Suddenly, I’m tempted to reach across the table, grab a handful of Joanna’s hair, slam my fist into her mouth. Suddenly, I’m Paulie Malone.
“Jill?” Joanna’s lower jaw is hanging open. “It scares me when your face gets like that.”
“Yeah.” I force my shoulders down, take a deep breath. “I was just trying to demonstrate what happens when you get emotional.” I press the automatic’s grip into her palm, force her to grab the handle, flip the safety, curl her index finger through the trigger guard. “I scared you, right?”
“Yeah,” she admits.
“Good. Now point the gun at the center of my chest.”
“What?”
“Do it, Joanna. Point the gun at the center of my chest and pull the trigger.”
She wouldn’t be Joanna if her hand didn’t tremble, if she didn’t say in her precious little-girl voice, “Jill, I can’t.”
“You better. Because if you don’t, I’m gonna kick your Slinky ass from one end of the house to the other.”
Joanna’s pupils go flat, as if they’ve suddenly decided to absorb instead of reflect light. Her mouth tightens into a sneer and she yanks on the trigger.
Clack.
The principle established, I take the .32 back and hold it up for her inspection. “Now, this gun, it’s really small, Joanna. That’s good because it won’t jump out of your hand when you pull the trigger.” My goal is to keep it simple, and I wait until she nods her head. “But it’s bad, too, because one shot won’t necessarily stop a grown man. So what you have to do is center the gun on Paulie’s chest and keep pulling the trigger until it’s empty.”
“How will I know that? I mean, when it’s empty?”
I consider this for a moment, then say, “Put the gun in your mouth and give it one last pull. If you’re still alive, it’s empty.”
“Very funny.” Joanna glances down at her hands. Her mouth works for a moment, before she speaks. “You really think I can do this, Jill?”
“Tell you the truth, Joanna, I don’t see as you have a lot of choice. But you might wanna think about this: If Joanna Kelly shoots Paulie Malone, Uncle Mike’s never gonna be sure that at some point Joanna Kelly won’t shoot Uncle Mike. It’s an edge you can use to your advantage.”
Joanna thinks it over, then says, “Now I know why they call you Crazy Jill.”
I ignore the comment. “Two things to remember. First, this gun with the tape on it? Put it somewhere close to Paulie’s hand. Second, call Uncle Mike. Not 911. Uncle Mike.”
She looks at me for a second, then mutters, “Uh-huh.”
“Now, I’m going outside to sit in the sun before it gets too hot. If Paulie shows up, I’m not gonna stop him. I’m not even gonna slow him down.”
Joanna’s tongue slides over her lips. She raises her hand and flicks her fingers in a little wave. As I open the door, she finds her voice. “Jill,” she says, breaking into a heartfelt smile, “I just want you to know. If I ever decided to go to bed with a woman, I’d pick you.”
I expect Paulie to charge up the walk, but when he comes through the gate he’s limping noticeably and his swollen mouth is the color and texture of chocolate cookie dough. Still, his features are twisted with rage and the sledgehammer he grips with his right hand makes his intentions abundantly clear.
By the time he sees me, Paulie’s halfway to the door. He stops abruptly and throws out his chest as though offering a larger target. But when I circle him, heading for the gate, he becomes confused. He glances toward the front door.
“Whadaya doin’?”
“I’m going home, Paulie.” I want to add something about him maybe doing the same thing, but I find that at the moment I don’t care what happens to him. Or to Joanna. I step through the gate, turn right, and start walking. Maybe, I think, I can get away before it happens, though I’m still short of the neighbor’s yard when Paulie crashes the sledgehammer into the front door. A moment later, I hear him shout, his tone still defiant, “What are you gonna do, Joanna? What are you gonna do with that gun? You gonna kill me?”
I count the gunshots, one through nine. They come faster toward the end. Paulie cries out once, early on, a short choking moan that ends almost before it begins. Then silence and, very faintly, the acrid stink of cordite through the open door.
Bye-bye, Paulie.
I drive to a gas station on College Point Boulevard, pull up at a pay phone at the back. There’s somebody using it, but I don’t mind. I nod to the jerk on the phone when he flashes an apologetic smile. I even thank him when he finally hangs up.
I take my time getting out of the car, searching my pockets for a quarter. I feel there’s no hurry, that Joanna will shut her mouth until Uncle Mike arrives, that Uncle Mike has no choice except to keep me out of it. I punch Joey Kruger’s number into the keypad, wait as it rings three, four, five times. I know Joey’s been working the late tour for the last week and he’s most likely still asleep. I realize, too, that I have no idea what I want Joey to say when he eventually answers. I have no idea until he finally says it.
“Baby,” he whispers, his voice dulled by sleep, “when are you coming over? I’ve been dreaming about your ass all night.”
Last stop, Ditmars
by Tori Carrington
Rule #37 in the P.I. handbook: Never eat where blood’s been spilled.
Ditmars
“I want you to find my husband’s killer.”
I knew what words the woman would say even before she said them. I knew the instant she spotted me, said goodbye to the man she was talking to at the counter of the Acropolis Diner, and headed straight for my table. She was dressed all in black, her mascara smeared because she’d been crying. I figured that since she was only two days into her new role as widow, she was entitled.
I sat back in the booth, considering her where she had taken the seat across from me. I’d also known what she was going to say because I knew her. And had known her husband. Mihalis Abramopoulos had owned and operated the Acropolis Diner on Ditmars Boulevard in Astoria, Queens, for the past thirty years. Ever since he’d come over from Greece in the early ’70s. Not unlike many of Astoria’s Greek population that had been trying to escape military coups and martial law and were looking for a safe environment in which to raise their kids. Hey, my parents had done it in the ’60s, before the colonels had staged a military junta in Greece and taken over control of a country that was still trying to get its shit together after the civil war. I’d been seventeen at the time, but I’m told I still speak like I’d just arrived on the last plane over the Atlantic. Usually after I’ve had one too many glasses of Johnnie Walker Black and was trying to figure out the mystery of my life rather than one of the many cases on my desk back at the agency.
But I’m getting ahead of myself here. My name’s Spyros Metropolis and along with my silent partner, Lenny Nash, I run Spyros Metropolis Private Detective Agency, which is located on Steinway Street halfway between Broadway and Ditmars. While most of my family gravitated toward the Broadway end of Astoria, I preferred Ditmars. Mostly because my family gravitated toward Broadway. I didn’t live in the rooms above the agency, partly because they’d need extensive restoration to make them livable. Mostly because I preferred to keep my business life separate from my personal life.
I eyed the widow across from me. So much for that philosophy.