“Tell me, boy,” Kiddy said. “You’re a brain-guy, I always said so.”
“Steve Pedi used to be married to Vivian Frayne. He still had the key to the apartment. He also knew there was a gun in that apartment that belonged to a guy called Phelps who had a grudge against her because she was trying to pull some black dough out of him. That set it up pretty good, if he could lay his hands on the gun. So he goes to her apartment, rings the bell and she’s not home. He uses his key and goes in. He finds the gun and he hides out, probably on the terrace, until she comes home. She gets into her lounging clothes, he comes out, and pops her with Phelps’ gun, which he leaves there. He reminds himself that she must have the marriage certificate, also the divorce decree — because they were married and divorced. He figures if he can hunt that up and get rid of it, he won’t be tied in at all, there’d be no idea that he might have a key. So he gives the place a search and he doesn’t find either document. Okay. That’s not fatal. So if the stuff is found, he gets tied in a little, but it doesn’t mean a thing — unless it gets tied tighter, and there are only two guys in the world who can tie it tighter. Get it, pal?”
“I get it, pal.”
“You and Mousie.”
“I get it, pal.”
“Am I giving you any new stuff?” I said.
“A little,” he said.
“But you guys didn’t know, when he came visiting you at the Montrose, that he had just paid his visit to Vivian’s. He had locked the door from the outside, just to make it look all kosher — he’d probably figured Phelps had a key to her place, which he didn’t — and he came for a friendly call at the Montrose. But he had first provided himself with another heater. If he gets rid of you two, he’s clean, completely clean on the murder that you guys messed up — and the operation keeps going, because you guys can be replaced. He’s a smart cookie. He pulled a murder himself. A smart cookie gets rid of anything that can tie him to murder. You guys can tie him, so he’s set to get rid of you. As far as the organization is concerned, he’s got a clean beef — you guys tripped on a murder. And what’s more he’s a hero, because it turns out the cops figured a print on the knife that was dropped as Mousie’s. You following?”
“I’m getting ahead of you,” Kiddy said, but he was not approving of me any more, he was growing sad.
“So he comes to the Montrose,” I said, “for a little chatter. He’s going to ball you guys out for the miss, and plan a new little deal for Vivian who’s already dead, only you guys don’t know it. He’s got the new heater on him. He comes, and you all sit around and chat. He’s a friend, practically the boss in this operation, so your guns are in the bedroom, and you’re all gentlemen. Next, he starts shooting, clips Mousie. Your turn now, Kiddy. Pick it up from there.”
“I rammed him,” he blurted. “Gave him the rush, the head to the belly, and knocked him on his behind. I didn’t have a gun op me, so I ran. Here I am, pal.” He lifted a hand to his hair and pulled at it, ruminatively. “You found me. So he’ll find me.”
“So will the cops.”
“The hell with them.”
“They’re your salvation, Kiddy. Wake up, man.” “What the hell you talking about?”
“You’re in the middle, Kiddy, and you’ve got no out. Pedi’s gunning for you, but you might get out of that. But the organization is also gunning for you, because you stink now, you’re through. You messed a murder, you messed a big operation, and you’re an actual eyewitness to murder, Mousie’s murder. Witnesses to murder don’t live long when they’re on the wrong side of the organization. You’re dead right now, kid, and you know it, and even if you get out of here, you’ve got no place to run, and you know that too. You’ve got nothing, nobody, except one friend — me. I can keep you alive, Kiddy.”
I had my fingers crossed. He was crying again, but I did not care about that. He either accepted me or he rejected me. Now. He was a hophead. Which way would he turn?
“I can keep you alive,” I said and I waited.
“How?” he said.
I had him.
“Listen, kid,” I said. “Listen hard. You’ve got no choice. You’re a dead man. The whole organization is after you, and Pedi is pushing them, because with you alive — he could be dead, convicted as a murderer. Okay, he killed Mousie. He killed your pal. And you’re next. So you’ve got nothing to lose. You turn around on him. I take you in. I take you in, personally, and you turn around on him.”
“Sure, but what happens to me?”
“Nothing, really. Maybe they won’t be able to prove the Frayne murder on him, but they’ll prove Mousie’s murder, with you as State’s witness.”
“Sure, but what happens to me?” he insisted.
“Nothing, pal. The best happens to you. You’re an alien, an illegal alien. What happens to you — you get deported. The cops figure to work with you. You’re State’s witness. You spill your guts, the whole deal. They fix you up with a bodyguard. They even change your name for you, and they deport you back to Ireland where you get lost in the shuffle if you don’t play the bright spots too hard. Even Mexico can’t reach out for you when you’re lost somewhere in your own country. After awhile, they forget about you. Pedi’ll have the chair, so he can’t press them. You’ve got dough. After awhile you get it together, and you begin to move around. My advice, stick to Europe, stay away from here. Are you listening to me, Kiddy? I’m making a live one out of a dead one. Are you listening?”
“Yeah, I’m listening.”
“Do I make sense?”
“God damn right you do.”
“I’m glad you were in shape to listen.”
“Me too. I’m glad I was in shape. Lopsided, you might have been a sorry boy for coming here.”
“I took my chances, Kiddy.”
“Yeah, you took your chances. Why?”
“I wanted to make a live one out of a dead one. I know you a long time, Kiddy.”
“Yeah, a long time, boy.”
“Go get dressed, Kiddy. Right now.”
“Yeah, I’ll go get dressed. Right now. Here, hold this.”
And he gave me his gun.
I brought in Kiddy, and then I brought in Sophia and Phelps, and Parker’s people brought in Steve Pedi. I requested that the cops did not make Phelps’ involvement public, and they agreed (which earned my fee). Then I did it big and loud and glorious, with gestures, but all of that was to impress Sophia Sierra. She admired me and I adored being admired by Sophia Sierra. I omitted any reference to her letters which brought more admiration, and at the end of a long night, I was sitting pretty. Parker saw it my way about trading with Kiddy — his testimony in return for deportation, and good riddance — and at long last I was back in my apartment, alone with Sophia Sierra, and we were getting looped on Rob Roys (not too sweet) and we were nice and tight when I returned her letters. For this she repaid me with her love, vernacularly speaking. And I, of course, gave her a receipt — more of the same. Though tiring, a nice arrangement.
That there was a moral to all that had happened, I was sure. But I didn’t dig for it. Who needed it?