Chapter 22
Well into midmorning Millicent was still asleep. Rosie had hopped up on the bed and was sleeping next to her in the crook of her bent legs. I was still in my silk robe, at my easel, drinking some coffee and trying to get the right yellow onto the restaurant sign in my Chinatown painting, when the doorbell rang. I went and buzzed the speaker downstairs.
“Package for Sunny Randall,” the voice said.
“Who from?” I said.
“I don’t know, lady, I just drive the truck.”
“Okay,” I said. “Second floor.”
I buzzed the downstairs door open and stood looking out the peephole in my door. In a moment the big old elevator eased to a stop and the doors, originally designed for freight, slid open. There were two men with a large cardboard box. They carried it as if it was empty. I opened the broom closet next to the door and took out a short double-barreled shotgun that my father had confiscated from a dope dealer and passed on to me. I cocked both barrels and as I walked back to the door, my bell rang. Rosie jumped down from the bed and hustled to the door in case it might be Richie. I looked through the peephole again. The box had been pushed aside and the two men stood waiting. I opened the door a foot and stepped away, keeping it between me and them. Rosie sniffed and wagged and milled around their feet as they shoved the door open and came in. The first man shoved her out of the way with his foot. The second guy came through right behind his buddy, his hand under his pea coat. I wasn’t dressed for company. I had the shotgun at my shoulder, and I could feel the butt of it through the thin silk of my robe.
“Freeze,” I said.
The guy with the pea coat said, “Shit,” and brought his hand out with a nine in it. I fired one barrel. It was a 10-gauge gun loaded with fours and it took him full in the chest at two feet. He went backwards into the hall and fell on his back. My ears were ringing. In the enclosed area the sound of the gunshot was painful. The second man threw his hands up as I turned the gun toward him.
“No,” he said. “No, no, no.”
“Flat on your goddamned face,” I said, “now. Hands behind your neck. Right-fucking-now.”
The second man went down. I held the shotgun against the back of his head while I patted him down. I took a .357 Mag from his hip. Then I backed four steps to the kitchen counter, put the .357 down and dialed 911. I kept the shotgun level and aimed over the crook of my arm. The second man remained motionless, his hands clasped behind his head, his face on the floor. Beyond him in the entryway his partner lay silently on his back, with one leg twitching occasionally.
“There’s been a shooting,” I said, and gave my name and address. “Second floor, there’s a man down.”
I hung up and glanced over toward the bedroom end of the loft. Rosie had disappeared, I suspected under the bed. Millicent was out of sight, too, maybe sharing space with Rose.
“Millicent,” I said. “It’s okay. The police are on the way.”
No one spoke.
“Is Rosie there with you?” I said.
A voice said, “Yes.”
“The cops will be here soon,” I said.
I walked back to the second man, facedown on the floor.
“You want to tell me what this is about?” I said.
“Don’t know.”
I prodded his right temple with the shotgun.
“You kicked my dog,” I said. “I might shoot you for that.”
“I just pushed her,” he said. “I didn’t want to step on her.”
“Why are you here?”
“I don’t know. Honest to God. I just come with Terry. He said we was going to pick up some girl.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know.”
I prodded again.
“Swear on my mother,” he said. “Terry just says it’ll be some easy dough. Just a couple broads.”
“Terry the guy in the hall?” I said.
“Yeah.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Nee.”
“What’s your name.”
“Mike.”
Outside on Summer Street I could hear the first siren.
“Can you give me a break,” Mike said.
“Who sent you?” I said.
“I don’t know. I just come along pick up a day’s pay from Terry.”
“Did you rough up a pimp named Pharaoh Fox?” I said.
“Don’t know his name, me and Terry slapped a black guy around a little. He was a pimp.”
“Why?”
“Something about a girl.”
“Do you know the girl’s name?”
“No. Terry did.”
The siren dwindled and went silent in front of my loft. Then another one.
“You gonna gimme a break?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not.”
Mike didn’t say anything and in another minute the elevator door opened and two cops walked out, service pistols in hand, held against the leg, the barrel pointing at the ground. Behind them came two EMTs. I let the shotgun hang by my side. I was holding my robe together with my left hand. The older of the two cops put out his hand, and I gave him the gun. I was glad to give it up. Then I could hold my robe together with both hands. The younger cop stood over Mike and patted him down. One of the EMTs went down on the floor beside Terry Nee.
“He’s cooked,” the EMT said.
“There’s a gun on the counter,” I said. “I took it from Mike on the floor.”
“Glock on the floor out there,” the younger cop said.
“Leave everything for the detectives,” the older cop said. “You, on the floor, you stay right there.”
The young cop left Mike and went and bent over and looked at the dead man.
“Well, hello,” he said. “It’s Terry Nee.”
“If it had to be somebody,” the older cop said, his eyes moving around the room as he spoke, “it might just as well be Terry Nee.”
The young cop opened the big cardboard box and peered in.
“Empty,” he said.
Rosie crept out from under the bed waggling tentatively. I scooched down and put my arms out and she scuttled over, and I picked her up. Millicent stood up behind the bed and stayed there, her back against the wall. The older cop looked at Rosie who was lapping my neck as if it were her last chance.
“Not an attack dog, I’d guess.”
“Not unless you’re a liver snap,” I said.
He looked at a scrap of paper.
“Sonya Randall?”
“Sunny,” I said.
“Sunny Randall?”
“Yes.”
“You Phil Randall’s kid?”
“Yes.”
“I was in a cruiser once with Phil. You’re a lot better-looking.”
“Yes,” I said,
“You want to tell me what happened?”
I could hear more sirens on Summer Street. And the sound of the elevator heading up. It was going to be a long day.
Chapter 23
It helped that I had been a cop. It helped that I was a licensed private investigator. It helped that I had a gun permit. It helped that Millicent confirmed my story, however monosyllabically. It helped that I was a woman defending a young girl against two known thugs. It helped that I was kind of cute. It probably helped a little that Rosie was cuter than is legally permissible in many states. And it helped a lot that I was Phil Randall’s daughter. We didn’t have to go downtown. We agreed that Millicent would be better off if she weren’t mentioned to the press. The lead detective on the case was a sergeant named Brian Kelly who had thick black hair and a cute butt and a wonderful smile.
“We’ll need to talk again, Sunny,” he said about five in the afternoon as they were cleaning up the crime scene. “Is it okay if I call you Sunny?”