Detective

for me the time before. He took it and drank it with trembling hands.
    “What are you talking about?” Murphy said, when he’d recovered his power of speech.
    “Your friends want to kill you. Tony Arroyo and the boys. They killed Albrect, in case you didn’t know. They think you can tie them to it. They also blame you for bringing me to the casino. Corny as it sounds, they’ve hired a hit man. They’re going to kill you. Unless you have no objection to being discovered in a parking lot tomorrow morning with your dick in your mouth, I suggest you listen carefully do exactly what I say.”

32.
    A T F IVE T HAT A FTERNOON I was sitting in my car outside Fabri-Tec Inc. with a bulge in my hip pocket. The bulge wasn’t a gun—the only gun I had was the Luger, and with or without bullets, I didn’t think it would be any match for Pedro, even if I could bring myself to fire it, which I knew I couldn’t. The bulge was made by the sap, or cosh, or blackjack, or whatever-the-hell it is thugs use to knock each other out with when they’re not using the butt of a gun. I’d picked it up at a pawnshop earlier that afternoon. I felt funny when I bought it, and I felt funny having it in my pocket, but I needed something. It felt strangely reassuring too, just to know it was there. Christ, am I getting macho? Not likely. Just stupid. Pedro had a gun and ate people like me for breakfast. So what the hell was I doing with a sap?
    All this was running through my head when I spotted Murphy leaving work. He stepped straight out into the street and hailed a cab, just as I’d instructed him. As the cab pulled out, a dark sedan pulled out from between two trucks and fell in behind.
    I’ll say this for Pedro. He was good. I’d been looking for his stakeout and hadn’t spotted him. I knew for sure he wasn’t sitting in that car, because I’d driven by it checking out the block fifteen minutes earlier. And I hadn’t seen him anywhere on the street. But somehow, between the time Murphy left the building and hailed the cab, he’d managed to get to his car.
    I let two taxis go for insurance, then pulled out and fell in behind.
    Murphy was following my instructions to the letter. He was scared not to. He headed for the East Side, and turned up Third Avenue.
    I’m slow on the uptake, I must admit. In fact, at times I am more than a little bit dense. But it wasn’t until we turned up Third Avenue, that I consciously realized that what I was doing was exactly what Albrect had asked me to do not two weeks ago, when I had turned him down, when I had told him in no uncertain terms how unqualified I was for the job.
    I wasn’t any more qualified now. And I wasn’t any braver. If anything, I was twice as scared. But I sure as fuck had motivation.
    Murphy’s cab pulled up in front of a fairly posh restaurant, again following my suggestion. He paid off the cab and got out. I wondered how Pedro would handle the situation. There was no parking anywhere to be seen. But Pedro just pulled up and double-parked. I should have known. Hit men don’t sweat parking violations. If he got towed, he’d take a cab home. Probably write the towing charges off as a business expense. Well, if you can, I can. I double-parked and got out in time to see Pedro follow Murphy into the restaurant. I got a good look at him as he went in the door. It was my old friend, Floridian #1.
    I went in the front door. It was just after five and the place was just beginning to fill up. There was no line. A waitress had just shown Murphy to a table. Another waitress was guiding Pedro to a table on the other side of the room. A third waitress descended on me.
    “One,” I said.
    The waitress frowned. I wondered if she were suspicious, but immediately dismissed the thought. A sudden influx of single diners just at rush hour meant lousy tips, that was all.
    I saw Murphy order a drink, which I was sure he needed. Pedro did the same. I ordered a seltzer.
    The drinks arrived and Murphy gulped his down. He was trying hard not to look at me, and even harder not to look at Pedro. He ordered shrimp scampi. I couldn’t hear what Pedro said to the waitress, but I couldn’t help wondering what one ordered before cutting someone’s dick off. I ordered a tournedos bearnaise. If I’d been less petrified I might have had a tinge of regret knowing that I’d never get to eat it.
    Murphy got up and headed for the john. He disappeared through a curtained hallway at the far end of the