Slaughter

“Bag?” Sal asked.

“Sure. Big blue bag with a lotta straps.”

“Did it look heavy?”

“Not at all.”

“Where did they go? Did they leave the park?”

“No. I’m sure of that. I kinda followed them, for some reason.”

Sal could guess the reason. If the opportunity arose, Spud could throw a sucker punch, snatch the man’s wallet, and run. The man might not be in any position to follow.

“This woman,” Sal said. “Do you think you could identify her?”

Spud went into his chin rub again. Smiled the ugliest smile Sal and Harold had ever seen. “You mean her head?”

Spud objected, but Sal and Harold drove him to Q&A and he signed a statement. He wasn’t too worried, because he didn’t see Sal or Harold or any of these people as real cops. If they were, they wouldn’t have been so nice to him. He might even be up on a vagrancy charge.

To Spud, these were play cops, but not cops playing games.

Sal and Harold wrote their own reports, while Qui

Qui

“I feel like the mayor,” Spud said, leaning back in his plush seat and crossing his arms. “My kingdom’s right on the other side of this window.”

Qui

Fedderman figured the entire car might have to be fumigated. Qui

Spud, it turned out, was an ex-marine who’d seen the worst of it in Desert Storm. He didn’t react when they showed him the morgue photos of Lois Graham. Simply said, “Uh-huh. Same woman. Damned shame.”

Qui

Spud raised a bushy gray eyebrow. “Mr. Popcorn?”

“The same.”

“Maybe. Didn’t get a clear look at him, though. Told you he looked like a gremlin.”

“Leprechaun.”

“Did I say that? Shoulda said gremlin. Leprechauns ain’t always bad. Gremlins are the worst. Too curious and up to mischief all the time. No pot of gold involved.”

“Some mischief,” Qui

“There a reward?”

Qui

“How much?”

“Negotiable. And remember, your testimony wouldn’t be much good if we paid you for it.”

“Wouldn’t make me no difference what brand it was.”

Qui

Spud accepted the card and gave a sloppy salute.

They left the morgue and drove him back to the park where he’d first been accosted by Sal and Harold. A street vendor was set up near the 81st Street entrance. Qui

Qui

Then he figured Spud was careful all the time anyway. On the streets, being careful was his life.

The package Qui

“This Kerouac the writer?” Renz asked, when Qui

“Must be,” Qui

“So why are you calling me?” Renz said. “Why aren’t you out there trying to find whoever put the damned thing in your mail?”

“Three reasons. I wanted you to know about the package before I opened it.”

“And?”

“I want you on the phone while I’m opening the package.”

“And . . .”

“I want to tell you what I think about in my few seconds left before a bomb goes off.”

There was silence on the phone.

Finally Renz spoke. “You really think there might be a small bomb in that package?”

“Could be.”

“The department does have a bomb squad. Why don’t we let them open the package?”

“I’m not sure the risk justifies all that,” Qui

“That’s insane. If that is a bomb, or something that shoots white powder, we have people who know how to—Just a minute, Qui

Within about two minutes, Renz was back. “Stay put, Qui

“What’s going on, Harley?”

“I just got my mail put on my desk. It contains a package just like the one you described.”

Qui

“Considering who must have sent the packages. Or maybe hand delivered them himself.”

“Probably paid some poor dumb schmuck to deliver them,” Qui

“Yeah. Well, you better get outta your building, make sure everybody else does the same. They’ll think it’s a drill.”

“You doing the same?”

“Not right away. If you get anthraxed or blown up, I’ll know what to do. One thing, Qui

“Yeah. But I don’t know what that means.”

“He wrote Peyton Place, didn’t he?”

Qui

Half an hour later, the packages were declared safe. Qui

8

Just looking at it, no one would guess that the building in the West Village had once been a bakery. In the early seventies it had been converted to a three-story apartment building, with a small foyer. In the nineties, the building had been renovated again, and in a major way. Twenty more stories had been added, and the building had become a boutique hotel, serving both guests and residents. Stone had replaced brick on part of the exterior, the foyer had become a legitimate lobby, complete with leather easy chairs and potted plants, and an elevator had been installed. Upstairs, most large rooms had become suites or been subdivided into small rooms. The halls were carpeted in a deep red, and paneled halfway up to cream-colored wallpaper with a subtle rose print.

Emilio Torres, the head of maintenance in the building, lived with his wife, A

The virtually new building was named Off the Road, in a sort of salute to the beat generation of the fifties, and the rates were reasonable—by Manhattan standards.

The West Village was home to artists of all types, some of whom were doing at least okay financially. Off the Road was a success. Units were purchased for ownership or rental, and recently all had become occupied.

Emilio slept well. All of the systems in the building were almost new. Everything worked as it should, and almost everything was designed to make maintenance and upkeep as easy and infrequent as possible.