“Sure.” I don’t really want to spend time with Reardon, but he’s here for a purpose. I’m sure he wants to drive home the point that our suspended assistant chief of police, Roy Kemp, continues to be deeply concerned about keeping the kidnapping just between us boys. When we’re alone, he says, “Say, Rudd, I hear you got in a scrape with a couple of Link Scanlon’s thugs in the courthouse last week. Witnesses say you poleaxed both of them, knocked ’em cold. Too bad you didn’t put a bullet between their eyes. Wish I coulda seen it. Hard to believe you got the balls to slug it out with a couple of leg breakers.”
“Your point?”
“I figure Link sent word to you that he wants something, probably money. We know about where he is; we just can’t get to him. We think he’s broke and so he sends a coupla goons to put the squeeze on you. For some reason you don’t want to be squeezed. They push, you coldcock them in broad daylight outside a courtroom. I like it.”
“Your point?”
“Do you know these two guys? I mean, their names?”
Something tells me to play dumb. “One is called Tubby, no last name. Don’t know the other. Got time for a question?”
“Oh sure.”
“You’re Homicide. Why, exactly, are you concerned with Link and his thugs and me having some fun with them?”
“Because I’m Homicide.” He whips open a file and shows me an eight-by-ten color photo of two dead bodies in some sort of trash heap. They’re lying facedown, with their wrists tied tightly behind them. The backs of their necks are caked with dried blood. “Found these two stiffs in the city landfill, wrapped in an old piece of shag carpet. The bulldozer shoved it down a small embankment and Tubby and Razor rolled out. Tubby is Danny Fango, on the right there. Razor, on the left, is Arthur Robilio.” He shuffles the deck and pulls out another eight-by-ten. The two bodies have been rearranged and are lying faceup, side by bloody side. The black boot of a cop is in the picture, next to the mangled head of good old Tubby. Their throats have been cut wide and deep.
Reardon says, “Each got two slugs back of the head. That plus a switchblade from ear to ear. Does it every time. So far, clean killings, no prints, ballistics, forensics. Probably a common gang thing, no big loss to society, know what I mean?”
My stomach flips as acid fills my throat. There is a strong urge to vomit, along with a light-headedness that could mean a quick faint. I turn away from the photos, shake my head in disgust, and tell myself to try, if humanly possible, to act unconcerned. I manage to shrug and say, “So what, Reardon? You think I rubbed these guys out because they jumped me in the courthouse?”
“I don’t know what I’m thinking right now, but I got these two Boy Scouts on the slab and nobody knows nothing. As far as I know, you were the last person to get in a fight with them. You seem to enjoy operating down in the gutter. Maybe you got some friends down there. One thing leads to another.”
“You can’t even sell that to yourself, Reardon. Weak as water. Go accuse somebody else because you’re wasting time with me. I don’t kill. I just defend killers.”
“Same thing if you ask me. I’ll keep digging.”
He leaves and I find a toilet. I lock the stall door, sit on the lid, and ask myself if it’s possible.
We park the U-Haul in a slot at a hot-dog drive-in and order sodas from a cutie on skates. Neither of us has an appetite. She brings the drinks and Partner rolls up the window, by hand, the old-fashioned way. He takes a long sip, and staring straight ahead says, “No way, Boss. I made myself real clear. Scare ’em but don’t touch ’em. Nobody gets hurt.”
“They’re not in pain,” I say.
“But, Boss, you gotta understand how things work in the gutter. Say Miguel and his boys track down Tubby and Razor and manage to create a confrontation. They make threats, but let’s say Tubby and Razor are not bothered by threats. Hell, they’ve been making ’em for thirty years. They don’t appreciate the intrusion and let it be known. Miguel has to stand his ground. Words get heated, more threats are made, and at some point things get outta hand. Takes just one punch to start a brawl and before long somebody pulls a gun or a knife.”
“I want you to talk to Miguel.”
“Why? He’ll never admit it, Boss. Never.”
I sip through the straw and force down the beverage. Everything seems to be locked up—from throat to bowels. After a long gap, I say, “We’re assuming it’s Miguel. It could be someone else. Tubby and Razor have spent a career breaking arms, maybe they pushed the wrong guy this time.”
Partner nods and manages a weak “Could be.”
I’m awake at 3:37 a.m. when my cell phone begins vibrating. Slowly, I pick it up. Caller unknown, the worst kind. With great reluctance I say, “Hello.”
I’d recognize the voice anywhere. “This Rudd?” he asks.
“It is. Who’s calling?”
“Your old client Swanger, Arch Swanger.”
“I was hoping I’d never hear from you again.”
