Eight Million Ways to Die

I kept walking all the way to Armstrong's. When I got there I went in and ordered a piece of pecan pie and a cup of coffee. I kept my right hand in my pocket while my eyes scanned the room, checking everybody out. After I was done with the pie I put my hand back in my pocket and drank my coffee left-handed.



After awhile I ordered more coffee.



The telephone rang. Trina answered it, walked over to the bar. There was a heavyset fellow there with dark blonde hair. She said something to him and he went to the phone. He talked for a few minutes, looked around the room, came over to my table. Both of his hands were where I could see them.



He said, "Scudder? My name's George Lightner, I don't think we met." He pulled a chair out and sat in it. "That was Joe just now," he said. "There's no activity out there, nothing at all. They're laying doggo in the Mercury plus he's got two sharpshooters in second-floor windows across the street."



"Good."



"I'm in here, and there's the two fellows at the front table. I figured you made us when you walked in."



"I made them," I said. "I figured you were either a cop or the killer."



"Jesus, what a thought. This is a nice place. You more or less hang out here, huh?"



"Not as much as I used to."



"It's pleasant here. I'd like to come back sometime when I can drink something instead of coffee. They're selling a lot of coffee tonight, what with you and me and the two guys down front."



"It's pretty good coffee."



"Yeah, it's not bad. Better than the shit in the station house." He lit a cigarette with a Zippo lighter. "Joe said there's no activity elsewhere either. There's two men staked out downtown with your girlfriend. There's a couple others with the three hookers on the East Side." He grinned. "That's the detail I shoulda drawn. Can't win 'em all, huh?"



"I guess not."



"How long you want to stay here? Joe's guess is that the guy's either set up by now or he's not gonna move tonight. We can cover you every step from here back to the hotel. Of course we can't insure against the possibility of a sniper firing from a rooftop or a high window. We did a rooftop check earlier but there's no guarantee."



"I don't think he'll do it from a distance."



"Then we're in pretty good shape. And you're wearing the bulletproof vest."



"Yes."



"That's a help. Of course it's mesh, it doesn't always stop a blade, but nobody's about to let him get that close to you. We figure if he's out there he'll make a move between here and the doorway of your hotel."



"That's what I figure, too."



"When do you want to run the gauntlet?"



"A few minutes," I said. "I might as well finish this coffee."



"Listen," he said, rising, "what the hell. Enjoy it."



He returned to his spot at the bar. I finished my coffee, got up, went to the lavatory. There I checked my.32 and made sure I had a round under the hammer and three more rounds to back it up. I could have asked Durkin for a couple more cartridges to fill the empty chambers. For that matter, he'd have given me a larger gun with more of a punch to it. But he didn't even know I was carrying the.32 and I hadn't wanted to tell him. The way things were set up, I wasn't going to have to shoot anybody. The killer was supposed to walk right into our arms.



Except it wasn't going to happen that way.



I paid the check, left a tip. It wasn't going to work. I could feel it. The son of a bitch wasn't out there.



I walked out the door. The rain had let up some. I looked at the Mercury and glanced at the buildings across the street, wondering where the police sharpshooters were planted. It didn't matter. They weren't going to have any work to do tonight. Our quarry wasn't taking the bait.



I walked down to Fifty-seventh Street, staying close to the curb just in case he'd managed to find a spot in a dark doorway. I walked slowly and hoped I was right and he wouldn't try to do it from a distance, because a bulletproof vest doesn't always stop a bullet and it doesn't do anything to protect you from a head shot.



But it didn't matter. He wasn't there. Damnit, I knew he wasn't there.



Still, I breathed easier when I walked into my hotel. I may have been disappointed but I was also relieved.



There were three plainclothesmen in the lobby. They identified themselves right away. I stood around with them for a few minutes, and then Durkin came in alone. He went into a huddle with one of them, then came over to me.



"We struck out," he said.



"Looks that way."



"Shit," he said. "We didn't leave many loopholes. Maybe he smelled something but I don't see how. Or maybe he flew home to fucking Bogotб yesterday and we're setting a trap for somebody who's on another continent."



"It's possible."



"You can go get some sleep, anyway. If you're not too wired to unwind. Have a couple of drinks, knock yourself out for eight hours."



"Good idea."



"The guys have had the lobby staked out all night. There've been no visitors, no check-ins. I'm gonna keep a guard down here all night."



"You think it's necessary?"



"I think it can't hurt."



"Whatever you say."



"We gave it our best shot, Matt. It's worth it if we can smoke the fucker out because God knows how we could get anyplace combing the city for emerald smugglers. Sometimes you get lucky and sometimes you don't."



"I know."



"We'll catch the cocksucker sooner or later. You know that."



"Sure."



"Well," he said, and shifted his weight awkwardly. "Well, listen. Get some sleep, huh?"



