Crang Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Jack Batten

at the gun and back to Nash.

      I said, “How come you haven’t tried to take it away from me?”

      “Figured you knew how to push it off, the safety.”

      “You figured incorrectly.”

      “Dumb fuck.”

      “You or me?”

      Nash didn’t uncross his legs. I held on to the gun.

      Nash said, “What’re you talking about, gun’s got something wrong?”

      “Too light,” I said. “Tony down there told me you carry a cannon.”

      “Sometimes.”

      “Blows holes through people.”

      “That ain’t it, gun in your hand,” Nash said. “Forty-four Mag you’re talking about.” His voice had grown instructive. “It’s for when I go see tough guys. Guys who I need to make an impression on, you understand what I’m saying.”

      I didn’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved.

      “That one you took off me, that gun,” Nash went on, “it’s for pussycats.”

      I said, “One thing about us pussycats, we land on our feet.”

      Nash shrugged.

      “You got lucky,” he said. “Gimme back the gun.”

      “You’ll shoot me.”

      “Not till somebody says I should.”

      I turned the gun over in my hand.

      “How do you unload this thing?” I said.

      “Little switch at the bottom of the barrel, thing your hand’s on, push it.”

      A clip of six bullets slid from the barrel. I flicked them out of the clip, put the bullets in my jeans pocket, and handed Nash his unloaded gun.

      “You bluffing about the papers?” he said, returning the gun to its holster. “The ones Mr. Grimaldi wants back? You really got them?”

      “I’ve got them,” I said. “In a secure place.”

      “No place’s secure somebody wants them bad enough.”

      Nash was right. The invoices and Harry Hein’s computer printouts were still in the trunk of the Volks. I wouldn’t call that secure. I could transfer them to a safety deposit box. Or maybe secrete them down the hollow in the third tree from the left in the park across the street.

      “I’ll tell you something,” Nash said. “Mr. Grimaldi’s screwing up here. Between you and me, there’s too much commotion going on. You, shit, you’re not worth all the jacking around.”

      “Sol,” I said, “you can’t keep buttering me up this way.”

      “I’m talking to you confidential,” Nash said. He uncrossed his leg. “You oughta go away quiet on this thing. It isn’t like you’re arguing a parking ticket for some guy. This is something where there’s serious money involved and certain people’s jobs.”

      “Yours, for instance.”

      “Yeah.”

      “And part of your job was to take the documents back to Grimaldi.”

      “Yeah.”

      “You failed.”

      “For now.”

      As Nash spoke, he bent from the chair, picked up the wallet on the floor with his left hand, and came up fast with the back of his right hand. It was aimed at the side of my face. Nash wasn’t quick enough. Maybe advancing age, maybe he’d underestimated me. I hadn’t underestimated him. Instinct or fear had me suspecting a snaky move from Sol, and as he swung, I slipped inside the arc of the punch and it passed over the top of my head. I backed away and held my hands in front of me.

      “Don’t do that again, okay?” I said.

      “Just so’s you know this ain’t over,” Nash said. He was holding his jacket by the lapels and shaking it. “Fucking wrinkles.” He buttoned the jacket and patted its pockets. Apparently our conference had concluded.

      “What about Tony?” I asked.

      “You put him to sleep,” Nash said. “You wake him up.”

      He walked to the top of the stairs.

      “Tell the kid he’s fired,” Nash said. His feet made thumping noises on the stairs and he slammed the front door.

      I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Same face, marginally smarter. I filled the sink with cold water and submerged my head. George Raft used to give himself the same treatment in the movies after somebody punched him. The cold water hurt the sore spots on my cheek and jaw. Or it might have been Jimmy Cagney who soaked his face. One of those guys I shouldn’t pick as a role model.

      I rinsed a washcloth in the water and spread it on Tony Flanagan’s forehead. He was holding firm on the living-room floor. I lifted his head, slipped a pillow under it, and raised the end table off his shoulders. Tony’s jaw looked whole and unbroken, but I didn’t envy him the headache that would greet his awakening.

      Out in the kitchen, I poured three inches of Wyborowa in a glass with ice and took it to the chair that Sol Nash had so recently vacated. I sipped, watched a vein throb in Tony’s neck, and contemplated my lame try at putting pressure on Charles Grimaldi. I’d disturbed him sufficiently to send Sol and Tony on a mission to retrieve the invoices but not enough to make him cut a bargain with me. Hadn’t nudged him close to a deal. The vodka nipped at the inside of my mouth. Tony’s punches must have torn something in there. I’d take another crack at Grimaldi. Give him an irresistible reason to trade with me. This time out, I’d be sneaky clever. Somehow put Grimaldi in a corner. Tony gave off blubbering noises and opened his eyes. I swallowed a long tug of vodka. Tony’s eyes were glassy, but he managed to fix his gaze on me.

      “Here’s the good news, Tony,” I said. “Sol thinks you’re a hell of a driver. The bad news is he fired you.”

      Tony got on his feet without a wobble.

      “Fired?” he repeated.

      “That’s what the man said.”

      “Guess I should of kicked you,” Tony said.

      He asked for a drink of water, and when he finished it, he left my apartment. He was wearing his straw hat.

      29

      RAY GRIFFIN was as good as his threat of that morning. He phoned. The call came thirty minutes after Tony had made his exit and I was applying a cold compress to a small lump on my cheek. I gave Griffin a warm welcome. He sounded surprised at the reception. He was more surprised when I said I planned to invite him over for a drink that evening. Major matters to discuss. He said he’d make it about eight o’clock, as soon as he’d wound up an interview. Wonderful, I said. By the time he hung up, Griffin’s surprise had acquired a tinge of suspicion. Perceptive of him. He didn’t know I had him ticketed for a key part in my latest surefire scheme.

      He arrived closer to seven-thirty than eight. Suspicious but eager. He was wearing white pants with bell bottoms and a black tank top that showed the pimples on his shoulders.

      “Want a vodka?” I asked. I oozed solicitation. “Sorry, it’s all I have in the place.”

      “Sure,” Griffin said. He was carrying a notebook. “What’ve you got to go with it?”

      “Ice.”

      “Seven-Up? Or Sprite? Something to give it taste?”

      I made him a Bloody Caesar and sat him at the kitchen table.

      “I’m going to ask two things of you, Ray,” I said. “One,