Murder Miscalculated (12 page)

He smiled. “I’ve got my stuff out in my car. I didn’t think I should bring it in just in case you said no.”

“You may as well go get it,” I said and turned to Lynn. “Where do we put this one? If this keeps up, the city is going to hit us with a hotel tax.”

“Who else is staying here?” Cochran asked.

I explained about Max Carson’s predicament and why he was taking up space for a few days at The Book Nook. After a few moments the same thought came to all three of us.

Lynn said it first. “We’re going to have to tell Max about what’s going on. If he’s here, that means he could be in danger, too.”

“Possible danger,” Cochran corrected. “The truth is that everything we know suggests otherwise.”

“Still, Lynn’s right,” I said. “We may as well get it over with. Let’s go and introduce everyone, and then we can figure out who’s sleeping where and what the shower schedule will be in the morning.”

Max Carson slapped me on the back as we trooped out of the back room and into the store. “Well, I’ll be!” He looked me up and down like a ten-year-old boy meeting a stage magician. “A pickpocket, eh? If that don’t beat all.”

“A master pickpocket,” Candy corrected.

“A former pickpocket,” I corrected in turn. “I gave all of that up a year ago.”

“That’s not what people are saying at The Pink Poodle and out on the street, Kid,” returned Candy. “Seems every day someone comes up to me to tell me that you’ve gone back to working the street.” She stopped talking when she realized Cochran was with us. “Don’t I know you?”

He stepped forward and offered his hand. “Yes, I met you last year at Lynn and Greg’s wedding.”

“Oh, right. You’re one of those FBI agents, aren’t you?”

“That’s right. I’m Agent Cochran.”

Max slapped his leg. “Okay, now stop right there.” He turned to Candy. “You told me that Greg here is a notorious pickpocket. I get that. But what’s a federal agent doing in all of this?”

The next fifteen minutes were spent explaining in vague terms why it was that I was pretending to have gone back to a life of crime, as well as why Max’s staying with us could put him in another kind of danger.

“Hell, Kid. You don’t mind if I call you Kid, do you? I think it kind of fits you better than Greg. Besides, that’s what Sweet Candy calls you.”

Candy beamed, April frowned, and this time it was my turn to shrug.

Max continued. “I’m already in trouble with that DeMarco guy. If I’m going to lay low, I may as well do it where there’s a federal agent standing guard.” He cocked an eye at Cochran. “Though I can’t say you look much like a fed, no offense.”

“None taken,” said Cochran. “I’ve been working undercover the past few months, so I guess it worked.”

Candy glanced at the clock. “Oh, I’ve got to get back to the club.” She turned to Lynn. “Do you think you could give me a ride back? I can take a bus if it’s any trouble.”

“I can give you a ride,” April offered. “I have to head back to the hotel and pick up some things for Max and me, and I can swing by there on the way back.” They were gone out the door before her words sank in.

“Did I hear her say she’s picking up her things, too?” I asked Lynn.

She nodded. “Looks like we’re going to have a full house.”

Barbara took my arm. She had a big smile on her face.

“Oh, Kid. It’s just like the old days.”

That night was like the first night of camp, not that I’d been to one, but it certainly fit the popular idea of it. We all stayed up far too late, drinking Belgium beer and pots of tea. I had to bring up some extra chairs from the basement so that we could all sit in the kitchen.

We spent most of our time swapping stories. Barbara reminisced about the days of the anti-war movement and the people who had stayed at The Book Nook. Her eyes grew misty as she remembered not only friends from more than forty years before, but the passion and commitment they had to their cause. April asked Lynn dozens of questions about her days as a stripper, much to the amusement of Max.

“Now young lady,” he said, in the manner of a stern, elder uncle, “what would your parents say if you threw away that master’s degree and took up dancing in a place like The Pink Poodle?

April blushed and didn’t answer.

Cochran loosened up enough to tell us a few stories of stakeouts and arrests, and Lynn told a few tales about life at The Pink Poodle. I told the story, legendary among pickpockets, of how my mentor, Fast Eddie Dupree, had removed a necktie from the chief of police during a press conference without anyone noticing.

