City Primeval

Raymond crossed over from Carolyn’s gray Mercedes as Hunter and the MCMU officers came out of the flat next to Sweety’s.

Hunter said, “You see her? She’s so stoned I bet she don’t even know she was here.”

When Toma looked out and saw the car, he thought of a time when he was sixteen and had sighted down the barrel of a Mauser on a Russian soldier who had got out of his truck to relieve himself-the same distance from the apartment window to the car across the street-and had killed the man with one shot. He had waited three days for a Russian truck. He had been in Skender’s apartment perhaps three minutes, getting some books to take to the hospital, and had not looked out the window with the hope or intention of seeing something of interest. But there it was, Skender’s black Cadillac.

Sometimes you had to work hard and sometimes it was handed to you. Toma put the books on the windowsill and took out his .32-caliber Beretta. Then saw that he wasn’t being handed everything. The person in the car was a young girl with fu

Toma watched for several minutes. Finally the girl got out of the car and slammed the door. Then opened it again and bent over to reach inside, held this pose for nearly a minute, then came out again with a brown leather bag that appeared worn and soft. The girl held it at her side by the shoulder strap as she crossed the street, the bottom of the bag brushing the pavement, and entered the building’s courtyard. Toma stepped back from the window. She passed along the walk to the front entrance. Now she stood there. She didn’t go into the vestibule, she stood outside, waiting, not more than thirty feet from Toma, who was looking at her back now. She seemed relaxed but didn’t move. Toma turned, looking toward the street again.

A gray Mercedes passed slowly. A black Ford passed… another one.

He’s here, Toma thought.

But how could he be?

Then knew-as he turned to look at the girl again and saw the glass door open and Mansell step outside-in the basement. In the room made for hiding.

Or in the apartment upstairs Skender was preparing, furnishing.

Jesus, the man had nerve. Toma went to his knees to raise the window, slowly. The screen was still in place; he’d fire through it. Men with nerve died like anyone else if shot in the right place. But the girl was in the way. He could see only a small part of Mansell. The girl was holding up the big leather purse. Mansell, yes, had a gun in his hand. Toma aimed carefully. But Mansell would move, lean to look past the girl toward the street. Now he was reaching into the purse-Toma thinking, What is this? Is it a show? For a moment he thought he saw a different gun in Mansell’s hand.

Why doesn’t he hurry?

Now he was going inside, the glass door closing, the girl turning away but taking her time.

It was in Toma’s mind to run, now, meet him in the hall…

But something strange was going on. The girl was walking out of the courtyard with the same uncertain but uncaring stride… then stepping out of the way, onto the grass, and Toma saw familiar faces, Raymond Cruz, Hunter, homicide people, and some not familiar, a woman with them-coming quickly along the entrance walk, past his front-row seat.

Yes, like a show, Toma thought.

Raymond Cruz was looking at the girl. He seemed to hesitate. The girl nodded, once. Not nodding hello, but saying something with the nod. Cruz kept going with the others. All of them eager. Of course-because they know Mansell’s inside.

It is a show, Toma thought.

They were in the vestibule now. He could hear someone buzzing the door open for them.

The girl with the strange blond hair was still in the courtyard, forgotten-looking inside her big purse now, feeling in there like she was looking for her keys as she walked out to the street-past a uniformed policeman getting out of a squad car-and across the street to Skender’s Cadillac.

If she had given Mansell a gun and was leaving him here, of all places-No, not of all places, the only place!

Toma ran from Skender’s apartment down the hall to the back stairs, hearing others on the stairs above him. He turned off the light and started down, as quietly as he could, still not certain what the show was about, even though he had thought of a way to end it.

29

STANDING IN THE FIRST-FLOOR HALLWAY, the MCMU people hurrying past them, Carolyn said, “Does this happen often?”

They had searched every apartment, every room, every closet in the building and were still going up and down halls past each other. Around in circles, Raymond thought. There was no way Mansell could have gotten out, nowhere between the roof and the basement he could be hiding.

He said to her, “We’ll find him.”

“But he’s not here.”

“Yes, he is,” Raymond said, with nothing to lose.

Hunter came up to them. He said, “Well?”

Raymond pictured again what he had seen from the car, going past slowly in Carolyn’s Mercedes: Sandy at the door, Clement coming out. Going past again… going in then as Sandy came out, seeing her nod, accepting it because he was anxious, evidently too anxious…

He said, “Where’s Sandy?” Hunter looked at him. He looked at Hunter.

Carolyn said, “I don’t believe this.” She watched Hunter walk off toward the front of the building. “What do you do now?”

“Wait,” Raymond said.

“For what?”

Hunter turned and started back. “Hey, you see Toma yet? He’s here.”

As Carolyn watched, Raymond began to smile.

Toma left the apartment door open; he sat reading one of the books he would bring Skender, a book about the cultivation and care of house plants. When Raymond Cruz and a woman and Hunter appeared in the doorway Toma said, “Well, how are you?”

Raymond said, “Toma Sinistaj, Carolyn Wilder. Ms. Wilder does criminal work, she’s one of the best defense attorneys in town. I mention it in case you want to retain her right now and get that out of the way.”

Toma said, “You don’t want to talk to me alone?”

“I want you to tell me where he is. Right here’s fine.”

“I’m giving you something, Raymond; but you don’t want all your people watching. I could have killed him. You understand that? I came very close. Then I said no.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see. Or you won’t; it’s up to you. But I think you better get rid of your people.”

A door closed down the hall.

It was quiet in the building now. Toma took them to the basement where he turned on fluorescent lights and let them stand looking around for a moment, preparing his audience.

“He had a gun,” Toma said. “This one,” opening his suitcoat and drawing an automatic from his waistband. “You see it? It’s a Browning. It belongs to this family and has killed no one.”

“Where is he?” Raymond said.

Toma nodded. “Watch the wall there.” He walked over to the furnace, where Raymond was standing, Raymond stepping out of his way, reached up, stretching to his tiptoes, and pulled the switch down.

With the humming sound the wall began to come apart, the three-foot section of cement blocks opening toward them, gradually revealing the room, the record player, the safe… Clement Mansell seated in a canvas chair with his legs crossed.

He said, “Hey, shit, what is going on? I come down here to put back something Sandy give me she says her friend Skender loaned her for protection and this undertaker sticks a pistol in my back, locks me in here.”

“He had the wall already open,” Toma said, “waiting in there for you to find him.”

“With the Browning?” Raymond said.

Toma nodded. “He wants you to believe he got it from the blond girl with the hair.”