Ice Blues - Stevenson Richard (бесплатные онлайн книги читаем полные версии .txt) 📗

Times Unions on the floor nearby. These I placed in the maroon bags, shut and locked them, and carried them in three swift trips up to the attic. I placed the bags where I had found them and closed the hatch.

From down below came the sound of raised voices and other signs of frantic coming and going. I went back to Toot's room, shut the door, and waited inside. Out on Third Avenue a crowd had gathered, as well as a fire engine, red lights turning and flashing and radios barking, and a Troy PD patrol car.

Footsteps thudded up the stairs, and my heart played an interesting short piece by Poulenc. Two sharp raps on the door. "It's me."

I let him in. Toot had on jeans and Timmy's old Georgetown sweatshirt and was dripping like Lear on the moors. I said, "Nice performance. Would you autograph my program?" and held out a stack of fifties.

"You gotta get out of here now! The building inspector's on his way and they'll be coming up here."

"Where are they?"

"Mack and Flo are both out back with two policemen and some firemen.

You gotta move now."

I followed him quickly down the stairs and out the front door. We walked casually past the fire engine and cop car on the corner. "Did you tell her you were moving out?"

"Yeah, I said I was afraid the whole place was unsafe, and she said oh, no, honey, why don't you wait for the building inspector, but I was shaking like crazy-from the cold, mostly-and she thinks I'm really scared. Of course, I am that, too."

"Do they know how it happened?"

"Snow on the roof, they think."

"Good. They might figure out otherwise in daylight, but that's okay. I'll send Mrs. Trenky four or five grand for a new porch if her insurance doesn't cover the damage. See you in a little while."

"I hope so."

Timmy and the T-bird were long gone, so I stood inside the convenience store drinking coffee and chatting with the clerk about the neighborhood excitement for twenty minutes until I saw Toot load the Ford with Timmy's gray bags. He asked the firemen to move their pumper six feet so that he could get his car out, and after some jawing and milling about, they did. Toot pulled onto the avenue, cruised over to the convenience store, then moved over to the passenger seat. I climbed'in and drove directly to the Green Island bridge, then south to Albany, where we rendezvoused in Room 1407 at the Hilton just after one.

"First thing in the morning," Timmy said, "I am going to confession for the first time in eighteen years. And then I am going to work. Right now I am going to sleep. If I scream in the night, rush me over to the Albany Med burn unit."

Toot said, "I'm taking a hot bath before I do anything. I think I've got gangrene of the prostate."

"Timmy will sleep, but you can't," I told him. "I'm driving you to JFK, where you'll get on the first flight for LA. Fay is going to draw some conclusions very fast, and if you hang around here you might be recognized. The cops won't be a problem-I don't think Fay will report his loss to the authorities-but it's better if you are three thousand miles away when Fay puts one and one and a half together and comes up with Jim O'Connor the Third, the fan-belt salesman."

Timmy said, "Fay's not dumb. Won't he also realize that you're somehow involved? Hell, we're never going to be able to go home."

"I've been thinking about that too. I also have been starting to miss evenings by the picture of the fire. I think I know how I can work it all out.

There are just a couple of things I have to check on tomorrow."

"It's practically tomorrow already. Kyle, good night and good luck. And, Donald, congratulations on your civic-minded grand larceny. You're Legs Diamond with a heart of gold."

"Thank you," I said, and gazed at the five suitcases full of money. It occurred to me that I could probably spend the two and a half million on the purchase of a small island in the Bahamas. St.

Don's. I reluctantly shoved that thought aside, although suddenly it became brilliantly clear to me that now, finally, I did have real choices to make.

At the airport I asked Toot, "What will you tell people who ask where you disappeared to for thirty-six hours?"

He grinned. "I'll say I was in Troy, New York, helping a private eye and his boyfriend demolish Carole Lombard's back porch in order to steal two and a half million dollars."

"That's a wonderful story. Nobody will believe it."

"That's right."

"You learn fast." I tried to stuff a roll of fifties in Toot's pocket, but he wouldn't have it. "You're a business expense," I said. "Jack Lenihan wrote that I should take what I needed for my expenses. It's legitimate, believe me."

He looked a little hurt. "I'll take twenty for cab fare back to West Hollywood, but otherwise forget it. I'm not supposed to take non-union acting jobs anyway. Not that I could ever include this one on my resume. This performance was for Al Piatek-and for the memory of Al and Jack Lenihan back in the Piateks' attic. Who knows, maybe they're together now."

"It would be nice to believe that."

Having gone without sleep for nearly forty-eight hours, I drove directly to the airport Sheraton, bought a room with six twenties, lay down, and conked out. I wanted to be wide awake and in full possession of my faculties when I got back to Albany, because the tricky part was coming next: disbursing the two and a half million, handing Jack Lenihan's murderer to Ned Bowman, and staying alive while I was at it.

SIXTEEN

I phoned Sim Kempelman from a thruway rest stop and met him at six Monday evening at Queequeg's. He ordered the scampi and a glass of white wine, and I had two bowls of cream of broccoli soup, two spinach salads and a Beck's.

I said, "I've got it."

"Oh, my."

"Two and a half million."

He whistled, impressed.

"It's all in US currency, in a safe place. The cash's arrival was delayed for a variety of reasons, but before he died, Jack prepared to send it to me and now I've got it."

"That's a lot of money, kid. You're rich."

"Not me. You and your slate of candidates are rich. The citizenry of Albany is rich."

He gazed at me solemnly. He asked, "Has a will been located?"

"I don't know. What difference does it make? Lenihan sent me the money before he died, with instructions to-"

"To what?"

"To-to hold it for him. To keep it safe."

"Ahhh."

"But Jack's intentions were clear from the context of his letter. It was plainly his wish that if anything happened to him, I should carry out the project. There is no arguing with that. None."

Kempelman sighed and shook his head. "I don't know about you, kid, but I'm too old to go to jail. I like my cup of tea when I crawl out from under the covers in the morning, and I like a little smootz from Mrs. Freda Kempelman when

I get back underneath the covers at night. No, I think I'll steer clear of jail houses and any of the multitudes of sets of circumstances that might land me in one.

"Now don't get me wrong, Mr. Strachey, I do want that money. But it has to be on the up-and-up, with all the legal niceties attended to-which is in no way an impossibility. In fact, that is the way I earn my living, and nine times out of ten I can find a way to get what my client wants-or what I want-and still meet the requirements of the law. I'm an old hand at that.