"Come on, Bill, let me finish."
"You let me finish," McGurk said. "We opened the doors to the ape house in New York and now decent people venture onto the streets at their own risk."
"I'm not going to argue politics or try to cure your racism, Bill. But let me finish. I think policemen are doing the same thing in America now that they were doing in South America a couple of years ago. I think they're organized."
"You got an informer?" asked McGurk. He took the bottle as he turned onto a dirt driveway. The car bounced over the dirt road as McGurk refused to be intimidated by the narrowness and unevenness of its surface.
"No," Duffy said.
"Then why do you think police are doing it?"
"Good question. Who's getting killed? The people that the policemen ordinarily can't touch. I recognized the name of Elijah Wilson. You told me about Big Pearl yourself. Remember years ago, you said the law couldn't touch him?"
"Yeah. Everybody knows Big Pearl."
"Everybody in your business, not in mine. Well, that got me thinking. Even a racist like you admits that a man like Big Pearl is smart. He doesn't put himself in a position where he's going to be killed. The average pimp lasts two years. He was going for fifteen. How? By making it profitable for people not to kill him. So the motive had to be something other than profit, right?"
"If you say so, Sherlock," said McGurk.
"Okay. Then we get the financier in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Maybe he made enemies. In heroin, that's possible."
"Right."
"But he operated like Big Pearl. He paid. And made it unprofitable to kill him. And the judge in Connecticut was another one on the take. His life was very profitable to the Mafia."
"Maybe he took and didn't deliver," said McGurk. He wheeled the car sharply into the darkness and stopped. He turned off the lights and an outline of a small cabin could be seen from the car.
Duffy grabbed two bottles and McGurk grabbed two bottles and they stepped gingerly over the rock-strewn earth to the cabin entrance. McGurk turned on the lights and Duffy got the ice.
"You look at the judge's record," Duffy said. "He always delivered. The Mafia had a good reason to keep him alive."
"Okay. It wasn't the mob. Maybe it was some nut." McGurk twisted the plastic ice cube tray, sending ice skittering across the formica table top. He gathered handf uls of the ice and filled two large mugs Duffy brought forth.
"Nuts don't work that well," Duffy said. "I know that. Fill the tray. We're going to be out of ice soon if you don't."
"Oswald didn't work that well. Sirhan didn't work that well. There are two dead Kennedys because of nuts who didn't work well. I'll fill a couple on the next tray."
"Those were one-hit affairs, Bill. These things aren't. There's a string of them. Bam. Bam. Bam. They get in. They get out. Over and over. That's not nuts; that's competence any way you want to slice it. Fill the tray now."
McGurk raised his mug and smiled.
"To two dumb donkeys-us," he said.
"To two dumb donkeys-us," said Duffy.
They clinked mugs and drank and walked into the living room, letting the remaining ice cubes melt in the tray.
"I'd have two choices for who's doing these killings," said Duffy. "Soldiers or cops. Somebody professional."
"Okay, soldiers or cops," said McGurk.
"Cops," said Duffy. "Soldiers couldn't find their rectums if not located near toilet seats."
McGurk smiled broadly.
"Okay, cops. Why haven't there been identifications? Cops' faces are known around their cities, especially in cities under a half-million."
Duffy leaned forward on the torn leather couch. His face broke into a grin, one former professional making judgment on current professionals.
"That's the beauty of it. I figure it's reciprocal hits." He put his mug down on the wooden floor and reinforced his explanation with his hands. He put them out wide to either side, then crossed them to the far sides. "New York cops make a hit in Harrisburg. Harrisburg makes a hit in Connecticut. Connecticut cops make a hit in New York or what have you. The locals set it up; the outsiders hit. It's foolproof. You know the hardest thing in an assigned hit is finding the sonofabitch of a target. If it weren't for the Maquis that knew France, we couldn't have found our way into Paris."
McGurk shook his head.
"You Fordham guys were always so fucking smart. We could always tell a Fordham guy. He read books."
"So what do you think?" asked Duffy.
"I think you're right. What do you have to do with this?"
"I'm going to be on the list for hits soon. I don't want to die."
McGurk looked puzzled. "Frankie, you're a congressman. An honest congressman. We've been talking about the scum of the earth. Pimps. Heroin financiers. Whore recruiters. Crooked judges. Mafiosi button men. Where does that come up to you? Where does that even come close to you? What the hell is the matter with you, Frankie?" McGurk's voice became throbbing angry, a pleading disgust. "Look at the facts, dammit. You're not some cocka-doodle-doo broad out of a consciousness-raising session where they come in looking to jerk themselves off. You're a liberal but you think. You deal in facts. But this time, you've got nothing. No facts. You might as well be out in a street screaming slogans. Stop the killing. Stop the killing. Stop the killing." McGurk's voice hit the rhythm of the streets, the mindless chanting of demonstrators. But there was no smile on Duffy's face, as McGurk had expected when he made a good point. Suddenly, surprisingly, there were tears and Frank Duffy was crying for the first time in McGurk's memory.
"Oh, Jesus," said Frank Duffy and lowered his head to his hands.
"Hey, Frank, what's wrong? C'mon, stop that. Stop that, will you? C'mon," said McGurk. He comforted his friend with his arm.
"Oh, Jesus, Bill," said Duffy.
"What's the matter, dammit? What's the matter?"
"Mafiosi button man is the matter."
"Yeah?"
"I never mentioned Mafiosi button men. I never mentioned one. So you killed him, too. You had your people kill him too."
McGurk threw his mug across the room where it shattered against the pine wall with a splat. He rose in anger, punching the palm of his hand.
"Why do you have to be so smart? Why do you Fordham guys have to be so frigging smart? Frankie, why do you have to be so smart?"
Duffy saw the ice cubes and water begin to stain the wooden floor. He rose and tapped McGurk on the back.
McGurk jumped, then said, "Oh," when he saw the offer of Duffy's mug.
"What are we going to do?" asked Duffy.
"I'll tell you what we're going to do, smart Fordham guy. You stop your investigation and if any of the people come near you, I'll powder them like sugar cubes is what we're gonna do."
"You knew about the investigation?"
"And other things. We're good and we're growing. We're gonna give this country back to the decent people. The hard-working people. The honest people. This country has been turning into a cesspool long enough. We're just gonna get rid of the crap."
"Impossible, Bill, you can't do it. Because you start with crap and then you move onto anyone else who gets in your way. What's going to be the check on you? What happens when your people start taking money to miss? Or start free-lancing?"
"We'll take care of them too."
"It's the we who'll be doing it, and who's to stop them?"
"If that happens, I'll turn on them."
"No, you won't. You'll be too happy doing what you love best."
"And you might even be president then. Did you ever think of that?"
Duffy took back his drink. "We have any ice left?"
"Yeah. Plenty. Plenty."
"Okay, I'll get some more. Look, I want to phone Mary Pat and tell her good-bye and… uh, I want to say good-bye to my son. I don't imagine you'll let me reach a priest."
"What is this talk?" said McGurk angrily.