But it was Max who told the best stories that night. I had to admit once again that for all the annoyance Max had caused, he was one heck of a storyteller. The night grew later and later as he spun one tale after another about how he began as a writer. No MFA program for Max. His alma mater was the street, and his first paying job as a writer was as a reporter for a well-known scandal sheet.

“Reporter? Hell, we weren’t reporters. Most of the stuff we wrote about we made up. The editor required us to come up with a dozen stories a week about celebrities misbehaving, flying saucers, grisly crimes, you name it.” He took a long pull from his beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He thought for a second and then slapped his knee. “Do you know, we used to flip coins to see who had to put on the rubber suit while the rest of us took pictures of the spaceman walking around Central Park?”

When the laughter around the table subsided, I asked Max how he’d become the author of best-selling books, given his start.

“I’m no author, Kid,” he corrected me. “I’m a writer. There’s a difference.”

“What do you mean?” asked April.

I got the feeling she was seeing a new side of Max and the publishing business, one very different than she had learned while earning her master’s degree.

Max took another swig of beer from his bottle and thought before he answered.

“Well, young lady, it’s like this.” He waved his hand at the beaded curtain that led to the store. “Out there you’ve got what? Three, four thousand books?”

I closed my eyes and did a quick tally. “About forty-five hundred, all but fifteen hundred of them used.”

Max nodded. “Okay, and some of those books are by people like Gaiman, Chabon, and that Kenyon lady, bless her heart. To my mind, those are authors. They work very hard at writing what people call literature. Sometimes it takes one of those authors a decade or more to turn out a book, and make no mistake, those are damn well-written books.” He paused and stroked his mustache, then pointed at his chest. “Then there are writers like me. We crank out a book every year, sometimes faster. I won’t claim my writing holds a candle to those others, but you know what? People like to read them.”

“And you make a lot of money,” said Lynn.

Max slowly shook his head. “Sorry, little lady, but for a mid-list author like me, the money’s not all that great. The publishers only pay for part of the expenses of these tours.” He nodded at April. “I’m lucky my publisher lent me Miss April while I’m in town.” He shook his head again and then smiled widely. “But hey! I get to hang out with you guys in the back of a bookstore and drink beer and tell stories. Life’s not so bad, is it?” He let out a roar of laughter.

Such was his infectious spirit that we all laughed with him without really having cause to do so, or perhaps because of that.

The next morning I became aware of someone following me soon after I left The Book Nook. I can’t claim to be an expert at spotting a tail, but in this case it wasn’t too hard. I waited for him to catch up with me at the street corner. It was Max Carson.

I crossed my arms. “Max, what are you doing? You can’t follow me.”

His face had a sheepish look. “I was sort of hoping to tag along and watch you pick some pockets.” He held up a palm, “Hey, you never know, I may be able to use it in a book.”

I was going to say no, but then he added, “I’ll buy you lunch?”

I gave in. “Oh, the heck with it,” I said. “Come along. I’ve never had an audience before, but,” I gave him a sideways look, “as long as I get to pick the place.”

“So long as it doesn’t involve vintage bottles of wine or food I can’t pronounce, no problem. Where?”

“Dee’s Italian Beef,” I told him. “It’s the best sandwich in the city.”

That sealed the deal for Max.

We crossed the street and turned the corner on Oak. As we walked I tried to give Max a series of conditions to his watching me at work. Foremost of these was, “Stay a good way’s away, and don’t look at me directly. I really don’t need to be caught at this point.”

As we walked toward City Square, I noticed I had to slow my pace for Max and realized he had a slight limp. He caught me looking and explained with another of his stories. This time it was when he was fifteen and fell off the roof of a building under construction at night with his friends, and after consuming a significant quantity of alcohol.

“Oh, man,” said Max, shaking his head, “To this day, I don’t know how I managed to survive that fall. I had no idea how hurt I was at first. Then I noticed the bottom of my foot was facing me at an angle that couldn’t be good. It turned out my leg was broken in three places.”

