Velda, reading the Daily News in her pink terrycloth robe at her kitchen table over a breakfast I’d cooked, gave me an arched eyebrow. “Sounds like you had fun last night. You got in at what... four?”
“What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”
“Risk it.”
So I filled her in. I hated making an accessory out of her, but it couldn’t be helped — I would need her with me on the next phase of the job.
Nibbling at a naked slice of toast, she said, “Then it really is Vincent Colby who’s our killer. It’s not a frame job.”
“Not a frame job, no.”
She gestured with a crust, fairly insistently. “What I don’t understand is... why? Does Silver Spoon get his kicks out of murder? Is he some uniquely twisted spin on the serial killer concept? And why would he stage his own hit-and-run?”
I shrugged as I chewed my toast with its butter and strawberry jam. Politely swallowed before saying, “There’s method to his madness, doll. Vincent Colby worked out at that Yuppie gym with sensei Sakai, got himself fit and learned some moves. He trained with a stunt man until he knew just how to roll with that Ferrari’s punch. No, he knew just what he was doing.”
“Fine. But, damnit, Mike — again... why?”
I smiled; the jam was sweet. “I think I know. Won’t be easy to prove, though.”
“Since when do you need proof?”
“Since I promised Pat.”
She nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I get that. Casey Shannon was Pat’s friend. And you owe the guy that much. So how do we make that happen?”
I told her.
Her eyes seemed to have forgotten how to blink. “That’s a little out there, isn’t it?”
“Open to suggestions.”
She had none.
And she wasn’t with me Sunday night, while I waited outside the warehouse where that little Satan’s spawn actress got saved several times by a movie star named Burt. Me, I was in costume, trenchcoat and hat and .45 in its speed rig, ready for my starring role as a hardboiled dick. The rod had a fresh shiny new barrel, the old one tossed down a sewer, having left its signature all over the dead guests at that farmhouse.
The lonely, ugly street, with its puddled cobblestones and crumbling brick and filthy sidewalks, made the perfect setting — even in color, this was a black-and-white movie. The only sign of life besides the occasional scurrying rat were the lights of the Florent a few blocks down, a coffee shop with great burgers and zany drag waitresses and a clientele out of Fellini.
A cab rolled up and its passenger climbed out with easy confidence. Vincent Colby — in a black silk t-shirt, lagoon blue two-button blazer, and loose matching slacks — paused to give the hackie a C-note, which explained how he got the guy to come here. The cab made its exit quickly, as if its driver knew being seen in these parts on a night like this would be embarrassing or maybe dangerous.
Young Colby strolled over, hands in his pockets, casual, a little smirky, the long, rather feminine eyelashes and product-dampened dark curly hair reminding me (as I’d observed the first time we met) of a Roman Emperor. I’d wondered if he was more Julius Caesar or Caligula.
Now I thought I knew the answer.
We didn’t bother with a handshake.
“What’s the joke?” he asked, hands on his hips now. He was smiling but irritation was in it.
“I didn’t know there was one.”
He gestured with contempt to his surroundings. “Why meet here, Mike? In the asshole of the city?”
“Privacy. Not exactly paparazzi around. Hey, can you think of any place more out of the way?”
He shrugged, smirking again. “Coney Island off-season. Which is now.”
“I didn’t think of that. You should’ve suggested it, when I called.” My turn to shrug. “This’ll have to do.”
I went over and unlocked a door with a key I’d borrowed and gestured for him to step inside.
He did, and froze as he took in a room full of darkness but for a card table and two chairs in a circle of white courtesy of a spotlight beam from a klieg light high up.
He muttered, “What in the shit...”
I put a chummy hand on his shoulder. “They were shooting a movie here last week, and I visited. They haven’t picked up some of the equipment yet. Thought this might be fun.”
His sideways look included a curled upper lip over perfect teeth. “Fun?”
I gestured grandly. “I know how you like theatrics, Vincent. Melodrama. Well, that’s disappointing. Thought you’d get a kick out of this place. More mood than anything the Tube offers up, that’s for sure. Except for maybe the Dungeon Room.”
He pointed to the table and chairs in the spotlight; they almost glowed in the otherwise stygian space. “What is this?”
“We’re going to talk. Just the two of us. Unseen by anyone or anything, but for the ghosts of dead steers and butchered pigs and slaughtered lambs.”
He started to bolt but I had him by the arm.
“No,” I said, fingers tight on his sleeve. “You’re staying. We have a lot to talk about. Your cab isn’t waiting, remember? None out there to flag down, either.”
“Hammer...”
“And you don’t want me talking to anybody else, before you hear what I have to say... do you?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Do I have to drag you?”
He shook his arm from my grasp. “No.”
“Good. After you, then?”
He looked stricken, but then he swallowed, straightened and complied — whether from fear, curiosity or both, I couldn’t say. At any rate, he strolled into the darkness, hands in his pockets again, heading toward the circle of light and the waiting table and two chairs. I followed close, but not too close. The last time I’d been in the dark with him, he’d tried to cave my little chest in.
The lighting gave us both an ivory cast, and the situation an unreal feel. Our chairs were opposite each other, as if I were about to tell his fortune.
Maybe I was.
I said, “I will make you a promise.”
“Will you?”
“Let me put your mind at ease. I’m not greedy. I have no interest in any ongoing blackmail. You will pay me a flat fee, for services rendered. Considering your tax bracket, it’ll be cheap at twice the cost. One hundred grand. You spend more on your yearly fitness club fee.”
His chin came up. “You’re right. I can afford it. But what I can’t do is imagine what you could have to sell to me.”
I tossed a hand. “Just your life.”
His head went back an inch.
“Well,” I said off-handedly, “there’s no death penalty now. But your life of luxury, your exciting career of high finance, your clubbing and your latest conquest and your fun little hobby of killing people... which I think has been going on longer than anyone might imagine, except perhaps the late Casey Shannon... all that will be over.”
“Will it.”
“Yes. But they’ll love you inside. Good-looking boy like you. My advice is, partner up right away, with some big strong bruiser — you don’t want to get passed around. And you probably know about soap and showers.”
He thumped the tabletop with a forefinger. “If you have something to sell me, Hammer, put it on the table.”
“What I have isn’t tangible. It’s the results of my investigation into your hit-and-run and the various killings that followed.”