I bent over to pick up some of her clothes off the floor and took them to the suitcase laying open on the top of the bureau.
“Nu?” said Morris from the door. “Is she coming?”
“No,” said Veronica weakly.
“She’s coming,” I said.
“If she is coming then she must come now,” said Morris. “Because I think that maybe our nice friend from outside might decide to force his way past Sheldon and come up here himself to find out what is happening.”
“Who exactly is outside?” she asked.
“Wayman,” I said. “And he’s the one who killed Chuckie.”
That ended all hesitation; in ninety seconds her bag was packed, she was in a pair of jeans, a shirt, her overcoat, and we were out of the room, running down the hallway, following Morris.
“Where are we going?” she asked me.
“Damned if I know,” I said.
As we ran, we heard an elevator opening. We ran away from the elevator, around a corner and another. By the time we turned the last corner and reached the stairs we could hear a door banging and Wayman’s thick and slippery voice yelling, “Open up, bitch. Open the fuck up.”
We rushed down the stairs, Morris leading as quickly as he could, which was quicker than I would have thought, down two flights. The sign said no reentry from stairwell, but Morris pulled open the door to the second floor, snapping tape off the lock as he went by, and we stumbled through the doorway after him, into the hallway, and a quick left to the room beside the stairwell, Room 2082, where Morris, without knocking, pushed open the door and rushed inside. We fell in after him, as if sucked in by a vacuum. The door closed quietly but quickly behind us.
The room was the same as Veronica’s, same size, same furnishings, same two huge beds, same color TV. The door to the bathroom was closed, the window curtains drawn. Morris locked and bolted the door behind us.
“Okay now, Miss Veronica,” said Morris. “You must give to me your fine coat.”
“My overcoat?” she said.
“Yes, of course. By now they have people watching the front and the back, there is no way out. So what we need is what is called in the profession the holtzene kochka. A wooden duck.”
“A decoy?”
“That’s it, yes. The holtzene kochka.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Why, you, of course, Victor,” he said. “And someone else to look like Miss Veronica, and for that we need the overcoat.”
“With all due respect, Morris, I don’t think you’ll pass.”
“Don’t be so much the cham, Victor. You think I would let myself be the holtzene kochka? You don’t live as long as I have lived in this business setting up yourself as the holtzene kochka. No, rule number two is that the detective is never the holtzene kochka. Maybe that should be rule number one and the coffee rule number two. The numbering, sometimes, it gets so confusing.”
“Then who?” I asked.
Just then the bathroom door opened and out she walked in jeans and a wig, a brown wig with soft shoulder-length hair, hair that was styled exactly to match Veronica’s. Beth. It was more than strange, my best friend styled to look like the lover of my dreams, a disorienting blend of comfort and kink. In a way, standing there, framed by the bathroom door, was my ideal woman, a fusion of all I could ever want or love. So I stared for a bit and then a bit longer, stared until Beth started to giggle, which broke the mood and let my fantasies slip away until I realized why she was there.
“No,” I said. “Not Beth. Absolutely not.”
54
WAYMAN SPOTTED US as we ran out the hotel’s front door. I held tight to the suitcase. Veronica’s unbuttoned overcoat swung like a cape behind us. Before Wayman could catch us we were in the Honda, windows closed, engine straining in rhythmic moans to life. He had just reached the car, his huge gun waving in our general direction, when I popped it into gear and shot out.
I took a quick turn left on Walnut and another left up 4th Street. I raced past Spruce Street, past Lombard, ran a red at South Street, and kept going. I hadn’t gone but two blocks past South before the silver BMW was cruising behind us and gaining.
At Washington I spun into a right turn and headed west, BMW tight behind. It rammed me once as I tore along Washington, then once more. I ran another red and the Beemer followed and I wondered where the cops were, wondered where the closest donut shop was, and then with a screech of tire I turned down 7th and slammed on my brakes smack in front of the Sons of Garibaldi Men’s Club.
The silver BMW came to a turning stop right behind us and Wayman jumped out as if his seat was afire. I barely had the time to open my door before he stuck his arm in, jabbing the point of a huge switchblade knife into my throat. The drummer was guarding the passenger door, grinning into the window.
“Run from me again, Vi’tor Carl, you just try and run from me again without I say so and I’ll slice another smile in your motherfucking neck.”
I tried to say something but with the knife sticking into my larynx and me shaking like a stripper nothing came out.
“But don’t you worry yourself, it’s all cool now. Ronnie, sweetie, let’s you and I take a little drive, what you say?”
Beth turned from the drummer to face Wayman and Wayman’s jaw dropped and when he spoke his voice was deep and precise with shock.
“Who are you, lady?”
“She’s my partner,” I managed to get out between shakes.
“Get the fuck out of here,” he said, and then he added, “Shit,” drawing out the word until the T just disappeared. “Where is she, Vi’tor Carl? Tell me now or your neck be history. Tell me, Vi’tor Carl.” He twisted the knifepoint into my neck, almost lifting me from the car seat. I could feel a line of blood run down my throat. “Tell me quick, tell me now, tell me, tell me, tell me. Tell me, Vi’tor Carl, my knife here it is thirsty once again and it don’t got much more patience.”
I was about to tell him something when a thick, hairy hand landed on Wayman’s shoulder. Beth gasped, or maybe it was me, I couldn’t tell. There was something obscene about that hand landing there, like a bony spider. The pressure of the knifepoint slipped from my neck and when Wayman turned to see what it was the hand slid over and grabbed hold of his neck. Before Wayman could say a word of complaint, the hand’s owner slammed a brick into Wayman’s head. Blood burst from Wayman’s forehead. The blow sent him spinning away from the car, his knife sliding with a sweet scrabble across the asphalt. The man with the brick was Dominic and for the first time ever I saw him smile.
It was not a pleasant sight.
I swiveled to check the drummer on the other side of the car, but he was no longer leering inside the window. Instead he was being lifted in a great bear hug, his arms struggling futilely against the pin of some giant whose waist only I could see through the passenger window.
“Step on out, Victor,” I heard Dominic say and when I got out I saw him sitting on top of Wayman, his knees holding Wayman’s arms to the ground, his bony hands tight around Wayman’s throat.
“Hey, Dominic, where do you want this package?” asked the man bear-hugging the drummer. From behind the thug’s shoulders I could see it was Giovanni, his hard face illuminated now with a wide grin.
“Throw it in the garbage,” said Dominic, hands still around Wayman’s throat.
Jasper leaned over Wayman, still held down by Dominic, and started searching him. He reached into Wayman’s sweatpants and pulled out the huge revolver I had seen Wayman brandishing before I had kicked the Honda into gear and fled from the hotel. “Whoa, what do you know?” said Jasper. “What a nasty piece of work this little shit is.”