Manhattan Is My Beat

CHAPTER ONE
     
    He believed he was safe.
    For the first time in six months.
    Two identities and three residences behind him, he finally believed he was safe.
    An odd feeling came over him—comfort, he finally decided. Yeah, that was it. A feeling he hadn’t experienced for a long time, and he sat on the bed in this fair-to-middling hotel, overlooking that weird silver arch that crowned the riverfront in St. Louis. Smelling the mid-western spring air.
    An old movie was on television. He loved old movies. This was
Touch of Evil
. Orson Welles directing. Charlton Heston playing a Mexican. The actor didn’t look like a Mexican. But then, he probably didn’t look like Moses either.
    Arnold Gittleman laughed to himself at his little joke and told it to a sullen man sitting nearby, reading a
Guns & Ammo
magazine. The man glanced at the screen. “Mexican?” he asked. Stared at the screen for a minute. “Oh.” He went back to his magazine.
    Gittleman lay back in the bed, thinking that it was damn well about time he had some funny thoughts like the one about Heston. Frivolous thoughts. Amount-to-nothing thoughts. He wanted to think about gardening or painting lawn furniture or taking his grandson to a ball game. About taking his daughter and her husband to his wife’s grave—a place he’d been too afraid to visit for over six months.
    “So,” the sullen man said, looking up from the magazine, “what’s it gonna be? We gonna do deli tonight?”
    Gittleman, who’d lost 30 pounds since Christmas— he was down to 204—said, “Sure. Sounds good. Deli.”
    And he realized it
did
sound good. He hadn’t looked forward to food for a long time. A nice fat deli sandwich. Pastrami. His mouth started to water. Mustard. Rye bread. A pickle.
    “Naw,” said a third man, stepping out of the bathroom. “Pizza. Let’s get pizza.”
    The sullen man who read about guns all the time and the pizza man were U.S. marshals. Both were young and stony-faced and gruff and wore cheap suits that fit very badly. But Gittleman knew that these were exactly the kind of men you wanted to be watching over you. Besides, Gittleman had led a pretty tough life himself, and he realized that when you looked past their facade these two were pretty decent and smart guys—street-smart, at least. Which was all that really counted in life.
    Gittleman had taken a liking to them over the past five months. And since he couldn’t have his family around him he’d informally adopted them. He called them Son One and Son Two. He told them that. They weren’t sure what to make of it but he sensed they got a kick out of him saying the words. For one thing, they said, most of the people they protected were complete shits and Gittleman knew that, whatever else, he wasn’t that.
    Son One was the man reading the guns magazine, the man who’d suggested deli. He was the fatter of them. Son Two grumbled again that he wanted pizza.
    “Forgetaboutit. We did pizza yesterday.”
    An irrefutable argument. So it was pastrami and cole slaw.
    Good.
    “On rye,” Gittleman said. “And a pickle. Don’t forget the pickle.”
    “They come with pickles.”
    “Then
extra
pickles.”
    “Hey, go for it, Arnie,” Son One said.
    Son Two spoke into the microphone pinned to his chest. A wire ran to a black Motorola Handi-Talkie, clipped onto his belt, right next to a big gun that might very well have been reviewed in the magazine his partner was reading. He spoke to the third marshal on the team, sitting by the elevator up the hall. “It’s Sal. I’m coming out.”
    “Okay,” the staticky voice responded. “Elevator’s on its way.”
    “You wanta beer, Arnie?”
    “No,” Gittleman said firmly.
    Son Two looked at him curiously.
    “I want
two
goddamn beers.”
    The marshal cracked a faint smile. The most response to humor Gittleman had ever seen in his tough face.
    “Good for you,” Son One said. The marshals had been after him to lighten up, enjoy life more. Relax.
    “You don’t like dark beer, right?” asked his partner.
    “Not so much,” Gittleman responded.
    “How do they make dark beer anyway?” Son One asked, studying something in the well-thumbed magazine. Gittleman looked. It was a pistol, dark as dark beer, and it looked a lot nastier than the guns his surrogate sons wore.
    “Make it?” Gittleman asked absently. He didn’t know. He knew money and how and where to hide it. He knew movies and horse racing and grandchildren. He
drank
beer but he