A Ticket to the Boneyard by Lawrence Block Read Free Book Online Page B

stupid. How did you get past the doorman?”
    He just smiled.
    “And through the door,” I said. “That’s a good lock there, and she swore you didn’t have a key. Or did you? Or did she open it for you?”
    “Put the gun away,” he said. “And go.”
    “Oh, this? It bother you?”
    “Just put it away.”
    “If it bothers you,” I said, “here.” And I tossed it at him.
    He was holding her arm too hard, that was his mistake. It slowed his reaction time. He had to let go before he could do anything else, and instead his hands tightened reflexively and she cried out. He let go then, snatching at the gun, but by then I had a foot out to kick the coffee table at him, and I did, hard. It caromed into his shins even as I was launching myself over it and into him. The two of us sailed into a wall—we didn’t miss the window by much—and the impact took the breath out of him. He wound up on his back and I wound up on top of him, and when I’d scrambled free he was still on the floor. I hit him on the chin, hard, and his eyes glazed. I grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him back against the wall and hit him three times in the middle. He was all muscle and all hard, but I put a lot into my punches and they got through. He sagged, and I swung a forearm and put my whole shoulder into it, and my elbow got him in the chin and put his lights out.
    He lay on the floor like a rag doll, his head and shoulders propped against the white wall, one leg drawn up, one fully extended. I stood there, breathing hard, staring down at him. One of his hands lay on the floor, the fingers splayed. I remembered the look of the fingers gripping Elaine’s arm, and I had the urge to move my foot a few inches so that it covered that hand, then lean my weight onto that foot and see if that didn’t take some of the strength out of those steel fingers.
    Instead I retrieved my piece and wedged it under my belt, then turned to Elaine. Some of the color had returned to her face. She didn’t look wonderful, but she looked a lot better than she had when he was holding her arm.
    She said, “When you said you didn’t care if he broke my neck—”
    “Oh, come on. You had to know I was setting him up.”
    “Yes, and I knew you must have something planned. But I was afraid it wouldn’t work. And I was afraid he might break my neck, just out of curiosity, just to see whether you cared or not.”
    “He’s not going to break anybody’s neck,” I said. “But I’ve got to figure out what to do with him.”
    “Aren’t you going to arrest him?”
    “Sure. But I’m afraid he’ll walk.”
    “Are you kidding? After all this?”
    “It’s a tough case to prosecute,” I told her. “You’re a hooker, and juries tend not to get concerned about violence toward prostitutes. Not unless the girl dies.”
    “He said he killed a girl.”
    “Maybe he was just talking. Even if it’s true, and I think it might be, we don’t even know who she was or when he killed her, let alone have a case against him for it. We’ve got resisting arrest and assault on a police officer, but a half-decent defense attorney would make our relationship questionable.”
    “How?”
    “He’d make it look as though I was your pimp. That would pretty much guarantee an acquittal. Even with the best slant on our relationship, it’s a problem. You’ve got a married cop who’s got this friendship with a call girl. You can imagine how that’ll play in the courtroom. And in the papers.”
    “You said he’s been arrested before.”
    “Right, and for the same kind of thing. But the jury won’t know that.”
    “Why? Because charges were dropped?”
    “They wouldn’t know even if he’d been convicted and done time for it. Prior criminal history isn’t admissible in criminal proceedings.”
    “Why the hell not?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never understood it. It’s supposed to be prejudicial, but isn’t it part of the whole picture? Why shouldn’t