Detective

you through them. You can’t even get a job, ’cause you can’t bank on your references, ’cause you can’t use your right name. You run, you die. You come back here, they kill you. There’s only one way out for you, and I’m it. So you listen careful, and you do what I say.”

39.
    I M ET M URPHY AT THE motel the next morning. I’d typed out his confession for him the day before. I hadn’t wanted to type it on my own typewriter, knowing from detective stories that typing can be traced, so I’d gone out to a typewriter store to do it on one of the floor models. That turned out to be one of those things that works really great in the movies, but sucks in real life. To be fair, I guess in the movies they’re always typing some one-paragraph ransom note they whip in the machine and dash off, whereas I had a five-page confession, which I guess wasn’t very bright. I kept attracting the attention of salesmen, and had to keep moving from one machine to another, and the end result was the damn confession had at least five different type styles, which was gonna confuse the hell out of the police department, but there wasn’t much I could do about it, seeing as how I was lucky just to get out of there without buying a fucking typewriter.
    I went over the confession with Murphy a few times just to get him through the rough spots. There was a lot of stuff in it he didn’t even know. It didn’t matter. It didn’t have to stand up in court. It just had to be strong enough to justify the warrant.
    After I’d prepared Murphy for what he was going to do, I drove him back to Manhattan and dropped him off at a dirty-movie house with instructions to sit and stare at the screen until it was time to make his move. Under the circumstances I couldn’t think of a better place for him.
    I went back to the office to get myself ready. There was a message from Richard on the answering machine, confirming that the bullet I’d “discovered” had come from the gun that killed Albrect. I was glad to get the confirmation, but it didn’t matter. I already knew the bullet came from the gun from the way the police acted, and had been proceeding on that assumption, and, whether the confirmation had come through or not, I was going ahead. But it was nice to have.
    I got out Pedro’s gun and razor and laid them out on the table. I got out Albrect’s kilo and laid it out beside them. A nice little collection. Just the sort of thing Pluto should have.
    I called the time recording and checked my watch. Timing was going to be crucial in this thing. I wanted to go in at the last moment, so there’d be no chance of Pluto’s boys finding the plant. But I had to be damn sure to get out in time. I felt really silly checking my watch, though. I mean, I wasn’t talking seconds here. I was going to leave myself a good half hour.
    It was my one shot, and it had to work. If it didn’t, I’d never get another. Murphy’s confession would be blown. In all probability he’d wind up dead. In all probability I’d wind up dead, too. That was pretty scary, but not scary enough to stop me. Fear is relative. Not doing it was pretty scary, too.
    What I was going to do was terrifying, but quick. One way or another, it would be over. If I didn’t do it, the fear would be less intense, but perpetual. No one could live in constant fear. I know I couldn’t. So when you came right down to it, my bold move was really the coward’s way out.
    I didn’t care. Fuck the motivation. Fuck the reasons. I had to do it. It was something I simply had to do.
    And I could do it. I would do it. The wheels had been set in motion. Everything was right on schedule.
    Nothing could go wrong.

40.
    W HAT D O Y OU M EAN , Y OU rented it?”
    The man at the theatrical costume shop shrugged. “I rented it. What can I say, I rented it.”
    “Are you trying to tell me that’s the only telephone repair outfit you have?”
    “No. I got six of ’em.”
    “So give me another one.”
    “I rented them all.”
    “You what?”
    “I rented them. Some off-Broadway revue. They gotta musical number with dancing repairmen.”
    “Jesus Christ!”
    “Yeah, I know. Sounds like a turkey to me, too.”
    “Where’s the nearest costume house?”
    “Aw, come on, how about a Con-Ed uniform?”
    “Damnit! Where’s the nearest costume shop?”
    “Up Broadway. Four blocks.” I started for the door.
    “But you come back here,” he yelled. “I value your business.”
    I ran the