Four hours passed.
Herbie got the latest papers, to see if there was more about Sukie or the size of the bust. There wasn’t.
Another half hour.
And then, suddenly, stepping out into the afternoon light, rubbing the bald spot on the back of his head, was The Pig. “Herbie,” I said, “that’s him.”
Herbie put down the paper. “What’s six letters meaning determination?”
I pointed to Murphy, walking alone down the steps with a small briefcase in one hand. “That’s him.”
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Herbie said. “Let’s get going.”
I started the engine, and put the VW in gear.
42
MURPHY DROVE A GREEN PLYMOUTH sedan. It was dusty and needed to be washed, and it had the usual 415 narc plates. Murphy climbed in and carefully put on a large pair of Highway Patrol-type shades, and then started off.
I followed the car through the Boston traffic. As we went, I said, “Herbie, there’s one problem.”
“There are no problems,” Herbie said flatly.
“Yes,” I said, “there’s one: what if he’s already unloaded the stuff? What if he unloaded it last night?”
“That’s not a problem,” Herbie said. “That’s a factor we’ve taken into account.”
“We have?”
“Yes. It’s been perfectly clear from the start that if he has already unloaded the dope, or if he’s not the one who’s doing it, then we are wasting our time.”
“Oh,” I said.
Murphy drove to the South End of town, pulled up at a bus stop, parked, and got out. I pulled over beside a hydrant a few yards back. We watched Murphy go into a church.
“I don’t like it,” Herbie said.
“Why?” I said.
“He’s taking that briefcase with him,” Herbie said, getting out of the car. I started to follow him. “No,” Herbie said, “not you. He’d recognize you.”
So I got back into the car and waited while Herbie scurried up to the church, and disappeared inside. Several minutes passed. I turned on the radio but all I could get was Connie Francis singing “Who’s Sorry Now?” and some damned symphony. I turned the radio off and smoked a cigarette. Several more minutes passed. I turned the radio back on. This time I found a talk show, with Tony Curtis. They asked Tony whether he thought he was successful and Tony said it depended on how you defined it. He defined success as doing better than his best friend. And he said he was successful, on that basis. He didn’t name the best friend.
Then Murphy came out of the church, still carrying the briefcase. Herbie was nowhere to be seen. Murphy got into his car, threw the briefcase into the back seat, started the engine, and waited. I watched him, wondering where Herbie was, and why Murphy was waiting.
At that moment, Herbie came out of the church, moving very fast. I glanced over at Murphy. Murphy was looking at Herbie. Christ, I thought, it’s all over. Herbie jumped into the seat next to me. “All set,” he said. “Why’s he waiting?”
“Don’t know,” I said. But then I saw him lean forward, take out the dashboard lighter, and light the cigarette between his lips. I sighed. “There’s your answer. Just getting a nic hit.”
At that moment, Murphy took off. He patched out, leaving a blue cloud of exhaust and the smell of rubber, and streaked down the street.
“Shit,” I said, slamming the car into gear.
“I wonder what he has under that hood,” Herbie said thoughtfully.
Murphy was now moving very fast, heading toward the Expressway. He went up the ramp and I followed him, running a red light to make it. “What was he doing in the church?”
“Praying,” said Herbie.
Murphy screamed forward onto the Expressway. He wove among the lanes of traffic, trying to lose us.
The VW didn’t have enough power to touch the Plymouth, which moved steadily away from us. For a while, Herbie was able to keep track of him with the binoculars, while I took some bad chances, slipping in and out among the cars. But finally, near Milton, we came over a rise in the Expressway and looked down over the far slope, and he was gone.
Completely gone.
Herbie kept on scanning the road ahead. Then he put down the binoculars. “Get off at the next exit,” he said. “We’ve lost him.”
43
THE TOWN OF MILTON WAS established in 1710, according to the welcome sign, and from the looks of that sign and the looks of the houses, it had kept a tight ass-hole ever since. It would be hard to build a community that looked more prim. It was all very neat and clean and historical and nauseating. Herbie directed me through it. He didn’t seem discouraged, but I was discouraged as hell.
“What are we doing here?” I said.
“Playing the odds,” Herbie said. “You have your money?” I nodded. “How much?”
“Thirty-six dollars.”
“That should be enough,” Herbie said, “if we can get enough change. We’re going to have a problem.”
“Change?”
“Dimes,” Herbie said. He directed me to a large, modern drugstore. We walked to the back, past the counters of Nytol, E-Z Doz, Sleeptite, Awake!, Rouse, Bufferin, Anacin, Contac, and all the other pills. Behind the druggists’ counter there were giant bottles of pills, the tranqs, bennies, and sleepers that you needed a prescription for. We went straight to the back, where there were three telephone booths, with the phone books hanging from a wall rack.
“Okay,” Herbie said. “We assume, because we have to, that he’s going home. And home is south of Boston, since he was on the Southeast Expressway. And probably within an hour of commuting. Okay. We know his last name is Murphy. What’s his first name?”
I tried to remember. “Roger, I think. Anyway, something with R.”
“Good. And his rank?”
“Lieutenant.”
“Good,” Herbie said, opening the directory. “Go get your change.”
And then we began. We each took one column of Murphys. I took the left column, beginning with Murphy, Ralph A. Herbie took the right column, beginning with Murphy, Roland J. And we called. All of my calls were the same.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” I would say, “is Lieutenant Murphy there?”
“Who?”
For the first few, I would mumble some excuse, or say wrong number. Later, I got so that when I heard “Who?” I just hung up. Alongside me, in the next booth, Herbie was doing the same thing. I heard the clink each time he put in another dime.
Finally, around the fifteenth time: “Hello?”
“Hello, is Lieutenant Murphy there?”
“Not at the moment.”
I sighed and smiled. At last. “When do you expect him back?”
“Not until tomorrow night. He’s on weekend maneuvers at Fort Devens. Who’s calling please?”
“Sorry,” I said, “wrong number.”
At the bottom of my column were the Roger Murphys. I missed on Roger A., Roger J., Roger M., Roger N. Finally I got Roger V.
“Hello, is Lieutenant Murphy there?”
“No, but I expect him any minute. Who’s calling?”
“Uh, this is Captain Fry.”
“Captain Fry?” She obviously didn’t know any Captain Fry.
“Yes. I’m down at the Fourth stationhouse now. I wanted to see your husband. I guess I just missed him.”
“Yes,” she said, “you must have. Can I have him call you back?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll call back later on.”
“What did you say your name was again?” she asked.
“Nice to talk to you, Mrs. Murphy,” I said, and hung up.
I had my finger on the line. Murphy, Roger V., 43 Crescent Lane, Ackley.