Manhattan Noir 2 by Lawrence Block Read Free Book Online Page A

Lueger.

    “Yes,” Sally said two weeks later, “it is very clear. I’ll have dinner with him, and I’ll go to a movie with him, and I’ll get him to take at least two drinks, and I’ll tell him I live on West Twelfth Street, near West Street. There is a whole block of apartment houses there, and I’ll get him down to West Twelfth Street between a quarter to one and one in the morning, and you’ll be waiting there, you and Stryker, under the Ninth Avenue L, and you’ll say, ‘Pardon me, can you direct me to Sheridan Square?’ and I’ll start running.”
    “That’s right,” Charley said, “that’s fine.” He blew reflectively on his huge hands, knotted and cleat-marked from last Saturday’s game. “That is the whole story for Mr. Lueger. You’ll go through with it now?” he asked. “You’re sure you can manage it?”
    “I’ll go through with it,” Sally said. “I had a long talk with him today when the boat came in. He is very … anxious. He likes small girls like me, he says, with black hair. I told him I lived alone, downtown. He looked at me very significantly. I know why he manages to sleep with two ladies a voyage, like Preminger says. I’ll manage it.”
    “What is Ernest going to do tonight?” Dr. Stryker asked. In the two weeks of waiting his voice had become so dry he had to swallow desperately every five words. “Somebody ought to take care of Ernest tonight.”
    “He’s going to Carnegie Hall tonight,” Sally said. “They’re playing Brahms and Debussy.”
    “That’s a good way to spend an evening,” Charley said. He opened his collar absently, and pulled down his tie. “The only place I can go with Ernest these days is the movies. It’s dark, so I don’t have to look at him.”
    “He’ll pull through,” Dr. Stryker said professionally. “I’m making him new teeth; he won’t be so self-conscious, he’ll adjust himself.”
    “He hardly paints any more,” Sally said. “He just sits around the house and looks at his old pictures.”
    “Mr. Lueger,” Charley said. “Our pal, Mr. Lueger.”
    “He carries a picture of Hitler,” Sally said. “In his watch. He showed me. He says he’s lonely.”
    “How big is he?” Stryker asked nervously.
    “He’s a large, strong man,” Sally said.
    “I think you ought to have an instrument of some kind, Charley,” Stryker said dryly. “Really, I do.”
    Charley laughed. He extended his two hands, palms up, the broken fingers curled a little, broad and muscular. “I want to do this with my own hands,” he said. “I want to take care of Mr. Lueger with my bare fists. I want it to be a very personal affair.”
    “There is no telling what …” Stryker said.
    “Don’t worry, Stryker,” Charley said. “Don’t worry one bit.”

    At twelve that night Sally and Lueger walked down Eighth Avenue from the Fourteenth Street subway station. Lueger held Sally’s arm as they walked, his fingers moving gently up and down, occasionally grasping tightly the loose cloth of her coat and the firm flesh of her arm just above the elbow.
    “Oh,” Sally said. “Don’t. That hurts.”
    Lueger laughed. “It does not hurt much,” he said. He pinched her playfully. “You don’t mind if it hurt, nevertheless,” he said. His English was very complicated, with a thick accent.
    “I mind,” Sally said. “Honest, I mind.”
    “I like you,” he said, walking very close to her. “You are a good girl. You are made excellent. I am happy to accompany you home. You are sure you live alone?”
    “I’m sure,” Sally said. “Don’t worry. I would like a drink.”
    “Aaah,” Lueger said. “Waste time.”
    “I’ll pay for it,” Sally said. She had learned a lot about him in one evening. “My own money. Drinks for you and me.”
    “If you say so,” Lueger said, steering her into a bar. “One drink, because we have something to do tonight.” He pinched her hard and laughed, looking obliquely into her eyes with a kind of