"What can I do for you, officer?"
The sneer was barely concealed in his voice. Just well enough to avoid the certainty of loosened teeth.
Fawcett scowled, marking the bum down as a smart-ass.
"Who've you got in number twenty-six?" he demanded.
The desk clerk spread his hands.
"I ain't the nosy type. Anyway, I just came on at six."
"Let's check the register, shall we?"
The clerk feigned shock at the suggestion.
"Ain't that an invasion of privacy or somethin'?" he asked, wide-eyed.
Jack Fawcett flashed a disarming smile, then reached quickly over the desk to snare a handful of the guy's fishnet shirt, half dragging him across until their faces almost touched. The detective's smile was gone, and his free hand held a stubby blackjack, lightly stroking the thick leather across one of the desk clerk's pallid cheeks.
"I didn't quite hear you, scumbag."
The guy was shaking, suddenly anxious to please.
"The register, sure, right away," he gasped, sucking air like a fish out of water.
Fawcett shoved him roughly backward, and the guy took a second to recover his balance, then produced a battered ledger from beneath the counter. He thumbed through several pages, paused, and read aloud.
"Tha that'll be a male single, man. Gave his name to the night clerk as Joseph Smith."
It was Fawcett's turn to sneer. "How original."
The guy considered a reply, but thought better of it. He shrugged.
"He in?" Fawcett asked.
Another shrug.
"No idea, man. Probably, this early, but who knows?"
"You got phones in the rooms?"
The clerk shook his head jerkily.
"Naw, just a pay job on the second and fourth floors. Your man's on the second."
Fawcett aimed a warning finger at the guy's face, pistollike.
"Let's make sure that phone doesn't ring, eh?"
As he stowed the blackjack in a pocket, he let his jacket flare open to reveal the holstered revolver at his waist.
Jack Fawcett took the dirty steps two at a time, bypassing the ancient elevator. Upstairs, a murky hallway carried the pervasive odors of age and accumulated filth.
He paced off the hallway until he stood before the door to room twenty-six. Gingerly he tried the knob and, of course, found it locked.
Damn.
It had been a long shot, anyway.
Fawcett drew his .38 and thumbed the hammer back. He took a short step backward, then hit the door with a flying kick just beside the lock. There was a sound of splintering wood as the ancient door exploded inward.
Fawcett charged into a small, half-darkened room. Greasy curtains admitted dappled light, producing surrealistic nightmare shadows. Directly across the room, a slender figure was coming suddenly awake, thrashing around in tangled bed-sheets.
Jack Fawcett rushed to the bed and with one hand shoved the boy flat on his back, leveling his pistol at the upturned face. Familiar young-old eyes stared up at him with a mixture of fear and hatred. They were wild, animal eyes.
For an instant, the detective was overwhelmed by the temptation to squeeze the trigger of his .38 special and be done with it forever. His finger was tensing into the pull, his eyes narrowing, when he came to himself and shook the moment aside.
His voice was bitter, savage.
"Surprise, asshole. Flip over and assume the position."
Courtney Gilman did as he was told, rolling over and bringing clenched fists around behind his back. Fawcett cuffed them there, then used his spare set of handcuffs to shackle one of the boy's slender ankles to the bed frame.
The young man lay before him unmoving, silent. His entire being seemed to radiate an insolence and evil and once more Fawcett felt his hand tightening involuntarily around the .38. He controlled himself with an act of will.
Jack Fawcett knew what he had to do, what duty and circumstance demanded. He left the room, leaving the door ajar, and moved swiftly to the pay telephone at the near end of the corridor. He dropped a dime into the box and dialed the number of Roger Smalley's office.
Fawcett was surprised to note that his hands were trembling. A secretary took his call and patched him through to the assistant commissioner. In a moment, Smalley's curt voice filled his ear.
"What can I do for you, Jack?"
"It's what I can do for you, Commissioner," he said, resenting the man's haughty tone. "I've just taken delivery on that package you wanted. It's ready to be passed on."
Smalley's voice brightened instantly, losing its curt tone and becoming cheerful.
"That's excellent news. Jack, excellent. I couldn't be happier."
Fawcett felt something out of place in the man's tone, but he couldn't put his finger on it.
"Where, uh, should I deliver the goods?"
Smalley cleared his throat softly, hesitating.
"We've had a change of plans today," he answered at last. "Something unexpected. I'm going to have to meet you personally on this."
Fawcett's mind was filled with the sudden jangling of alarm bells. He felt the short hairs on the nape of his neck standing at attention.
And he remained silent, waiting for Smalley to continue.
"Jack? Are you there?"
Where the hell else would he be?
"Yes, sir, right here."
"I'm going to take delivery in Phalen Park, Jack. Follow West Shore Drive, and I'll meet you by the water. Give me forty-five minutes."
"All right. Whatever you say."
Smalley detected his nervousness, and the commissioner sounded concerned.
"Is there any problem with that, Jack?"
Fawcett's answer was hasty as he tried to cover his feelings.
"No, sir, no problem. I'll be there with the package."
Smalley's voice smiled back at him.
"Excellent. Goodbye, Jack. And thank you."
Fawcett listened to the buzzing dial tone for a full minute before hanging up. His mind was racing, trying to anticipate Smalley's plan, and coming up short each time.
Clearly, the guy had something up his sleeve, and whatever the hell it was, it could spell trouble. Jack Fawcett knew Smalley well enough by now to be suspicious of him. He only wished he had possessed such ultimate knowledge before he placed that very first call to the commissioner concerning Courtney Gilman.
Spilt milk, he told himself gruffly. No use crying.
He would keep his appointment with Smalley, there was really no choice in the matter. But he wasn't walking into it with his eyes closed either.
The assistant P.C. wasn't going to make a monkey out of Detective Lieutenant Jack Fawcett. Not a monkey, or a scapegoat. Or a corpse.
The change of plans could only mean unexpected trouble, and Fawcett knew in advance that Smalley would try to shake off as much of the shit as he could, to dump it on somebody else.
And Jack Fawcett didn't intend to make himself a handy target. It would all be so easy. Go back into that damned dingy room and unlock the handcuffs that held Courtney Gilman to the bed like a hobbled calf. Back off a few paces, and bam! One psycho in the bag.
So easy, yeah. And so impossible.
Jack Fawcett had chosen the path himself, with a phone call long ago. Now he had no choice but to follow the path he had set, and try, just try, to have some say in the way it ended up.
Cursing, the detective stalked back down the hallway to collect his prisoner.
17
For Assistant Commissioner Roger Smalley, it had been a day dominated by telephones. First, the wake-up call from Jack Fawcett had promised to ruin the day entirely, and then the second interruption from Fran Traynor, had sent his ulcers into angry, growling protest.
The telephone had even conspired to vex him in its silence, refusing to connect him with Benny Copa when he needed the goddamned hoodlum most.