Urge to Kill

A weight lifted from Hettie, and her headache magically disappeared. She still didn’t know his name, but he’d call, surely, or he wouldn’t have bothered sending flowers. Maybe he was married. Wanted by the police. On the run from the Mafia. She didn’t care. She’d be waiting for him with open arms, not to mention legs.

Don’t think that way, whore.

But she was grinning, immune from insults even from herself.

She found a tall glass vase for the flowers, and after arranging them, hastily placed them in the center of the small Formica table. Then she put some coffee on to brew and plodded back toward the bathroom to shower.

The needles of warm water on her breasts rekindled her desire.

Of course it would be nice if she had his name, but you took what you could get in this mixed-up and too-often-disappointing world. He’d already revealed so much of himself to her that eventually he’d tell her his name. She could wait. Hettie was patient, and maybe on the very edge of a love affair like none she’d ever known.

18

The late-morning sun beat down on Queens from a cloudless sky, shortening tempers as well as stark shadows. Already the temperature was almost ninety. As she drove, Pearl watched the people on the littered sidewalks, reading their faces and body language. Some of them trudged along looking beaten and resigned. Others scowled and swaggered, with fixed glares suggesting they were near the breaking point. Heat and the city.

Pearl was driving a dusty black four-door Ford. To anyone with a knowing eye it was obviously a city car.

A middle-aged man with a stomach paunch straining the silky material of a blindingly violet shirt glanced over at her from the sidewalk and frowned. What the hell are you doing here, in my neighborhood? Pearl gave him her dead-eyed look, but he continued to stare, unimpressed, as he absently unwrapped a piece of candy or stick of gum and tossed the wrapper on the sidewalk. That irritated Pearl. She considered stopping the car and bracing the arrogant bastard for littering. And that shirt must be in violation of some ordinance.

Forget it. Bigger fish to fry.

She turned up the blower on the car’s air conditioner and made a left turn. In the rearview mirror she caught a glimpse of the guy in the luminescent shirt standing and staring at her with his fists on his hips. Prick.

Pearl pulled the car to the curb diagonally across the street from Pizza Rio. It was almost eleven o’clock. She was hungry enough to eat a pizza, so somebody else would soon crave an early lunch and pick up the phone to order takeout. Then one of the two teenage boys lounging near the bike rack across the street would place a cardboard box in a warmer on the wide basket on one of the ratty bicycles and leave to make a delivery. Pearl hoped it would be the shorter, heavier of the two, leaving her to talk privately with the tall one, who must be Jorge Valento. Knowing she was a movie buff like himself, Quinn had told Pearl to look for Sal Mineo. From this distance, the tall one filled the bill.

Pearl settled in, leaving the car’s engine idling and the air conditioner on high. Even with the windows up she could smell the spicy scent of pizza being baked. It was making her hungry.

The two boys by the bike rack didn’t seem to notice her. Jorge leaned with his back against the brick wall, his hands in the pockets of his baggy, torn jeans. Now and then he casually spat off to his left, away from the bikes. The shorter kid was doing all the talking, all the time jumping around a lot like a junkie needing a fix.

After about fifteen minutes, the jumpy one was suddenly still, and Jorge raised his head with a sideways tilt. Apparently a buzzer or some other kind of signal had sounded.

Pearl was in luck. It was the short boy who scurried into Pizza Rio and emerged almost immediately with a large, padded black pizza warmer. He used bungee cords to strap it to the wire basket behind a bicycle seat, then mounted the bike and rode off, standing on the pedals and leaning out over the handlebars as he gained speed.

Good at his job, Pearl thought, which meant she might not have much time. She switched off the ignition and climbed out of the car.

Not moving from where he leaned against the wall, Jorge observed the woman from the car approaching in the corner of his vision. When she was within about ten feet, he pushed himself away from the wall and turned toward her.

Nice-looking piece, he thought. Compact, trim, good legs, great rack. Nice face on her, too. Long dark hair that’d be fun to yank on. Dark eyes. Maybe she was Hispanic, as he was. A sister. He might play that angle.

No, now that she was closer she looked Jewish. That was okay, too. It just required different moves.

He knew he had a beautiful smile. He aimed it at her.

“You’re a cop,” he said.

She didn’t change expression. Not much would surprise this one.