I heard three nervous blasts of the horn from the other side of the house.
He shrugged. “Dear, don't give me the business about I can trust you, that you'll never, never talk. I can't trust you.”
“You're so right.” Kay was terrific, not even a nervous twinge. Steve stepped out of character; like any other street-corner punk he whipped a large switch blade from his back pocket like an expert, the knife snapping open with the motion.
Kay's eyes were on the knife, but she still seemed to be enjoying things. He said, “As you know, I've never lacked ideas. This will fit: we had an unsatisfactory affair, which I'm sure isn't exactly a secret around the office, and now you've come up for another try. Certainly dressed for it. Again it didn't come off, you feel it's your fault, upset. I shall get drunk and pass out while you take an overdose of sleeping pills. Messy headlines, but otherwise safe.”
I started to go into action, but Kay's calm voice asking, “That cheese sticker is going to make me do all this?” held me back. She seemed so cool, as if she hadn't finished playing out her role.
Steve nodded. “Come, my sweet, you're aware of the many... eh... parts... of a woman that can be slashed. I'm offering you a painless out. I can change the script— you slashed yourself before taking the pills. Fits in with the suicide bit.”
“Stevie, you should have stayed at poppa's crossroads store; you're still a hick. This is all on tape. The joint is surrounded by detectives.”
He laughed, short shrill laughter. “You can come up with better than that, Kay. I thought you were going to bluff me with a gun-in-my-bag routine.”
“Steve, drop that knife, you're only making matters worse for yourself. There's a tiny transmitter pinned to the bottom of this chair. I placed it there myself. Look.” She raised and opened her legs—a flash of silver skirt and stockinged thighs—so the bug was visible.
I stepped off the fire-escape railing. With my full weight on the air-conditioning box for a second, it started to sag.
I felt myself going backward. With a frantic lunge, hands in front of my face, I pitched forward, crashing through the window. I hit the floor with a thud that jarred me dizzy, cut in a dozen places.
Shrieking, Steve turned and charged at me. I rolled over, jumped to my feet, slipping in my blood. I feinted with my right. He slashed at the forearm— I was cut in so many places I didn't know if he'd knicked me or not. I had a solid left winging toward his gut. It landed high, on his chest, and he stood stock-still, then crumpled to the floor.
“Are you all right?” I asked Kay. She nodded and I said, “You heard his confession. Of course that... self-defense is out. Thomas' blood was still wet when I got there.... Steve killed him after he phoned me. Probably stunned him, then finished him when— Where are you going?” Outside I could hear Ted pounding up the stairs.
Kay was at the phone. “Calling that reporter before— Touie, look out!”
Steve, this skinny, rugged slob, was back on his feet, without the knife. As I turned to face him this bag of bones nailed me on the chin with a wild right that sent my legs into a rubbery dance. If he'd clouted me again I might have gone out. Instead, he came at me, clawing, knees digging into my thighs. I put my arms around him in a bear hug and squeezed. His face went sallow white, the eyes really popped. When I let go he slid to the floor—no trouble for a lot of minutes.
Either because of the punch, or from loss of blood, after that things moved fast and jerky, like in an old-time movie. Ted and Bobby came busting in when I finally got the door unlocked—and Ted's two-pants suit seemed the only real thing in sight, somehow made me think of that farm back in Bingston.
In a matter of seconds, or so it seemed, there were a fat reporter and a young kid photographer, and a dozen cops filled up the room. I was getting blood over one of Steve's plush chairs, trying to answer a million questions and not saying anything clearly. Finally I simply sat there and watched the others talking and rushing about. A little runty ambulance doc appeared and ripped off what remained of my clothes, gave me a shot of something that left me hovering in midair. I knew he was cleaning my cuts, stitching here and there, and then I was insisting I could stand okay and a cop gave me a blanket to wear.
Maybe I dozed. Now we were in the local precinct house, with the police brass and more reporters, flash bulbs going off in salvos. Steve must have decided to go for insane; he was gibbering and screaming until they carried him out of the room. I was watching things like a spectator, but two things I remember clearly.
Kay—the photographers had a holiday with her dress —was the busiest person in the police station, but she got me off in a corner and shoved a piece of paper and a pen in my bandaged hands, said, “Sign this, Touie. We're going to re-enact everything on film, to show after You — Detective! premieres with the Thomas episode. Lord, Lord, there will never be a publicity splash like this! I couldn't do more with a million-dollar budget... it's a river and I'm squeezing every drop....”
Her face suddenly looked old and hard. “What's the paper about?” I asked, my voice thick from the dope shot.
“You're to act out your real-life role on film—for two thousand. Best I could get. Sign, Touie, I have a thousand things to—”
I signed, asking, “Am I still on salary, on the case?”
“Certainly.” She pointed to a box in one corner of the drab detective squad room. “I brought you a suit and shirt from wardrobe—biggest I could find. Put your torn clothes down on your expense sheet.”
“Thanks. Jeez, my shoes are still out on that fire escape. My wallet must be around someplace. I'll cab home and—”
“Yes, yes. Be at my office tomorrow—today—at two sharp. Now I have to get back on my horse.... Oh, you have no idea how big this will be.”
The other thing I remember was a beefy cop with captain's gold bars on his shoulders, a hard-featured face and eyes that said they hated my brown skin, telling me, “Don't think you were such a hot-shot detective, Moore. The papers will make you a hero and you'll be big time on Lenox Avenue, but we knew all about you, boy.”
“You mean you knew I was down in Bingston?” The “man” was talking; I was “boy” again.
“We didn't bother looking. A wino down the hall heard this stiff argument in Thomas' room, saw a white man leaving. His wine put him to sleep but in the morning he told us. We weren't looking for you—for murder. I ain't doing anything about you kneeing that beat cop.... But I'll give you some free advice: don't ever get into trouble, not even a traffic ticket. Because I ain't doing anything about you kicking a cop doesn't mean we're forgetting it.”
“What was I supposed to do, let him bust my head open?” I asked, but the captain had walked away.
As it turned light outside, Ted, who had been smiling and handing out his cards as if he'd been elected mayor, told me, “Come on, Toussaint, I'll drive you home.”
I finally got my wallet and stuff, and outside as I got into his car I said, “Let's get coffee. I'm empty-hungry.”
“You haven't any shoes on.”
“I don't drink with my shoes,” I mumbled, full of tiredness.
Ted actually doubled up with stupid laughter.
10
WE STOPPED in a cafeteria on Eighty-sixth Street that was jumping with sleepy people drinking a fast cup of coffee before taking off for work. My stockinged feet didn't attract any attention, although the suit Kay got me should have been a crowd-stopper—it was made of a dark blue stiff material that simply hung on me. It was either a gag suit or custom made for a giant. The shot the doc had given me was wearing off, I was starting to feel pain, and very tired.