"Thank you, sir."
"Handled
"Thank you, sir."
"But you better call home now, tell 'em we're taking you off the street."
"Sir?"
"Few questions we'll have to ask you downtown. Make sure we get all the facts before the bleeding hearts come out of the woodwork."
"Yes, sir," Genero said.
He was thinking the goddamn shift would be relieved at a quarter to twelve, but he'd be downtown answering questions all night.
Train speeding through the night now, leaving behind the mills and factories just over the river, coming into rolling green land where you could see the lights of houses twinkling like it was Christmas instead of Halloween.
By Christmas they'd be sitting fat and pretty in India someplace.
Person could live on ten cents a day in India—well, that was an exaggeration. But you could rent yourself a luxurious villa, staff it with all the servants you needed, live like royalty on just the interest the two hundred thousand would bring. New names, new lives for both of them. Never mind trying to live on the peanuts Frank had earned each year.
She sighed heavily.
She'd have to call his mother as soon as she got home, and then is sister, and then she guessed some of his friends in the business. Had to get in touch with that detective again, find out when she could claim the body, arrange for some kind of funeral, have to keep the casket closed, of course, she wondered how soon that would be. Today was Friday, she didn't know whether they did autopsies on the weekend, probably wouldn't get around to it till Monday morning. Maybe she could have the body by Tuesday, but she'd better call an undertaker first thing in the morning, make sure they could handle it. Figure a day in the funeral home—well, two days, she guessed—bury him on Thursday morning. She'd have to find a cemetery that had available plots, whatever you called them, maybe the undertaker would know about that. Had to have a stone cut, too, HERE LIES FRANK SEBASTIANI, REST IN PEACE—but that could wait, there was no hurry about a stone.
She'd call the insurance company on Friday morning.
Tell them her husband had been murdered.
Make her claim.
She didn't expect any problems. Sensational case like this one? Already on television and in one of the early morning papers she'd bought at the terminal. MAGICIAN MURDERED, the headline read. Bigger headline than he'd ever had in his life. Had to get himself killed to get it.
Two hundred thousand dollars, she thought.
Invest it at ten percent, that'd bring them twenty thousand a year, more than enough to live on like a king and queen. A maharajah and maharanee was more like it. Go to the beach every day, have someone doing the cleaning and the cooking, have a man polishing the car and doing the marketing, buy herself a dozen saris, learn how to wrap them, maybe get herself a little diamond for her nose. Even at eight percent, the money would bring in sixteen thousand a year. More than enough.
And all they'd had to do for it was kill him.
The train rumbled through the night, lulling her to sleep.
He approached Eileen almost the moment she sat down at one of the tables.
"Hi," he said. "Remember me?"
No eyeglasses, no tattoo, but otherwise their man down to his socks. The eyeglasses he'd worn on his earlier outings could have been windowpane. The tattoo could have been a decal. Her heart was beating wildly. She didn't realize until this moment just how frightened she really was. You're a
"I'm sorry," she said, "have we met?"
"Mind if I sit down?"
"Please do."
The prim and proper hooker.
But crossed her legs anyway, to show him thigh clear to Cincinnati.
"I'm Linda," she said. "Are you looking for a good time?"
"That depends," he said.
"On what?"
"On what you consider a good time."
"That's entirely up to you."
"I noticed you when I was coming in," he said. "You were leaving with a little Puerto Rican."
"You're very observant," she said.
"You're a beautiful woman, how could I miss you?"
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Howie."
"Howie what?"
"Howie gonna keep 'em down on the farm."
He had them in stitches. Shanahan's words. Kept telling them jokes. A stand-up comic with a knife.
"So what're you interested in, Howie?"
"Let's talk," he said.
"Candy store's open," she said. "You want to know how much the goodies cost?"
"Not right now."
"Just say when, Howie."
He folded his hands on the tabletop. Looked into her eyes.
"How long have you been hooking, Linda?"
"First time tonight," she said. "In fact, I'm a virgin."
Not a smile. Not even the
"How old are you?"
"You should never ask a woman her age, Howie."
"Early thirties, in there?"
"Who knows?" she said, and rolled her eyes.
"What's your real name?"
"What's yours?"
"I told you. Howie."
"But you didn't tell me Howie what."
"Howie Cantrell," he said.
"Eileen Burke," she said.
