The Best American Mystery Stories 2005
- Автор: Хиггинс Джордж, Камински Стюарт Мелвин
- Год: 2005
- Язык: английский
- Год: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
- ISBN: 978-0-618-51744-2
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «The Best American Mystery Stories 2005». Краткое содержание книги:
“Your Honor,” Morse said, as the court officer started toward him.
“Mr. Morse,” Shanahan said, “you are remanded to the custody of the sheriff of Suffolk County. Your case is continued for one week so that you may secure counsel.”
“I want Duggan here,” Morse said.
“I’m sure Mr. Duggan will be happy to confer with you at the Charles Street Jail,” Shanahan said. “You will want to discuss a fee with him, no doubt. Mr. Duggan is currently on trial. If you want to see him, make an appointment that will suit his convenience. For the time being, you have lots of convenience, at least until you make bail. Case on trial. Afternoon recess.”
Morse was led away.
The judge stood up and marched off the bench. The spectators moved toward the doors. Edie approached Duggan. “Nice, huh?” she said.
“In my next life,” Duggan said, “I am going to make my living doing something easy. Brain surgery, I think.”
“Yeah.” she said. “But in this one?”
“In this one,” Duggan said, “I am going back to my office to see Fred Ellis, because thanks to your incompetence, he got out.”
In the early evening, Duggan parked the Cadillac in front of the bait shop at Neponset Circle in Dorchester. The bait shop, which advertised its appointment by the Commonwealth as an official fish-weighing center, occupied the ground floor of a three-story wooden building. The building was covered with tarpaper that was supposed to resemble brick. The window frames and doors were painted cream. There were apartments for single old people on the third floor. Duggan, a bill collector named Mullins who called himself the Commonwealth Adjustment Agency, and the law firm of Kunkel and Concannon had offices on the second floor. Kunkel was over eighty. Concannon was Kunkel’s daughter. They specialized in divorce law.
Duggan used his key to open the door in the center of the building. He shut it and locked it firmly behind him. The floor in the hall was linoleum. It had buckled badly and he was careful of his footing. It was lighted by one 6o-watt bulb. He reached the stairway, which had a curved banister with knurled supports on the right and a dowel banister on the left, and climbed it. The steel treads were loose and creaked under him. At the top of the stairs he turned right, into the corridor leading to the offices. The corridor was lighted badly. The door to his office was half-frosted glass. There was scroll painting on it: JOHN F. DUGGAN. ATTORNEY AND COUNSELOR AT LAW. He opened the door and went in.
There were two people in the reception area. Cynthia, Duggan’s secretary, was at her desk, which was synthetic blond mahogany. Cynthia had an extremely good figure and an extremely slow brain. She chewed gum. Her husband made a halfway-decent living as the manager of a hamburger stand on Morrissey Boulevard, about seven hundred yards west of the bait shop. Cynthia was incapable of conceiving a child. She was twenty-six years old and she was restless. Cynthia’s husband was agreeable to allowing her to do poor work for very little money, so long as it was close by and he thought her boss was harmless. This arrangement was agreeable to Duggan, especially the part about the small salary.
The second person in the reception area was Frederick Ellis. He was sitting on a sofa-bed slipcovered in beige. The sofa looked as though Duggan had slept on it. He had. Ellis had a two-day growth of beard and he did not look good in it. He had dark hair that stuck up and looked greasy, and he wore a denim jacket and jeans which also could have been improved by washing. He looked disdainful. There were two cops seated next to him.
Duggan spoke to Ellis first. “You’re sitting down already, and you haven’t said anything yet. Therefore, keep up the good work.” Then he said to the cops: “Whadda you guys want.”
The two cops were in full uniform in Duggan’s reception area, along with Frederick Ellis. One of the cops was Panther Ahearn, a stern man in his middle forties with heavy jowls and a permanent expression of exasperation. The other was Roderick Franklin, a man in his late thirties, who sat with his hands clasped in his lap and looked at the floor. Franklin’s holster was empty, and the strap which secured the revolver which belonged in it hung loose. Roderick Franklin was black.
“Ahearn,” Duggan said, “I needed you like a sore tooth this day.
Tell me what is on your mind and make it fast. I’ve got a living to make.”
“Done and done,” Ahearn said. He gestured with his head. “Franklin here has got a little problem.” He nudged Franklin with his elbow. “This is correct, is it not, Roderick?”
Franklin nodded, miserably.
“Roderick,” Ahearn said, standing up and hitching his pants higher, “Roderick shot a fellow last night.”
“Shot a fellow,” Duggan said.
“Exactly,” Ahearn said.
“Where, precisely, did he shoot the fellow?” Duggan said.
“In the chest,” Ahearn said. “Just like we are trained. Right below the heart. Three in a circle you could cover with a quarter. Roderick is a damned good shot.” Ahearn looked at Franklin. Franklin did not look up.
“I presume there was some reason for all of this commotion,” Duggan said.
“There was that,” Ahearn said. “There was a silent alarm going off at the all-night grocery, and me and Roderick were dispatched thereto to see if perhaps there might be something going on. When we got there in the blue-and-white, there was sure-God something going on. So we drew our service revolvers and we exited the official vehicle and we entered the establishment and there was quite a lot going on. There were two young gentlemen in there, who had entered posing as customers. One of them had a rather large knife. The other one had a revolver.
“The young gentleman with the knife,” Ahearn said, “is a reasonable fellow, and that is why he is still breathing air. As soon as he saw my revolver, he saw the wisdom of obedience to my command to drop the stinking knife. The other gentleman, the one with the revolver, was not as agreeable. He brought it up and pointed it at me. Thereupon, Patrolman Franklin plugged him. Three times. I was very glad of it. Roderick blew him back to last Wednesday.”
“Ahh,” Duggan said. “I see that Patrolman Franklin does not have any revolver on his person.”
“They took it away from me,” Franklin said. He did not look up.
“He’s up on charges,” Ahearn said.
“Charges,” Duggan said.
“Departmental hearing,” Ahearn said.
“Indictment to follow,” Duggan said.
“If the department says he shouldn’t’ve plugged the kid,” Ahearn said.
“And?” Duggan said.
“You are going to make damned sure that hearing comes out the right way,” Ahearn said.
“Ahearn,” Duggan said, “you must be losing your memory. You hate my guts, remember? You told me so. If there was one miserable piece of stuff floating in at low tide tomorrow, it’d be better’n I am. Remember that?”
“That was different,” Ahearn said. “That was when you got a little snotbag off on a case that he should’ve gone to jail.”
“That’s what I do,” Duggan said.
“Right,” Ahearn said, “and that is what you’re gonna do for Roderick, here.” He put his hand on Franklin’s shoulder. “You got that, Counselor? You are gonna work your magic in behalf of Roderick, who saved my everlasting life. And you are gonna get his gun back for him. And you are gonna see that Roderick does not get indicted. That is what you are gonna do.”
Franklin spoke. He did not look up, but he spoke. He said: “I don’t want any favors from this honkey.”