“Then what arc you doing standing here?” Lou asked.
“I have to get to the cemetery,” Mullaney said, which was the truth so far. He decided to embroider upon the truth a little because both Freddie and Lou looked as if they just might pull him in for standing or loitering or hitchhiking or skating across the bridge without skates or raping somebody, it being Friday night, and there not being enough trouble to occupy them anywhere else in the city. “A very good friend of mine passed away just last month,” Mullaney said, “name of Martin Callahan. I was just talking to his widow a few minutes ago, and she seemed all broken up because the stone is ready, but she can’t bear to go out and look at it, being grief-stricken. So she asked me if I’d go out to take a look at it, see that they spelled his name right and all that, and I promised I would and then like a fool left my wallet in my jacket. At the gym. In my gym locker.”
“At the gym?” Lou asked.
“Yes, I go there to work out with the medicine ball. I’ve got a desk job, you see, keep the old bod in shape with a medicine ball.”
“What gym?”
“You know. Over on Fifty-third,” he said, wondering if there was a gym someplace on Fifty-third.
“Oh yeah, that one,” Freddie said. “What kind of work do you do?”
“I sell encyclopedias,” Mullaney said.
“Yeah, huh?”
“Yeah. So here I promised her I’d go out tonight and take a look at the stone for her, and I didn’t want to go all the way back to the gym, so I thought I’d walk across the bridge.”
“That’s a very interesting story,” Lou said.
“How did he die?” Freddie asked.
“Who?”
“Hoolihan. Your friend.”
“Callahan, you mean.”
“Yeah, Callahan, him.”
“Well...” Mullaney said, and paused, unable to remember how Callahan had died, but remembering very clearly how Feinstein had died, and figuring he might as well give them that story since they had thought his first story so interesting. “Actually,” he said, “it was very comical the way he...”
“Never mind,” Lou said, “I don’t like to hear about how guys died. Get in the car, and we’ll drop you off at the cemetery.”
“Thank you,” Mullaney said, and got into the squad car. “Where I’m going, actually, is to the stonecutters just outside the cemetery. McReady’s Monument Works.”
“I know where that is,” Freddie said.
“He thinks this is a taxi,” Lou said.
“Yeah,” Freddie said, “he thinks this is a taxi.”
But, being New Yorks Finest, they nonetheless drove him over the bridge and into Queens, where they dropped him off on the sidewalk just outside McReady’s Monument Works.
5. McReady
A cold wind blew in off the cemetery, keening relentlessly over gravestone and urn, eddying against the black iron fence, rising to a vivid scream that dropped again in moaning obbligato, a tortured cry of unknown horror and graveside lament.
Mullaney was cold and he was frightened.
A light was burning in the stonecutter’s cottage. He crept around the side of the house, the gravel crunching underfoot, the wind billowing into his jasmine shirt. There were ghosts in the adjacent cemetery, he knew, tall apparitions in soiled winding sheets, eyesockets staring, skeletal fingers grasping. Bony women cackled on the wind, withered lips pulled back over toothless gums, their voices echoing on the fitful air. As Mullaney approached the lighted window, a shutter banged, and banged again, and his heart thumped, and he almost ran. A tree in new April leaf suddenly whipped its branches across the sullen night, rattling fresh leaves. Somewhere a cat shrieked in terror and was still again.
Teeth chattering, Mullaney peered into the cottage.
McReady the stonecutter was sitting at a small table. He was eating a sandwich and pouring schnapps from a brown bottle. Mullaney watched as the old man bit into the sandwich. It was a deliciously monstrous concoction, a huge wedge of French bread stuffed with what seemed to be at least fourteen different kinds of meats and cheeses. Mullaney, remembering again how hungry he was, watched enviously as the old man clamped his teeth into the crisp brown bread. Savagely, McReady tore loose an enormous bite, chewed it with obscene enthusiasm, and then washed it down with a huge swallow of whiskey. Smacking his lips, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and then brought the sandwich into biting position again.
Mullaney’s eyes narrowed.
He was hungry, and frightened, and cold, and whereas he philosophically reasoned that most cruel acts in this world were perpetrated by people who were either hungry, frightened, or cold, the knowledge did not prevent him from devising a cruel little act of his own.
He had already relegated blame for the switched money to McReady, arguing that he would now be in possession of half a million dollars had McReady not performed his sleight-of-hand. But worse than the money swap was the solitary and selfish indulgence taking place inside this cottage on the edge of the cemetery. McReady’s feast was assuming the dimensions of an onanistic orgy. Relentlessly, he chewed and swallowed, poured and drank, licked his lips and belched in contentment. What I’m going to do to you, Mullaney thought in rising anger and greed, is scare you out of your wits, old man. I am going to rap on the window here and pretend I’m one of the ghosts howling out there in the cemetery, come to get you for your many many sins among which are substituting paper scraps for money and making a pig of yourself swilling good food and liquor before the very eyes of a starving horseplayer.
The anger with which he had conceived his malicious plan gave way to the sheer enjoyment of contemplating its execution. Chuckling, he hunched down below the window, his eyes level with the sill, so that he could watch McReady’s reaction unobserved. Oh boy, he thought, this is going to be good, and he raised his knuckles toward the pane, giggled, and rapped sharply on the glass.
McReady looked up.
The expression on his face was similar to the one that had been on Henry’s when Mullaney yelled “Boo!” from the coffin. He nodded. Then he took another bite of his sandwich. Then he put the sandwich down on its plate. Then he rose. Chewing, he walked leisurely to the door and opened it. Around a mouthful of food, he asked, “Who is it?”
“It’s me!” Mullaney bellowed, and stepped into the light streaming through the open door.
“Oh, hello there,” McReady said, “come in.” He backed away from the door. “It certainly is a brisk night, isn’t it?” he said. Mullaney entered the cottage. McReady closed the door behind him and walked back to the table. “Sit down,” he said. “Sit down. I was just having a little snack, helps the long night to pass.” He picked up the remainder of his sandwich and devoured it in two enormous gulps. Pouring more whiskey into his glass, he asked Mullaney, “A little schnapps?”
“Thank you,” Mullaney said.
The stonecutter rose and walked to a small cabinet set on the wall. Mullaney noticed that the wall was covered with posters advertising marble and granite. A calendar near the cabinet was printed with the words “Elegant... Exotic... Eternal,” and a photograph of what appeared to be the tomb of Tutankhamen. McReady came back to the table with a plastic water tumbler. He poured it almost full to the brim, raised his own glass, and said, “L’chaim.” The men drank.
McReady smacked his lips and said, “I’m very happy you stopped by to see me. I was wondering what happened to you.”
“I’ll bet you were,” Mullaney said.
“When I heard about the accident on the radio...”
“Was it on the radio?”