"Sure."



I rode up on the elevator. He wasn't in South America, I thought. I knew damned well he wasn't in South America. He was here in New York and he was going to kill again because he liked it.



Maybe he'd done it before. Maybe Kim was the first time he found out it felt good to him. But he'd liked it enough to do it again the same way, and the next time he wouldn't need an excuse. Just a victim and a hotel room and his trusty machete.



Have a couple of drinks, Durkin had suggested.



I didn't even feel like a drink.



Ten days, I thought. Just go to bed sober and you've got ten days.



I took the gun out of my pocket and put it on the dresser. I was still carrying the ivory bracelet in another pocket and I took it out and set it down next to the gun, still wrapped in paper towels from Kim's kitchen. I got out of my slacks and jacket, hung them in the closet, and took off my shirt. The bulletproof vest was a tricky thing to get out of and a cumbersome thing to wear, and most of the cops I knew hated wearing them. On the other hand, nobody likes getting shot.



I took the thing off and draped it over the dresser next to the gun and bracelet. Bulletproof vests aren't just bulky, they're also warm, and I'd perspired inside this one and my undershirt had dark circles under the arms. I took off the undershirt and my shorts and my socks, and something clicked, some little alarm went off, and I was turning toward the bathroom door when it flew open.



He sailed through it, a big man, olive skinned, wild-eyed. He was as naked as I was and there was a machete in his hand with a gleaming foot-long blade.



I threw the mesh at him. He swung the machete and knocked it aside. I grabbed the gun off the dresser and dove out of his way. The blade arced down, missing me, and his arm rose again and I shot him four times in the chest.



Chapter 33



The LL train starts at Eighth Avenue, crosses Manhattan along Fourteenth Street, and winds up way the hell out in Canarsie. Its first stop across the river in Brooklyn is at Bedford Avenue and North Seventh Street. I left it there and walked around until I found his house. It took me a while and I took a couple of wrong turns, but it was a good day for walking, the sun out, the sky clear, and a little warmth in the air for a change.



There was a heavy windowless door to the right of the garage. I poked the doorbell but got no response, and I couldn't hear the bell sounding within. Hadn't he said something about disconnecting the bell? I jabbed it again, heard nothing.



There was a brass knocker mounted on the door and I used it. Nothing happened. I cupped my hands and shouted, "Chance, open up! It's Scudder." Then I pounded on the door some more, with the knocker and with my hands.



The door looked and felt awfully solid. I gave it a tentative nudge with my shoulder and decided it was unlikely I could kick it in. I could break a window and get in that way, but in Greenpoint some neighbor would call the cops, or pick up a gun and come over himself.



I banged on the door some more. A motor worked, and a winch began lifting the electrically operated garage door.



"This way," he said. "Before you knock my damn door down."



I went in through the garage and he pushed a button to lower the door again. "My front door doesn't open," he said. "Didn't I show you that before? It's all sealed shut with bars and shit."



"That's great if you have a fire."



"Then I go out a window. But when'd you ever hear of the firehouse burning down?"



He was dressed as I'd last seen him, in light blue denim pants and a navy blue pullover. "You forgot your coffee," he said. "Or I forgot to give it to you. Day before yesterday, remember? You were gonna take a couple pounds home with you."



"You're right, I forgot."



"For your girlfriend. Fine-looking woman. I got some coffee made. You'll have a cup, won't you?"



"Thanks."



I went into the kitchen with him. I said, "You're a hard man to get hold of."



"Well, I sort of stopped checking with my service."



"I know. Have you heard a newscast lately? Or read a paper?"



"Not lately. You drink it black, right?"



"Right. It's all over, Chance." He looked at me. "We got the guy."



"The guy. The killer."



"That's right. I thought I'd come out and tell you about it."



"Well," he said. "I guess I'd like to hear it."



* * *



I went through the whole thing in a fair amount of detail. I was used to it by now. It was the middle of the afternoon and I'd been telling the story to one person or another ever since I'd put four bullets into Pedro Antonio Marquez a little after two in the morning.



"So you killed him," Chance said. "How do you feel about that?"



"It's too early to tell."



I knew how Durkin felt about it. He couldn't have been happier. "When they're dead," he had said, "you know they're not going to be back on the street in three years, doing it again. And this one was a fucking animal. He had that taste of blood and he liked it."



"It's the same guy?" Chance wanted to know. "There's no question?"



"No question. They got confirmation from the manager of the Powhattan Motel. They also matched a couple of latent prints, one from the Powhattan and one from the Galaxy, so that ties him to both killings. And the machete's the weapon used in both killings. They even found minute traces of blood where the hilt meets the handle, and the type matches either Kim or Cookie, I forget which one."



"How'd he get into your hotel?"



"He walked right through the lobby and rode up in the elevator."