Motherless Brooklyn

“What about Ullman?” I said. As long as he was allowing my questions I might as well ask. “Who was Ullman?-Doofus Allplan!” I wanted to ask about the Fujisaki Corporation, but I figured the extent of what I knew was one of the only things I knew and he didn’t. I needed to preserve that advantage, however minuscule. Besides, I didn’t want to hear what hay my syndrome would make of the word Fujisaki.

Tony made a particularly sour face. “Ullman’s a guy who didn’t figure numbers right. He’s one of a little group of somebodies who tried to make themselves rich. Frank was another one.”

“So you and the Polish killer took him out, huh?”

“That’s so wrong it’s funny.”

“Tell me, Tony.”

“Where would I start?” he said. I heard a note of bitterness, and wondered if I could play on it. Tony likely missed Minna in his way, and missed the Agency, no matter how he’d been corrupted or what poisonous information he knew that I didn’t.

“Be sentimental for a change,” I said. “Make me know you didn’t kill him.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“That was persuasive,” I said. Then I made a sour face like an uptight British butler: “Per-shwoosh-atively!”

“The problem with you, Lionel, is you don’t know anything about how the world really works. Everything you know comes from Frank Minna or a book. I don’t know which is worse.”

“Gangster movies.” I fought to keep the butler-face from reappearing.

“What?”

“I watched a lot of gangster movies, like you. Everything we both know comes from Frank Minna or gangster movies.”

“Frank Minna was two guys,” said Tony. “The one I learned from and the chucklehead who thought you were funny and got himself killed. You only knew the chucklehead.”

Tony held the gun floppily between us, using it to gesture, to signal punctuation. I only hoped he understood how literally it could punctuate. None of us had ever carried guns so far as I knew, apart from Minna. He’d rarely allowed us even to see his. Now I wondered what private teaching had gone on when I wasn’t around, wondered how seriously I should take Tony’s notion of the two Minnas.

“I suppose it was the smart Frank Minna who taught you to wave guns around,” I said. It came out a bit more sarcastic than I’d intended, then I yelled, “Frankensmart!” which pretty much undercut my delivery. Tony really was waving the gun, though. The only thing it never pointed at was himself.

“I’m carrying this for protection. Like I’m protecting you with it right now, by convincing you to shut up and quit asking questions. And stay in Brooklyn.”

“I hope you don’t have to protect me-Protectmebailey! Detectorbaby!-by pulling the trigger.”

“Let’s both hope. Too bad you weren’t clever like Gilbert, to get himself put under police protection for a week or so.”

“Is that the current sentence for murder? A week?”

“Don’t make me laugh. Gilbert didn’t kill anybody.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m long over my disappointment that Frank liked to surround himself with a cavalcade of clowns. It was a way of life. I won’t be making the same mistake.”

“No, you’ll think up a whole bunch of new ones.”

“Enough of this. Does every conversation with you have to be the director’s cut? Get out of the car.”

At that moment there came a tap on the window, driver’s side. It was a gun muzzle that tapped. The arm holding the gun extended from behind the trunk of the elm tree. A head poked out too: the homicide detective.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “Do step out of the car-slowly.”

Ambushes within ambushes.

He still had that threadbare, jaded, coffee-isn’t-working-anymore air about him, even in daylight. It didn’t look like he’d gotten out of his suit since the night before. I believed him with a gun better than I did Tony, though. He waved us over to the front of the car and had us spread our legs, to the wonderment of a couple of old ladies, then took away Tony’s gun. He had Tony open his jacket and show the open holster and lift his pant legs to prove there was nothing strapped to his ankles. Then he tried to pat me down and I began to pat him back.

“Goddamn it, Alibi, cut that out.” He was still fond of that nickname he’d invented for me. It made me fond of him.

“I can’t help it,” I said.

“What’s that? A phone? Take it out.”

“It’s a phone.” I showed him.

Tony looked at me strangely, and I just shrugged.

“Get back in the car. Give me the keys first.” Tony handed over the keys and we got back into the front seat. The homicide detective opened the back doors and eased into the seat behind us, training his gun on the backs of our heads.

“Hands on the wheel and the dash, that’s good. Face forward, gentlemen. Don’t look at me. Smile like they’re taking your picture. They will be soon enough.”

“What did we do?” said Tony. “A guy can’t show another guy a gun anymore?”

“Shut up and listen. This is a murder investigation. I’m the investigating officer. I don’t care about your goddamn gun.”

“So give it back.”