He gave me one of his over-powered slaps on the back. “But who cares about that stuff, right, Kid?”

I began to answer and then realized Max was no longer walking next to me. He had veered over to a store window and was standing in front of it, staring at a poster.

We were in front of the bookstore at City Center, and of course it was one of his own posters at which Max was staring. The photo showed him in the classic author pose, turned at an angle from the camera, looking back with an intense and knowing stare.

Max turned and saw that I was watching. He backed up against the window, next to the poster, and then struck the same pose but with an exaggerated, almost bug-eyed stare.

I couldn’t help laughing, and he joined in as he walked back to me.

“Isn’t that the stupidest goddamned thing you ever saw?” he asked me. “I spent three hours in that photographer’s studio. He took picture after picture, one pose after another.” He grinned. “Apparently my good side isn’t easy to find.”

I noticed a sidewalk vendor I knew across the street. “Wait here,” I told Max and cut across the stopped traffic.

Carl is a third-generation street vendor of walking sticks and canes. There’s a sense of timelessness to Carl and his cart. You could pick up both his cart and him and drop them down on a city street of a hundred years ago, and they would fit right in.

“Hi, Kid,” called Carl as I approached. “How’s tricks? I hear you’re back on the street.”

I gave Carl a vague answer and rooted through his collection of canes. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for. It was a gentleman’s walking stick made of black ebony and topped by a heavy silver head of simple design. Carl raised his eyebrows.

“It’s for a friend of mine.”

“Sure, Kid. No problem.” Carl named his price. I countered, and we settled somewhere in between. I was going to have to explain the expense to Lynn, but I figured she wouldn’t mind.

I had made certain to stand in a way so that Max couldn’t see from across the street what I was buying. I took the walking stick and pushed the small end up my sleeve as far as it could go, without it poking up and distorting the shoulder of my jacket. This left a good deal of it extending down from my hand, but by holding said hand against my leg, I was able to keep it from view as I walked back to where Max was waiting.

This time I took the crosswalk and made certain I had to wait for the signal to change. Max’s curiosity was written on his face by the time I got back.

“Hey, Max,” I said. “I’ve got a present for you. Hold out your hand.” He did that and I extended my hand and placed the head of the walking stick in his. He took hold, I stepped back, and the rest of the cane came into view.

Max’s smile reached all the way to his eyes. He held up the walking stick and admired it both its looks and its heft. “Well, thank you, Kid. Such a handsome thing.” He tapped the stick on the pavement. “I accept.”

We continued back on our way with Max swirling the walking stick in a dandy, debonair fashion.

Soon we reached City Square and split up, though not before I reminded Max of the rules.

The fall weather, the overall good nature of the people out and about that day, all converged to create an ideal place for me and other pickpockets. Jackets and coats were worn unzipped and undone. People were distracted by the sounds of street musicians, the hum of a hundred conversations, the cell phones in their hands.

Knowing that Max was watching, I took my time choosing my first mark. Several minutes later I spotted a likely target, yet another businessman walking toward me, cell phone to his ear.

I changed my direction and picked up my pace, angling to intersect with him in about twenty paces. His left front pocket would be my first dip. If there was nothing there I’d have, I hoped, time to check the right side of his coat. If his wallet wasn’t in either place, then I’d have to move on and find another mark.

At five paces out a loud shout came from behind me.

“Stop him! Stop that kid!”

My target and pretty much everyone else stopped walking to watch what was going on behind me. I had no choice but to do the same.

A teenager in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt ran across the square, chased by a middle-aged man in a suit.

“Stop him,” the man called. “He stole my wallet.”

The boy ducked and dodged through the pedestrians and might have made it had not someone stuck out a leg and tripped him. He went flying and landed flat on his stomach. It looked like his breath had been knocked out of him as he lay there, gasping for breath.

His victim hurried up to him, reached down and grabbed a wallet from the kid’s hand. A uniformed policewoman walked up as the man was checking its contents.