. was about as un-Bubba-like as anyone could be. The bar was named after his father, who at six-two, 240, and with a laugh like a trombone, had been Bubba to his bones. A heart attack at fortyeight passed the bar and the name to his small and wiry son.